Flynn's In Read Online Free Page B

easily, he said, “And there’s always the telephone.”
    “Married yourself? Have a home life?”
    Flynn guessed Wahler was in his early thirties.
    “Not anymore. Was married. I have an apartment between Rutledge’s home and his home office. His car picks me up most mornings, drops me off most nights.”
    “Home
,” Flynn hummed. “And as the young husband said to the gynecologist, ‘What’s in it for you?’ ”
    “No one in the world has a better overview of his business than I have. I’m listed as an executor of his estate now.” Gently, Wahler was braking the big car down a grade. “He controls many huge interests, Flynn. And I know them all as well or better than he does.” Wahler crossed the yellow dividing line and turned off the road to the left into the parking lot of The Timberbreak Lodge. “Sooner or later, as gaps appear, I should be able to pick any position I want. Meantime, I walk around with his power in my pocket. And everyone knows it.”
    “And if Rutledge makes a mistake?” Flynn asked. “Is it the son of your mother named Paul who gets the blame?”
    Wahler turned off the engine. “First we find the manager of the hotel. His name is Morris.”
    Only a few cars were in the motel driveway. One was dented, mud-splattered and said “Bellingham Police” in chipped paint on its side. Its appearance did not suggest much concern for image.
    From down the road an old Cadillac hearse waddled into the parking lot. Two men in dark clothes with very white faces were on the front seat.
    Standing beside the car, Flynn looked at Timberbreak Lodge. As a piece of architecture, it seemed oddly truncated. Its main office area, under a peaked roof, seemed almost the right size, but the one-store area for rooms extending from the reception area seemed uncommonly small. The lodge looked like a gaunt woman in a long dress.
    Following Wahler into the reception area, Flynn hit his knuckles against the wall. He might as well have knocked against a match box. Cheap plywood, covered with a pine stain with no insulation or other building material behind it, he guessed.
    The reception area was colder than outdoors.
    “Morning, Mister Wahler,” said the man behind the reception desk. He was a ruddy, outdoors type in a heavy woolen shirt.
    “Morning,” Wahler said. “This is Police Inspector Frank Flynn.”
    The man extended a heavily calloused hand over the counter.
    “Pleased to meet you, Inspector. Sad business, this. Carl Morris, owner and manager of Timberbreak Lodge.” He looked down at the reception book on the counter. “You’re in Room 16, Inspector.”
    “Am I indeed? I’m liable to be anywhere.”
    “What room was Huttenbach’s?” Wahler asked.
    “Other side of the building. Room 22.”
    Across the reception lounge a huge window looked out over forested valley and hillsides. Flynn supposed the view would be dazzling, if the sun were out.
    Open doorways led from the left and right of the lounge. Over one a wood-burned sign said “Rooms 11-16”; over the other, “Rooms 17-22.”
    “Is there a lower level to this place?” asked Flynn. “A downstairs?”
    “Nope,” Morris answered. “Just the one floor.”
    “Then you have only twelve guest rooms.”
    “We’re a small lodge.”
    “You must have a pretty high room rate,” Flynn shivered. “To pay the fuel bill. Not at all sure I can afford it.”
    Behind Morris was a closed door. Wood-burned on it were the words: “Manager Private.” As they stood there, Flynn heard the voices of either two or three women talking, sometimes simultaneously.
    “I see the Shaws are here.” Morris had ducked his head to look through the front window. “Things have been moving slowly, I guess. Sunday morning. Chief Jensen is with the body now. I’ve told him you’re here, Inspector. In a manner of speaking, of course.” Morris allowed a small grin. “He’s waiting for you. And Doc Allister is here.” Morris’ grin opened as he looked at