Eight Million Ways To Die

I got into bed but couldn't sleep, got up and put the light on and sat on the edge of the bed with my notebook. I looked over some of the notes I made, then jotted down a point or two from our conversation in the bar on Tenth Avenue. I made a few further notes to myself, playing with ideas like a kitten with a yarn ball. I put the notebook down when the process reached a point of diminishing returns, with the same thoughts turning over and over upon themselves. I picked up a paperback I'd bought earlier but couldn't get into it. I kept reading the same paragraph without getting the sense of it.

For the first time in hours I really wanted a drink. I was anxious and edgy and wanted to change it.

There was a deli with a cooler full of beer just three doors from the hotel, and when had beer ever led me into a blackout?

I stayed where I was.

Chance hadn't asked my reason for working for him. Durkin had accepted money as a valid motive.

Elaine was willing to believe I was doing it because it was what I did, even as she turned tricks and God pardoned sinners. And it was all true, I could indeed use the money and detecting was what I did insofar as I did anything, it was as much of a profession as I had.

But I had another motive, and perhaps it was a deeper one.

Searching for Kim's killer was something I could do instead of drinking.

For awhile, anyway.

When I woke up the sun was shining. By the time I showered and shaved and hit the street it was gone, tucked away behind a bank of clouds. It came and went all day, as if whoever was in charge didn't want to commit himself.

I ate a light breakfast, made some phone calls, then walked over to the Galaxy Downtowner. The clerk who'd checked in Charles Jones wasn't on duty. I'd read his interrogation report in the file and didn't really expect I could get more out of him than the cops could.

An assistant manager let me look at Jones's registration card. He'd printed "Charles Owen Jones" on the line marked "Name," and on the

"Signature" line he'd printed "C. O. JONES" in block capitals. I pointed this out to the assistant manager, who told me the discrepancy was common. "People will put their full name on one line and a shorter version on the other," he said. "Either way is legal."

"But this isn't a signature."

"Why not?"

"He printed it."

He shrugged. "Some people print everything," he said. "The fellow made a telephone reservation and paid cash in advance. I wouldn't expect my people to question a signature under such circumstances."

That wasn't my point. What had struck me was that Jones had managed to avoid leaving a specimen of his handwriting, and I found that interesting. I looked at the name where he'd printed it in full. The first three letters of Charles, I found myself thinking, were also the first three letters of Chance. And what, pray tell, did that signify? And why look for ways to hang my own client?

I asked if there'd been any previous visits by our Mr. Jones in the past few months. "Nothing in the past year," he assured me. "We carry previous registrations alphabetically in our computer and one of the detectives had that information checked. If that's all—"

"How many other guests signed their names in block caps?"

"I've no idea."

"Suppose you let me look through the registration cards for the past two, three months."

"To look for what?"

"People who print like this guy."

"Oh, I really don't think so," he said. "Do you realize how many cards are involved? This is a 635-room hotel. Mr.—"

"Scudder."

"Mr. Scudder. That's over eighteen thousand cards a month."

"Only if all your guests leave after one night."

"The average stay is three nights. Even so, that's over six thousand registration cards a month, twelve thousand cards in two months. Do you realize how long it would take to look at twelve thousand cards?"

"A person could probably do a couple thousand an hour," I said,

"since all he'd be doing is scanning the signature to see if it's in script or in block caps. We're just talking about a couple of hours. I could do it or you could have some of your people do it."

He shook his head. "I couldn't authorize that," he said. "I really couldn't. You're a private citizen, not a policeman, and while I did want to cooperate there's a limit to my authority here. If the police should make an official request—"

"I realize I'm asking a favor."

"If it were the sort of favor I could grant—"

"It's an imposition," I went on, "and I'd certainly expect to pay for the time involved, the time and inconvenience."

It would have worked at a smaller hotel, but here I was wasting my time. I don't think he even realized I was offering him a bribe. He said again that he'd be glad to go along if the police made the request for me, and this time I let it lie. I asked instead if I could borrow the Jones registration card long enough to have a photocopy made.

"Oh, we have a machine right here," he said, grateful to be able to help. "Just wait one moment."