The room was windowless, and in darkness, but the light from the passage, coming through
the crack in the swing-doors, was enough for me to get a vague idea of the set-up. There were
a number of trolleys covered with sheets standing against the walls. An overpowering smell
of formaldehyde filled the air, and it was cold.
I slid off the trolley, again nearly forgetting my hat. I put it on. As my eyes became used to
the semi-darkness, I spotted a door across the far end of the room. Faint daylight came from
under it.
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I went over to it, turned the handle and opened it a couple of inches. I looked into a narrow
alley. Two big white motor ambulances were parked out there. The light was beginning to
fade now, but it was still too light to be safe.
I opened the door and looked up the alley. Iron gates stood open at the far end. Beyond
them I could see a main street. There was no one guarding the gates.
I started off down the alley towards the street. I had no idea where I was going or what I
was going to do. I hadn’t any money. There was nothing in my pockets, not even a handkerchief. But I didn’t care. At least I was getting away from Riskin, the hospital and Ricca. That
would do to get on with.
V
A big yellow moon threw amber light over the sea. There was a car parked on the sand, its
lights out. The man and the girl, on either side of the car, began to undress. I was near enough
to hear their voices, but not what they were saying.
This part of the beach was lonely and deserted but for these two and the car. I had lain
hidden in the mangroves for the past three hours, then suddenly the car had arrived. It came
just when I was giving up hope.
I watched the two of them run down to the sea and splash in. As soon as they were
swimming I moved out of my hiding-place and headed for the car. I found his coat. My
fingers closed around a wallet in his inside pocket. I hauled it out, and went around to the
back of the car where they couldn’t see me if they looked this way. The wallet was stuffed
with money. I could scarcely believe my luck. I took a hundred and fifty dollars in small bills.
That still left him enough to buy her a slap-up supper. I slid the wallet into the pocket and
tossed the coat into the car, then I ran back to the darkness of the mangroves.
During the three hours I had remained hidden I had made a plan. Riskin would expect me
to clear out of Miami as fast as I could. I had told him I had a talent for hitch-hiking. He’d
probably cover every truck and car going out of town, and watch every road. I had decided
my safest bet was to remain in Miami, and hole up somewhere. I had to find myself a quiet
hotel, spin them a yarn I was waiting for my baggage, and hope they’d give me a room.
There should be dozens of suitable hotels if I could only find them. I’d have to be careful.
My description was bound to be out now, and every patrolman would be looking for me:
Ricca would probably be looking for me too.
I started off towards the bright lights of the waterfront. I moved slowly. I was tired. I had
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walked miles since I had left the hospital. My head ached too. While I had been hiding I had
taken off the bandages. They had shaved my head, but from the feel of it the wound was
healed.
At least my hat fitted me now, and didn’t bother me.
Ahead I could see the waterfront and the harbour, the shops and cafe and saloons.
As I walked along the congested sidewalk I kept my eyes open for a patrolman, but I
needn’t have bothered. No patrolman could have spotted me in that teeming crowd.
A few minutes’ walking brought me to an hotel. It seemed the kind of place I was looking
for. It was dingy and quiet, and looking through the double swing-doors I saw the lounge was
deserted.
I pushed open the doors and walked in.
Ahead of me was the reception desk. A little guy in a black alpaca coat was propping
himself up against the desk. He was bald and wrinkled, and his deep-set eyes were bored. “I’d
like a room,” I said.
“Ten bucks deposit,” he said briefly, “For how long?”
“A couple of days, if I like it, maybe a week.” He scratched the top of his head with one
finger. “Don’t see your baggage.”
“It’s at the station.”
“We like baggage, mister. We could collect it for you.”
I fished out two tens and dropped them on the desk.
“I’ll get it in the morning. Let’s have a room.”
He reached for a key from the rack behind him, shoved the register at me and a pen.
I wrote John Crosby on the line he indicated with a dirty finger. My slight hesitation didn’t
“Any relation to Bing?” he asked with a small sneer.
“Why, yes,” I said. “I’m his sister. Where do I find the room?”
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He gave me a cold, hostile look, stuck his thumb into a bell-push and turned his back on
me.
After a while a middle-aged bell-hop materialized and took the key. He was a rat-faced guy
with close-set eyes and a thin, hard mouth. His blue uniform and pill-box hat shone like a
nickel plate.
“Second floor,” he said. “No baggage?”
“No baggage,” I said.
I tramped up the stairs after him. Eventually we came to a door which he unlocked and
pushed open. He reached inside and turned on the light.
“The bathroom’s at the end of the corridor. Don’t use the shower. It don’t work.”
I went past him into a box of a room with a bed, a table, a chest of drawers and a strip of
worn carpet.
“Just like Buckingham Palace,” I said.
“A little more roomy, if anything.”
He put the key on the chest of drawers and looked me over expectantly. I gave him a dollar.
He nearly dropped in his tracks.
“Anything you want mister?” he said eagerly. “How about a little company? I have a list of
telephone numbers as long as my arm.”
“Dust,” I said.
“If you change your mind, call the desk and ask for me. My name’s Maddux.”
“Beat it!”
When he had gone I sat on the bed and took off my hat. I was so tired I could scarcely keep
my eyes open. The bed felt as if it had been stuffed with golf-balls, but that didn’t worry me.
I could have slept right then on a bed of nails.
I sat there, yarning and turning the hat around in my hand, my mind empty. As far back as I
could remember I had kept a ten-dollar bill behind the sweat-band of any hat I happened to
own. I’d stick it there and forget about it. Then when I was broke I had something to fall back
on. I wondered idly if the owner of this hat had the same idea. I turned down the sweat-band
and looked inside.
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My fingers hooked out a thin ribbon of paper, and as I unfolded it I realized I wasn’t
surprised to find it there. It was almost as if I had known it would be there before I looked for
it.
I smoothed it out. It was a left-luggage receipt, and written in pencil across the top were the
words:
John Farrar,
Seaboard Air-Line Railway
Greater Miami.
Under the heading, Description of Articles, was written One suitcase.
I was fully awake now, the longi
ng for sleep washed right out of my mind. Then this hat,
and obviously the clothes, did belong to me! I looked for the date on the receipt. There it was;
September 6th! The time the suitcase was handed in was also there: 6.5 p.m.
For some minutes I sat staring down at the threadbare carpet, I felt like a sceptic in a
haunted house who suddenly sees a horrifying apparition. There could be no doubt now. I
must have lost my memory for forty-five days, and during that time, if I was to believe Ricca,
I had murdered two men and a woman.
Ricca might be lying. If I were to remain sane I’d have to find out what had happened
during those forty-five days. It started with the smash, five miles outside Pelotta. I would go
to the scene of the accident and with any luck I might be able to trace my movements from
there. I had been thrown out of the Bentley and had injured my head. From that moment until
I had recovered consciousness in the hospital I had been going around with a blacked-out
mind.
I flicked the receipt with my fingernail. Maybe this suitcase contained the key to those
missing forty-five days. According to the receipt the suitcase belonged to me, and I must have
checked it in. I had no idea where the Seaboard Air-Line Railway was, but I had to get the
suitcase tonight. I wouldn’t sleep or rest until I had if.
I reached for the telephone.
“Send Maddux up here,” I said to the reception clerk. “I want a packet of cigarettes. Tell
him to hurry.”
As he began to grumble, I hung up.
A couple of minutes later Maddux came in, panting, as if he had run up the two flights of
71
stairs, his ratty face bright with expectation.
“Changed your mind?” he asked, closing the door and leaning against it. “What do you
fancy …?”
I held out my hand.
“Cigarettes?”
He gave me a packet.
“There’s a little blonde …”
“Forget it,” I said, lit a cigarette, then took out two ten-dollar bills. I rustled them between
my fingers.
“How would you like to earn these?”
His eyes bugged out and his mouth fell open.
“Try me,” he said.
I handed him the left-luggage receipt.
“Get that case and bring it back here.”
“What - now?”
“If you want to make twenty bucks.”
He looked at the receipt.
“I thought your name was Crosby,” he said, and gave me a quick, suspicious look.
I didn’t say anything. I folded the two bills and slid them into my pocket.
“I didn’t say anything,” he said hurriedly. “That wasn’t me talking.”
“Get that case and make it snappy.”
He went off as if fired from a gun.
While I waited I went over my meagre stock of information.
On the night of September 6th I had been driving a Buick convertible, registered in the
name of John Ricca, along a road seventy-five miles from Miami. With me was a girl:
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whether it had been Della or not I couldn’t say, Ricca knew who she was, but Riskin didn’t.
There had been a smash. Apparently I had lost control of the car, for there was no other car
involved. The girl had been killed, and I had been found unconscious five minutes later by a
speed-cop. There was some talk about a gun. It had her fingerprints on it, and for some reason
or other Riskin seemed to think the smash had been deliberate, making it murder.
I wiped my face with the back of my hand. I had to find out who the girl was and why she
had a gun. I had to find out why I had lost control of the car.
Riskin had said I had an apartment on Franklin Boulevard, Lincoln Beach. I remembered
Della had said she and her husband were going to Lincoln Beach, and did I want to go with
them. It seemed in those forty-five missing days I had not only lived in Lincoln Beach, but I
had even set up a home there.
To judge by the suit I was wearing, and the fact I had owned a Buick, I must have got hold
of a lot of money. How had I done that in so short a time?
I switched my mind to the fat man, Ricca. He had given me a lot of obscure information.
According to him I was engaged to a girl called Ginny. Where had I met her and where was
she now?
I recalled what he had said. You’re the guy who killed Wertham and Reisner. Who were
they? Where have you hidden the money? he had asked. What money? You can walk out of
here and do what you damn well like. Why should I care? She was the one who cared. Who
was she? Why did she care?
I stretched out on the bed and smoked, staring up at the ceiling. There seemed no end to the
questions, but how was I to find the answers? I realized I wasn’t going to get far unless I had
money to help me. At the moment I had only a little over a hundred dollars. I couldn’t hope to
make a thorough investigation without a substantial sum of money. I was suddenly up against
a blank wall. Without money I was sunk. There could be no investigation. All I could do was
to sneak out of Miami as soon as my hundred dollars ran out and get somewhere where I
could lose myself.
I was still battering my brains out, trying to find a solution, when I heard Maddux coming
pounding down the passage. I just had time to slap on my hat to cover my shaven head when
he came in and dumped a big black pigskin suitcase on the bed.
“There you are, mister,” he said. “Jeepers! That weighs a ton.”
I was looking at the suitcase. As far as I knew I had never seen it before. There was a tie-on
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label hanging from the handle. It had my name on it, and it was written in my handwriting.
I tried the locks, but they didn’t budge. They were good, strong locks, and they’d need a lot
of breaking open.
“That’s a nice-looking case,” Maddux said, watching me closely.
“Yeah, but I’ve lost the key. Got a screw-driver handy?”
I saw his look of suspicion, but I ignored it.
“You don’t want to bust the locks,” he said. “I’ve got a hicky that’ll open it.”
“Get it,” I said.
He went off as if he were jet-propelled.
I stood looking at the suitcase, fighting down a feeling of fear and excitement. Would this
case contain the key to the missing forty-five days? Had I bought it or had I stolen it?
Maddux returned in six minutes. They seemed like six hours to me.
He bent over the case, screwed a bit of metal into the lock, twisted it and the lock flew up.
He did the same to the other lock, then stood back.
“Easy, once you know how,” he said.
I gave him the twenty I’d promised him.
“See you tomorrow,” I said, anxious to get rid of him.
He looked longingly at the case, backed to the door, then hesitated.
“Well, if that’s all, I guess I’ll get downstairs.”
“That’s all.”
The moment he closed the door I shot the bolt. Then I turned to the bed. I took hold of the
lid of the case and threw it open.
I don’t know what I expected to see, but certainly not what I did see. The case was
crammed with money: thousands and thousands of dollars; more money than I had ever seen
in my life.
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For a long moment of time I stood staring. Then very carefully and with shaking han
ds I
lifted the fat, neat packages on to the bed until the case was empty. There was nothing else in
the case - just the money. A quarter of a million in hundred-dollar bills!
I understood then why Ricca had been so anxious to find the money. A quarter of a million!
How did it get into the case? Where had it come from?
I suddenly felt horribly faint, and I put my hand on the bed-rail to steady myself. My knees
sagged, and I flopped down on the floor. But not for one moment did I take my eyes off that
money.
A quarter of a million dollars!
A motive for murder! Had I really murdered two men and a woman for this? Was that what
I had done?
VI
If I hadn’t been suspected of murder I wouldn’t have touched that money. I would have
taken the suitcase to Riskin and let him handle it, but what had I to lose? If I did hand over
the suitcase to Riskin I might be handing him the motive he was hunting for to pin the murder
rap on me. If I were caught with it, it wouldn’t make much difference, if any. I was wanted
for murder, nothing else mattered.
I wanted money to make an investigation. Well, I had a quarter of a million dollars and I
was going to use it.
Once I had made up my mind to use it, everything became simple. I bought Maddux, and I
bought the bald-headed reception clerk. Maddux cost me a hundred bucks. The clerk became
co-operative for a mere fifty. Both of them found out who I was when they read the morning
papers. The papers gave my name and an accurate description of me.
“This man is wanted for questioning concerning the murder of an unknown woman,” said
the account. “Anyone recognizing him from the description given above should communicate
immediately with Lieutenant Bill Riskin of the Homicide Bureau.”
But they didn’t offer a reward, so the clerk and Maddux weren’t interested. They were only
interested in my welfare and my dollars.
I remained in the hotel bedroom for two weeks: time for my hair to grow over the scar and
for me to raise a moustache. A moustache and a pair of horn spectacles changed my
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appearance considerably. Only a trained observer like Riskin could have spotted me. I was
sure I had nothing to fear from the man in the street who might have read the police
description.
I told Maddux I wanted a car and a gun. He got me a secondhand black Plymouth: just the