The shock wave rolled over him like an Andes landslide over a sapling. There was a surging roar in his ears and the lobby lights seemed to dim for a moment. A great gray net had engulfed Lockington but his reflex questions wriggled through it. “Dead—when?”
Pritchard said, “Couple hours ago—nine, nine-thirty, they figure.”
“Where?”
“Room Three thirty-three.”
“How?”
“Heavy caliber weapon—silencer, probably. Soft-nosed slug—took off half of his head, as I understand it.”
“Who, for Christ’s sake—why?”
“They ain’t saying much, but money wasn’t the motive—there was over a grand in his wallet when they found him.”
Lockington was steadying. “Hold it! They—who’s they?”
“The Agency—the Agency phoned us for assistance. Seems that they happened onto this thing through an anonymous telephone call.”
Lockington said, “Look, why don’t we sit down for a few minutes?”
Pritchard said, “Sure thing—ain’t no law against sitting down.” He snickered and Lockington wanted to whack him in the mouth for it. Pritchard was one of those people who take pleasure in delivering bad news—the role carries a sense of importance.
They parked on a blue velour sofa. Lockington put out his cigarette and lit another, noting a slight tremor in his hands. He said, “The Agency’s running this circus?”
“Wire-to-wire. They’re using the Chicago police department to secure the third-floor hallway and to intercept Devereaux’s visitors. Those are our only functions.”
“How many visitors so far?”
“So far, just you.”
Lockington shook his head emphatically. “It doesn’t rhyme. This is a Chicago murder—it’s a Chicago police matter.”
Pritchard said, “Don’t you believe it. National security transcends all that municipality stuff—we’re on the outside looking in.”
Lockington sat in silence, watching his personal fog dissipate a wisp at a time. Webb Pritchard was saying, “What was Devereaux working on the last time you saw him?”
Lockington snorted. “C’mon, Pritchard, you know better than that! CIA people don’t talk shop. He rarely touched on his job.”
“Well, all I know is what I’ve heard, but I’ve picked up a few items. The CIA thinks that maybe somebody turned the tables on Devereaux.”
“All right, go on.”
“They got a hunch it was a guy Devereaux was looking for—the Copperhead. You ever hear of the Copperhead?”
Rufe had mentioned the Copperhead once, but Lockington lied. “No. Who’s the Copperhead?”
Pritchard shook his head. “They know what he does but they don’t know who he is.”
“What does he do?”
“He kills people for money—it’s his trade.”
“And Devereaux was on the prowl for the Copperhead?”
“That’s my impression. He must have been working on something. He was traveling under an assumed name—J. A. Pfiester.”
“Jesus, I wonder where he got that one. What was in his luggage?”
“All he carried was an attaché case. It’s gone. So is the woman.”
“What woman?”
Pritchard spread his hands. “Who knows? She had no reservation, she didn’t register, Devereaux didn’t account for her at the desk, but she was with him, no doubt about it. And that ain’t all—one of the night crew guys said that she’s stayed at the International before—he remembers her.”
“When did she stay here—who did she stay with?”
“It was about a month ago—he doesn’t recall the guy she came in with, but they were in Room Four-seventeen. They looked up the registration—fella named Frank Schulte.”
“They’re sure of that?”
“Yeah, it was the only time Four-seventeen was occupied that week.”
Lockington shrugged. “She may have been an O’Hare field hooker—some of ’em are getting five hundred a night.”
“Devereaux would have paid five hundred?”
“Devereaux would have paid five thousand if he had it.”
“Could be she shot him and hauled ass with the attaché case.”
“And left his billfold with a grand in it? No way. Maybe she was kidnapped by the killer.”
Pritchard made a deprecatory gesture. “The CIA had three men in the lobby.”
“Three men in the lobby and nobody in the Three thirty-three hallway.”
Pritchard’s head snapped up. “How did you know that?”
“I didn’t, but it figures. They saw Devereaux and the woman go up, but they didn’t see ’em come down?”
“Guess so.”
“What was in the attaché case?”
“Whatever it was, the CIA certainly wants it. Look, Lacey, off the record, just what was your business with Devereaux?”
“That’ll be off the record for about ten minutes, and you know it.”
Pritchard snickered. “Yeah—it’s a question they told me to ask.”
“Okay, Rufe called me late yesterday afternoon—said he’d be in last night, that he’d be staying at the International. He was supposed to contact me at my office this morning but he didn’t. I tried to phone him and they told me that he wasn’t registered here. I got curious and walked over from Randolph Street. Tell the CIA to make something sinister out of that.”
“Why did he want to see you—was it important, did he say?”
“No—I gathered that it’d amount to no more than a get-together. I hadn’t seen him in fifteen months, give or take.”
“You knew him well?”
“Well enough to like him. We did some drinking, talked some baseball—hell, what else is there?”
Pritchard winked a man-to-man wink, snickering. “Broads?”
“Hundreds—movie starlets, fashion models. You’re a man of the world, Pritchard—you know how it goes with gigolos.” He’d just remembered why he’d never liked Pritchard. It’d been that abominable snicker.
“Where did Devereaux call from?”
Lockington said, “I was foggy on that—Ohio, I think.”
“That’s what they were saying upstairs—he flew in from Ohio.”
“What about the woman—a good-looker?”
“A phenom, according to the night clerks—young, brunette, fabulous blue eyes, leggy.”
“Maybe she wasn’t a pro—maybe she flew in with him.”
Pritchard shrugged. “There were sixty-seven women on that flight from Cleveland. It’ll take time to sort ’em out.”
“It was Cleveland?”
“Yeah, they have that nailed down. Where did Devereaux go when he left Chicago?”
“Ohio, apparently.”
“That’s where he came from, not necessarily where he went.”
Lockington yawned. “It isn’t my problem, Pritchard. Any information on his wake?”
“Nothing.”
They lapsed into silence, listening to music drifting from the Never-Never Room, a tango, “Orchids in the Moonlight.” Lockington recognized the melody. So did Webb Pritchard. He said, “Damn, Lacey, ain’t it funny the way a song can take a man back?”
Lockington said, “Yeah.”
Pritchard said, “In ’fifty-eight, my family lived on the southside, and we had a mailman who always whistled ‘Orchids in the Moonlight.’”
“Remember his name?”
“Naw, kids don’t pay much attention to names. We could hear him coming, soon as he turned the corner, whistling ‘Orchids in the Moonlight.’ Geez, those were wonderful days, Lacey.” Pritchard’s voice trailed off.
Lockington nodded. “In ’fifty-eight, we lived on the northside. My uncle was staying with us, and every morning he’d run across the street and hop in bed with Sam Holterhofer’s wife.”
Pritchard said, “Where was Sam Holterhofer when all this was going on?”
Lockington said, “On the southside, delivering mail.”
Pritchard said, “Did Sam Holterhofer go around whistling ‘Orchids in the Moonlight?’”
Lockington said, “I never noticed, but the sonofabitch shot my uncle.”