Davidian Report Read Online Free Page B

any big black car cruising the empty street. Rube had another dubious eye when they came abreast the Balboa.
    Steve reassured him. “It’s a flea-bag. But Hollywood style.” The lobby was small and fancy, glassed like a conservatory. It had enough red leather banquettes to set up a cocktail lounge. “A friend recommended it.” Albion had said it was convenient.
    The desk clerk asked no questions, only the rent in advance of registration. He was a blenched old man, his sparse hair dyed a ruddy brown. Steve paid, handed over his valise to the soldier. The key he put in his pocket; let the hop pick up a duplicate.
    He said, “I got to make a phone call before I turn in.” He walked past the phone booths out of the hotel.
3
    He remained slantwise on the pavement outside until he saw Reuben disappear behind the elevator doors. He headed south then to Selma Street. He’d memorized the location from Albion’s notes. Even this near to Hollywood Boulevard, there were yet relics of a gentler day, old frame houses of the era of front porches and wisteria vines. These patches too would go; but they weren’t shabby yet, they were well-kept, lived-in homes.
    The fog was lifting with the early dawn; it was past four by his watch. He peered for numbers; he was on the wrong side of the street but he did not cross until he had found the house he sought. It was not as kempt as its neighbors, its gray paint was thinned by time. There was an old wooden swing and an old wicker rocker on the porch. The vines were without leaf this near to December.
    No lights showed within, no shadow stirred behind the old-fashioned stiff lace curtains masking the front window. Steve climbed the three wooden steps of the porch without sound. He stood silently before the front door, not wanting to start this. After a moment his finger touched, barely touched, the bell.
    He waited, his hands dug into the pockets of his coat, his hat half covering his eyes. At this hour a faint bell might not awaken a household long asleep. But he waited, reluctant to ring again, and the door came open. He couldn’t see the man inside. A deep voice was overlaid with old European accent and suspicion. “What is it that you want?”
    He answered, “Mr. Oriole.”
    The door was pulled wider, evidently as an invitation to enter. Steve walked in. He was in a small gloomy hall, papered in mottled wine color, cramped with an oversized oak hall tree, a chest to match, and a two-shelf bookcase. By a side window there was a worn leather armchair, eternally holding the sag of a large man, and a scuffed oak table strewn with newspapers. Above on the wall was a telephone with a coin box. A staircase climbed behind the chair, carpeted in the same worn green as the hall, the same color as the limp brocade drapery separating this room from what would be a parlor on the left. The staircase turned at a landing, hiding the upper floor. Directly forward where the hall narrowed into a corridor, another limp curtain covered another room. The only light on was a dim bulb hanging in the corridor.
    The man was as shabby as the room. Flabby flesh drooped on his large stooped frame, on his shapeless face. He was half bald, the lank hair over his ears and neck a dirty gray-brown; his small dark eyes were both wary and uncurious. He wore gray trousers, shapeless as elephant shanks, a wrinkled shirt without collar or tie, and old felt bedroom slippers over his brown cotton socks. He probably hadn’t been to bed, only snatched a laydown while waiting for Steve to report.
    Steve questioned, “Mr. Oriole?”
    “I am Mr. Oriole.”
    “Steve Wintress.” He didn’t take his hands out of his pockets.
    Mr. Oriole began plaintively, “Where have you been? I have for hours been expecting you—”
    Steve interrupted, “Trying to get here.” He demanded roughly, “Where the hell is Albion?”
    “He did not meet you?”
    “He did not meet me,” Steve parroted. He knew how to deal with stationmasters