Snowball in Hell, стр. 19
At the top of the stairs he waited, leaning back against the wall, safely hidden by the corner.
And waited.
No one left the bar in pursuit of him, and feeling a little foolish, he moved on toward his room. Then on impulse he continued onto Doris Brown's room. The light had vanished from under her door.
He stood there for a moment, thinking, and then he headed quietly along the corridor to his own room.
Locking his door, he slipped off his shoes and jacket, removed his tie, and lay down on the bed. He lit a cigarette and stared up at the ceiling, thinking.
After a time he stubbed out the cigarette and got up, stepped back into his shoes, shrugged back into his jacket, put his coat on and let himself out of his room. There was no sign of anyone in the hall. He went to the top of the staircase and looked down. The lobby was empty, but he could hear voices from the bar.
He considered. If he went down the stairs and out through the lobby, they were liable to spot him, and even if they didn't, they could hardly miss the cheerful jingle of bells on the front door. He looked down the hallway to where it angled abruptly off into darkness. That hallway had to lead to the closed left wing of the hotel. If there was an outside exit, and there had to be, he could probably get out that way and not be seen.
He moved quickly, quietly down the hall, rounded the corner and kept walking as the light from the main part of the hotel faded behind him. It was a long, long hallway. At the far end was a staircase, also in darkness. He felt his way down it, moving as quickly as he could, one hand holding to the banister. No pine garland here. It smelled dusty and closed up.
On the bottom level he found a door. The knob turned and he walked out into moonlight as bright as phosphorus. The cold was like a punch to his lungs, his breath frosted in night air scented with pines and distant snow. It smelled like Christmas, and an odd pang shot through him remembering long ago holidays.
He stuck close to the building, making his way toward the row of garages about a hundred yards beyond the rear of the hotel. They were arranged in an arc around a cement court, and in the center of the court stood a high pole topped by a blazing light. Apparently there were no worries of attracting enemy aircraft up here.
The door of the fourth garage from the left was slightly ajar.
Nathan's footsteps crunched on gravel as he walked towards the garage, the sound sharp in the night. He dragged open the door. The gray Plymouth gleamed in the artificial light. He tried the car door handle, but it was locked. Suspicious minds, he thought with a faint grin. He cupped his hands funnel-style against the glass window, trying to read the car registration, but it was too dark inside the garage.
Walking round to the front of the car, he eased the hood, propped it up, and then felt around 'til he found the distributor cap. He unscrewed it, slipping it into his pocket.
That ought to ensure Pearl didn't disappear in the night with the two heavies from the taproom.
He started back for the hotel, walking briskly. He paused long enough to leave the distributor cap in one of the flower boxes beneath the window of a ground floor room, and then walked on 'til he came to the side entrance.
He opened the door, stepped quietly inside-and the floor dropped out from under him. He plummeted down into darkness lit with red and white flares, tracers and shell bursts exploding around him.
Chapter Six
«But you've got your man,» Tara protested. «You found the murder weapon in Carl Winters' bookstore. Why haven't you arrested him? Why are you asking so many questions about Nathan?»
Matt shrugged. «You sweet on Doyle?»
«Sweet on him?» Tara flushed and then laughed. «We're just pals.» She cast Matt a shrewd look. «Would you care if I was?»
«Marriage could do Doyle a world of good.»
«What would it do for me?»
Matt grinned at her expression. «Might do you a world of good too, Tara. Take the edges off you.»
«The edges!» She tossed her glossy black curls. «Thanks very much.» She contemplated Matt. «You ever going to remarry, Mathew?»
He shook his head regretfully.
She sighed. «I could have gone for Nathan, but he's-«
«He's?»
«I don't know. Destined for the priesthood or something, I guess.» She grinned. «Now I've shocked you, a big tough police man like you, Lt. Spain.» She played with her chopsticks. They were having lunch at the Hong Kong Cafe. «So what did you want to know about Doyle?»
«You said you didn't know him before he went overseas?»
She shook her head. «He didn't work here. He moved to San Francisco right out of college. That's what I heard.»
«How's he get along with the other newshounds?»
«He keeps pretty much to himself.» She met Matt's gaze. «He's liked. He's good.» She grimaced. «He's bored.»
«Wants to be back on the front lines?»
She nodded, took out a cigarette. Matt leaned forward to light it. Looking into her dark eyes he saw instead a pair of light ones, blue-grey eyes with gold-tipped lashes-direct and yet somehow a little shy.
«Why haven't you arrested Carl Winters?» Tara asked. «Off the record.»
«Off the record?» He raised skeptical brows, but when she nodded, he said, «That gun came from Benedict Arlen's antique gun collection. The way we figure it, any one of a number of people had access to it.»
«Including Phil Arlen?»
She was a smart cookie; he'd always thought so. He could see that sharp brain of hers ticking over. «That's right. And all but one of those same people had opportunity to stash the gat at Winters' bookstore.»
«Let me ask you something,» she said.
Matt nodded.
«Is Nathan a suspect?»
«He was with Arlen the night he was kidnapped. What kind of a cop would I be if I didn't include him in my list of suspects?»
«Very diplomatic,» she said dryly. She sipped some tea from a little porcelain cup. «Nathan wouldn't have access to Benedict Arlen's gun collection.» She followed her own line of reasoning, «But he could have got the gun from the Arlen kid,
assuming the Arlen kid was carrying it that night, and that Mrs. Arlen hadn't swiped it to shoot him with it.»
«It's a possibility.»
«Which is? Nathan grabbing the gun from Phil Arlen or Claire Arlen plugging her no good wastrel husband?»
«Take your choice.»
«Well,» she said shortly, «I choose not to think Nathan's a murderer.»
She was definitely sweet on Doyle.
She said, «Anyway, why would Phil Arlen have taken the gun? I don't think he planned on committing suicide.»
«Well, for one thing, it's a very rare piece. Worth a lot of money. There were only two hundred of those Derringer Riders ever made. And the Arlen kid was running low on dough. He'd racked up some sizable gambling debts at the Las Palmas Club, and his old man had cut off his allowance in the hopes of getting him to straighten up.»
«You think he planned on trading the gun for his gambling chits?»
Matt shrugged.
«What possible motive could Nathan have for wanting Phil Arlen dead?»
«I don't know. What's his financial situation?»
She said dryly, «I don't think Nathan thinks a lot about money. And if he killed somebody by accident, I don't think he'd try and fix it up to look like a kidnapping.» She puffed thoughtfully on her cigarette. «Any line on Pearl Jarvis?»
«We're still looking for her.»
«Cherchez la femme,» Tara remarked.
«That's what everybody says,» Matt replied.
«Did it work?» Jonesy asked when Matt climbed into the car after Tara walked away down the busy street.
«I don't know,» Matt admitted. «She likes Doyle a lot. I don't know that she'll use anything that throws suspicion on him.»
«She's a newshound, she'd sell her granny for an exclusive,» Jonsey said.