Claire Bushnell thrust a cobweb-streaked countenance out from behind a wine bin. “Nuts!” she said angrily. “I was going to see where he went. I ran back up the stairs when he turned on me and then when he ran back I sneaked on down and got behind the wine bin.”
“Say, what is this?” the manager demanded. “I’m going to make a protest to police headquarters. It’s lucky there wasn’t a shooting. I thought this was a hold-up. I was getting ready to defend myself. Sergeant, I’m going to hold you responsible for this.”
Sellers seemed as tense as a marathon runner trying to hold out until he reached the tape. He came slowly forward and said, “Lam, I’ve had enough of this…”
I whirled, ducked under the arm of the manager of the cocktail lounge, sprinted through the open door.
I heard Sellers bellow with anger, “Grab him!”
There were feet pounding after me.
I heard the manager shouting, “You can’t go in there,” and then adding, “I’ll catch him.”
I was in a place that had been fixed up as an apartment, evidently living-quarters for a porter in the hotel. The furniture was cheap and shoddy, but there was the odour of fresh tobacco smoke in the room and a cigarette in an ash-tray was sending up wisps of smoke.
I bent down to look under the bed.
I saw skirts, a woman’s leg, and then met the glare of Amelia Jasper’s angry eyes.