Locked rooms - Laurie R. King [141]
The hands of the clock moved with agonising slowness. Holmes sat, motionless for long periods on the cushions, his hooded eyes glittering in the dim light of the room, and waited for his telephone to ring.
At sixteen minutes after the hour, the device emitted the strangled burble that was its mechanical equivalent of a throat-clearing, and he snatched it up before it could go on to its ring.
“Yes,” he demanded.
“She 'phoned, right on the dot of eight,” Hammett's voice told him. “I told her I couldn't take the case.”
“I see.” Holmes was not surprised.
“She wasn't happy about it. Cursed me in a couple of languages, and I had to raise my voice to ask her where I should send her money. She finally heard me, said I should keep it for a while, that maybe I'd change my mind. Said it like a threat. So I had to tell her that, if I didn't hear from her by Friday morning, I was going to tack the envelope up to the entranceway of the apartment building and leave it there for anyone to help themselves to.”
“What was her response?”
“She just said she'd be in touch and hung up. With a bang. When I got the exchange, the girl said that the call had been put through from a public office on the other side of town, but when I called there, the woman had left already. She's pretty good at this.”
“I expected nothing less. Hammett, it might be a good idea—”
“Yeah, I know, I'll need to be back here before my wife comes home with the kid for lunch, just in case we have a visitor with a gun. But I think I'll use some of your money to send them both down to Santa Cruz for a couple of days. She's been talking about going. Once they're out of the way I'll be yours for what you need.”
“You might also make sure you don't leave any notes concerning the case lying about in the open.”
“I'll do that. So, what do you want me to do this morning?”
“How far did you get on the Ginzberg death?”
“Found the man in charge; he was tied up with a fresh case.”
“I'd like to have something to give Russell on that when she gets back tomorrow. See what you can do with it.”
“Right you are. You need me, I'm at police headquarters 'til noon, then back here.”
“And I shall check in with the hotel during the day, to ask if any messages have been left me,” Holmes told him, then, “Hammett?”
“Still here.”
“I was thinking of placing an advert in one of the papers, asking for information regarding the delivery of an envelope to your address. That lad might be able to tell us something.”
“Are you asking my opinion?”
“I suppose I am,” Holmes said, rather surprised at the fact.
“Then I'd say not. Later, maybe, but doing it now, you'd risk scaring them off. You'd also be risking their getting to the kid first.”
“You feel they could remove him?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“I'm afraid I agree with you, Hammett. Thank you.” Holmes set the earpiece back on its hook, and pulled back the curtains to let the day in. He leant his shoulder against the window-frame, staring unseeing down at the street, weighing his options—or, rather, weighing his opponent's options. His picture of her was more blank space than anything else, but he did not have the impression that the woman had unlimited resources. Her efforts had been too focussed for that, and her fury at Hammett's refusal indicated that she had rather a lot tied up in him—although her anger could as easily have been due to the waste of time rather than money. However, there was also the fact of her overgenerous payment to Hammett: In Holmes' experience, someone with a great deal of money was less likely to misjudge the cost of a thing, or of a person.
All in all, he thought that the woman's resources could well be somewhat stretched, and she would want that money back. He considered his available stock of Irregulars: Hammett was not only noticeable but known to the woman; Long would stand out anywhere outside Chinatown; the lad