Stewart Sterling - Dead of Night

On percentage, I should have figured that pillow slip would turn out to be the fuse to a case full of dynamite. Nine times out of ten the real trouble in any hotel breaks just before the security chief is supposed to go off duty. This call came through at five to eight. I was practically on my way over to the Garden to catch the bantamweight prelims. I should have known.

But it had been a quiet night. Nothing more exciting than putting the grip on a pair of wallet workers whod been smiting the pre-theater crowd hip and thigh until we placed them under genteel restraint. So when Zingy flagged me, I took for granted it would be merely too much alcohilarity on the sixth where a bunch of tycoons were tuning up for a banquet. Matter requiring tact but not much time, probably.

From across the lobby at the bell desk, Zingy our jockey-sized bell captain on the night side gave me the P sign, thumb and index fingers circled against the other outstretched forefinger, and followed it with a sweeping gesture of the palm horizontal like an umpire calling a man safe on base. One of the staff wanted me. That shouldnt hold me up long, I figured.

Walking to the house phones, I kept my eyes on the couple whod attracted my attention just before Zingy began his deaf-mute signals. Sandy-haired man about thirty-five; solidly put together; stocky but not fleshy; short, wide face with prominent cheekbones, broad nostrils and a thin, prissy mouth; he looked like the sort of gent whod call every bellman Mac and every porter George.

His tux was a mite too large for him. Id never have given it another thought if hed been too big for his coat. Lots of bulgy burghers outgrow their tailor-mades.

But though this lad was already big, hed need four more inches around the short ribs before he caught up with that jacket. Trifling thing? Sure. But a rented tux, paraded alongside the sleek custom jobs ordinarily circulating around our plushery, stands out like a beard on a room clerk.

Nothing wrong about hiring a pair of satin lapels, to be sure. Only the kind of customers who can afford our Plaza Royale prices usually dont have to rent dinner clothes. Then too, this joe matched up with his companion about like melted margarine with some of Sandors champignons. She was a thing.

Maybe it was the way that tall, silver comb set off her black hair in regular tourist-ad seorita style. Or the lacy, black shawl-thing over her otherwise bare shoulders and white dinner gown. Anyhow the effect was Spanish enough to make me think of clicking castanets and the thrum of guitars and high heels stamping out the final bars of a samba. What I could see of her face helped the idea along; she was young and pretty in spite of the white patch covering her right eye.

Perhaps that disfiguring patch accounted for her being so gidgety. She kept glancing around nervously, twisting her head this way and that, clutching her escorts arm as if she was afraid hed get away from her. Which he might have been trying to do, from what I could see of his actions.

Thered only been the two of them in the elevator when it let them out at the lobby level. Prissy-mouth had stalked out ahead of her, then turned as if suddenly remembering his manners and made a grab for her. She shook his hand off irritably, spoke crossly to him, and tucked her hand inside his arm, as they came toward the Fifth Avenue entrance. All the way across the lobby, hed kept half a stride ahead, practically dragging her behind him. Queer pair.

Its no part of the security offices job to oversee who twos around with who. But something about this guy made me think of various unpleasantries a few of our femme guests had experienced after hiring an escort from one of the bureaus that make a business of that sort of thing. I made a mental note to check up on the elegant eyeful, and picked up the phone to ask if somebody wanted Mister Vine.

Mrs. Munster does, Mister V. The switchboard gal connected me with the head housekeeper.

Want me, Ada?

Ive got a pillow slip, Mister Vine. I wish youd come up and look at it. Ada Munster sounded fretful and worried, but then anybody who has to supervise two hundred floor maids is likely to sound that way.

In the morning, okay? I wouldnt miss more than one of the preliminary bouts, if I could get going right away.

I do think youd better see it tonight. Its got oil on it.

That didnt sound good. Ada wouldnt have called about hair oil.

And theres something else. She didnt want to talk with the switchboard girl listening. They always do on security calls. By request.

What room, Ada?

Suite Twenty-One Em Em, Mister V. But Im in my office.

Ill be up. I kissed the bantam bouts good-by, wondered if Id make it in time for the middleweights.

When I went around behind the main desk to go back into the board room, Reidy Duman, our silky-suave assistant manager, asked if I hadnt planned to go to the fights.

I said Id be going directly. Meanwhile, what did he know about deluxe duplex 21MM?

He came around back of the registration board with me, looked over my shoulder at the card I took out of the rack.

It said that Teresa Marino (Miss) and maid, from Dallas, Texas, had checked in Monday, July ninth, at a daily rate of $75.00. Evidently a gal who could afford her morning corn flakes at a dime a flake, if she so wished. There were a couple of significant notations. Beside Length of Stay was typed 34 w. Under Credit was the Est. which meant our cashiers department had established her financial standing to its satisfaction. Under Previous Guest History was a cryptic ?. Meaning that there werent any records of her preference in hard or soft pillows, things like that.

Oh, oh! That one! Reidy touched finger tips to lips, blew a kiss to the filing-cabinets. Something spesh. Here for eye treatment. Wears a patch

I said Id seen her. And wondered why I hadnt noticed her around the lobby or the dining-room or the elevators in the five days shed been here. Like to look at her bill, Reidy.

He got it from the 20-2400 cashier. It didnt tell much except that in the hundred-odd hours since checking in, Miss T. Marino and maid had spent a nice snug total of $311.40 for Restaurant and Bar. Also that she had quite a flock of clothes and wasnt backward about sending them to the cleaners in large batches.

Further, that she had a loose hand with a telephone, both local and L.D. There were quite a lot of the long-line charges. None of them were to Dallas. Or any place in Texas. There were six to Lexington, Kentucky. One for each day. One extra for Saturday.

Reidy cocked a canny eye at me. Something?

Thing that killed the cat, thats all. Saw her few minutes ago with a lad who didnt seem in her handicap division. Always thinking of the guests welfare. See framed motto.

He wasnt fooled. Want me to put her on the Watch List?

Ill do it if its necessary. Reidys a right boy, but like all assistant managers, suffers from the illusion he can boss the security office around. You skin your own snakes.

Hope you lose every bet at the Garden. He grinned.

I went out to see Pete Zingara.

Miss Marino? Zounds and gadzooks! Zingy did a soft-shoe break beside the bell desk. Halfies all the time. Never less than halfies. Sometimes she gives with the buck, on drugstore errands. For headache powders, stuff from the prescription, like that.

Order much of that, does she? Only customer I hate moren a glass-smashing drunk is one of those sleeping-pill beauties. If she was one.

Nah, not so much. He saw I was serious. Shes swell folks. Owns a flock of oil wells or something. But nice and quiet, I mean. Real friendly. And that maid of hers whoo-deedoo!