Driving back to my apartment, I tried to sort out what I’d bumped into today, but I was too cold and too tired and too wet. Images of steam rising from my shower stall kept getting in the way.
Chapter 21
At ten thirty the next day, showered, shaved, warmed, and dried, with nine hours’ sleep behind me and hot corn muffins nicely balancing cold vealwurst in my stomach, I headed back for Smithfield. I’d called my service before I left that morning and found that there were nine calls recorded from Marge Bartlett. I ignored them. I wanted Harroway and the kid. I didn’t think Marge Bartlett was in all that much danger. I wanted the kid. At five after eleven I was parked along the side of the street just down from the corner of the road that led into Harroway’s sylvan retreat. I didn’t want to get left standing on a hill this time while they drove away. The road was the only way in or out. I’d settle in here. I watched for eight hours. Nobody went in. Nobody came out.
At seven fifteen Harroway’s pink and gray Charger nosed out of the leafy road and turned right, away from me toward Smithfield. It was dusk, and I couldn’t see if Kevin was in the car, but Harroway’s big blond head was clear enough. I followed. We drove through Smithfield and straight up Lowell Street into Peabody to Route 1. On Route 1 we headed south back toward Smithfield. I drifted back a little on Route 1. Let two cars in between us so he wouldn’t spot me. He pulled into the parking lot of a big new motel with an illuminated sign outside: Yes! We Have Water Beds! I pulled in after him and drove on past behind the motel, parked near the kitchen entrance, and hustled back toward the lobby. It was dark out now and bright inside. Harroway was at the desk apparently registering. A girl was with him.
She was young, high school age. Her hair was blond and cut short and square. She was wearing harlequin glasses with blue rims and a high-necked white blouse with a small black bow tie. Ah, Dorothy Collins, I thought, where are you now?
The clerk pulled a key OUt of one of the mail boxes in back of the desk: first row, fifth from the left. He pointed down a corridor to the left of the desk, and the two of them went on down it, turned another left, and disappeared. I went in, got close enough to check the number on the box the key had come from—112—bought a newspaper at the cigar counter, and sat down behind it in a leather chair in the lobby. Now what? I could go knock on the door. “Hi, I’m Snooky Lamson. Is Dorothy Collins in there?” I was punchy from sitting and doing nothing for eight hours.
Checking into a motel with a girl didn’t seem to fit Harroway’s reputation. At seven thirty in came the man who ran confidence courses.
“Mr. Victor’s room, please,” he said.
Holy Christ, I thought, something’s happening. I might actually find out if I keep sitting long enough and don’t run my mouth.
Mr. Confidence went the same way Harroway and escort had gone, and ten minutes later Harroway appeared. He went across the lobby and into the dining room. Got himself a table, ordered a drink, and looked at the menu. I went back to the cigar counter, bought two Baby Ruths, sat down again, and munched them behind my newspaper. By the time Harroway had finished his steak, I had read the obituaries, the office equipment for sale classified, the ads for Arizona real estate, and was going back to the funnies for a second run-through on my favorite, “Broom Hilda.”
Harroway had pie and two cups of coffee. I looked at my watch—nine fifteen. We’d been there an hour and forty-five minutes. I read “Broom Hilda” again. Harroway had a brandy. At nine forty-five the girl came on down the corridor and joined Harroway. He paid the bill, and they got up and left. I let them. As soon as they were out the door, I headed down the corridor toward Room 112. I figured the Confidence Man would wait a bit before he left, and if I could catch him there in the room, I might get a handle on the case, or I might get a free introductory trial offer on a confidence course. One never knows.
The door was locked. I knocked. There was no answer. I knocked again, trying to get that Motel Manager sound in it, firm but friendly. A voice said, “Who is it?” The voice was not confident.
I said, “It’s me, Vic.”
The lock turned and the door opened a crack. I put my shoulder into it, and in we went. He said, “Hey.” I shut the door behind me. The force of my charge made him back into the bed and sit on it. He said, “What do you want?”
with absolutely no confidence at all.
I said, “Don’t you remember me? We met at the Bartletts’ party.”
He opened his mouth and closed it. He remembered.
“You’re the detective,” he said.
“Right, and I’m detecting at this very moment.” He was. wearing jockey shorts and black socks. The bed he sat on was rumpled. There were lipstick smears on the sheet. On the dresser beside the color TV were two empty bottles of Taylor pink champagne and two empty glasses, one with a lipstick half moon on the rim. “You have just shacked up,” I said. “And I have caught you.”
“What are you talking about? You’re crazy. You get out of my room right now.”
“Aw, come on, sir What is your name, by the way?”
“I’m not telling you. I don’t have to tell you anything.”
His pants were draped over the back of a leatherette chair. I reached over and took his wallet out of the pocket. He said “Hey” again but stayed on the bed. I was out of his weight class anyway, but it is always hard to feel tough in your underwear. I found his driver’s license: Fraser W. Robinson.
I put the license back in the wallet and the wallet back in the pants.
“Now, Fraser, let us talk. I was sitting in the lobby when Harroway checked in with the jailbait. I was there when you came in and he came out. And I am here now. And I’ve got you. But I’ll make a trade.”
Fraser Robinson was looking at the door and at the window and at the four corners of the room, and nowhere did he see a way out.
“What kind of trade?”
