When I got back to the hotel Stanley was still sitting in my chair and I thought, He’s Elsie’s little pet. She wanted to know what was in the shopping bag, and I showed her the bottle and the newspaper. She said she had a new policy and from now on she didn’t want me bringing alcohol into the hotel anymore. She was just being nasty. Stanley was sitting there watching everything.
I started for my room and Elsie said, “You have something else in that bag. Show me what it is.”
“It’s none of your business,” I said. That set her back some, because I never talked like that to her. But I didn’t like the way she’d been treating me since Nancy died, and her having Stanley spying on everyone. She didn’t have any legal right to look in my bag, and she knew it.
I stomped up to my room and closed my door, and put the bag on the floor. Mr. Winkley stuck his head out of the bag, looked around to make sure of where he was, and came out of the bag.
“Watch out for that Stanley,” I said. “He’s a spy.”
By this time Mr. Winkley had gotten used to living in my room, and the way he went out was by the balcony. I’d leave the balcony door open, and he’d go out through a hole he’d made in the screen door, jump up on the balcony railing, then onto the limb of an elm tree, and climb down the tree, tail end first, to the sidewalk. He’d walk down the sidewalk and around the corner to the back of the hotel, and I’d find him on the fire escape, meowing and pawing at Nancy’s closed window. He wouldn’t climb the tree and come in by way of the balcony. I’d tried putting him in his tree so that I could point up at the balcony, thinking maybe he’d catch on, but he grabbed the front of my shirt with his claws so that I couldn’t even get him onto the tree. He was so used to coming in through Nancy’s window that he didn’t know any other way.
I’d known that I’d find him at Nancy’s window when I came back from City Market, and that’s why I took the shopping bag with me. Every time I climbed the fire escape to get him I looked through the window trying to see the bureau where Nancy kept the statue, but her bureau was against the same wall as her window, and so even with my cheek pressed against the glass I couldn’t see but only a corner of the bureau and I didn’t know if the statue was or wasn’t there. If it wasn’t in her room, I wondered, where was it?
Mr. Winkley wanted to go out again, and he began scratching at the closed balcony door, and looked at me and meowed. I couldn’t keep sneaking him by Elsie without her knowing. Sooner or later he’d meow or start jumping around inside the bag or something.
“You can’t go out,” I said. “Maybe later.”
He was mad at me because I wouldn’t let him go out, and he walked over to a pair of underpants I’d left on the floor and he looked right at me and started pissing on them. I yelled, “Hey!” and he ran under the bed.
I opened the bottle, lit a cigarette and lay on the bed. There was a spider web in the corner of the room, up near the ceiling. A spider had been living there for a week or so, and I used to watch him. He just sat in the middle of his web and waited.
Everyone was saying that Nancy had OD’d on heroin or some other drug, either accidentally or on purpose. The police must have thought so too, because they hadn’t been back. I didn’t believe it, though.
I took a drink from the bottle and set it down on the floor next to the bed. I was watching the spider to see what he would do.
I didn’t think that Nancy would ever use drugs, so I didn’t think she died by accident. She was a Catholic, and I didn’t think that Catholics committed suicide. So if it wasn’t an accident, and she didn’t commit suicide, then somebody must have killed her.
I was still watching that spider, but he was just sitting in the middle of his web. I took the last drag from my cigarette and dropped it on the floor. Sooner or later that spider would move. I kept my eyes on him and slid my foot off the bed, squashed the cigarette under my shoe, and swung my foot back up on the bed.
It had to have been murder, because it couldn’t have been anything else; but who, why, and how, I didn’t know. Probably the killer lived in the hotel, because every night Elsie always locked the outside door, and she watched the hallway like a hawk the rest of the time. We all had a key to the hotel, and I wondered if someone from outside might have gotten hold of one of the keys. But the killer must have spent some time in Nancy’s room before, to get to know the layout, how the locks on her door worked, how to get in and out leaving the room locked from the inside, and all like that. She hadn’t had any visitors from outside the hotel, I didn’t think. Probably the killer was somebody I knew.
Mr. Winkley jumped up on the bed and lay down next to me.
Gladys’s room was right next to Nancy’s, and I wondered if maybe there was a secret panel between their rooms, or if Gladys maybe cut a hole in the wall. Gladys’d had a junk habit, but as far as I knew she’d been clean for a couple of years. That’s what she said, anyway. She and Nancy were friends, so I didn’t think she killed Nancy.
The Colonel and Howie were my friends, so I didn’t think it could be either of them.
Francine wasn’t smart enough.
Elsie could hardly walk up the stairs without help.
Roy had been bothering Nancy, and maybe she told him to stop bothering her, and he decided that if he couldn’t have her, nobody could. Or maybe she was going to report him for selling drugs and he gave her a hot shot to shut her up. It would be hard for him to do it with only one arm, but he was pretty strong.
I had another half of a cigarette in my pocket, and I lit it and drank from the bottle.
Stanley was the joker in the deck; he could be anything or anybody. I thought, He pretends he can’t talk, and he’s a sneak and a spy, and always kissing up to Elsie. He’d been following Nancy, and she told me that he’d been snooping around in her room. He could have recorded all the details of the inside of her room in his mind, probably had a photographic memory, or maybe had taken pictures with a hidden camera, all the while planning how he’d do it. I couldn’t think of any reason he’d want to kill her, but a guy like that, you never know what he’s thinking anyway. He could have a reason that, even if you knew what it was, still wouldn’t make any sense.
There were others in the hotel, but nobody she knew well or who would have been in her room.
I was patting Mr. Winkley and all of a sudden a thought popped into my head, but it didn’t have anything to do with the murder: I was wondering if Mr. Winkley had a belly button. I was still watching the spider, but my hand was feeling all around Mr. Winkley’s stomach and I couldn’t find his belly button. He must have had a mother. I thought I’d ask the Colonel; he would know.
I figured the killer was either Stanley or Roy, but even if I knew just who the killer was, I still didn’t have any idea how they could have gotten in and out with the door and window locked. Besides her being a Catholic, there was one other thing that made me pretty sure she didn’t kill herself, and it was something that I couldn’t tell the police.
I finished the Thunderbird and dropped my cigarette in the empty bottle, and it hissed and went out. She’d been murdered; I knew that much.
A butterfly was flying around in my room. I picked up the paper from the nightstand and went through it. There was nothing about Nancy. I set the paper down beside me on the bed.
The butterfly was fluttering around against the ceiling, in the corner near the web. It kept flying into the two walls and the ceiling. It wanted to go someplace different, and I wondered why it didn’t just fly out the window so that it could be outside. I guessed it didn’t know which way to go. It probably didn’t know what was outside anyway, so it just kept bouncing off the two walls in the corner. I wondered if the spider knew the butterfly would end up doing that, and if that was why he built his web there.
Mr. Winkley saw that the butterfly was cornered and he jumped from my bed onto my bureau and pawed at the air above his head, but the butterfly was just out of his reach. That spider was still waiting.
The police weren’t going to do anything. Except for Mr. Winkley, the killer and I were the only people in the world who knew that Nancy had been murdered. I didn’t like to think that I had something in common with the killer. It made me feel guilty. I didn’t want anything to do with any of it, but the only other way was for me to believe what everyone else believed, that Nancy used drugs and killed herself, and I wasn’t going to believe that.
The butterfly got caught in the web and was trying to get out. The spider waited until the butterfly was tired, then ran over and turned her over and over with his feet, and smothered her in silk. All this time Mr. Winkley was waving his paw trying to reach the web. I didn’t want him pulling it down; I wanted him to just leave it alone. Nancy was dead, and he was playing around like he didn’t even care. That cat was getting on my nerves.
I threw the newspaper at him but it fell apart before it got there. He jumped off the bureau and went after the newspaper sheets. He flung one up in the air and it landed on top of him and he scrunched down, hiding under the sheet of newspaper.
Nancy was dead and Mr. Winkley wasn’t. I thought it should have been the other way around. I’d just start to get Nancy off my mind and then I’d see him fooling around like that and it would remind me of her and I’d feel bad all over again. I thought, He doesn’t care about anything or anybody, not even himself.
He was still hiding under his newspaper, not moving. He was playing a game but I wasn’t. I said, “That cat is going to learn a lesson.” I scrunched down on the floor and slowly put my hands out toward the newspaper he was hiding under. I was just about to grab him when he pounced at me, swiping the air with his claws. I jumped back and stood up. He’d almost clawed my face. Then he stared at a spot on the floor as though there was something there, a small bug or something, but I didn’t see anything. He got down ready to pounce at the spot, and then he gave up the idea. He looked up at me like he was asking, What?
“I don’t know,” I said. “I just don’t know.” I picked him up, and I wasn’t mad at him anymore.
I figured his brain was so small that he had to forget things right away or he wouldn’t have any room for new things. Probably Nancy was as big a part of him as she was of me, but it was just that he was smaller than I was. In his own way he missed her even more than I did, and that was why he got mad at me and pissed on my underpants. I was beginning to think that he probably shouldn’t be spending so much time outside. I didn’t know if he was smart enough to keep from getting hit by a car or attacked by a dog.
It felt too quiet in the hotel with Nancy gone.
I decided I had to stop fooling around with the cat and start thinking about finding Nancy’s killer, but I didn’t know where to begin; look for the statue, maybe. But what if I found the statue, and the killer, and knew how the killer got in and out of the locked room; what then? Go to the police? They’d wonder how I knew so much, and they’d hang a murder rap on me for sure. Any investigating I did on my own would make people suspicious of me. If I wanted to keep the heat off me I needed to get somebody else in with me, somebody the police would believe, and who knew about crimes.