Locked rooms - Laurie R. King [102]
“That's it?”
“That's it.”
Greg Tyson radiated a palpable sense of outrage all the way back to the hotel, clashing gears in a way the big car had never before experienced and taking corners at speeds that made its tyres squeal in protest. His potentially thrilling outing had fizzled into anticlimax like a damp firecracker.
And here he'd thought he had a real Philo Vance in his backseat.
Chapter Sixteen
Sundays were invariably a source of frustration for Holmes: Why was the world so enamoured of its day of rest, rendering itself largely unavailable to a decent, hard-working detective?
This Sunday was no exception. Once the car returned to the hotel and Holmes had paid the disgruntled young driver, it was still only the late afternoon, and long hours stretched out before him. He took the Gladstone to the room and changed his warm tweeds for a more formal City suit, then persuaded the restaurant to serve him a hot dinner despite the hour, but when he had finished it was still daylight outside.
He read the newspapers, pored over the city maps for a while, smoked a pipe and two cigarettes, and finally set out on a circuitous walk to the telegraphist's, on the chance that a reply had come from Watson. But the man was ill pleased at having his Sunday evening interrupted, and told him brusquely that the shop was closed and no, he hadn't had a telegram from Europe that day.
At least it was dark by the time Holmes returned to the hotel.
What was more, the desk man had a message for him from Hammett.
He went out of the hotel and down the street until he came to a public telephone, where he rang the number given. It was picked up by a man who grunted “Yeah?” In the background he heard the sound of half a dozen male voices in conversation, and the ting of glass on glass: a bar.
“Is Mr Hammett there?”
“Yeah,” the voice said again, without the rising inflection, and thumped down. In a minute, the thin man's cough could be heard approaching the earpiece.
“That you?” Hammett's voice asked.
“I had a message from you to ring this number.”
“You're at the hotel?”
“Down the street from it.”
“Good idea. Can you find the place we had a drink at the other day?”
“Yes.”
“There's a chop house two blocks up, same side of the street. I'll be there in five minutes.”
They both rang off.
In five minutes, Holmes arrived at the small restaurant on Ellis in time to see a plate of chops and grilled tomato set in front of Hammett. The thin man had gone home and changed his stained grey suit for one of a subtle brown check, and looked himself again. His eyes caught Holmes' entrance, but he continued bantering with the pretty waitress, although it seemed to Holmes that the man was so fatigued that the flirtation was little more than habitual motion. Hammett picked up knife and fork with determination, addressing himself to the plate as if eating was just another job to be got through. Holmes waited in growing impatience while the man sawed, chewed, and swallowed, but before long Hammett allowed his utensils to come to a rest on his plate, drained the glass of orange juice he had been drinking, and searched his breast pockets, coming out with a small note-book.
He flipped it open on the table and resumed his knife and fork, working now with a degree less intensity.
“Saw your lady this morning,” he said when he had swallowed.
“Yes? Did you have conversation?”
“Just an exchange. She saw me climbing the rocks where the accident took place, asked me if I was having fun. I said no, not really, and gave her some guff about an insurance company investigating a ‘fatal' accident that might have been a set-up.”
“Did she believe you?”
“Seemed to.” Holmes thought this was probably the case: If Russell had been suspicious, she would have asked more questions than she had.
“Why did you wait until today to go down there?”
“I thought I'd get some answers about the car, first, and then snoop around the local garage down there, second. Couldn't do either of those on a Sunday, but the cliff would be there