Murder on the Rocks. Talmage Powell

morphine, heroin, or cocaine. M and H were used in an alcohol solution. One of them had killed him.

      His shirt cuffs were unbuttoned. Pulling up his left sleeve, I saw small scars dotting his arm from his wrist to his shoulder. I pulled down the sleeve and Artie said, “A hophead, huh? One of the bang boys.”

      “And a big bang kicked him off. All the way to the moon.”

      “He did it himself?”

      “I couldn’t even guess.”

      “Then let’s get going.”

      “Two minutes.”

      Working fast, I gave the room another going-over: mattress, pillows, chairstuffing, drawers, even the shoulder padding in Silvio’s coat. Mopping my face, I looked around the room for one last time. If the emerald had been there, it was gone by now. I wasn’t even slightly curious over where it might be. The question was one for the police.

      Switching off the light, I left the room behind Artie, closed the door, and polished the doorknob with my handkerchief. I also polished the desk clerk’s master key and carried it down the steps between my knuckles. Artie went out of the front door and I flipped the key onto the clerk’s ledger. Without looking up, he wheezed at me. The wine fumes were thicker than an Italian wedding.

      Artie walked beside me to the end of the block and said, “You’re walking out of it? Just like that?”

      “Any better ideas?”

      “From a pay phone I could tip the precinct.”

      “I’d rather you didn’t. I was involved in finding him because finding him was supposed to be done quietly, without publicity. And there’s also an angle you’re better off not knowing about—connected with the client’s reasons.”

      “If you say so.”

      A cab had spotted us. It veered toward the curb and slowed. I said, “If you’re worried about his family, Artie, his prints are on file and by tomorrow afternoon he’ll probably be identified. Then the story will be out. All I’m asking for is time enough to warn my client so that he can make other plans.”

      Artie said, “Don’t worry about me.”

      The cab door opened and I got inside. “University Club,” I said.

      At the Club I got out, walked down to the Statler, and took a cruising cab in case I had been tailed by anyone, which seemed all too probable. I gave the driver the address of Iris Sewall on Philips Place.

      As I climbed the brick steps my watch read a quarter to nine. It had been a long hard day and now it was quitting time. Tracy Farnham’s apartment was dark but its mate was lighted and the curtains were open. Standing in front of the door I could see into the living room. Music drifted faintly through the glass panes. It was providing a sweet, romantic setting for the pair on the couch. Iris was stretched out on the sofa, a drink in her hand. Beside her, on the edge of the sofa, sprawled a man in a sport shirt. He was leaning over her, bracing himself with one hand. As I watched, he leaned a little farther and kissed her. Her free hand reached up and rumpled his hair. The man smiled and kissed her again. I knew what Paul Sewall looked like, and this was not her husband.

      I leaned on the buzzer and waited. No footsteps, no response. I pushed it again and this time I heard a man walking toward the door. He stopped just on the other side and called, “Who’s there?”

      “Delivery boy.”

      A pause. “We aren’t expecting anything. Who the hell are you?”

      “Not much of anybody, really, but you might open the door. Or failing that, tell Iris her hired hand’s come back. With news.”

      The footsteps went away. I peeked through the window and saw him talking to Iris. Suddenly she sat up, brushed back her hair, and began arranging her skirt. He walked back to the door, the snub chain rattled, and the door swung inward.

      “Come in,” he said grudgingly. “I didn’t know Iris was expecting anyone. She didn’t tell me.”

      “Does she usually?”

      As I walked past him his face was ugly. I heard the door close. Turning to the windows, I pulled the drape cord and the curtains glided across the front windows. To Iris I said, “That isn’t really for me, honey, you understand.”

      “How careless of me,” she said. “I won’t make that mistake again, but ordinarily the neighborhood’s free of Peeping Toms.”

      “Perfectly understandable. You and the night and the music, and what’s a body to do?” I felt a little giddy. The wine fumes from the Hotel Flora, perhaps.

      I turned and looked at her guest. He was stockily built, handsome in a weak sort of way, and his eyes were smoldering. Dark eyes and not quite enough chin. His ears stood out from the side of his head like the boy in the saloon picture captioned Me Worry? Not really as bad but I could see it was a standing problem.

      I said, “Somehow, during the course of our afternoon chat, I got the impression that our business was on the confidential side. If my impression was wrong he’s welcome to listen. Otherwise, shall we hold it to a twosome?”

      She looked up languidly. “Tracy,” she said, “would you mind leaving us for a little while?”

      He grunted and began walking toward the front door.

      “Have a jar of Yogurt and a few pushups,” I called. “It’ll take about that long.”

      “You go to hell,” he snarled, then the door closed.

      I turned back to Iris. She leaned forward, butted her cigarette, and lighted a fresh one. “Now would you mind terribly just saying what you have to say? Unless you just make a specialty of inconvenient entrances.”

      I went over to the wall and rapped on it. “Thick,” I said. “Solid. But I’ll speak softly in case Peter Rabbit’s listening.”

      “Do that,” she said, and began to laugh. It made her face even more fetching. When the laughter ended she said, “You might as well sit down. I have the feeling this may take a little time.”

      “Very little.”

      “You don’t seem to get along with Tracy.”

      “I’m just not the neighborly sort. I wouldn’t lend him a jigger of Cointreau if his prize soufflé depended on it.”

      “There’s that side of him, yes,” she said, “but any number of women know the other—to their cost.”

      I let that one drift while I took her money out of my pocket. “The ride’s over,” I said. “You’d better get yourself the law.” I let the money fall on the chow table.

      Her face went white. “What’s happened?”

      “He’s dead. Deader than Jeff Davis. On his bed in a Chinatown flop. The Hotel Flora.”

      “How? When did it happen?”

      “Last night. Today. Who the hell knows? Morph poisoning. Or heroin. An overdose, Iris. And it takes a big jolt of hop to kick a junkie all the way. You forgot to tell me Silvio used the needle.”

      Her voice was dull. “I didn’t know.” She stared down at the money. “So you’re all through? You’re walking out?”

      I sat down on the sofa. Someone’s highball was on the chow table. I picked it up and drained it. “Death changes everything, Iris. So far as the chase went I was with you all the way. If Silvio took the emerald, he’s dead. He can’t give it back and no one can make him talk. Not even the U. S. Marines.”

      She raised her face and stared at me. “You didn’t find the emerald?”

      Glancing down at the two five-hundred-dollar bills, I flicked one with my index finger. “The search had already been made. The room looked like a henhouse after a long night with the