The bed was rumpled, but the wrinkles in the sheet didn’t look as though it had been slept in much longer than an hour.
I walked across the bedroom into the living-room, looked out onto the porch to make certain he wasn’t there. Assured that the coast was clear, I took the drawers out of the writing-desk, tilted it up on one comer, and spilled out the debris from the bottom: letters, clippings, and the gun.
I pocketed the gun that had been in there, replaced it with my own revolver, and then put the desk back into shape.
It was a fine warm day, and the street below was filling up with people who were strolling around, enjoying the sunlight.
I gave the place a final once-over, then quietly opened the door, pulled it shut behind me, and went down the stairs.
I was in the courtyard when I met the colored maid. She gave me a grin and said, “Is the ge’man up yet?”
I assured her that the “ge’man” was either out or was asleep, that I’d pounded on the door, and hadn’t been able to raise him.
She thanked me and went on up.
I went back to the hotel. There was a memo in my box to call Lockley 9746.
I went into a booth and called the number, wondering whether it would be a hospital or the jail. It was neither. A velvet feminine voice answered the telephone.