Chapter 11 Chapter Eleven

Eberhart quickly kicked me out of the room and ordered me not to leave the hotel for two hours in case he wanted to question me again.A policeman in uniform stood at the corner of the corridor, and two stood in the outer corridor to prevent onlookers from gathering in this area.There was another policeman next to the elevator, and now he had a conflict with someone.As I walked toward the lobby, I heard them arguing in a raised voice. That man was Lloyd Underwood.Before I saw him, I heard his voice, more manic than usual: "Why can't I go see Ross Denzel? Everyone is waiting for him in the conference room. His lecture has started and he is late." Forty minutes. Has something happened? Why won't you tell me what happened?"

"I can't tell you anything, man," the cop replied. "If you want to wait a while and talk to the officer, as long as you keep quiet, that's fine. Otherwise, go back to the elevator." I turned down the corridor and walked toward them.Underwood saw me right away, and while waving a stack of mimeographs at me, ran over and grabbed my arm. "You came from Denzel's room, didn't you?" he said. "What's the matter? This cop won't tell me..." "Relax," I said, "Calm down." "But something happened, and I knew it."

"Something happened. Let's go to the conference room and we'll talk about it on the way." I dragged him to the elevator and pressed the down button.The policeman looked at me without saying a word, he looked bored.Soon an elevator came, and Underwood and I walked in, and I pressed the second floor.After the elevator door closed and started to run downward, I said, "Frank Colodny is dead." "What?" he said. "What?" "You heard me right. He was murdered in Denzel's room." Underwood was dumbfounded: "Dead? Killed? Oh, my God! How could this be? You don't mean Denzel..."

"It appears so, but it may not be. It's too early to tell what happened." The elevator stopped and the doors opened.Underwood was still standing there, looking terrified, and I had to pull him out by the arm.He said: "What should I tell everyone? They are all waiting there, I have to tell them something..." "You decide. Don't use the word 'murder,' though, and don't imply that Denzel did it. Keep it as low-key as possible." "Low key..." He looked terrified, his voice filled with frustration, "This conference is ruined, you know?" It sounded like it was my fault, "Everything we do, all the time , all the money...God."

"Yes." I said. "Not just this year - it's ruined forever. How are we going to have a convention after what's happened? Who else would want to come?" I said, not without malice: "At least Frank Colodny doesn't want to come again, that's for sure." A dozen or so people stood in the corridor outside the meeting room, smoking and chatting in low voices.The occupants can be seen through the open door, most of them also standing.There were only a few people sitting, and Kelly was one of them.The atmosphere in the house was restless, and everyone was very impatient. The most talked about topic among them was the clock on the wall.

We walked into the conference room, and Underwood shrugged me off and walked up to the podium.I walked to the corner next to it.As soon as I walked in, Kelly stood up and came over to me.Bert Prakosas and Waldo Ramsay also stepped up. Kelly reached out and grabbed my arm: "What's the matter? Did Denzel drink too much again?" "He's drunk. But there are worse things." Underwood stood on the podium, facing the microphone on the table, calling everyone to pay attention.The noisy voices in the room gradually subsided, and then there was silence. Someone stretched his neck and looked forward.I saw Sybil Wade in the crowd, and Ozzie Meeker, and I kept my eyes on them.Didn't see Ivan Wade, didn't see Jim Boannon.

"Unfortunately, I want to announce a tragedy." Underwood said into the microphone, "Frank Colodeny...died in the hotel." Unsurprisingly, the news shocked the audience.There was an uproar, people looked at each other in disbelief, and a few sitting people stood up suddenly, like a clown popping out of a box.I'm still watching Sybil Wade and Ozzy Meeker.Except for a slight trembling of his head, Mick didn't respond.But Sybil's reaction was very obvious, undergoing a series of changes.She froze first, her eyes widened, and she opened her mouth, then she closed her mouth, reached out and touched the bruise on her cheek, where some makeup was applied to cover it, then she put down her hand, her body was no longer stiff, and the corners of her mouth Slightly raised, as if in a sneer, and finally her whole body relaxed and she slid into the chair, which is what people usually do when they let go of their tension.All this series of actions took only six or seven seconds.

Kelly's hand gripped my arm tightly.I heard her cry "My God!" in a low voice, and turned my eyes from her mother to her.There was both shock and fear on her expression, and her eyes were full of doubts.Ramsay and Praxas were also shocked, neither of them sure whether to focus on Underwood or me. People were shouting at Underwood for more information.He just keeps repeating: "I don't know any details. It has something to do with Ross Denzel, the police have been called. They're upstairs. That's all I know." "But you know better, don't you?" Kelly said to me, "What happened to Kolodney?"

"He was shot dead, in Denzel's room." "Shot? Murder, you mean?" "That's what the police think." I'm not going to tell her that Colodny was shot by the gun that Sybil threw, at least not in front of Prakosas and Ramsay and the surroundings. The faces of so many people. Ramsey asked, "Did Cel do it?" "Possibly. He said no, but a few seconds after the incident, I saw him alone next to the body. I was already in the hallway when I heard the gunshot." "But why?" Praxas asked. "Why would Rose do such a thing?"

"He didn't like Kolodny very much. He thought Kolodny was behind the blackmail." "That's not a sufficient motive for murder." "If the person is drunk and violent, it's possible." "I think it's possible. But God, cold-blooded murder..." Underwood also announced that all arrangements for the rest of the day were cancelled.He looked very distressed as he said this.The noisy crowd slowly dispersed and left the meeting room.Only Ozzie Meek was still sitting in the chair, the only one in the room sitting still.Through horn-rimmed glasses, his bird-like eyes gazed somewhere to the left of the podium.In the midst of the chaos, he appeared utterly unconcerned.I wondered if he, too, was drunk, or, for some personal reason, savoring Kolodney's death.I still remember the two of them talking abusively on Thursday night.

I said to Ramsey and Prakosas, "You guys better not walk around, the police might talk to the rest of you." "I'm not going anywhere else," Praxas said. "Me too," Ramsay said, "unless in a bar." Kelly just went off to talk to Sybil.I gestured to her to wait for me.Seeing her nod, I turned and walked toward the rows of empty chairs where Mick was sitting.After I walked up to him, he looked up, looked at me, and blinked.There's a hint of a hangover in his eyes, but his mouth smells of mint freshener, not whiskey. "Well," he said, "Mr. Detective." "It's terrible what happened to Kolodny, isn't it?" "yes?" "You don't think so?" "I'd be lying if I felt sympathy for him. I hate him." "why?" "He's the kind of guy to hate," Mick said, shrugging. "You know, all the Pulp Fiction Gang members hate him. Did Denzel kill him?" "Why do you think he was killed?" "Isn't it?" "Perhaps. What were you and Colodny arguing about on Thursday night?" The question elicited a look of evasion. "Thursday night?" "At the cocktail party. You had a fight with him." "Did we fight? I don't remember." "Of course you quarreled. He warned you to stay away from him." "yes?" "Is this because you threatened him?" "I didn't. Why should I threaten him?" Yeah, I thought to myself, why? I said, "The police will come talk to you soon, Mick. Maybe you'll be more cooperative with them." "Maybe I will," he grinned at me, "maybe I won't." I turned back to find Kelly—Sybil was gone—and the two of us walked out of the conference room and into the hallway.She asked, "Why are you talking to Mick?" "Because I think he has a secret in his heart." "What secret?" "I don't know yet. Did Sibyl say anything about Colodny's death?" "Nothing. She looked a little listless." A more precise word would have been "relaxed," but I didn't correct her. The elevator was full of people waiting, so we chose the stairs.Once in the lobby, I walked up to the front desk and saw the stern manager—I forgot his name—talking nonstop to the security guard, Harris.I told them that if Officer Eberhardt wanted me, tell him I was at the Garden Café.Harris said "yes," and the stern manager gave me a stern nod.He looked at me like I was one of the people who caused a scandal in their hotel. So far, the lobby appears to be untouched by the scandal.They must have ushered the police in through the internal staff entrance and up the staff elevator.Rumors of the murder have yet to spread among hotel guests and staff.Some of the convention staff walked around in small groups, looking tense and mysterious, but no one seemed to notice them.Kelly and I walked to the cafe and found a table in the back.We said nothing and ordered coffee first. "Are you going to give me the details?" Kelly asked, "or am I going to have to wait for the papers?" "I'll tell you what I know," I replied, and I did.I didn't mention that the murder tool was her mother's stolen revolver, but I probably hinted at that.She seemed to realize it too, and asked me to confess whether it was so, so I admitted it. "So Denzel stole the gun," she said. "If he killed Kolodney, he must have been." "Why did you say 'if'? Didn't you just tell me that all the doors and windows in the house were locked from the inside and you were there within seconds of hearing the gunfire? He must have been the murderer." "It looks like that, but I'm still a little skeptical." "why?" "The way he looked and what he said. He was drunk, and it's hard for a drunk to tell a lie convincingly." "It's nothing compared to all the evidence. If Denzel is innocent, how could Kolodney have died in his room?" I shook my head. "Who else might do that?" "It's possible for anyone, I think." "You mean a member of the Pulp Fiction Gang?" "Well, that's what happened." There were a few wrinkles on her forehead: "Didn't you think of Sybil?" "No," I said, but it could have been Sybil.She may have been lying when she said the pistol had been stolen.The thief was probably looking for something else, and she had hidden the gun elsewhere, intending to use it to finish off Kolodny.But the question is, why?What is her motivation?The same reasoning can be applied to Ivan Wade and other members of the Pulp Fiction Gang.Any of them could have committed a crime, and if you dug deep enough, you might be able to find more than one plausible motive.But if this assumption is to be reasonable, it means that the suspicion of Denzel must be ruled out, and an answer to the question Kelly just raised is found: If Denzel hadn't been the murderer, how could Kolodney have been shot dead in that locked room? When the coffee was served, Kelly played with her cup for a while, and we were both silent.After a while, she said, "I think I should go to Sybil and talk to her again. And my father." I nodded: "Shall we have dinner together tonight?" "If I say no, you don't think I'm rejecting you, do you?" "No, unless that's exactly what you mean." "I'm just not in the mood for something like this to happen. Tomorrow or Monday, okay?" "OK." "But you can call me at night if you want. I'm home." I said I would.After she left, I sat there drinking my coffee and thinking about it for a while, but couldn't figure it out.After fifteen minutes, I decided I had had enough, paid my bill and left, wandered around for a while, and went to the book market.The book market was also closed, so I walked back. Back at reception, I see Eberhart at the desk, glaring at the stern-faced manager.As soon as I walked over, the glare turned to me, as if a black cloud enveloped me.Somehow, this reminds me of the worst line I've ever read in a pulp novel: "Sir, I'll shake the wind and wash you through." "Where the hell have you been?" he growled. "Walking around the lobby. What's up?" "You said you'd be fucking at the coffee shop. Do you think I've got nothing to do but hide and seek?" "Relax, Eb, okay?" "Yeah, relax. Go to hell. Listen, I'm done, and so are you, as far as I know. Come to court tomorrow or the day after tomorrow to sign a statement." "Of course. How's Denzel?" "What's wrong?" "Will he be charged?" "What the hell are you thinking? Of course he's going to be prosecuted. He's well-documented, you know." "Has he pleaded guilty?" "Will most of them plead guilty? He did it, that's all. Don't try to make any big secret out of it. Go home and keep your big ass out of trouble. " "I didn't go looking for trouble myself, Eb." He snorted and turned to glare at the elevator. I have no reason to keep wandering around the hotel.Also, the stately, elegant Victorian taste of the hotel struck me as a bit oppressive.I walked out of the hotel, picked up the car from the garage down the block, and headed back across the city to Pacific Heights.Along the way, I remembered Eberhart's strange behavior and was very puzzled.He was often short-tempered, but today there was no warmth behind his bad temper.There is something heavy on him, and I won't be satisfied until I find out what it is. It was getting close to dinner time, and I stopped at a Union Square location that was doing great pizza.I ordered a pepperoni pizza with double cheese.Back at the lodging, I open a bottle of Schlitz and sit by the window eating pizza.I looked out the window at the Bay Area, and the setting sun bathed the mountains of the Marin Headlands in a soft red glow.The sight made me ponder and realize how quiet and empty the room was. I go into the bedroom.Kelly insisted on making the bed this morning, and the bed had never been so tidy.The whole house is immaculately updated and looks pretty good.I sat on the bed and called Kelly.The phone rang ten times and no one answered, so I put the receiver down. To pass the time, I decided to read a book for a while.But instead of taking the popular novel from the bookshelf, I picked out the manuscript I brought back from the office and read it again.From the beginning to the end, I didn't get a little inspiration just like when I read this article for the first time.But when I put down the manuscript, a strange feeling came over me.I've been in situations like this a lot over the years, and I know it's something deep inside trying to break out: I must have overlooked something in this novel—plot, style, or whatever . I watched it a third time.But no matter what kind of consciousness it is, it still refuses to show itself.There's no use forcing it out, it will eventually come naturally. Damn, it's so quiet in the house, I turn on the portable TV.I rarely do this, but now I just wish there was some noise in the house.After a while, I went into the bedroom and called Kelly again, but no one answered.The clock on the bedside table showed that it was past ten o'clock.She told me she was home tonight and I thought, where is she? She is somewhere else.She is an adult.There's no need to tell you if she wants to go out on a Saturday night.what happened to you?Dangling here, as if suffering from lovesickness.You're fifty-three years old, my God.Go to sleep, why not go to sleep?You old thing, you. I'm going to bed. But I didn't fall asleep right away, and the damn bed seemed empty.I can still smell her sweet perfume on the other pillow. I dreamed that I was in a room with six or seven people playing cards.All pulp-fiction private eyes: Kalmady, Max Latin, Rhys Williams, Jim Bennett, the best of them.Latin wanted to know what kind of detective I thought I was, and he sounded like Kelly.I said I was a private investigator.Kalmady said, "No, you're not, you can't play poker with us because you're not one of us." I said, "I am, I'm a private eye like you." Bennett said: "Private investigators don't fall in love with women younger than themselves, because they're not dirty old men." I said, "I'm not in love with her." Williams said, "You're old, you." The absurd dream ended with a ringing bell six inches from the ear. I sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes until I could see the dial clearly.Eight forty.Welcome to the new day, I thought, fumbling to bring the microphone to my ear. A male voice I don't know asked if it was me.When I confirmed, he said, "My name is Arthur Pagefield. I'm the public defender assigned to Russell Dencer." "What can I do for you, Mr. Pagefield?" "I'm afraid you can't do anything for me. I'm calling on behalf of Mr. Denzel, who wants to see you as soon as possible." "He thought, what?" "Yes," said Pagefield. "I told him there was very little a private eye could do for him—no offense—but he insisted that you were his friend." Of course I am.I thought for a while and asked, "Is he still in the High Court?" "Of course. Even if bail is available, he can't afford the bail." He paused. "I suggest he plead guilty, you know." "What did Denzel say?" "He said no," Pagefield said. "He claimed he was innocent." "Tell him I'll be there around ten o'clock." After I finished speaking, I hung up the phone. I sat for a while longer, wide awake.Well, I said to myself, you knew it would be like this.You do know, don't you?You quickly agree.Despite the evidence, it's possible that the poor bastard was innocent.What's wrong with talking to him?There's not much you can do for him.Pagefield might be right, but at least you can hear what he's about to say. Then I mused to myself, not without irony: an old guy, a lovesick guy, the brother of an alcoholic former pulp writer.A self-proclaimed private investigator.Is it any wonder that Kalmadi, Latin, and others want to kick you out of being a real private eye?