anything, it was as much of a profession as I had.
But I had another motive, and perhaps it was a deeper one.
Searching for Kim's killer was something I could do instead of drinking.
For awhile, anyway.
When I woke up the sun was shining. By the time I showered and shaved and hit the street it was gone, tucked away behind a bank of clouds. It came and went all day, as if whoever was in charge didn't want to commit himself.
I ate a light breakfast, made some phone calls, then walked over to the Galaxy Downtowner. The clerk who'd checked in Charles Jones wasn't on duty. I'd read his interrogation report in the file and didn't really expect I could get more out of him than the cops could.
An assistant manager let me look at Jones's registration card. He'd printed 'Charles Owen Jones' on the line marked 'Name,' and on the
'Signature' line he'd printed 'C. O. JONES' in block capitals. I pointed this out to the assistant manager, who told me the discrepancy was common. 'People will put their full name on one line and a shorter version on the other,' he said. 'Either way is legal.'
'But this isn't a signature.'
'Why not?'
'He printed it.'
He shrugged. 'Some people print everything,' he said. 'The fellow made a telephone reservation and paid cash in advance. I wouldn't expect my people to question a signature under such circumstances.'
That wasn't my point. What had struck me was that Jones had managed to avoid leaving a specimen of his handwriting, and I found that interesting. I looked at the name where he'd printed it in full. The first three letters of Charles, I found myself thinking, were also the first three letters of Chance. And what, pray tell, did that signify? And why look for ways to hang my own client?
I asked if there'd been any previous visits by our Mr. Jones in the past few months. 'Nothing in the past year,' he assured me. 'We carry previous registrations alphabetically in our computer and one of the detectives had that information checked. If that's all—'
'How many other guests signed their names in block caps?'
'I've no idea.'
'Suppose you let me look through the registration cards for the past two, three months.'
'To look for what?'
'People who print like this guy.'
'Oh, I really don't think so,' he said. 'Do you realize how many cards are involved? This is a 635-room hotel. Mr.—'
'Scudder.'
'Mr. Scudder. That's over eighteen thousand cards a month.'
'Only if all your guests leave after one night.'
'The average stay is three nights. Even so, that's over six thousand registration cards a month, twelve thousand cards in two months. Do you realize how long it would take to look at twelve thousand cards?'
'A person could probably do a couple thousand an hour,' I said,
'since all he'd be doing is scanning the signature to see if it's in script or in block caps. We're just talking about a couple of hours. I could do it or you could have some of your people do it.'
He shook his head. 'I couldn't authorize that,' he said. 'I really couldn't. You're a private citizen, not a policeman, and while I did want to cooperate there's a limit to my authority here. If the police should make an official request—'
'I realize I'm asking a favor.'
'If it were the sort of favor I could grant—'
'It's an imposition,' I went on, 'and I'd certainly expect to pay for the time involved, the time and inconvenience.'
It would have worked at a smaller hotel, but here I was wasting my time. I don't think he even realized I was offering him a bribe. He said again that he'd be glad to go along if the police made the request for me, and this time I let it lie. I asked instead if I could borrow the Jones registration card long enough to have a photocopy made.
'Oh, we have a machine right here,' he said, grateful to be able to help. 'Just wait one moment.'
He came back with a copy. I thanked him and he asked if there was anything else, his tone suggesting he was confident there wouldn't be. I said I'd like a look at the room she died in.
'But the police have quite finished there,' he said. 'The room's in a transitional state now. The carpet had to be replaced, you see, and the walls painted.'
'I'd still like to see it.'
'There's really nothing to see. I think there are workmen in there today. The painters are gone, I believe, but I think the carpet installers—'
'I won't get in their way.'
He gave me a key and let me go up myself. I found the room and congratulated myself on my ability as a
