Owls Don't Blink

Chapter Fourteen

I got up at seven o’clock, showered, shaved, had breakfast, and unpacked my bag to dig out the revolver that I was supposed to carry. It was a .38, blued steel, in only fair condition. I put it in my pocket and walked down Royal Street to the entrance to the apartment. I wondered how much of a hangover Hale had.

I didn’t try to be quiet as I climbed the stairs. I made noise, lots of it, and my knock on the door wasn’t at all gentle.

Hale didn’t answer.

I started both knuckles to work and used the toe of my shoe to give the summons a little more interest.

Still no Hale.

I had the extra key to the apartment. I fitted this key to the lock and clicked back the bolt.

Hale wasn’t there.

The bed was rumpled, but the wrinkles in the sheet didn’t look as though it had been slept in much longer than an hour.

I walked across the bedroom into the living-room, looked out onto the porch to make certain he wasn’t there. Assured that the coast was clear, I took the drawers out of the writing-desk, tilted it up on one comer, and spilled out the debris from the bottom: letters, clippings, and the gun.

I pocketed the gun that had been in there, replaced it with my own revolver, and then put the desk back into shape.

It was a fine warm day, and the street below was filling up with people who were strolling around, enjoying the sunlight.

I gave the place a final once-over, then quietly opened the door, pulled it shut behind me, and went down the stairs.

I was in the courtyard when I met the colored maid. She gave me a grin and said, “Is the ge’man up yet?”

I assured her that the “ge’man” was either out or was asleep, that I’d pounded on the door, and hadn’t been able to raise him.

She thanked me and went on up.

I went back to the hotel. There was a memo in my box to call Lockley 9746.

I went into a booth and called the number, wondering whether it would be a hospital or the jail. It was neither. A velvet feminine voice answered the telephone.

“Someone calling Mr. Lam?”

She laughed. “Oh, yes. This is the office of the Silk-wear Importation Company calling its president.”

“Indeed.”

“You have a letter and a telegram here.”

“Business is picking up,” I said.

“Isn’t it! Know what happened? Listen to this. We send out two form letters, one by air mail, and we get two replies back, one of them by wire.”

“That’s the way to write sales letters,” I said.

“It was on account of the excellent job of mimeographing,” she retorted.

“I’ll take your word for it and be right up.”

I took a cab up to the office. Ethel Wells seemed really glad to see me. “How’s everything this morning?” she asked.

“Not so hot.”

“No? What’s wrong?”

“I started out last night to show a tourist the town.”

“You look as fresh as a daisy.”

“I feel as though someone had pulled my petals off to see whether she loves me or loves me not.”

“Don’t feel badly about it. Perhaps the answer was that she really loves you.”

I didn’t have any answer for that, so I tore open the telegram.

It read: Silkwear Importation Company. Send five dozen pair express collect size ten and one-half, color four your chart.

The telegram was signed, Bertha Cool, and the address given was that of the agency.

The letter was in a tinted square envelope. The stationery inside matched it. There was a faint scent. The postmark on the envelope was Shreveport, Louisiana. The letter bore the date line, Shreveport. It read simply, Send me six pair of your hose; size eight and one-half, color number five according to your chart.

The letter was signed Edna Cutler, and there was a street address.

I put the letter in my pocket, said to Ethel Wells. “When would I be able to get a train for Shreveport?”

“Must it be a train?”

“A bus will do all right.”

She reached into a cubbyhole beneath the counter which ran on one side of her desk, pulled out a bus schedule, opened it, and handed it to me.

“I see where I made my mistake,” she said.

“What?”

“I should have ordered my stockings by mail and given my home address.”

“Why don’t you try it?” I asked.

She was holding her lead pencil in her right hand, making aimless little diagrams across the page of her shorthand notebook.

She said, very demurely, “I think I will.”

I handed her the bus schedule. “I’ll be out of town today. Miss Wells,” I said very importantly. “If anyone wants to see me, I’m in conference.”

“Yes, sir. And if any more letters come in, what shall I do?”

“There won’t be any more.”

“You wouldn’t want to bet on it, would you?”

“I might.”

“A pair of silk stockings?”

“Against what?”

“Anything you want. I’m betting on a cinch.”

I said, “It’s a bet. I want to see what’s in the letter. I have to have a residence address, you know, or I can’t fill orders.”

She smiled. “I know. Watch your step in Shreveport”