As Laura drove toward the motel, she went over what Elliot had told them about the gun. "I haven't seen it in ages. I kept it in the top drawer of my desk at home."
"Who else had access to that desk?" Laura had asked.
"My cleaning lady," he had told her. "And Eileen, of course. She wouldn't have taken it," he had insisted. "She hates guns. I tried to teach her how to use it once- for self protection- she wouldn't even touch it."
Braking for a stoplight, Laura glanced at Harry. "What we need is someone else at the motel who saw something- someone who left Helen's body in Elliot Markham's room without his knowledge."
"I'm certain the police questioned everyone in the area," Harry said, examining Laura's profile.
"Maybe they missed someone. The police aren't infallible," she noted, then glanced in his direction, realizing that he was staring at her. "What?" she asked.
"Interesting perfume you're wearing," was his comment.
"I'm not wearing-" she stopped.
"What did she have to say?" he asked.
"Who?"
"Felicia. I recognize the perfume, Laura. Good Lord, I've paid for enough of it over the years, I ought to know it. You went to see her, didn't you?"
Laura's fingers tightened on the steering wheel. "Yes."
Harry put his head back against the vinyl head rest. "When she wasn't at my place this morning, I let myself hope that she'd given up and gone back to London."
"She has," Laura confirmed. "Gone back to London, anyway. As for giving up-"
"I wish I could find some way to make her understand that it's over."
"What makes you so certain that it *is* over?" Laura asked, keeping her gaze on the road before them. "I mean, according to Felicia, this isn't the first time you've told her it was over and gone off to pursue greener pastures."
"In the past, maybe that was true. But things have changed. *I've* changed," he began, but he could tell that Laura wasn't listening to him.
"We're here," she said, braking the Rabbit to a stop before the room that Elliot had rented the night before. "Let's start with the manager, shall we?"
Harry reached over to grab her arm, preventing her from getting out of the car. "Laura, we have to talk- you've heard her side of things, the least you can do is hear mine."
"We don't have time for this right now, Harry," she said, pulling away from him. "We have a case to solve, remember? Or is all of this too boring for you?" she accused, getting out of the car and slamming the door behind her.
Harry frowned, then rushed to catch up to her. "Bored? Of course not. How the bloody hell could I be-" He stopped as she pushed open the door marked "Office", ignoring his attempt to talk to her.
"Can I help you?" the middle aged woman behind the desk asked, her gaze lingering a bit longer on Harry than on Laura. Her smile widened. "Hello there."
"Hello," Harry replied.
"You two looking for a room?" she asked.
Laura sighed and pulled out her identification. "I'm Laura Holt. I'd like to ask you a few questions about the murder that took place here last night."
"I wasn't on duty," the woman told them- told Harry, actually, since she looked at him the entire time. "My cousin Leo was here last night. But the police questioned him about what happened- he didn't see anything unusual. He was probably watching TV, though. He usually does during his shift. Can't hear a thing unless someone comes in and rings the bell." She pointed to the silver palm bell on the counter."
"Is there anyone else that might have seen something?" Laura asked the woman.
"I think the cops talked to most of the others in the hotel- " She smiled at Harry. "You a private cop, too, honey?"
"I'm working on it," he told her, returning the smile. "So there's no one else that might have heard or seen anything unusual last night?"
"I didn't say that. I don't think the cops talked to Flanagan."
"Flanagan?"
"Yeah. Strange old guy. But he pays me what I ask for the room- He probably won't talk to you, either. Didn't even answer the door when the cops knocked. And I know he was there- he's always there. That old Irishman's as loony as they come. I doubt he saw anything anyway-" she made a drinking motion. "Stays drunk most of the time these days."
"What room is he in?" Laura wanted to know.
"Number Thirteen."
"Thank you," Harry told the woman, giving her yet another smile.
"Like I said, he probably won't talk to you, either," the woman warned as Laura left the office. "Oh, feel free to come back and ask *me* any question you want," she added before Harry could follow. "I'll be *very* co-operative," she promised.
"I'm- sure you would be," he agreed, then made his escape, catching up with Laura halfway to Room Thirteen. "You might have stayed to rescue me from the lady's clutches, Laura," he admonished gently.
"I thought you could take care of yourself," she said, moving swiftly to the door.
"Well, I can, but it would have been nice if you had-"
Laura knocked on the door, cutting him off again, and Harry's eyes narrowed as he realized that she was being deliberately difficult. "Mr. Flanagan?" she called, then knocked again before listening. "Maybe she was wrong and he's not here."
"Laura-" Harry said, indicating the slight movement of the window blind in the window. "He's here. Let me give it a try, eh?" he suggested.
"Mr. Flanagan!" Harry called, deliberately falling back into the speech patterns of his early youth. "D'you hear me, Flanagan?" he asked. "We're needin' your help-" He was about to admit defeat as the door opened to reveal a short, wizened old man with a fringe of still red hair around his bald head who peered out at Harry in surprise- and suspicion.
"You're Irish. No one could fake that accent. Dublin, I'll wager."
Harry tugged at an ear, smiling broadly at the leprechaun like little man. "For the most part. Tell me, what's a self respecting Irishman doing here in the wilds of Los Angeles?" he asked. "Particularly in a God forsaken hole such as this?"
"Ah, tis not such a bad hole at that," Flanagan responded, stepping back. "I don't have a pint to offer, but I'll not have a fellow Irishman standing on the step. Come in. Come in." His brown eyes fell on Laura. "And your lady as well."
"I'm not-" Laura began, but Harry shook his head once in warning, then indicated that she should precede him into the room.
"Ah, but it's good t'hear a real Irish brogue again," Flanagan sighed, indicating the worn chairs near the window. "Tell me, now, what can I do t'help you?"
Harry saw Laura seated in one of the chairs, but remained standing behind her. "Well," she began, but Harry placed a warning hand on her shoulder.
"We were just curious as to whether or not you saw anything strange last night- " Harry asked.
"You're talkin' about the murder, aren't you?" Flanagan said. He looked at them with renewed suspicion. "You're not with the police?"
"Private," Laura told him.
"We've been hired to prove that Elliot Markham is innocent," Harry told the old man. "We were hoping that you might have heard or seen something that might help."
"I mind me own business. Doesn't pay t'get involved with other people's problems when you've got a hatful of your own, now, does it?"
"Been hard on you, hasn't it?" Harry asked in a soft brogue.
"I came here forty years ago- followed the only woman I'd ever loved, left me home, sold nearly everything I had to me name to come here," Flanagan explained in a sad voice.
"What happened?" Laura asked.
"Her father refused to hear of her marrying a penniless Irishman. I got a job- it wasn't much, but it put food on the table, paid the rent here- Then one day I picked up a newspaper, and there she was. She'd married someone else. Someone her father picked for her. I should have left then, I suppose, but there wasn't money enough t'get back t'Ireland." He lifted sad eyes to Harry. "An Irishman belongs in Ireland, lad. Not here in the midst of all this concrete and steel. There's no green t'be found. Not like home," he sighed regretfully.
Harry sucked in his lower lip thoughtfully before answering. "Oh, there's treasure t'be found here, Flanagan, if one's of a mind to see it," he said, looking down at Laura.
"I'm too old t'be chasin' after the end of the rainbow, lad. But I can tell you that I heard noises during the night."
"What kind of noises?" Laura asked, obviously surprised by the little man's abrupt change of subject.
"A car pulled up outside - but instead of the headlights shinin' in th'window bright as day, the driver had turned them off. Like he didn't want t'be seen. I peered out through th'blinds and saw a dark car of some kind and someone carryin' somethin' into Room Fifteen."
"Could you describe the person you saw?" Laura asked, clearly excited at the idea of getting a break in the case.
"The light isn't very good out there. But it looked like a man."
"Dedman?" Laura mused, looking up at Harry before asking Flanagan, "Did Mr. Markham let him in?"
"I doubt it. The shower was running- the walls are paper thin. As I watched, the driver of the car opened the door to Room Fifteen, then returned to carry something from the passenger side of the car into the room. Then he left."
"Flanagan, why didn't you answer the door for the police when they knocked earlier?" Harry asked.
"I didn't want to. Told you that I didn't want t'get involved. But I couldn't be sayin' no to a fellow Irishman, now, could I?" he countered.
"Hmm. Thank you for your help."
"Don't mention it. Just hearin' the sound of Erin your voice is enough to make it worth me while."
As they left the room, Laura looked up at Harry. "I wish there was something we could do to help that poor man."
"He wouldn't take charity, Laura. He's too proud."
"I know. It's just that he seemed so sad."
"Homesick, more like it. I don't think he's pining over his lost love as much as he's missing Ireland," Harry explained, glancing back at the door to Room Thirteen, lost in his thoughts until Laura spoke.
"Harry?"
He saw her looking up at him from the driver's seat of the Rabbit. "Are you ready to go?"
"Uh, yes," he said, opening the door and getting into the other side. "Where *are* we going?"
"I think it's time we paid a call on Johnny Dedman."
***
Johnny Dedman wasn't at his office but Laura took the opportunity to do a cursory search of the room. Once she was satisified that there was nothing there to help them, Laura used an address she found on an overdue bill to locate the producer's apartment. It was a run down building, without an elevator, and Dedman's one room apartment was on the third floor.
At the second landing, Harry paused, catching his breath, and Laura stopped halfway up the next flight to look back at him. "Something wrong?"
"Just- a bit out of shape, I suppose," he admitted. "Too much time behind a desk and in board meetings. Used to play tennis, and polo, but lately there hasn't been time-"
"Polo," Laura mused. "Well, next time we get a case that requires that skill, you'll be ready, won't you?" She climbed up another step. "Coming- Mr. Steele?"
Harry slapped his thigh as he lifted it to the next step. "Right behind you, Miss Holt. Always, right behind you." He gave her a devilish smile as she turned to look at him.
"Here we are," Laura said, stopping before a door. She lifted her hand to knock, but the wooden panel moved away at her touch.
"It's not a good sign when the door is open, is it?" Harry asked.
"Not usually," she agreed, peering into the shadowed room beyond the portal. "Mr. Dedman?" she called softly.
Harry pushed the door wider as Laura ran a hand along the wall inside, trying to locate a light switch. She found it, flipping it on to reveal a small, cluttered room, the focal point of which was the unmade sofa-bed. On that bed Johnny Dedman was sprawled. Harry moved to place his fingers against the man's neck, then shook his head at Laura. "He's dead," he confirmed. "For several hours, I should think. His body's cold," Harry told her, repressing a shiver. "I thought he was the bad guy? If he didn't take Helen Markham's body to Elliot's motel room last night, then who-?"
"Maybe he did-" Laura surmised, bending to examine the body as well. "What's that smell?" she asked him, sniffing the air.
"Almonds," Harry noted, then frowned as he realized there were no almonds nearby. There was a glass sitting on a table beside the sofa and Harry smelled the remains inside. "Cyanide. He was poisoned, Laura."
"The question is, did he commit suicide- or is it supposed to just *look* like he did?" she wondered aloud, moving around, examining the apartment carefully. The desk was cluttered, mail and letters scattered across the scarred surface of the wood.
"Shouldn't we call the police?" Harry asked.
"In a minute," she said, studying the desk. "Something's missing." Harry moved to the other side of the desk, trying to see it as she was. "Do you see any file folders around anywhere?" she asked.
He looked around, going over to the kitchenette to search. "No."
"If he was going to make a picture with Elliot Markham- about Markham's life, then it stands to reason that he'd have tons of research in a file, right? But it wasn't at his office- and there's no sign of such a file here-"
"Someone took it?" Harry asked. "But who?"
She reached over to the daily calendar on the desk, flipping through the pages. "Several pages have been torn out," she told him. "There's a faint impression-" picking up a pencil, Laura rubbed the lead across the impression to reveal the words, "10:00 pm Meeting with E.W." She looked up, as if the answer should have been obvious all along. "Of *course*," she exclaimed. "Come on," she said, leading him toward the door.
"But- Laura, what about the police? I mean, we can't just leave the poor man here like this-"
"We can't do anything for him, Harry," she said, grabbing his arm to pull him with her. "Come on. We'll call the police from a payphone. Right now, we have a murderer to catch."
To Be Continued---