holder on the desk glass with the days ink-filled with appointments and meetings, and a few manila files were next to it. Behind the desk was an oak shelving unit full of stacked paper, files, and an odd book or two having to do with land-title issues, at least that was what Archer gathered from reading off the spines. Against one wall was a four-drawer wooden file cabinet with alphabet ranges written on them from A to Z, top to bottom. Comfortable chairs and a couch were on the other side of the room. A full bar was set up against one wall, with an empty silver ice bucket and scooper off to the side. Though it was still morning, Archer looked lustfully at the bottles lined up there.
“You poked around already?”
Shaw nodded. “Checked his calendar and such. Didn’t find much there. But I did find some interesting things.”
“Like what?”
“Man was sick. Dying, actually.”
“Who? Pittleman? You got to be kidding?”
Shaw shook his head. “Found some medical reports. Man had a brain tumor. Inoperable, it said. Checked with his doctor. He confirmed it.”
“Funny.”
“What is?”
“First night I met him, Pittleman clutched at his head. Said it was the bad liquor.”
“Nope, it was cancer.”
“How long did he have?”
“Not long, the doc said.”
“Damn. So why kill the man if he was already dying?”
“That’s the question, Archer. But then your motivation would have nothing to do with that. If you wanted Jackie Tuttle, you wouldn’t want to wait on it. And by your own admission just now, you didn’t know he only had a little time left to live.”
“I never wanted a woman bad enough to slit a man’s throat, Mr. Shaw.”
Shaw perched on the edge of the dead man’s desk. “What do you know about Pittleman?”
“Hear he’s the richest man around. Owns most of the town. He’s got a place outside of Poca almost as big as this hotel. His wife is okay with him seeing Jackie, or at least she knows about it. Mr. Pittleman spoke about it right in front of her while I was there.”
“Did he now? What else?”
“I helped haul some stuff from here to his trucking warehouse the other day. Got paid a dollar for it. By a man named Sid Duckett. He works for Pittleman. Met another man there too, name of Malcolm Draper. He works for Pittleman, too. He’s his business manager. Man carries a gun.”
Shaw rubbed at his thin mustache. “Okay.”
“Anything else you find?”
In answer, Shaw picked up some pieces of paper and handed them to Archer.
“Didn’t find those in here. Found them in the trash bins behind the hotel.”
“You checked the trash bins?”
“You always check the trash bins, Archer. I even looked at the one in your room. Only found a drained gin bottle and empty packs of Lucky Strikes.”
Archer looked at the papers. “They’re bills of Pittleman’s and they’re all stamped ‘past due.’”
“That’s a fact. Man was apparently not paying them.”
“But Pittleman was rich.”
“Even a rich man can spend more than he’s got coming in. And that makes him a poor man.”
“Doesn’t make much sense.”
“It will, eventually.”
“Well, I wish you luck. I just hope you’re coming to the conclusion that I had nothing to do with the man dying.”
“I’m not there yet, Archer. I’m truly not. Just so we know where we stand with each other.”
“Okay.”
“Why were you up so early the morning Pittleman was found dead?”
“Heard a noise outside in the hall.”
“Well, son, I asked you about that, and you said you heard nothing unusual.”
“You were asking about unusual sounds in the night. I heard that sound in the morning.”
“What time again?”
“Around six. Why?”
Shaw’s features turned grave. “Something’s going on in this town I don’t like. You watch yourself, Archer. You watch yourself close and don’t be no fool, son.”
As Archer headed to the door, the lawman added one more warning.
“And don’t trust nobody.” He added warningly, “I don’t care how damn pretty they are.”
Chapter 23
HEY, FELLA?”
Archer was crossing the lobby of the Derby when the front desk clerk called out to him. It was the same one who had initially checked him in.
“Yeah?” said Archer, coming over to him.
“You got to pay up if you want to stay here.”
This was not what Archer had been expecting. “What’s that again, mister?”
The clerk swung the register around. “You only paid for three nights. You been here way longer than that. Woulda caught it before ’cept poor Mr. Pittleman got murdered.”
“How much we talking then?” asked Archer, and the clerk told him.