Looking for Rachel Wallace

him. He probably did not have a Smith and Wesson .38 caliber revolver with a four-inch barrel. And I did. How’s that for class? I mumbled at his back as he went into the elevator.

About fifteen minutes later a housekeeper went bustling past me down the corridor and knocked on a door. No one answered, and the housekeeper let herself in with a key on a long chain. She was in for maybe a minute and came back past me and into the service elevator. She probably didn’t have a .38 either.

I amused myself by trying to see how many lyrics I could sing to songs written by Johnny Mercer. I was halfway through “Memphis in June” when a pleasant-looking gray-haired man with a large red nose got out of the elevator and walked down the corridor toward me. He had on gray slacks and a blue blazer. On the blazer pocket was a small name plate that said Asst. Mgr.

His blazer also hung funny over his right hip, the way it does when you are carrying a gun in a hip holster. He smiled as he approached me. I noticed that the blazer was unbuttoned and his left hand was in a half fist. He sort of tapped it against his thigh, knuckles toward me.

“Are you locked out of your room, sir?” he said with a big smile. He was a big guy and had a big stomach, but he didn’t look slow and he didn’t look soft. His teeth had been capped.

I said, “House man, right?”

“Callahan,” he said, “I’m the assistant night manager.”

“Spenser,” I said. “I’m going to take out my wallet and show you some ID.”

“You’re not registered here, Mr. Spenser.”

“No, I’m working. I’m looking out for Rachel Wallace, who is registered here.”

I handed him my license. He looked at it and looked at me. “Nice picture,” he said.

“Well, that’s my bad side,” I said.

“It’s full face,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Do I detect a weapon of some sort under your left arm, Mr. Spenser?”

“Yes. It makes us even—you got one on your right hip.”

He smiled again. His half-clenched left fist tapped against his thigh.

“I’m in kind of a puzzle, Mr. Spenser. If you really are guarding Miss Wallace, I can’t very well ask you to leave. On the other hand you could be lying. I guess we better ask her.”

“Not right now,” I said. “I think she’s busy.”

“ ‘Fraid we’ll have to anyway.”

“How do I know you’re really the house dick?”

“Assistant manager,” he said. “Says so right on my coat.”

“Anyone can get a coat. How do I know this isn’t a ploy to get her to open the door?”

He rolled his lower lip out. “Got a point there,” he said. “What we do is go down the end of the hall by the elevators and call on the house phone. You can see the whole corridor and I can see you that way.”

I nodded. We walked down to the phone side by side, watching each other and being careful. I was paying most attention to the half-dosed fist. For a man his size it was a small fist. At the phones he tucked the phone between his cheek and shoulder and dialed with his right hand. He knew the number without looking. She took a long while to answer.

“Sorry to bother you, Miss Wallace … Ms. Wallace … Yeah … Well, this is Callahan, the assistant manager. Do you have a man named Spenser providing personal security for you? … Unh-huh … Describe him to me, if you would … No, we just spotted him outside your room and thought we’d better check … Yes, ma’am. Yes, that’ll be fine. Thank you.” He hung up.

“Okay,” he said with a big friendly smile. “She validated you.” He put his left hand into the side pocket of his blazer and took it out.

“What did you have in your hand?” I said. “Roll of quarters?”

“Dimes,” he said. “Got a small hand.”

“Who whistled on me—the housekeeper.”

He nodded.

I said, “Are you looking out for Ms. Wallace special?”

“We’re a little special on her,” he said. “Got a call from a homicide dick said there’d been threats on her life.”

“Who called you—Quirk?”

“Yeah, know him?”

I nodded.

“Friend of his?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” I said.

We walked back down the corridor toward Rachel’s room. “Good cop,” Callahan said.

I nodded. “Very tough,” I said.