Don't Dare a Dame (33 page)

   
One hint the establishment wasn’t the classiest came from its neon sign. Sputtering in the front window, it proclaimed ST. GEORGE HOT, the final EL having burned out. As I pushed through the swinging door into its small lobby, one of the girls I’d seen was cozying up to her guest of the evening as they climbed the stairs.

   
Half a dozen steps beyond where I’d entered, a desk clerk with a sharp nose and sharper eyes looked up from behind a counter. There were pigeonholes in the wall behind him and a phone and register book on the counter. By the way his eyes flickered I knew he noticed my face.

   
“Need a room?” he asked sliding the register toward me.

   
“What I need is to talk to Neal Vanhorn.”

   
His expression told me nothing. The bilious hue of his necktie made me glad I hadn’t eaten much supper.

   
“Came in drunk as a skunk a couple hours back,” I prompted in case Neal was using some other name. “What room is he in?”

   
“We don’t give out information on guests.”

   
I put four bits on the counter.

   
“Good policy.”

   
His fingers moved an inch and stopped.

   
“He do that to you?” He gestured with his chin.

   
“No. I just need to talk to him.”

   
“Room 22. Two up, right.”

   
The four bits clinked as he transferred them to his pocket. I made a quick inventory of the inside. To the right of the counter an archway opened into a small bar. The plant at the entrance was bigger than mine, but almost as dead. The bar looked empty.

   
“Neal have any other visitors?” I asked.

   
The clerk shook his head. Hard to say whether he was telling the truth.

   
“I need to borrow a bucket to take up.”

   
He stared uneasily.

   
“The janitor locks his up when he leaves for the day.”

   
“Don’t you have a key?”

   
“No. Look, honey, I don’t want any trouble—”

   
“Then give me a bucket. Tell you what, I’ll settle for that champagne bucket.”

   
I could tell he meant to deny they had one until he realized I was looking into the bar where one sat in plain view. Empty.

   
“It’s the only one we have. We might need it.”

   
I wondered what he thought I meant to do with it, not that I cared. Reaching under my jacket I brought out my .38. With my other hand I caught his ugly yellow tie and jerked his face close to mine.

   
“See this?” I tapped my cheek with the tip of the gun to make sure he got a good look at the ends of stiff black thread which poked out of my skin like barbed wire now that the swelling was gone. “The guy who did it won’t be walking for quite a while. I’m disagreeable when I get peeved. So unless you want me to put a hole in that champagne bucket — and maybe a couple of other things — I suggest you march in there and bring it to me.” I released his tie. “Feel free to call the police. I’m sure they’d be interested in those girls you have doing business upstairs.”

   
His face turned three shades of red.

   
“I don’t have anything to do — they just rent rooms!”

   
He scuttled backwards, wrenching his eyes from the gun long enough to make sure he didn’t run into the door, and returned with the champagne bucket.

   
“Thanks,” I said, and headed upstairs.

   
I heard voices behind one of the doors that I passed, snoring from behind another. No sound at all emanated from Room 22. I knocked softly but got no response. I upped the volume with no better results.

   
The door wasn’t locked. I eased it open a couple of inches and listened. There was the sound of even breathing. Neal sleeping one off, or someone calm and confident lying in wait. No guarantee I wouldn’t encounter both when I went in. It wasn’t the use I’d had in mind for the champagne bucket, but that didn’t stop me from tossing it in. Better it got shot at than me. It clattered to the floor untouched.

   
I slammed the door full open in case anyone was hiding behind it. They weren’t. I locked it behind me and went to look at Neal sprawled face up on the bed. He’d managed to shed his shoes and his jacket. One toe poked through a hole in his sock.

   
Odds were he was passed out rather than sleeping. I lifted my foot and nudged his leg. A gargle of protest escaped him, but he didn’t rouse.

   
The room reeked, mostly of sweat and booze. In addition to the iron bed, it held a chest of drawers, a ladder-back chair and a lamp. A mostly empty bottle on the chest of drawers suggested Neal supplemented his visits to beer joints with home cooking. I tried to open the window to let in some fresh air. The wood had swelled.

   
“Hey, Neal.” I shook his shoulder. He didn’t respond any more than he had when I’d used my foot. Time to use the champagne bucket I’d borrowed.

   
I went into a tile-floored bathroom. It didn’t have a bathtub, just the toilet and sink and a shower the size of my file cabinet. A tub would have made things easier, but the shower would do. I ran the water to make sure it was nice and cold, then held the bucket close to the showerhead to fill it. Returning to the bedroom, and not without a certain enjoyment, I threw the contents directly at Neal’s face and shoulders.

   
He yelped and flailed in an attempt to sit. I missed the entertainment since I’d left the water running and lost no time in filling the bucket again and repeating the dousing. This time he swore and managed to push himself up on his elbows. He looked around blearily, hunting the source of his torment. After wheeling unsteadily, his gaze picked me out. A little more effort and he finally focused.

   
“You!” he said thickly. He looked as though he might have had more to say, but suddenly he collapsed, hanging his head off the bed just in time to vomit.

   
When I saw the heaves were diminishing, I returned to the bathroom and filled the bucket again. This time I turned the shower off. Neal rested unsteadily on one arm, his head still over the side of the bed. As he became aware of me, he looked up long enough for a baleful glare.

   
It was also long enough to register what I had in my hands. He would have dodged if he’d been able to. This time I delivered the water with less force.

   
“That’ll make you feel better, Neal. Honest. Cleaner at least.”

   
He sputtered.

   
“Who sent you?” he gasped weakly.

   
“Nobody sent me, Neal. I’ve been hunting your miserable carcass for almost two weeks. Why your sisters care about you, I can’t understand, but they’ve been worried sick since they learned you were missing. Now. Start talking. Who did you think sent me?”

   
He started to shake his head, but fell back with a groan. I saw his chest heave and wondered if he might get sick again. He didn’t.

   
“I can’t,” he moaned holding his head in both hands.

   
Checking the ladder-back chair to make sure it was reasonably clean, I sat down.

   
“Neal, listen to me,” I said patiently. “If I could find you, so can whoever else is looking.”

   
I was vain enough to think it was a lie. He moaned again.

   
“Oh, God! I can’t!”

   
I tapped the bucket.

   
“Don’t make this hard on yourself, Neal. Let me help you. Here’s what I already know.”

   
He was sobering up some, but was still too soused to realize most of what I laid out was speculation rather than fact. With luck he’d confirm it and be scared enough he’d tell me the rest.

   
“You ran because a man was waiting for you outside where you work the day after Alf’s funeral. He knew you’d been at Alf’s house the night he was murdered.”

   
“No! That’s not—”

   
“They saw you there, Neal. So did one of the neighbors.”

   
“I don’t — I wasn’t there!”

   
“You even told George that someone had killed his father.”

   
“I told George—?”

   
His eyes had been closed, hoping that if he couldn’t see me I’d disappear. They flew open.

   
“Yep. You did. The night after Alf’s funeral. Now you better start talking fast if you want me to help you. The people looking for you don’t know how much you saw. They’re not going to take chances.”

   
He started to blubber.

   
“Oh, Jesus! How did I get in this mess? Jesus, what am I going to do?”

Forty-one

   
I let him bawl like a baby for five or ten minutes. Snot dribbled from his nose and his eyes got red and puffy. When I’d had enough, I went into the bathroom and found the glass tumbler provided by the hotel. I rinsed it a couple of times before putting an inch of water in it and carrying it out to the man on the bed.

   
He cringed when he realized I had more water.

   
“Rinse your mouth out,” I ordered. “You might as well spit on the floor. It’s not going to matter much, considering what’s already there.”

   
He shrank back from the glass I offered him like he expected me to jab a knife in his chest. At least he complied, which suggested progress.

   
“What kind of mess?” I asked when he finished.

   
“Huh?”

   
“A few minutes back you said, ‘How did I get in this mess?’”

   
He sighed and scooted up on his pillow a little.

   
“That first time I met you, at the house. I’d called my sisters the night before to say I was coming over the next day to get Alf’s things. Corrine told me I couldn’t, that someone was coming to discuss ‘personal matters’. She had that superior sound that she gets. It made me sore, and I ranted about it to Alf. He thought maybe they were up to something — maybe fixing to sue him the way he’d done them. I guess ... I guess maybe he went over and sneaked in to listen, only he knocked something over and made a racket and had to run.”

   
“You guess that’s what he did, or you know?”

   
He looked at his nails and pushed at a cuticle.

   
“I know. He told me. He didn’t say what he’d heard that upset him, but I know something had.”

   
“So he’s the one who killed the dog.”

   
He twisted his shirttail, which was hanging out, avoiding my eyes.

   
“He didn’t need to do that,” he mumbled. “There must have been some other way.”

   
“What’s that got to do with the people you’re running from?”

   
A whine I recognized crept back into his voice.

   
“I never expected him to go over there!”

   
“Neal.”

   
“It wasn’t my fault.” He started to snivel.

   
“I don’t care whose fault it was. Just answer my question.”

   
“My head hurts.”

   
“It’ll hurt more if I smack it.” I went to the side of the bed without a puddle and used his shirtfront to haul him to a more or less sitting position. He groaned. Yanking him forward, I turned his single pillow longwise and shoved him back against it.

   
“What did Alf’s eavesdropping have to do with his murder?”

   
“I don’t know! Please. Give me some of that whiskey ... an aspirin ... something.”

   
“I’ll get you some water.” I brought him an inch. “Now answer my questions. Don’t make me use this.” I wagged the champagne bucket.

   
“Yeah, okay,” he said sullenly.