Loot for the Unlucky Lady

Barnard made a left turn and, as Steve got to the entrance to the block, he looked up and saw Barnard making another left. That made it a lot simpler to figure. Steve doubled back on his own tracks, grinning as he saw Harry pause, turn and scurry away. Steve hurried to the next street, looked up the block and waited.

In a few minutes Barnard went by. Stretching his long legs into what was almost a run, Steve went back to the brighter section of town, passing the familiar bus terminal. The street Barnard was on joined the street he was on just beyond the terminal. At the junction there were two cheap hotels.

A drugstore was opposite. Steve found a stool at the counter where he could watch the entrance to both hotels. Barnard went into the first one, pausing to give a long look back up the quiet street. He had walked ten blocks to get to a point only a hundred yards from the bus terminal. Twenty minutes later Steve had moved over to the same hotel. Fortunately the management made it simple by using a register book rather than cards.

The previous arrival was a Mr. Stanley Webster of Providence, Rhode Island, assigned to Room 412.

The desk clerk was an old man with the sallow bleary look of the backwoods native.

“Something on the fourth,” Steve said to the old man.

He obtained Room 417. He carried his own bag up, marked the location of Room 412, diagonally across the hall and three doors nearer the elevator.

With the room light out, he sat in a chair and looked through the inch-wide gap of his open door down toward Barnard’s room. At last the thin line of light under Barnard’s door clicked out. On shoeless feet Steve tiptoed down the hall, listened with his ear against Barnard’s door. The man was breathing heavily. He was evidently sound asleep.

Steve went back to his room, went to sleep quickly, telling himself that he should awaken at six, knowing that some unknown factor in his mind would awaken him within a few minutes of that hour...

At nine o’clock, Barnard left his room, locking the door behind him. At nine five, the cheap lock responded to the lock pick, and Steve let himself in. The brown suitcase was in the corner by the window. A long ash from a cigarette significantly rested on the top surface of the suitcase. Steve squatted, memorized the general countour of the cigarette ash, blew it away and quickly searched the bag. Except for clothes, it was empty. He shut it, lit a cigarette, waited until the ash was the right length and then carefully placed it on the suitcase where the other one had been, touching it gently with his finger to move it into the exact position of the former one.

It took another five minutes for him to determine to his own satisfaction that the money was not hidden in the room. He fixed the inside lock, held the latch back with a thin strip of celluloid, pulled the door shut and pulled out the celluloid, letting the latch snap into place, locking the door.

At nine-twelve he rode down to the lobby, glanced into the grimy dining room, walked across the street, saw Barnard at the counter of the drugstore, lifting a coffee cup to his lips. Knowing that Barnard had no way of knowing him, he went into the drugstore, stood at the rack of postcards a mere six feet from Barnard’s back, and began to carefully select cards. He turned slightly sideways so that, out of the corner of his eye, he could watch Barnard’s movements.

In a few minutes, Barnard wiped his mouth, slid off the stool and turned toward the cash register at the front of the store. At the same instant, Steve turned sharply, blundering into him.

“Watch where you’re going!” Barnard snapped.

“Sorry, friend,” Steve said.

Barnard grunted and walked up to the counter, reaching into his pocket for change to pay the check. Steve stooped and picked up the scattered cards, a scowl on his face. In the instant of collision, he had determined that, no where on his person, did Al Barnard carry a bulk which would represent the money he had stolen.

He saw Barnard cross the street and go into the hotel. He sat on the stool at the end of the counter where he could watch the hotel entrance. Of all the damn fools, he thought. That girl had had the money all the time.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the bald and sunburned head of Harry. He turned and smiled peacefully at him.

Harry turned away quickly.

Once again Steve scowled. If Harry had seen him blunder into Barnard, then Harry would know the score. If he got eager to take over and cut Steve out, he might upset the applecart, but good. He paid for his breakfast, went up to his room and pulled a chair over where he could once more sit and watch Barnard’s door.

Within twenty minutes a pimply young boy with cornsilk hair knocked on Barnard’s door. When it opened, the kid said, “You wanted an errand run, mister?”