The Singer Batts Mystery Megapack by Thomas B. Dewey

Author:Thomas B. Dewey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mystery, detective, crime, sleuth, murder
Publisher: Wildside Press LLC
Published: 2015-08-06T16:00:00+00:00

HANDLE WITH FEAR

#4 in the Singer Batts series, by Thomas B. Dewey.

Copyright © 1951 by Thomas B. Dewey.

Published by Wildside Press LLC.

www.wildsidepress.com

CHAPTER I

The first one, the younger one, checked in about five-thirty in the afternoon. The second, a man-of-the-world type, maybe thirty-eight, came in later, around seven. Harry Baird, the day clerk, checked the first one in and Jack Pritchard, night man, came on duty just before the second guy stepped up to the desk.

That would be the reason I was there both times. I always check up just before dinner and again at the time when Pritchard comes to work. I like to get a picture in my mind of how many people we have, where they are and who paid in advance and who didn’t.

I got pretty sharp pictures of these two boys. For one thing they carried suitcases that looked identical. Inexpensive, standard and pretty well put together. They were both saddle tan with bright brass fasteners. There was nothing much unusual in the suitcases alone. Big manufacturers sell a lot of luggage. But there were the other facts: (1) they were strangers, (2) they came in close together, (3) they both registered from Chicago and (4) they both paid in advance.

The first lad, the younger one, came in like a cross-country runner at the end of the race; stubborn, but dragging. The suitcase wasn’t heavy—I helped him with it—but you could see by the way he carried it that he’d had enough. His shirt collar was open and he walked heavily on his heels. But it was his face that really gave him away. It was beat, completely. When he reached out to sign the registration card, he swayed and his hand shook. He didn’t look around or say anything except that he wanted a room with a shower. He just signed the card, paid his money, picked up the suitcase and waited for somebody to show him where to go. Underneath the three days’ beard and the hollow, hunted eyes, he was a clean-looking kid. Harry Baird took him up to his room on the third floor.

This other one, the second guy, walked in as if he knew where he was going all right and you couldn’t tell by his face whether he liked it or not. He walked tightly, all in one piece, and he carried the suitcase as if it was nothing at all. He was stocky, well-built, with hard gray eyes and a weather-beaten face. His clothes were good and his hand didn’t shake when he signed the register. His money was just as genuine as the kid’s money and he looked as if he had more of it.

But his face bothered me. It was wrong. I don’t know exactly how you tell, but you do tell. It was a wrong face and I didn’t like it. Maybe it was the faint scar, a thin white line twisting down from the corner of his mouth across his chin. However, in the hotel business you don’t turn anybody away just because he’s got a scar.

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