J is for Judgement by Sue Grafton Read Free Book Online

looked out through the spyhole. The old drunk was now standing halfway out in the hallway. Mr. Magoo-like, he peered right, squinting without his glasses. He was still in his shorts, one sock off and one sock on. He'd begun to eye my door with interest. Suddenly I wondered if the man was as drunk as he'd first appeared. He glanced around casually, making sure he couldn't be observed, and then he moved over to my fish-eye and tried to peer in. I pulled back instinctively and held my breath. I knew he couldn't see me. From his side it must have been like looking down the wrong end of a telescope.
    He gave a shy little knock. "Miss? You in there?" He placed his eye against the spyhole again, blocking the little circle of light from the hallway. I swear I could smell his breath through the wood. I saw light in the fish-eye again, and I approached with care, pressing my eye to the tiny circle so I could peer out at him. He had backed up and was looking down the hall again with uncertainty. He moved to my left, and after a moment I heard his door close with a thunk.
    I tiptoed over to the sliding glass and took a position just to the left, my back against the wall as I peered out. Suddenly. . . slyly. . . the top portion of the old guy's head appeared as he craned around the wall between his balcony and mine, trying to get a glimpse into my darkened room. "Ooo-whooo," he whispered hoarsely. "It's me. Is it time to party yet?"
    This guy's blood was up. It wouldn't be long before he'd paw the ground and snort.
    I held myself motionless and waited him out. After a moment he withdrew. Ten seconds later my telephone rang, a room- to-room call, if you really want my guess. I let it ring endlessly while I felt my way into the bath- room and brushed my teeth in the dark. I fumbled back toward the bed, peeled my clothes off, and laid them on the chair. I didn't dare leave my room. I couldn't read because I didn't want to risk turning on the light. In the meantime, I was so wired I thought my hair might be standing straight up on end. I finally tiptoed to the minibar and extracted two small bottles of gin and some orange juice. I sat up in bed and sipped screwdrivers until I felt myself getting sleepy.
    When I emerged in the morning, the drunk's door was shut with a DO NOT DISTURB tag hung over the knob. Wendell's door was standing open and the room was empty. The same cart was parked in the corridor between rooms. I peered in and caught sight of the same maid patiently damp-mopping the tile floor. She set the mop aside, leaning it against the wall near the bathroom while she picked up the wastebasket and carried it into the hall.
    "�Donde estan?" I said, hoping that I was saying "Where are they?"
    She must have known better than to pepper her response with lots of past participles and pluperfects. I wasn't going to get it unless she kept the meaning down to a minimum.
    What I believe she said was, "Gone. . . they leave . . . not here."
    "�Permanente? Completely vamos?"
    "S�s� She nodded vigorously and repeated her original statement.
    "Mind if I take a look?" I didn't really wait for her permission. I pushed my way into room 312, where I checked the dresser drawers, the night table, the desk, the minibar. Goddarnn it. They hadn't left me anything. Meanwhile, the maid was watching me with interest. She shrugged to herself and moved back into the bathroom, where she tucked the wastebasket under the sink again.
    "Gracias, " I said to her, and backed out of the room. As I passed the cleaning cart, I caught sight of the plastic bag attached to one end, filled with newly accumulated trash. I snagged it off the hook and carried it back to my room, closing the door behind me. I moved over to the bed and dumped the contents on the spread. There was nothing of interest: yesterday's papers, Q-Tips, used tissues, an empty can of hairspray. I picked through with distaste, hoping my tetanus shots were up to date. As I gathered the detritus and