The Hammett Hex (19 page)

“What is it?” I said. “What's going on, Officer?”

“Open up.”

I did as I was told with my heart thundering. The shake in my hands was real as the officer pulled me from the room. “What's happening?”

“Have you seen any males with weapons?”

I said, “Yes. We were on the ninth floor. We ran here to hide.”

“Who else is in the room?”

I hesitated. “I'm with two women. One terrified guest from the ninth floor and a chambermaid. They have nothing to do with this. But I can tell you what the—”

“Get them out because we're going in.”

“But I saw the armed men. They were on the ninth floor. They broke into my room and I saw them—”

My pathetic attempt to describe the would-be killers got me nowhere. I found myself staring at the officers' drawn weapons and decided to cut my losses. These guys were the foot soldiers, not detectives. Just as I was about to call the other two women, the crackle of voices came over the radio. The officers backed away and lumbered toward the stairs. At least my new companion wouldn't have to go to the police station in a towel. I wasn't sure if she'd be able to go back to her room yet, though. Back in this room, the maid was shaking even worse than I had been.

I felt a wave of guilt. I'd brought this poor woman into this. Who knows what a group of armed men meant to her. On the other hand, she'd have still been standing in the hallway with her cart when the armed cops arrived and that would have been awful. At least with me and my towel friend, she had company and support, such as it was on this bizarre day.

“My name is Elaine,” the woman in the towel said.

“I'm Jordan.”

“Ana Maria,” said the chambermaid.

I was glad we at least knew one another's names.

“They're gone,” I said inanely.

“Gone where?”

“I don't know. To the stairs. I think to the ninth floor.”

“We need to find out where they've gone and go the opposite way,” Elaine said. “Well, as long as that's back to the ninth floor.”

“I don't plan to stick my head into that stairwell until we
know that they've cleared the building. It can't be that long. We're as safe here as anywhere.”

“What if someone's ransacking our rooms right now?”

Ana Maria was shaking. I put my arms around her and led her to the king-size bed. “Just sit. Take a deep breath. We'll be all right. You'll be all right.”

“I cannot do this. I will lose my job!”

“You won't. It's not your fault.”

“But I am hiding in a guest's room! I am sitting on the bed. It is wrong. Very wrong.”

“Well, that's true enough,” Elaine said. “But still not your fault. And it's not my fault either.” She pointed at me. “Some of it
may
be her fault.”

“I was fleeing for my life,” I said defensively.

“Sure, but you climbed onto
my
balcony and opened
my
door and now we're in the soup.”

“What do you think would have happened if I hadn't come to your balcony door and you'd stayed on the ninth floor and those guys had barged into your room? At least I was company.” As arguments went, it was pretty lame.

She bit her lip and looked understandably peevish. “Good point. Now what?”

“Now we wait until they clear the building.”

I wish I could say that the long wait until the announcement that the coast was clear was filled with brave banter, but all that occurred was sulky silence from Elaine and worried sighs from Ana Maria. As for me, I hunkered down and pondered how my lovely world of golden age mysteries, priceless first editions and days surrounded by family and friends (and Vera, of course) had morphed into a nightmare with guns and fear. I was well out of my comfort zone. That's what Hammett had brought me. It was the opposite of everything I loved about mysteries. Christie and Sayers and Ngaio Marsh had their dangers in those remote
grand houses, for sure—a swig of poison, a slippery grand staircase, someone who is up to no good and everything talked out in a game of wits at the end, most of the sparring verbal.

I had encountered and lived through some scary stuff in trying to help Vera build or retrieve those collections. Nero Wolfe had his dark side too, but really, most of the sleuthing and discussion took place in the elegant confines of his New York study. I, on the other hand, was used to knowing my town, being comfortable in my environment and having a pretty good idea on how to proceed when faced with what my uncles would call “a sticky situation.”

But disappearing bookshops with murdered owners, people breaking into homes with fragile seniors, a rampage through a hotel in the heart of San Francisco? This was beyond my imagination. The Uncle Seamus stories were full of fun and daring, like a high-wire act. People didn't die in them. Presumably those who lost jewels or money were unhappy but they never got a voice in the story. This situation was more like Hammett's world. If you leave out the fun and games of Nick and Nora Charles, a high percentage of characters didn't survive in his books. No one could be trusted. No one. Not the sweet little lady who answers the door, not the housekeeper, not the police and not the love interest. You could barely trust the protagonist, and even then, not always. Still, I was the lead in this disaster and I knew I could trust myself.

That was one of Uncle Seamus's rules: Trust yourself. No one else will. Words to live by. Of course, my favorite had always been, “If you can't be yourself, then be somebody else.”

At the moment Jordan Kelly Bingham was probably a prime target, the minute she exited the hotel. I wouldn't even know who to watch out for. Therefore, I wouldn't be going
anywhere. Instead, I was going to be someone else. Confession time: I've always loved disguises, but this time there was no fun in it, just survival. In case it didn't go well, I wanted time to say good-bye to Smiley. I dug for my phone. Where was it?

If you can't be yourself, then be somebody else.

—The Kelly Rules

P
ANICKED, I RIFFLED
through my orange bag. Had I dropped the phone in our frantic escape? Well, there was no going back for it.

I ducked into the bathroom to do a better job of checking my purse. I still had my camera but no phone. I did spot a tin of talcum powder on the vanity. Just what the doctor ordered. I dropped it in my satchel and slipped a fiver on the counter to keep things honest.

Things had gotten quiet on our floor. Elaine knocked on the bathroom door and suggested that I not hog the facilities. Perfect. Elaine closed the bathroom door behind her and said she was not going anywhere else with me. I really couldn't blame her. I beckoned Ana Maria out of the room. She pushed her cart and followed me along the hall to the cupboard where they keep the housekeeping carts. I didn't want Elaine to hear. I stepped into the empty room before she did and waved her in. She hesitated. Who could blame her? I reached into my purse and pulled out two twenties.
She inched into the closet-sized room with the cart ahead of her and in front of me. Good survival instinct.

I said, “I just want your scarf and your uniform.”

She shook her head. “No. I will lose my job if I'm not wearing it.”

“If anyone asks, tell them you had to change clothes because you got cut on broken glass and there was blood on your uniform. Believe me, all the staff will know that there's been an uproar, even if they try to keep it a secret.”

She gasped.

I reached into my purse and pulled out three more twenties. “It's a hundred dollars and I guarantee you won't lose your job. There have been armed men here. No one will pay attention to you. You are a known staff member. Do you have another uniform in your locker? Do you have a locker?”

“I have another uniform at home. But if I lose one, they will dock my wages for the cost.”

“Are you allowed to wear it when you leave for home?”

“They wash them here, but we can wear them home. Sometimes I do. If I have to go somewhere, no.”

“Do you have an extra scarf in your locker?”

She shook her head.

“Do you always wear a scarf?”

“No. It was what you call a bad hair day.”

“I'm having a bad life day. So let's switch clothing.”

“I need my badge and my ID card!” I swear there were tears in her eyes. “If you keep it, they will think I was involved.”

“Fair enough. You keep your badge and your card. I'll head out in the uniform. Just show me the exit you use.”

She was still not convinced.

I said, “I am sorry about all of this. The men who shot up the floor are trying to kill me. They have no interest in you. They may have seen what I am wearing but it's pretty
ordinary, so they won't make the connection between me and you.”

She was biting her lower lip. “I don't know. I can't lose my job.”

I said, “You will save my life. It's the right thing to do.” I sprinkled talcum powder onto my dark curls, worked it through, parted my hair in the middle and tucked it back under her scarf, a style that doesn't look good on most people and is particularly unflattering on me. I slipped my long dangling earrings into my pocket along with the talcum powder.

I waited for the decision about the uniform, wondering if I'd have to up the ante. After what seemed like an eternity, Ana Maria nodded finally. She turned her back and unzipped the pink and white uniform. I pulled off my T-shirt and stepped out of my skinny jeans.

She was my height, but quite a bit curvier. My skinny jeans had a bit of stretch and they looked great on her. My T-shirt was given a workout too. She also looked fine without the scarf. She produced a brush and twisted her long dark hair into a bun. I knew people who would kill for a bad hair day like that.

I figured that no one would be watching the maids leave, and I hoped I was right. I did not fill out the uniform like she had and it left me feeling dumpy, which under these circumstances was a good thing. She said, “You do not look . . .”

I said, “Human?”

“As pretty that way. Also you look much older.”

“Good! In fact, excellent. One of my ambitions is to actually
get
older as opposed to deader. When is your shift over?”

“Not until four, but I can take a break when I need to if my rooms are done.”

“You can't be expected to clean up now. And where do you leave the building?”

“There's an employee entrance in the basement at the back of the building. The stairs go up and out onto the street.”

“You go the way you usually do and I'll meet you there. I'll find a way to return your uniform without causing trouble.” I grinned. “If I'm still alive.”

“I cannot take all your money.”

“Yes. You take it. I'm taking your uniform. If something happens, you will have to replace it. I want to pay for it.”

“Then I will just accept the cost of the uniform. I do not wish to take advantage of you. You are a good person.” She peeled off three twenties and thrust the other two back into my hand.

“You don't actually know that I'm a good person,” I said with a grin. “But I am glad you think so.”

“I know you are honest and kind. You left a tip for me on the pillow in your room. You are not the kind of person to cheat.”

Before I could respond, she added, “And I will return your jeans. I think they are very expensive.”

They'd come from my favorite outlet, but Ana Maria was saving my bacon. “You can keep them. They look better on you anyway. I'll return your uniform, though. Just give me your telephone number.” I found a scrap of paper and a pen in the orange bag. It rarely fails me, except this time with my phone. Ana Maria carefully wrote out her number and I stuffed it into the uniform pocket. “Should I take the cart?” I thought it would add to my disguise.

“The cart has to stay on the floor we're cleaning. None of the maids will have carts downstairs.”

“Okay.”

“And I cannot give you the housekeeping key. Even if you try to pay me more, I will not do that. It would not be right.”

I didn't bother to say that I could probably get into most rooms without a key, that being my distinguished heritage.

“Fair enough. If you are questioned about your uniform, just cry and shake and blame me.”

She smiled for the first time since her ordeal started. “I think I can do that.”

“It's a white lie as we say in my family, but if anyone, a guest, a manager, anyone at all, asks if you saw someone of my description, say I went back to my room. For one thing, they'll race off and leave you alone. Can you do that?”

Apparently she could.

I stuck my gray and scarfed head out the door and noted that the coast was clear.

We headed to the service elevators, which were through a set of double doors and a labyrinth of storage spaces: extra tables, cots, stacking chairs. What a thrill that the service elevator seemed to be working. We stepped in and held our breath until we got to the basement floor. Things were looking great until a uniformed officer came around the corner. He was young, tall and skinny with red hair and freckles and I didn't want to see him.

Now what? I didn't want to be stopped by police, even though I preferred them to armed assassins. I needed to get away and not be identified. Whoever was after me could just as easily shoot me if I was escorted by police. I had places to go. And something told me that this young police officer would not believe this crazy story.

I said with my heaviest faux-Spanish accent, “Take care of my friend, please. She is very upset and scared. All the shooting! I will tell the boss that we are safe.”

Ana Maria lurched toward him, shaking and, amazingly, crying. She spoke rapidly in Spanish and English and pointed upstairs, wiping her tearstained cheeks as she went.

I left my new accomplice and barreled on to safety. The basement was a rabbit warren of equipment, carts, AV gear, what had to be the staff cafeteria and a hot and steamy laundry room with mountains of sheets and towels. Staff was scurrying here and there. No one paid attention to me.

Ten minutes later, as I made one wrong turn after another in the back rooms of the hotel workers area, searching for the stairs to the employees' exit, someone grabbed my elbow. I shrieked and jumped. Ana Maria said, “Sorry. He was so nice and I feel bad about lying to him.”

“It was necessary. How do I get out of here?”

“Through here.”

As we walked, I asked, “What did the cop want?”

“Just to know that we were all right and what we saw.”

“Did he ask about me?”

“He asked about the older maid who was with me. I said she was very tough and not to worry. But he was more interested in me.”

“Can't say I blame him. Did you give him your name?”

She shrugged. “I think I had to.
Sí?
”

I nodded as we pushed open the last door into a rear courtyard. “Don't be surprised if you see him again.”

She grinned. “I will not be surprised. This is the best way out. Some maids are leaving for a break in the little park. Let us walk with them. I will go back later and get my things.”

To my astonishment, we got away with it. I hugged Ana Maria and got the hell out of there.

I didn't call Steve, just in case he was being observed, or part of the plot. Half an hour later, a tired, stooped, gray-haired maid in a pink and white uniform trudged up yet another hill, dragging a pair of cheap plastic bags with purchases acquired from a narrow, dingy shop. One of the bags hid my oversize orange handbag, which was identifiable. I'd
purchased a gray T-shirt with a bad sketch of the Golden Gate Bridge, an A's ball cap with a yellow brim, and a pair of navy cotton jersey shorts. They were in one of the plastic bags. I knew they'd come in handy. I'd also picked up a pair of oversized sunglasses. Finally, I'd borrowed some more of Vera's remaining
Red Harvest
money to get the cheapest smart phone and loaded up some minutes.