The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [90]
As the elevator door began to open, Annie saw the housekeeping cart sweep past. She was halfway down the opposite hall before the import of the scene registered. Whirling around, she broke into a run.
The cart was parked outside suite 315.
The door was closed.
Maids—genuine maids—left doors open when cleaning rooms. Didn’t they?
Grimly, Annie punched the buzzer.
When the door opened, Annie glowered.
Henny had established a new dress standard for maids with her smartly-fitting gray chambray uniform accented by a dainty white apron.
“Costume from The Importance of Being Earnest?” Annie snarled.
Henny’s eyes glinted with irritation. “Shh. Come on in,” and she yanked Annie over the threshold and closed the door. Annie reached for the knob. “Oh no, I’m not going to be found breaking into—”
“So who broke in? You rang, the maid answered. Cool it, Annie. Listen, I can’t find a trace of any information in this suite that pertains to Agatha Christie, except some of those flyers. What do you think of that?”
“I think whatever work Bledsoe’s done is at home in his computer terminal.” Annie grabbed a bony elbow. “Come on, Henny, let’s get out of here.”
Henny resisted. Her bright eyes roamed restlessly around the suite.
Annie looked, too. Jean Hager’s Chief Mitch Bushyhead could tell a lot from the contents of a room. But this was a hotel room, lovelier than many, but still carrying little impress of its occupants’ personalities. The bedroom doors were closed. The foyer was identical to that in Annie and Max’s suite. An ornate black iron grillwork separated the entryway from the living area. Vivid pillows emphasized the crisp white of the wicker furniture. A canvas carryall on the coffee table gaped, revealing a jumble of paperbacks. A neat stack of paperbacks sat atop the small breakfast table. Even at the distance of fifteen feet, Annie recognized the top cover, one of the rare Green Door mysteries. As she recalled, most of the Mr. Moto books had appeared in those editions. Kathryn Honeycutt’s purchases from the bookroom, no doubt. Too effete a selection for Bledsoe. His taste would run to Jim Thompson and Jonathan Valin. The New York Times was tossed carelessly on the floor beside the divan. A damp black-and-orange beach towel hung from the back of a breakfast room chair.
“No papers here at all,” Henny muttered, “except for the subscriptions sold for his newsletter. Boy, he really cleaned up. Forty-eight hundred dollars’ worth.”
Forty-eight hundred dollars earned by promising to trash Christie. Annie jiggled impatiently from one foot to another. Henny was off on the wrong track. Nosing around Bledsoe’s suite wouldn’t get either of them anywhere in their quest. She yanked open the door. “If you’ve got any brains,” she warned inelegantly, “you’ll blow this pool hall right now. See you later.”
If Derek Davis’s hand hadn’t clung to the doorjamb, he would have slid right down to the floor.
Drunk.
Very drunk.
He stared at her with red-rimmed, muzzy eyes and with no flicker of recognition. The publicist’s uncombed hair flared in tangled clumps. He hadn’t shaved. He was wearing a soiled, wrinkled shirt, trousers that had been slept in. He was barefoot. The sour odor of whiskey clung to him.
“Yeah.”
“Derek, I need to talk to you.”
Derek blinked, wavered, clung to the door.
“Yeah.”
“About Neil Bledsoe and—”
Derek’s face twisted. Tears brimmed in his eyes. He turned away, stumbled, careened into a chair, then dropped heavily onto the couch. He hunched awkwardly over the couch arm, his shoulders heaving.
Annie slowly followed. She stood by the couch, looked down, and a rivulet of anger snaked through her mind. How much heartbreak and agony could one man cause?
“Derek!” came a low cry from behind Annie.