One Good Deed(36)

There was one prime suspect, at least to his mind.

He knew that Jackie Tuttle was well aware of the dead man’s location last night, having helped transport him to that very spot. And Archer had no idea how early she had left his room, him being sound asleep after their lovemaking. And he had no clue as to how long Pittleman had been dead, though it was not a recent death, the blood having dried, and the body having cooled considerably. Archer knew that they had reached his room at just about the crack of eleven because a clock from somewhere outside had bonged the time. A few hours after that Jackie could have left Archer, done the deed, and departed to her home on Eldorado Street.

But why kill a man who had given her a house and money and all?

He walked over to the front desk, where a different clerk from the one who had signed him in was drinking a cup of coffee. He was small with thin cheeks and dark hair cut close to the scalp. His bowtie was green against a pale white shirt with a wool vest over it. His cheeks and nose carried the red sheen of a heavy drinker, and the heavy pouches under his eyes spoke of many nights with little or no sleep.

“Help you?” asked the man.

“Yeah. I was wondering if you saw a young lady leave early this morning?”

“And who are you?”

“Archer. I’m in Room 610.”

“And what young lady would that be?”

Archer described Jackie Tuttle but didn’t give her name.

The man looked back at him primly and said, “I didn’t see anyone.”

“You sure about that? What time did you come on duty?”

“You ask a lot of questions. What’s your business with this person?”

“Just making an inquiry about a lady. If you don’t know, you don’t know.”

“Would she have been coming out of your room this morning? This ain’t that kind of place, mister.”

“Well, thanks for telling me. And also thanks for nothing, pal.”

As soon as he started walking to the door of the hotel, Archer could feel the man’s gaze on his back. He wished he hadn’t said what he had. Now there would be a direct line among him, Jackie Tuttle, and the dead Pittleman. As a scout in the army and as an inmate in a prison, Archer had never made an error like that, and he wondered why he had in Poca City of all places. Well, maybe he knew why. A woman was involved. Archer just had a weakness there that disrupted his otherwise flawless instincts at self-preservation.

He walked along, hands drilled into his pockets, wondering if he should break his parole and make a run for it now. Archer decided against that and made a detour after asking a man for directions. Eldorado Street was about a half mile away, nearing the edge of Poca’s compact downtown. It was a neighborhood of quaint small homes that looked like something you’d see in a Hollywood picture.

Number 27 was maybe the nicest of them all, he thought, with pretty little white shutters and flowers in both pots and dirt beds already looking for sun at this hour and no doubt thirsting for water. The brick siding was painted white, and the front porch had a little overhang with a metal chair and matching table set near the front door. Unlike some of the other homes, there was no automobile parked in the short gravel driveway.

Archer observed as much of the house as he could, checked around for folks who might be watching him, saw none at this still early hour, and headed up to 27’s front door.

He knocked, waited, and knocked again. Then he heard feet padding toward him. The door was opened and there stood Jackie in a thin, form-fitting bathrobe that looked to Archer like something out of Chinatown in New York. It was crimson and had dragons and elongated masks and symbols of other such Oriental influence emblazoned across the fabric. She was barefoot, her face puffy and free of makeup, and her hair looked slept on.

She rubbed her eyes and exclaimed, “Archer, what in the world are you doing here?”

“You were gone when I got up.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to spend the night there.” She smiled. “Did you like it so much last night that you came around here for more?”

“Can I come in?”

“I suppose. You want some coffee? Now that I’m up, I intend to brew some.”

“That’ll be swell, yeah.”

She led him into a small living room and pointed to a chair.

“Black or something in it?” she asked.

“Just black.”

She left, and he looked around. He didn’t know if the furniture had come with the place; but it looked like it had. It was stuffy and old and downtrodden, and he couldn’t imagine the stylish young woman picking it on her own. A few minutes later she came back with a small wooden tray holding two cups of coffee perched on delicate saucers. She handed one to him and took the other. On a plate on the tray were also a couple pieces of toast, buttered.

“Help yourself,” she said, yawning. “You look hungry. For food or something else?” she added enticingly.

“Food will do for now.” He sipped the coffee, which was hot and strong and bitter, just the way he liked it. And the bread and butter felt good going down with the coffee and helped to settle his rumbling stomach.

“What time did you end up leaving my room?” he asked.

“What? Why?”

He shrugged. “Just wondering. Didn’t hear anything when you went.”

“Well, I was quiet. Didn’t want to wake you. You were sleeping so good.” She smiled and stroked his arm. “I wonder why?” She let her hand drop and added, “You were really something last night, Archer. Compared to Hank, well there was no comparison. But he’s old.”