Murder by Proxy Read Online Free PDF Page B

genial face and manner, not overly intelligent, but he knew his job and was fairly competent at it. He halted beside Harris, blinking the sleep from his eyes and considering the New Yorker carefully.
    Harris paid no attention to him. “What’s her room number?” he demanded impatiently.
    The clerk shrugged slightly and looked at Johnson for his cue. Johnson said, “Just a moment, sir. Would you mind explaining why you want the lady’s number?”
    Harris jerked his head around angrily and narrowed his eyes at the stolid detective. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded insolently, “and what business is it of yours if I want my wife’s room number?”
    “Security Officer,” Johnson told him equably. “You say you’re Mr. Harris?”
    “Yes. Damn it! I’m Mr. Harris. What’s some flatfoot got to do with my wife?”
    “No reason to get so belligerent about it, Mr. Harris,” Johnson told him mildly. “It’s my job to protect our guests’ privacy. Is Mrs. Harris expecting you?”
    “No, she isn’t.” Harris paused and sought to control his irritation. “Look. I’ve been driving all night. I’m tired and sleepy, and I need a bath and a shave and a drink. Now can I, for God’s sake, have my wife’s room number?”
    Johnson’s ruddy face remained expressionless. He said, “You don’t happen to have some identification on you, do you?”
    “I’ve got all the identification in the world,” snarled Harris. “But why should I show it to you? What makes you think… ?”
    “If you are the lady’s husband, you shouldn’t mind showing it to me. Would you want us to just send any strange man up to your wife’s room at daylight if he asked for her number? You can see we have to be careful.”
    “Well, I suppose… of course. I see the logic in that.” Harris took out his billfold and pulled cards from it which he fanned out on the desk in front of the detective. Diner’s Club and Carte Blanche credit cards, a Standard Oil credit card, a business card with the name Brinkerhoff & Harris, Brokers, and a New York address. “Are those credentials sufficient?” Despite his resolve, he couldn’t wholly keep a bite of sarcasm out of his voice.
    Johnson said, “They look okay. No offense intended, Mr. Harris.” He glanced at the clerk, “Is there a key, Richard?”
    The clerk turned to numbered pigeonholes behind him while Harris replaced the cards in his wallet. “There’s an extra one, Mr. Johnson. Three-twenty-six. Mrs. Harris hasn’t been leaving her own key at the desk since registering.” There was a confidential undertone to his voice. His mind had been at work during the by-play and he now remembered the contents of the memo on Mrs. Harris.
    “Ellen never does leave a key at the hotel desk.” Harris’ voice was expansive, a trifle over-hearty. He reached for the key which the clerk laid between them, but Johnson’s beefy hand closed over it before he could pick it up.
    “I’ll just go up with you, Mr. Harris. Make sure everything’s okay. This your bag?” Johnson stooped genially to pick it up and turned toward the bank of elevators, shaking his head at a single uniformed bellboy who had materialized from the back.
    “You don’t need to bother.” Harris followed him hastily. “I can carry my own bag.”
    “No bother at all.” Johnson entered a waiting elevator and pressed the button for three. “We like to be of service at the Beachhaven.”
    The elevator stopped at the third floor and Johnson stepped out first with the bag and strode ahead of Harris down the corridor. He stopped in front of 326 and stood aside politely. “Maybe you’d like to knock.” He held the room-key in his hand.
    Harris stepped up to the door and knocked lightly. When there was no response, he knocked again, more loudly, and called, “Ellen. It’s Herbert. Are you awake?”
    “Why don’t you unlock the door?” suggested Johnson. “No use disturbing other people.” There was a note of pity in his