Free A Fatal Glass of Beer by Stuart M. Kaminsky

Fields’s two large bags. Gunther wasn’t even panting. He had once been part of a circus act in which he leapt through flaming circles after sailing off a teeter-totter, picked up a full-size clown and stuffed him in a suitcase, and performed various other acts of lunacy in the hope of getting a paycheck, some applause, and the respect of his fellow workers. That was a while ago, but Gunther had remained in shape.
    I had checked the registry when I signed in. There was no Hipnoodle, or any other name in the least bit suspicious.
    Fields leaned on the counter and whispered to the old clerk, “We should prefer to remain incognito. Business.”
    “Suit yourself,” said the old man, glancing at the hotel register.
    I had signed it twice, writing once, printing the second time. Fields had frowned at my lack of creativity, but understood that this was not the time to draw attention to ourselves if our pursuer or Hipnoodle happened to be checking the limited number of hotels in Altoona.
    “Mr. and Mrs. Vernon Sawyer and Mr. and Mrs. John Welch,” the old man read. “Sawyer?”
    I raised my hand, pointed at Gunther.
    “Which leaves me as Mr. and Mrs. Welch,” said Fields. “Leave a call for us, bright and early, eight.”
    “I will do so,” said the old man, closing the book. He handed us the keys and pointed down the hall to his right. The rooms were next to each other, and I told Fields that I would be happy to bring him something to eat, but that he and Gunther should stay in their respective rooms. They were a little too easy to spot. I wasn’t exactly inconspicuous with my flat nose, battle-scarred face, and the look of an extra in a Warner Brothers B gangster movie, but I was the closest we had.
    Gunther had told us that the car was parked and locked behind the hotel in a corner behind some trees, where it would be difficult to find.
    I dragged Fields’s suitcases into his room. He had carried his own picnic basket, which I was sure contained a thermos or two of martinis.
    “A small crabmeat salad,” said Fields, as he looked around his small room. “At least the chair looks comfortable. I shall, aided by the pages of Mrs. Plaut’s memoirs with which you have supplied me, sit in my skivvies and silk robe until something that resembles sleep or at least rest overtakes me.”
    “I’ll knock four times fast,” I said. “Don’t open the door unless you hear four fast knocks.”
    Fields nodded, took off his hat, and opened his trunk.
    Gunther and I settled in quickly next door. There were two beds. I let Gunther have his choice and took his dinner order. He asked for a ham and cheese sandwich and hot tea. By the time I left, he was already sitting in a chair, listening to music on the radio, and reading a book in a language I guessed was Russian.
    “Hungarian,” he corrected when I made my guess. He offered no further information.
    I asked the desk clerk where I could find a restaurant where I could get some take-out food. The old man headed me toward a Greek joint a few blocks away. Ten minutes later I was back with Gunther’s order, a turkey on rye with mustard and a Pepsi for me, and a chicken salad and coffee for Fields, though I had little hope he would eat. The restaurant had nothing resembling seafood, unless you count catfish.
    “Fascinating tome,” Fields said with sincerity, pages of Mrs. Plaut’s manuscript in his hand after my four quick knocks got him to open the door.
    “Fascinating,” I agreed. “Might be another movie in that.”
    “Might, indeed,” he said. “My meeting with La Cava will be longer than I thought.” He accepted the chicken salad and coffee reluctantly, but said that he might try to consume some of it.
    “See you in the morning,” I said.
    “I want to be there when the bank opens,” he said. “At least a minute or two before nine.”
    I agreed and went to Gunther’s and my room and pulled the mattress onto the floor. Gunther was wearing a robe over neatly