MODEL FOR MURDER, by Stephen Marlowe Copyright 1955 by Graphic Publishing Co. Chapter One First I opened the door. Then I shut it. Then I opened it again. The bellhop scratched half-heartedly at a pimple the stiff collar of his uniform had irritated, and stared at me. I stared back and shut the door in his face and opened it.
“Honest, the lock works,” he said.
“The snap lock.” I pointed out. I twisted the key on my side of the door, watching the latch click easily into place and then out. The bellhop snickered and walked past me into the room with a quart of gin, a fifth of vermouth, a bucket of ice and two cocktail glasses on a circular red tray. He dropped his burden on the scarred top of the dresser, adding to the damage. He held out his hand and waited while I was trying to decide which looked better, the tray of gin, vermouth, ice and cocktail glasses or the mirrored reflection of the tray of gin, vermouth, ice and cocktail glasses.
“Thank you, sport,” he said, as I gave him a quarter. It had been so long since I’d handed out gratuities I didn’t know if he was kidding or not. After he left, I decided to wait for Jo-Anne before I unfastened the cap on the bottle of gin, so I stretched out on the bed, laced my fingers behind my head, stared up at the cracked ceiling and tried to savor the feeling of freedom. Which was easy.
Take the lock. I could open it and shut it, as often as I liked or not at all. I could play the radio at three a.m. or dance a jig up Park Avenue and watch the dog-walkers or wait for Jo-Anne to drink martinis with me or write my congressman.
Or, I could do nothing. Just plain nothing. I could lie here on a cheap hotel bed which had begun to get the gunwale sag, like so, and take off my shoe to poke indelicately at the blister on my left heel. They were new shoes and maybe I’d complain and maybe I wouldn’t, but it was up to me.
This sure beats prison, I thought, wondering if there were any awards for the understatement of the year.
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