Ed McBain by Learning to Kill: Stories

Author:Learning to Kill: Stories [Stories, Learning to Kill:]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Short Stories (Single Author), Fantasy, Mystery Fiction, Short Stories, Detective and Mystery Stories; American
ISBN: 0156031477
Publisher: Harvest Books
Published: 2007-06-04T05:00:00+00:00

The Hotel Mason was. a dingy, gray-faced building on West Forty-seventh. We weren't interested in it. We were interested in the building directly across the way, an equally dingy, gray-faced edifice that claimed the fancy title of Allistair Arms.

We walked directly to the desk and flashed our buzzers, and the desk clerk looked hastily to the elevator bank.

"Relax, buster," Johnny said.

He pulled one of the pictures from under his jacket. The lab had whitened out the figures of Jean Ferroni and her male companion, leaving only the bed, the picture on the wall, and the open window. Johnny showed the picture to the desk clerk.

"What room is this?"

"I ... I don't know."

"Look hard."

"I tell you I don't know. Maybe one of the bellhops."

He pounded a bell on the desk, and an old man in a bellhop's rig hobbled over. Johnny showed him the picture and repeated his question.

"Damned if I know," the old man said. "All these rooms look alike." He stared at the picture again, shaking his head. Then his eyes narrowed and he bent closer and looked harder. "Oh," he said, "that's 305. That picture of the Injun and the ripped wallpaper there. Yep, that's 305." He paused. "Why?"

I turned. "Who's in 305?"

The desk clerk made a show of looking at the register. "Mr. Adams. Harley Adams."

"Let's go, Johnny," I said.

We started up the steps, and I saw Johnny's hand flick to his shoulder holster. When it came out from under his coat, it was holding a cocked .38.1 took out my own gun and we padded up noiselessly.

We stopped outside room 305, flattening ourselves against the walls on either side of the door. Johnny reached out and rapped the butt of his gun against the door.

"Who is it?" a voice asked.

"Open up!"

"Who is it?"

"Police officers. Open up!"

"Wha..."

There was a short silence inside, and then we heard the frantic slap of leather on the floor. "Hit it, Johnny!" I shouted.

Johnny backed off against the opposite wall, put the sole of his shoe against it, and shoved off toward the door. His shoulder hit the wood, and the door splintered inward.

Adams was in his undershirt and trousers and he had one leg over the windowsill, heading for the fire escape, when we came in. I swung my .38 in his direction and yelled, "You better hold it, Adams."

He looked at the gun, and then slowly lowered his leg to the floor.

"Sure," he said. "I wasn't going anyplace."

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