“Will there be anything else, sir?” he asked.
“Nothing,” said Gaspar, “unless you could give me a little information.”
“That’s possible, sir. What kind of information?”
“I’m wondering if you could tell me how long Mr. Rudolph La Roche has been coming to this hotel.”
“Mr. Rudolph La Roche, sir? I’m afraid I don’t know the gentleman.”
“A slender man. Not very tall. Dark hair with a little gray over the ears. Military bearing. Appearance rather distinguished.”
There was a flicker in the bellhop’s ancient eyes as he raised them from the wall to the ceiling, closing them in transience.
“I know a gentleman who fits that general description, sir, but his name is not La Roche. A coincidental similarity, perhaps.”
“Let’s get down to cases. La Roche came into this hotel tonight and went directly upstairs without registering. Later he came down again, dressed fit to kill, with a beautiful blonde hanging on his arm. Since he changed his clothes upstairs, I assume that he has a room or has the use of the lady’s.”
“Ah.” The bellhop’s eyes descended slowly from the ceiling. As they crossed the fin on the bed, they opened briefly and closed again. “You must be referring to Mr. and Mrs. Roger Le Rambeau.”
Gaspar was silent for a moment, scarcely breathing. “Did you say Mr. and Mrs. Roger Le Rambeau?”
“Yes, sir. They have a suite on the fifteenth floor. Permanent residents. Mr. Le Rambeau is out of town during the week. He returns every Friday night.”
“Oh? And where does Mr. Le Rambeau go during the week?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, sir. I assume that he goes on business.”
“How long have Mr. and Mrs. Le Rambeau been residents here?”
“Approximately three years. They moved in, I understand, immediately after their marriage.”
“They must be well-heeled to afford this kind of setup.”
“They appear to be quite affluent. It’s my understanding, however, that Mrs. Le Rambeau has most of the money.”
“I see. Do you happen to know if they were married here in the city or elsewhere?”
“I’m not sure. Wherever they were married, it should be a matter of record.”
“Yes. So it should.”
“I hope I have been helpful, sir.”
“You have. You bet you have.”
“In that case, sir, if there is nothing else, I had better get on with my duties.”
“Sure, sure. You run along, son.”
The bellhop, who was at least as old as Gaspar, flicked the fin off the bed with practiced fingers and went out of the room. Gaspar, left alone, continued to sit on the edge of the bed with his fat body folded forward over the bulge of his belly. A toad of a man, ugly and scarred and poor in the world’s goods, he was nevertheless lifted by soaring dreams into the rarefied air of enlarged hopes.
Gaspar wasted no more time in spying personally on the astounding barber whom he still thought of, in order to avoid confusion, as Rudolph La Roche. After three stout highballs, he rolled into bed in his underwear and slept soundly for a few hours, rousing and rising early the next morning, which was Saturday. With the help of a clerk he spent the morning checking the file of photo-stated marriage licenses at the county courthouse, which turned out not to be such a tedious task as he had feared, inasmuch as he knew, thanks to the bellhop, the approximate time when La Roche had taken his bride. The only question was whether or not the marriage had been performed in the county and was there recorded. Happily, it had been and was.
Gaspar returned to the hotel, got his bag, paid his bill, claimed his car at the parking garage, and drove home. He was feeling so pleased with himself and the turn his affairs were taking that he had only the mildest pang of envy when he thought of Rudolph La Roche with his blonde bomb in their fifteenth-floor suite.
He spent Sunday with pleasant anticipations, and the following morning, with the resumption of workaday affairs, he investigated more records and satisfied himself on a critical point. Rudolph La Roche was married, all right. In fact, being married twice at once, he was excessively so. And if a philandering husband is a patsy, to make a riddle of it, what is a bigamist?
Gaspar drove by the two-chair barber shop, which was located in a small suburban shopping area, and there at the first chair, sure enough, spruce in a starched white tunic and plying his scissors to a head of hair, was the errant Mr. La Roche. Smiling wetly and humming softly, Gaspar drove slowly on. He parked in the alley behind the building in which his office was located, and heavily climbed back stairs, still smiling and humming between puffs. In his office, without delay, he dialed the number of Hershell Fitch, who was at home and came to the telephone at the summons of Mrs. Fitch, who had answered.
“Gaspar Vane speaking,” said Gaspar. “Can you talk?”
“Yes,” said Hershell. “There’s no one here but Gabriella. Don’t you think, however, I had better come to your office for your report?”
“You are welcome to come,” Gaspar said, “if you want to waste your time.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean there isn’t any report. None, that is, worth mentioning.”
“Where did he go?”
“He went to Kansas City.”
“What for?”
“He went to see a woman.”
“A woman! That sounds to me like something worth mentioning.”
“I guess it is if you see something wrong with seeing an eighty-year-old woman who happens also to be his mother.”
“He goes to Kansas City every weekend to see his mother?”
“That’s right. She’s in a nursing
