Write me a Letter

Oh, you mean if I went to bed early and fell asleep right away, how come when they found me I was wearing clothes?”
    ”That’s exactly what I mean,” said the lieutenant.
    ”Those darn sleeping pills,” I exclaimed. ”They always do it. I took one for my upset tummy and must have zonked right out before I had a chance to slip into my nightie.”
    ”Of course,” he said absently. ”Of course.” He took a tattered notebook out of his inside breast pocket and flipped it open. ”Desist,” he said to Kingfisher. ”Male Caucasian,” he read out to me. ”Height, five foot nine. Weight, one hundred and seventy-four pounds. Hair, blond. Eyes, blue. Heavily suntanned. Hands show evidence of considerable manual work. Identifying marks—on lower back and buttocks, scarring probably due to shrapnel wounds, or similar. Scar upper right deltoid, similar. Scars on upper torso—likely cause, cigarette burns. Unlikely to have been self-inflicted. Et cetera. Et cetera. Dental work consistent with European techniques, not U.S. Identification on body —none. Possibility of identification through clothes, et cetera—none. Contents of wallet—nine hundred forty-two dollars. One pack soft toothpicks used for massaging gums. Contents of pockets: one pair cheap sunglasses. One plastic comb. Twelve rounds thirty-eight-caliber ammunition, suitable for S and W mod six forty-nine SS Special, found lying beside subject. Paraffin tests confirm subject had recently fired a handgun.
    ”Cause of death—to put it simply, he was shot twice, in the heart, at close range, by twenty-two—caliber bullets delivered almost certainly—Ballistics confirmation awaited —from a Beretta mod seventy-one, color blue, length of gun barrel 3 inches. And where was said handgun discovered, patrolman?”
    ”In the old guy’s hand,” he said.
    ”Correct,” the lieutenant said. ”The old guy—you don’t particularly care how tall he is, do you, Mr. Daniel? Or what his exact weight was?”
    ”No,” I said.
    ”His name was Charles Rivers. Legal immigrant into this country from Mexico in nineteen forty-eight. Name anglicized from Carlos Delrio. Became U.S. citizen in ’fifty-three. Became owner of establishment known as Dago Don’s, ’sixty-eight. Spotless bill of health from us, state, federal, Internal Revenue, state licensing board, and so on. And so on. What do you think the chances Interpol want him are when we hear from them?”
    ”Not too good,” I said.
    ”I agree,” he said. ”Add to the deepening mystery one Henry C. Clam, whose physical characteristics you are no doubt uninterested in as well. Line of work, accountant. Home address, Chippewa Falls , Wisconsin .”
    Chippewa Falls. If Benny had ever been to Chippewa Falls in his life I was King Zog of all the Slovaks. ”Married.”
    And if he was married, I was Queen Zog.
    ”No children. I called his home. A telephone answering machine said he and his wife were on holiday. He could be reached care of the Star Hotel, Locke, and she at a phone number in Los Angeles . I called Mrs. Clam. She was greatly distressed to hear of her husband’s condition and is flying up this afternoon. Although I don’t think she or her husband have any direct relevance to what happened, I’m looking forward to meeting her.”
    Mr. Lawman, you ain’t the only one, I thought.

17

    Mrs. Henry C. Clam.
    Mrs. Benny the Boy.
    The mind boggles, although I don’t quite know why. He did like girls, and sometimes they liked him. I started scheming how I might get a look at her, despite my achin’ back.
    ”Of the aforementioned trio,” said the lieutenant then, pressing onward, ever onward, ”had you encountered any of them prior to last night?”
    ”Yes,” I said. ”If Charles Rivers, owner of Dago Don’s is also, as I suspect, the cook at Dago Don’s, I met him at lunch. He cooked it. Pot roast. I think he put bits of lemon and orange peel in the sauce. And if Henry C. Clam is the name, as I suspect also, of that nature freak I ran into in the lobby of the hotel, then it must be said I’ve encountered him as well. Once. In the lobby. He was showing Uncle Theo what to do with split ends. Speaking of Uncle Theo, how is he, by the way?”
    ”Where is he is more like it,” the lieutenant said, starting on his second cup of coffee. He actually seemed to like the stuff.
    ”He’s gone?”
    ”As far as I’m concerned, he never was. By the time I got to checking out his room, it was