large wound that was staunched with this piece of silk”—one of his feet poked at a rumpled ball of red cloth on the floor—“which seems to be a sarong.”
Today is never Tuesday to the Old Man: it seems to be Tuesday.
“On his person,” he went on, “I have found some nine hundred dollars in bills of various denominations, and some silver; a gold watch and a pocket knife of English manufacture; a Japanese silver coin, 50 sen; tobacco, pipe and matches; a Southern Pacific timetable; two handkerchiefs without laundry marks; a pencil and several sheets of blank paper; four two-cent stamps; and a key labeled ‘Hotel Montgomery, Room 540.’
“His clothes seem to be new. No doubt we shall learn something from them when we make a more thorough examination, which I do not care to make until the police come. Meanwhile, you had better go to the Montgomery and see what you can learn there.”
In the Hotel Montgomery’s lobby the first man I ran into was the one I wanted: Pederson, the house copper, a blond-mustached ex-bartender who doesn’t know any more about gumshoeing than I do about saxophones, but who does know people and how to handle them, which is what his job calls for.
“Hullo!” he greeted me. “What’s the score?”
“Six to one, Seattle, end of the fourth. Who’s in 540, Pete?”
“They’re not playing in Seattle, you chump! Portland! A man that hasn’t got enough civic spirit to know where his team—”
“Stop it, Pete! I’ve got no time to be fooling with your childish pastimes. A man just dropped dead in our joint with one of your room-keys in his pocket—540.”