Smart Moves by Stuart M. Kaminsky Read Free Book Online Page B

at me, a damp dishcloth of a confused woman, and then turned as the elevator arrived. The night operator, a pencil of a woman, gave us both a look that made it clear she had seen everything and we were nothing special. Pauline staggered into the elevator and I waited till the door closed before I hopped back into my room and reached for the telephone. It had been a few minutes, maybe two or three, since the white-haired guy had decorated the window.
    “Hello,” I said indignantly. “Send someone up to five-fourteen. Get the police. Someone just shot at me through my door.”
    I hung up before the person on the other end could ask any questions and then I sat down to wait. I was sure that the hotel already had someone on the way up to see what was going on. The call would simply cover me, in case someone asked. Someone knocked at the door no more than half a minute after I hung up the phone.
    “You all right in there?” came a man’s voice, even, calm, not too loud, with a distinct Irish accent.
    I crossed the room and opened the door. The man who faced me looked as if he were on the way to a costume party, dressed as the police sergeant from a cheap gangster move. He was about five foot ten, slightly overweight, face like a bulldog, grey hair, and a shaggy brown suit. Two cigars protruded from his vest pocket. Hotels liked to let con men and women pickpockets know that they had a visible pro on duty. The really sharp hotels had a backup pro who didn’t look like a cop. The backup’s job was to catch the ones that didn’t scare away.
    “What happened here?” he said, his Irish accent rattling his slightly high voice.
    “Who are you?” I asked.
    “See-cure-ity,” he answered.
    “Someone shot some holes through my door, Mr. See-cure-ity,” I said with feigned indignation. “I just called your desk and asked for the police, not the house detective.”
    “Well, maybe we can handle this without calling in the poleese,” he said amiably, looking over my shoulder. “Shall we discuss this in your room instead of the hall, where we might be disturbing the other residents who are trying to sleep? Some of them are our boys in uniform on leave, who deserve a few hours of peace and quiet.”
    I grunted and pushed open the door so he could get in. My experience with our boys in uniform on leave was that they were not looking for peace and quiet, but I had a role to play.
    Security stepped into the room and looked around. I think he even sniffed, though I don’t know what he thought he might smell. It was all part of the act. He looked at the broken window and apparently didn’t notice the striking resemblance to Abe Lincoln.
    “Look like anyone to you?” I asked.
    “Does what look like anyone to me?” he said, turning his eyes to me with suspicion.
    “Forget it,” I sighed and sat on the bed. He stood.
    “What happened here?” he said, taking out a notebook and pencil.
    “Someone shot holes in the door and almost killed me. That’s what happened. Why don’t you call the police? Seal off the hotel? I got a glimpse of the guy. About six-two, two hundred pounds, white hair cut short, real short. He had a small pistol, probably a Walther PP.”
    “A Walther PP, was it?” Security said, looking over the notebook at me. “You got maybe a glimpse of this fella and you could tell what kind of weapon he had? What kind of business you in that makes you an expert on small arms?”
    “I’m involved with physics,” I said. “I’m on a secret project right now with Albert Einstein. Very secret.”
    He nodded his head knowingly, though I didn’t see how my answer explained how I could recognized a Walther PP in someone’s hand fifty feet down a hallway.
    “I don’t know,” Irish Security said, rubbing his recently shaved and talcumed chin. “I just don’t know what to make of this. Might have been a drunk at the wrong room, or a mistake.”
    He looked at the disheveled bed and around the floor. “You were