The Throat

'Hey!' Ralph said. 'Weren't you going to see if old Glen-oy is still at the hotel?'

'Were you?' John said.

'I had a long talk with him, that's right.'

'How is old Glenroy?'

'Busy—he's getting ready to go to France.'

'What for?' He really could not figure it out.

'He's playing in a jazz festival and making a record.'

'The poor bastard.' He shook his head, evidently at the notion of an ancient wreck like Glenroy Breakstone trying to play jazz in front of a crowd of French people. Then his eyes lighted up, and he pointed his index finger at me. 'Did Glenroy tell you about the time he introduced me to Louis Armstrong? Satchmo? What a thrill. Just a little guy, did you know that? No bigger than Glenroy.'

I shook my head, and he dropped his hand, disappointed.

'Ralph,' Marjorie said. 'It's late, and we're traveling tomorrow.'

'You're leaving?'

'Yeah,' John said.

'We figure we've done everything we could, here,' Ralph said. 'There isn't much point in sticking around.'

So that was why they had been able to relax.

 Marjorie said, 'Ralph,' and tugged at his arm. Both of them got up. 'Okay, guys,' Ralph said. Then he looked at me again. 'It's probably a waste of time, anyhow, you know. I don't think I ever fired more than one person, myself, and that didn't last long. Bob Bandolier pretty much took care of that kind of thing.'

'Who was the person you did fire?'

He smiled. 'I remembered it when we were sitting in the movie—it seems kind of funny now, to think of it.'

'Who was it?' I asked.

'I bet you could tell me. There were only two people in the hotel that I would fire, me personally, I mean.'

I blinked at him, and then understood. 'Bob Bandolier and Dicky Lambert. Because they were directly subordinate to you.'

'Why is this important?' Marjorie asked.

'John's friend is interested, that's why it's important,' Ralph said. 'It's research, you heard him.'

Marjorie waved a dismissive hand, turned, and walked away from us. 'I give up. Come up soon, Ralph, and I mean it.'

He watched her walk away and then turned back to me. 'It just came to me, watching Double Indemnity. I remembered how Bob Bandolier started shaving hours off his time, coming in late, leaving early, making all kinds of excuses. Finally the guy came out and said his wife was sick and he had to take care of her. Sure surprised me. I didn't even think he was married. That was some thought, Bob Bandolier with a wife, I tell you.'

'He came in late because his wife was sick?'

'He damn near missed a couple of days. I told Bob he couldn't do that, and he gave me a lot of guff about how he was a better manager in two hours than anybody else would be in eight, or some crap like that, and finally I fired him. Had no choice.' He held his hands out, palms up. 'He wasn't doing the job. The guy was a fixture, but he put me over a barrel. So I gave him the axe.' The hands went into his pockets and his shoulders went up, in that gesture common to father and son. 'Anyhow, I hired him back in a couple of weeks. When Bob was gone, things didn't go right. The meat orders went completely haywire, for one thing.'

'What happened to his wife?' John asked.

'She died—during that time before he came back. Dicky Lambert told me, he got it out of him somehow. Bob wouldn't have ever said anything about it to me.'

'When was this?' I asked.

Ralph shook his head, amused by my persistence. 'Hey, I can't remember everything. In the early fifties sometime.'

'When James Treadwell was found dead in his room, did Bandolier handle the details?'

Ralph opened his mouth and blinked at me. 'Well. I guess not. I remember wishing that he could handle the details, because I moved Dicky to days, and he was no good at all.'

'So you fired Bob Bandolier around the time of the murders.'

'Well, yeah, but…' He gave me a sharp, disbelieving look, and then started shaking his head. 'No, no, that's way off base. We're talking about Bob Bandolier—this upright character who organized prayer meetings.'

I remembered something Tom Pasmore had said to me. 'Did he have any children? A son, maybe?'

'God, I hope not.' Ralph smiled at the notion of Bob Bandolier raising a child. 'See you guys in the morning.' He gave us an awkward half-wave and started up the stairs.

John said good night to his father and then turned to me. He looked tense and irritated. 'Okay, what have you been doing all day?'

2

'Mostly, I was looking for traces of Bob Bandolier,' I said. John uttered a disgusted sound and waved me toward his couch. Without bothering to look at me, he went into his kitchen and returned with a lowball glass filled to the brim with ice and vodka. He came to the chair and sipped, glowering at me all the while. 'And what were you up to last night?'

'What's the matter with you, John? I don't deserve this.'

'And I don't deserve this.' He sipped again, unwilling to sit down until he had come out with whatever it was that troubled him. 'You told my mother you were a college professor! What are you these days, some kind of imposter?'

'Oh, John, Joyce Brophy called me Professor Underhill, that's all.'

He glared at me, but finally sat down. 'I had to tell my parents all about your illustrious academic career. I didn't want them to know you're a liar, did I? So you're a full professor at Columbia, and you've published four books. My parents are proud that I know a guy like you.'

'You didn't have to lay it on so thick.'

John waved this away. 'You know what she said to me? My mother?'

I shook my head.

'She said that some day I'd meet a wonderful young woman, and that she was still hoping to be a grandmother some day. I'm supposed to remember that I'm still a healthy young man with a wonderful house and a wonderful job.'