I sat there, yarning and turning the hat around in my hand, my mind empty. As far back as I
could remember I had kept a ten-dollar bill behind the sweat-band of any hat I happened to
own. I’d stick it there and forget about it. Then when I was broke I had something to fall back
on. I wondered idly if the owner of this hat had the same idea. I turned down the sweat-band
and looked inside.
70
My fingers hooked out a thin ribbon of paper, and as I unfolded it I realized I wasn’t
surprised to find it there. It was almost as if I had known it would be there before I looked for
it.
I smoothed it out. It was a left-luggage receipt, and written in pencil across the top were the
words:
John Farrar,
Seaboard Air-Line Railway
Greater Miami.
Under the heading, Description of Articles, was written One suitcase.
I was fully awake now, the longing for sleep washed right out of my mind. Then this hat,
and obviously the clothes, did belong to me! I looked for the date on the receipt. There it was;
September 6th! The time the suitcase was handed in was also there: 6.5 p.m.
For some minutes I sat staring down at the threadbare carpet, I felt like a sceptic in a
haunted house who suddenly sees a horrifying apparition. There could be no doubt now. I
must have lost my memory for forty-five days, and during that time, if I was to believe Ricca,
I had murdered two men and a woman.
Ricca might be lying. If I were to remain sane I’d have to find out what had happened
during those forty-five days. It started with the smash, five miles outside Pelotta. I would go
to the scene of the accident and with any luck I might be able to trace my movements from
there. I had been thrown out of the Bentley and had injured my head. From that moment until
I had recovered consciousness in the hospital I had been going around with a blacked-out
mind.
I flicked the receipt with my fingernail. Maybe this suitcase contained the key to those
missing forty-five days. According to the receipt the suitcase belonged to me, and I must have
checked it in. I had no idea where the Seaboard Air-Line Railway was, but I had to get the
suitcase tonight. I wouldn’t sleep or rest until I had if.
I reached for the telephone.
“Send Maddux up here,” I said to the reception clerk. “I want a packet of cigarettes. Tell
him to hurry.”
As he began to grumble, I hung up.
A couple of minutes later Maddux came in, panting, as if he had run up the two flights of
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stairs, his ratty face bright with expectation.
“Changed your mind?” he asked, closing the door and leaning against it. “What do you
fancy …?”
I held out my hand.
“Cigarettes?”
He gave me a packet.
“There’s a little blonde …”
“Forget it,” I said, lit a cigarette, then took out two ten-dollar bills. I rustled them between
my fingers.
“How would you like to earn these?”
His eyes bugged out and his mouth fell open.
“Try me,” he said.
