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Authors: Donald Hamilton
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senseless before we reached her door. She might even take off for parts unknown in her yellow Cadillac. If she proved unavailable after I’d indicated clearly my willingness to meet her, Stottman couldn’t reasonably pursue his suspicions much farther. All I needed was a little luck…
The Holiday Inn was located on the southern edge of Seattle, which meant we had to circumnavigate a good deal of the town to reach it. We’d already spent a little time checking me out of the motel in Pasco, and now we got lost twice trying to follow the sparse highway markers through the streets of the big coastal city, which seemed to be almost as badly loused up with waterways and bridges as Stockholm or Venice. As a result, it was well past eleven by the time we drove into the parking lot—and the yellow Cadillac convertible was there. So much for luck.
Stottman motioned to me to park beside it. Then he got out and again covered me as I slid over to join him on the pavement. I turned toward the camper.
He said, “Never mind.”
“To hell with you,” I said. “You don’t have to clean up the mess.”
“You’re stalling, Nystrom. You’re afraid of what Meredith is going to tell me about you.”
I shrugged. “Think what you like. The pup’s taking a walk or you’re shooting me right here. Make up your mind… Out you go, Hank. Don’t bite that man, he’ll give you indigestion.”
The black pup didn’t even take time to lick me. It had been a long haul, and he just skittered off across the parking lot and dove into the bushes to keep an urgent appointment with nature.
“
Now
what are you doing?” Stottman demanded.
“I’m feeding him,” I said, reaching into the camper. “Dogs eat, you know… Okay, Prince Hannibal. Back inside you go.” Returning, the pup leaped into the camper eagerly. He was attacking the bowl of dog food before I had the door closed. I turned to Stottman and said, “See, that wasn’t so bad, was it? Not a bite. Not even a snarl. And you thought you were going to be torn limb from limb! Now that the livestock’s been taken care of, let’s go see Libby and get this settled. Where’s room twenty-seven in this flossy joint?”
“Probably somewhere in this wing, since her car’s here. I’d guess the second floor from the number.”
“Brains!” I said admiringly, and preceded him up the stairs at the end of the building, and along the hall to number twenty-seven, which unfortunately wasn’t hard to find.
“Knock!” said Stottman, holding his gun steady.
I knocked. There was a long silence. I was strongly aware of the .25 automatic in Stottman’s hand. There are stories of the feeble little bullet being turned by a heavy overcoat, but I wasn’t wearing an overcoat. Stottman jerked his head in a peremptory way. I started to knock again, and the door swung open, away from my knuckles.
The woman who stood in the doorway was moderately tall, very nicely put together, and expertly preserved, so that you could safely say only that she was over twenty and under forty. I happened to know, having pried the information out of Mr. Smith’s young men, that she was almost exactly halfway between those ages. Her hair was dark and rather short, cut almost boyishly, if the term means anything in these days of shaggy young males, but there was nothing boyish about her face or figure.
She was still wearing the yellow silk pants and the lacy blouse and the yellow silk jacket, open now as if she’d been about to take it off when interrupted. The elaborate, fragile costume had put in a long day on the road, and showed it, and so did she. She’d probably been heading for a bath and bed when we knocked on the door. But even tired, and slightly soiled and rumpled, she was a very good-looking woman, and normally I’d have been happy to meet her. Tonight, however, I’d have preferred a diamondback rattlesnake.
There was a little frowning crease between her eyes as she looked from me to Stottman
The Holiday Inn was located on the southern edge of Seattle, which meant we had to circumnavigate a good deal of the town to reach it. We’d already spent a little time checking me out of the motel in Pasco, and now we got lost twice trying to follow the sparse highway markers through the streets of the big coastal city, which seemed to be almost as badly loused up with waterways and bridges as Stockholm or Venice. As a result, it was well past eleven by the time we drove into the parking lot—and the yellow Cadillac convertible was there. So much for luck.
Stottman motioned to me to park beside it. Then he got out and again covered me as I slid over to join him on the pavement. I turned toward the camper.
He said, “Never mind.”
“To hell with you,” I said. “You don’t have to clean up the mess.”
“You’re stalling, Nystrom. You’re afraid of what Meredith is going to tell me about you.”
I shrugged. “Think what you like. The pup’s taking a walk or you’re shooting me right here. Make up your mind… Out you go, Hank. Don’t bite that man, he’ll give you indigestion.”
The black pup didn’t even take time to lick me. It had been a long haul, and he just skittered off across the parking lot and dove into the bushes to keep an urgent appointment with nature.
“
Now
what are you doing?” Stottman demanded.
“I’m feeding him,” I said, reaching into the camper. “Dogs eat, you know… Okay, Prince Hannibal. Back inside you go.” Returning, the pup leaped into the camper eagerly. He was attacking the bowl of dog food before I had the door closed. I turned to Stottman and said, “See, that wasn’t so bad, was it? Not a bite. Not even a snarl. And you thought you were going to be torn limb from limb! Now that the livestock’s been taken care of, let’s go see Libby and get this settled. Where’s room twenty-seven in this flossy joint?”
“Probably somewhere in this wing, since her car’s here. I’d guess the second floor from the number.”
“Brains!” I said admiringly, and preceded him up the stairs at the end of the building, and along the hall to number twenty-seven, which unfortunately wasn’t hard to find.
“Knock!” said Stottman, holding his gun steady.
I knocked. There was a long silence. I was strongly aware of the .25 automatic in Stottman’s hand. There are stories of the feeble little bullet being turned by a heavy overcoat, but I wasn’t wearing an overcoat. Stottman jerked his head in a peremptory way. I started to knock again, and the door swung open, away from my knuckles.
The woman who stood in the doorway was moderately tall, very nicely put together, and expertly preserved, so that you could safely say only that she was over twenty and under forty. I happened to know, having pried the information out of Mr. Smith’s young men, that she was almost exactly halfway between those ages. Her hair was dark and rather short, cut almost boyishly, if the term means anything in these days of shaggy young males, but there was nothing boyish about her face or figure.
She was still wearing the yellow silk pants and the lacy blouse and the yellow silk jacket, open now as if she’d been about to take it off when interrupted. The elaborate, fragile costume had put in a long day on the road, and showed it, and so did she. She’d probably been heading for a bath and bed when we knocked on the door. But even tired, and slightly soiled and rumpled, she was a very good-looking woman, and normally I’d have been happy to meet her. Tonight, however, I’d have preferred a diamondback rattlesnake.
There was a little frowning crease between her eyes as she looked from me to Stottman
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