Pardon My Body Read Online Free PDF Page B

obliterated, then “…must be…Frid…”
    That was three days ahead if it meant Friday. It didn’t mean a thing to me but I wrote it down on the back of an old envelope and stirred up the charred bits in the grate. Just for the hell of it. Then I straightened up and left. Down in the bar Mike was still staring at his paper, waiting for the customers. He looked up wordlessly.
    â€œMike,” I said, “I think you will have to call police headquarters.”
    His eyes flickered. “I let you go up to see him to keep outa the police’s way, didn’t I?”
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said, “but your visitor is lying in bed with a dagger sticking out of his chest.”
    Mike’s hands held on to the bar so hard that his knuckles showed white and taut.
    â€œA killin’,” he muttered, without looking up.
    â€œHe must have been dead at least eight hours, maybe more.” I paused, remembering something Iwanted to ask. “What name did he sign in the book—or don’t you worry about that?”
    Mike shook his head. “This ain’t an hotel. Only time a guy stays here is as a favor from me.”
    â€œYeah,” I told him, “that’s fine. O’Cassidy will get a great laugh when you try that one on him.”
    â€œI tell ye it’s true, Mr. Bogard.”
    â€œLook, Mike,” I said gently. “You don’t hire out a room to anyone unless you know who he is—or unless somebody speaks for him. I know that, and if O’Cassidy doesn’t already know it he’ll figure that’s the way you operate. You’ll have to tell him something that will stack up. It might as well be the truth.”
    Mike leaned heavily against the bar, tapping its surface with a thick, blunted finger. He must have gone on doing it for a minute. When he stopped, it was to give me a long, clear-eyed stare.
    â€œI guess you’re right at that,” he said. “But I don’t have to tell you nothing.”
    â€œYou don’t have to,” I said, “but you will. It’ll be useful to try it out on me for flaws.”
    Mike grinned faintly. “Sumpin’ in what you say. Well, it’s like this. Three days ago I get a phone call booking a room for a Mr. George Clark. For three nights. Like you said, I don’t hire the room out to guys I ain’t never seen. They have to be spoken for.Well, that’s okay on account of the room is booked by a man…” he hesitated “…by a man I do business with times. If he says this George Clark is all right, that goes with me. In fact, he says Clark is a friend visiting town and will I be kind enough to fix him up? There ain’t nobody using the room—it’s been empty a couple months—so I say sure that’ll be okay. I know the room rent will be…”
    â€œWho booked the room?” I asked.
    â€œHarry Bule.” Mike spelled out the name. I’d never heard it.
    â€œWhere does he live?”
    â€œHe has two rooms in the Longmoor Apartments just off Fiftieth Street,” said Mike.
    â€œWhat’s his racket?”
    Mike tried to look pained. “Harry ain’t no racketeer, Mr. Bogard. He…”
    â€œI used the word in a general sense. I mean, what does he do instead of working at a steady job?”
    â€œHe has a little business connected with the tracks,” explained Mike, “but he runs a cigar stand just off Broadway. A girl looks after it mostly.”
    â€œWhile he’s taking the dough off the small-time horse players?”
    Mike shrugged.
    â€œOkay,” I said. “I think your story will just aboutstand up with O’Cassidy. But I also think Mr. Bule is going to have some fast thinking to do about the late Mr. George Clark.”
    â€œIt ain’t Harry’s fault a friend gets bumped by some dirty knifer who sneaks into the house in the middle of the night—and it