The Sixth Commandment Read Online Free PDF Page A

cubbyholes, took an old-fashioned skeleton key from 3-F. The key was attached to a brass medallion. He handed it to me, along with a sealed white envelope that had been in the box.
    “Message for you,” he said importantly. “See, it’s got your name on it, and ‘Hold for arrival.’”
    “Who left it?”
    “That I couldn’t say.”
    “Well, when was it left here?”
    “Beats me. It was in the box when I came on duty tonight. You might ask the day man tomorrow.”
    I nodded, and stuffed the envelope into my trenchcoat pocket. I went out into the storm again, and brought in my two suitcases and the briefcase containing the Thorndecker file. And the pint of brandy from the glove compartment.
    The single elevator wasn’t working. The bald clerk gestured toward the steep staircase. I went clumping slowly up, pausing on the landings to catch my breath. Kerosene lanterns had been set out in all the corridors. I found Room 3-F, and took one of the lanterns in with me. As far as I could see in the wavery light, it was a big corner room, just as the clerk had promised. Nothing palatial, but it seemed reasonably clean. It would do; I wasn’t planning to settle permanently in Coburn.
    I was peeling off my wet trenchcoat when I found the note that had been left for me. I took the envelope close to the yellowish lantern light to examine it. “Mr. Samuel Todd. Please hold for arrival.” Neatly typed.
    I opened the flap. A single sheet of white typing paper. I unfolded that. Two words:
    “Thorndecker kills.”

The Second Day
    T HE STORM PASSED OVER sometime during the night and went whining off to New England. When I awoke Tuesday at 7:30, power had been restored; I was able to use the electric shaver I carry in my travel kit. I noticed I had left about three fingers in the brandy bottle, demonstrating massive strength of character.
    In daylight, my room looked old-fashioned, but okay. Lofty ceiling, raddled rug, sprung but comfortable armchairs. A small desk, the top tattooed with cigarette burns. Two dressers. The bed was flinty, but that’s the way I like it. Biggest bathroom I had ever seen in a hotel, with a crackled pedestal sink, a yellowed tub on clawed legs, a toilet that flushed by pulling a tarnished brass chain hanging from an overhead tank. A Holiday Inn it wasn’t, but there were plenty of towels, and the steam radiators were clanking away busily.
    I took a peek outside. Instant depression. The sky was slate. Patches of sooty snow were melting; there wasn’t a bright color in sight. No pedestrians. No life anywhere. Two of my five windows faced on what I guessed was Coburn’s main street. I made a bet with myself that it was called Broadway. (It wasn’t; it was called Main Street.) I saw the usual collection of small town stores and shops: Ideal Bootery, Samson’s Drugs, E-zee Super-Mart, Bill’s 5-and-10, Knowlton’s Ladies and Gents Apparel, the Coburn Sentinel, Sandy’s Liquors and Fine Wines.
    Before sallying forth to take a closer look at this teeming metropolis, I spent a few minutes considering what to do about that anonymous billet-doux: “Thorndecker kills.”
    I was born a nosy bastard, and all my life I’ve been less interested in the how of things than in the why of people. I’ve had formal training in investigation, but you can’t learn snoopery from books, any more than swimming, love making, or how to build the Eiffel Tower out of old Popsicle sticks.
    Experience is what an investigator needs most. That, plus a jaundiced view of human nature, plus a willingness to listen to the palaver of old cops and learn by their experience.
    Also, I have one other attribute of an effective shamus: I can’t endure the thought of being scammed and made a fool of. I don’t have that much self-respect that I can afford to let it be chipped away by some smart-ass con man. Con woman. Con person.
    That dramatic note—“Thorndecker kills.”—smelled of con to me.
    In the groves of academe there’s