latch put a decisive end to the conversation. “Hey, how long you going to be in there?”
CHAPTER FIVE
THE MORNING SUN sent golden rays like soft-tipped arrows, prodding the silent town to its feet, caressing the pale buildings, driving darkness slowly from the streets, invading the palm-shaded grounds of the hotel upon the hill.
Among the shadows of the chill morgue, the police surgeon stripped the sheet away from the slab and wrinkled his nose distastefully. In the tiny room next to his office, Lieutenant Lay sprawled on his back and snored. Barselou turned off his desk lamp as morning glow began to seep through the plate-glass window. He scowled again at the worn map on his desk and penciled a faint cross upon it. Odell slouched at the counter of the Tomahawk Drive-Inn, drinking his second cup of coffee of the day. Munching a piece of dry toast in the already-steaming kitchen of the Las Dunas, Vernon expected the worst: that some cottage would want room service. Upstairs, Sagmon Robottom commenced a short note to his wife, decided to do his setting up exercises instead. The portable typewriter in Thelma Loomis’ second floor room had been clattering for fifteen minutes. Gayner stood in the lobby and critically surveyed the tile floor, still needing its initial sweeping. Humming happily, Mr. Trim cleaned his teeth. In Cottage 15, Faye Jordan painted her toenails and waited for the phone to ring.
In Cottage 14, Sin pulled the covers tighter into her mussed red hair, dreaming she was being chased over foot-gripping sand dunes by a Queen of Diamonds. And John Henry Conover sneaked outdoors to see if there was a Cottage 13.
There was not.
Disconsolate, Vernon departed with the dirty dishes and the few remnants of breakfast. Sin returned to the living room a moment later, her hair brushed into a smooth pageboy that glinted like a ruby.
“Johnny, what are you doing?”
John Henry stopped peeking outdoors between slats of the Venetian blinds and spun hastily, his round face guilty. “Just — looking out,” was the best he could think of.
“What at?” Sin went to the window herself. “Oh!” She raised one stern eyebrow at her husband. The occupant of Cottage 15 was disappearing down the flagstone path toward the hotel. There was a great deal of pale skin which her white knitted bathing suit didn’t cover.
“Just checking up,” John Henry said lamely.
“Oh, yeah?”
“I heard her door slam and I was curious. Ever since you figured out that cottage number business — ”
“Now see here, John Henry — ”
John Henry sabotaged her objections. He seized her pliant body, bent it back across his arm, bit the tip of her nose gently and lifted her back to her feet. Sin came up laughing.
“What have you got in your pocket, anyway?” she wanted to know. Her hand plunged into the breast pocket of his dark-blue sport coat. “Oh,” she said, “here’s your pencil,” and dropped the Eversharp back into his pocket. Sin pivoted happily away from him, her full peasant skirt whirling about her bare legs. “What a wonderful place to be!” Then she stopped. “Honey, what’s the matter?”
John Henry’s grin had vanished. He put a slow hand into his breast pocket and pulled the pencil into view again. His forehead had corrugated into puzzled lines. “Funny,” he said.
“Johnny, is something wrong?”
He didn’t raise his eyes from the Eversharp. “This isn’t my pencil.”
“You sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Never saw it before in my life.”
Sin laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it. You probably picked it up somewhere by mistake. Probably when we registered.”
He paid no attention. The pencil was an ordinary Eversharp, colored black and sea-green, with a gold point and a removable eraser. “That’s what he meant.”
“Who meant? What are you talking about?”
“Anglin. ‘You already got it.’ This is what I’ve got, Sin. Anglin stuck this in my pocket when he fell against
CHAPTER FIVE
THE MORNING SUN sent golden rays like soft-tipped arrows, prodding the silent town to its feet, caressing the pale buildings, driving darkness slowly from the streets, invading the palm-shaded grounds of the hotel upon the hill.
Among the shadows of the chill morgue, the police surgeon stripped the sheet away from the slab and wrinkled his nose distastefully. In the tiny room next to his office, Lieutenant Lay sprawled on his back and snored. Barselou turned off his desk lamp as morning glow began to seep through the plate-glass window. He scowled again at the worn map on his desk and penciled a faint cross upon it. Odell slouched at the counter of the Tomahawk Drive-Inn, drinking his second cup of coffee of the day. Munching a piece of dry toast in the already-steaming kitchen of the Las Dunas, Vernon expected the worst: that some cottage would want room service. Upstairs, Sagmon Robottom commenced a short note to his wife, decided to do his setting up exercises instead. The portable typewriter in Thelma Loomis’ second floor room had been clattering for fifteen minutes. Gayner stood in the lobby and critically surveyed the tile floor, still needing its initial sweeping. Humming happily, Mr. Trim cleaned his teeth. In Cottage 15, Faye Jordan painted her toenails and waited for the phone to ring.
In Cottage 14, Sin pulled the covers tighter into her mussed red hair, dreaming she was being chased over foot-gripping sand dunes by a Queen of Diamonds. And John Henry Conover sneaked outdoors to see if there was a Cottage 13.
There was not.
Disconsolate, Vernon departed with the dirty dishes and the few remnants of breakfast. Sin returned to the living room a moment later, her hair brushed into a smooth pageboy that glinted like a ruby.
“Johnny, what are you doing?”
John Henry stopped peeking outdoors between slats of the Venetian blinds and spun hastily, his round face guilty. “Just — looking out,” was the best he could think of.
“What at?” Sin went to the window herself. “Oh!” She raised one stern eyebrow at her husband. The occupant of Cottage 15 was disappearing down the flagstone path toward the hotel. There was a great deal of pale skin which her white knitted bathing suit didn’t cover.
“Just checking up,” John Henry said lamely.
“Oh, yeah?”
“I heard her door slam and I was curious. Ever since you figured out that cottage number business — ”
“Now see here, John Henry — ”
John Henry sabotaged her objections. He seized her pliant body, bent it back across his arm, bit the tip of her nose gently and lifted her back to her feet. Sin came up laughing.
“What have you got in your pocket, anyway?” she wanted to know. Her hand plunged into the breast pocket of his dark-blue sport coat. “Oh,” she said, “here’s your pencil,” and dropped the Eversharp back into his pocket. Sin pivoted happily away from him, her full peasant skirt whirling about her bare legs. “What a wonderful place to be!” Then she stopped. “Honey, what’s the matter?”
John Henry’s grin had vanished. He put a slow hand into his breast pocket and pulled the pencil into view again. His forehead had corrugated into puzzled lines. “Funny,” he said.
“Johnny, is something wrong?”
He didn’t raise his eyes from the Eversharp. “This isn’t my pencil.”
“You sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Never saw it before in my life.”
Sin laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it. You probably picked it up somewhere by mistake. Probably when we registered.”
He paid no attention. The pencil was an ordinary Eversharp, colored black and sea-green, with a gold point and a removable eraser. “That’s what he meant.”
“Who meant? What are you talking about?”
“Anglin. ‘You already got it.’ This is what I’ve got, Sin. Anglin stuck this in my pocket when he fell against
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