Shot on Location Read Online Free PDF Page A

at that time. It sounded like an evasive action. Brad took the key himself and left his bag to the porter. On the way to the elevator, he stopped at the flower shop where the door was open to allow delivery of a fresh supply. Oh, no, the shop was not yet open to the public, he was told, but money has a way of changing regulations. He ordered two dozen red roses sent immediately to Mrs. Harry Avery’s room—”I’ve forgotten the number. Get it from the room clerk.” He insisted on writing the enclosure card himself:
    Rhona—It’s been such a long time! Heard about Harry’s
plane. I’m in room 714. Call if you need me for anything—any time
.
    Brad Smith
    He had the flowers put on his bill and left a five dollar tip for the delivery boy. If Rhona was in the hotel this was a sure way of making contact.
    The response came sooner than he expected. He was too wide awake to make use of the massive bed. As soon as the porter left the room, he called down for breakfast and ordered a pot of black coffee and sesame rolls. The coffee arrived as ordered—the rolls were an assortment that included nothing as tantalizing as the street vendor’s wares. He drank the coffee on the balcony of his room and then decided to shower and get a fresh start on the day. He was under the spray when the telephone rang. Grabbing a huge shower towel, Brad hurried into the bedroom and picked up the phone. The voice he heard was professionally trained and lower pitched than he remembered, but it was definitely the voice of Rhona Brent.
    “Brad? Brad, is it really you?” she asked.
    “It’s really me,” Brad said.
    “What a wonderful surprise! When can I see you?”
    “Where are you?” Brad asked.
    “On the top floor—the whole of it, practically. Harry likes plenty of room when he’s working. Come up, now, just as you are.”
    “I think not. I just stepped out of the shower.”
    “Oh. Well, in that case—”
    Now there were background noises—a masculine voice raised in anger. Rhona tried to muffle the mouthpiece but he heard her protest: “I have a right to make a call. I’m not a prisoner, am I? … Brad, are you still there? Listen, I can’t talk right now but come up as soon as you can anyway. I’ve got to see you—please.”
    “I said any time,” Brad reminded.
    A half an hour passed before he finished showering, shaving and dressing in one of the light-weight lounge suits purchased with that first commission from Estelle Vance. Time enough, he hoped, for that heated discussion in the background to have cooled. He wanted no part of private fights. He took the elevator up to the Avery suites and found the entrance guarded by the same two swarthy men who had escorted Lange out of the airport earlier in the morning. It took vocal persuasion to get inside.
    “I’m a friend of Mrs. Avery’s,” he said. “I was invited.”
    “No one is to enter,” the larger guard said.
    “Mrs. Avery called me on the telephone. My name is Smith. Go in and ask her.”
    “No one is to enter. That is the order.”
    “You must have a larger vocabulary than that,” Brad said. “Put it to music and you could dance to it on a table.” He pushed forward and began to pound on the door with both fists. “Rhona! It’s Brad! Call off the watchdogs—Hey!”
    The carpeting suddenly disappeared from under Brad’s feet as he was flanked by the guards and hoisted backwards from the door. They held him firmly, with his feet kicking at the air, and only the sudden opening of the door spared him the humiliation of learning what might come next. But the door did open and he found himself facing Peter Lange, the man with the bored expression.
    “What’s going on out here?” he demanded. “Put the man down!”
    With solidity under his feet again, Brad regained composure.
    “I’m Bradley Smith,” he said. “I was asked—”
    “Of course. Mr. Smith, come in.”
    Lange stepped away from the door and then closed it as Brad entered the suite.