1

The three Ransoms came in through the front door on a wave of talk a few minutes after eleven. They had seen a double feature of Double Indemnity and Kiss Me Deadly and then stopped in for a drink at Jimmy's. It was the first time I had seen them relaxed and comfortable with each other. "So you finally came home," John said. "What have you been doing all day, shopping?"

"You spent the day shopping, big guy?" Ralph fell into the couch beside me, and Marjorie sat beside him.

"I talked to a few people," I said, looking at John to let him know that I wanted him to stay up after his parents left for bed.

"Just let the cops handle everything, that's what they're paid for," Ralph said. "You should have come to the show with us."

"Honestly, I don't know why we stayed for the whole thing," Marjorie said. She leaned forward to give me the full effect of her eyes. "Gloomy? Oh, Lord."

"Hey!" Ralph said. "Weren't you going to see if old Glen-oy is still at the hotel?"

"Were you?" John said.

"I had a long talk with him, that's right."

"How is old Glenroy?"

"Busy—he's getting ready to go to France."

"What for?" He really could not figure it out.

"He's playing in a jazz festival and making a record."

"The poor bastard." He shook his head, evidently at the notion of an ancient wreck like Glenroy Breakstone trying to play jazz in front of a crowd of French people. Then his eyes lighted up, and he pointed his index finger at me. "Did Glenroy tell you about the time he introduced me to Louis Armstrong? Satchmo? What a thrill. Just a little guy, did you know that? No bigger than Glenroy."

I shook my head, and he dropped his hand, disappointed.

"Ralph," Marjorie said. "It's late, and we're traveling tomorrow."

"You're leaving?"

"Yeah," John said.

"We figure we've done everything we could, here," Ralph said. "There isn't much point in sticking around."

So that was why they had been able to relax.

 Marjorie said, "Ralph," and tugged at his arm. Both of them got up. "Okay, guys," Ralph said. Then he looked at me again. "It's probably a waste of time, anyhow, you know. I don't think I ever fired more than one person, myself, and that didn't last long. Bob Bandolier pretty much took care of that kind of thing."

"Who was the person you did fire?"

He smiled. "I remembered it when we were sitting in the movie—it seems kind of funny now, to think of it."

"Who was it?" I asked.

"I bet you could tell me. There were only two people in the hotel that I would fire, me personally, I mean."

I blinked at him, and then understood. "Bob Bandolier and Dicky Lambert. Because they were directly subordinate to you."

"Why is this important?" Marjorie asked.

"John's friend is interested, that's why it's important," Ralph said. "It's research, you heard him."

Marjorie waved a dismissive hand, turned, and walked away from us. "I give up. Come up soon, Ralph, and I mean it."

He watched her walk away and then turned back to me. "It just came to me, watching Double Indemnity. I remembered how Bob Bandolier started shaving hours off his time, coming in late, leaving early, making all kinds of excuses. Finally the guy came out and said his wife was sick and he had to take care of her. Sure surprised me. I didn't even think he was married. That was some thought, Bob Bandolier with a wife, I tell you."

"He came in late because his wife was sick?"

"He damn near missed a couple of days. I told Bob he couldn't do that, and he gave me a lot of guff about how he was a better manager in two hours than anybody else would be in eight, or some crap like that, and finally I fired him. Had no choice." He held his hands out, palms up. "He wasn't doing the job. The guy was a fixture, but he put me over a barrel. So I gave him the axe." The hands went into his pockets and his shoulders went up, in that gesture common to father and son. "Anyhow, I hired him back in a couple of weeks. When Bob was gone, things didn't go right. The meat orders went completely haywire, for one thing."

"What happened to his wife?" John asked.

"She died—during that time before he came back. Dicky Lambert told me, he got it out of him somehow. Bob wouldn't have ever said anything about it to me."

"When was this?" I asked.

Ralph shook his head, amused by my persistence. "Hey, I can't remember everything. In the early fifties sometime."

"When James Treadwell was found dead in his room, did Bandolier handle the details?"

Ralph opened his mouth and blinked at me. "Well. I guess not. I remember wishing that he could handle the details, because I moved Dicky to days, and he was no good at all."

"So you fired Bob Bandolier around the time of the murders."

"Well, yeah, but…" He gave me a sharp, disbelieving look, and then started shaking his head. "No, no, that's way off base. We're talking about Bob Bandolier—this upright character who organized prayer meetings."

I remembered something Tom Pasmore had said to me. "Did he have any children? A son, maybe?"

"God, I hope not." Ralph smiled at the notion of Bob Bandolier raising a child. "See you guys in the morning." He gave us an awkward half-wave and started up the stairs.

John said good night to his father and then turned to me. He looked tense and irritated. "Okay, what have you been doing all day?"