Free Cast a Yellow Shadow by Ross Thomas Page A

crowd. I was next to him. We turned and walked down the street towards K, away from the crowd.
    â€œI got his key,” Padillo said.
    â€œLet’s try it.”
    The LaSalle hotel is about one-third commercial offices, one-third transients, and the remaining third permanent guests who like living downtown. There are no chairs in the small lobby and no one watches who takes the automatic elevators. We took one and got off on the seventh floor and followed the numbers down to the end of the hall. Underhill had a nine-dollar room that had twin beds, an air-conditioner and a television set that was old enough not be be able to get the UHF stations. His worn pigskin suitcase was in the closet along with another tweed suit and an old Burberry raincoat. Their pockets contained nothing; neither did his suitcase.
    Padillo went through the bureau drawers while I investigated the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. It had a badger hair shaving brush, soap, a toothbrush and paste, some dental floss, a set of military hairbrushes, and a comb with some grey hairs in it. The items were all neatly arranged. Underhill may have had a cluttered mind, but he kept his personal effects tidy.
    Padillo found the address we were looking for in a bureau drawer. It was written in a small black Leathersmith notebook which listed Underbill’s wife under the line that read: “In the event of an accident please notify:” I copied the address in Washington that we wanted and Padillo ran through the rest of the notebook quickly. “There’s nothing else that seems to be of any use,” he said and tossed it back in the drawer. “I did find this,” he added. He held up an envelope-shaped briefcase and unsnapped it for me. It was packed with five-pound British notes done up neatly in bundles and the label on each bundle said that it contained five hundred pounds.
    â€œThe seventeen thousand,” I said.
    â€œProbably.”
    â€œShall we take it?”
    â€œBetter us than the Van Zandt crowd,” Padillo said. “We can get it back to his wife who’ll know where it came from.”
    â€œShe seemed to know everything.”
    â€œAt least she knew about the address of the secret house. What was it?”
    â€œThe 2900 block on Cambridge Place, Northwest.”
    â€œYou know where it is?”
    â€œVaguely. It’s in Georgetown.”
    â€œThat’s hardly a Negro district.”
    â€œNot for the past thirty-five years or so.”
    â€œWe’d better go back to my place and see if I’ve had any calls.”
    We took the elevator down and crossed Connecticut. On the other side of the street, just across from the Mayflower, a pair of D.C. Accident Investigation cars were drawn up to the curb, their red and white lights blinking and circling. Two policemen were asking questions of some persons who kept shaking their heads as if they knew nothing. Another policeman was measuring something with a tape, and another one was sprinkling sand or sawdust on what looked to be a wet spot on the pavement. Evelyn Underhill had been taken away. I found myself wondering if it had been his first trip to the United States.
    We rode the elevator upstairs and as Padillo opened the door with his key we could hear the telephone ring. He crossed the room, answered it, and turned to me. “It’s for you,” he said.
    I said hello and the voice on the other end said: “You don’t seem overly concerned about the continued well-being of your wife, Mr. McCorkle.” It was a voice that just escaped being British. It was closer to an Australian or a Cape Town accent.
    â€œI’m concerned,” I said. “Do you have my wife?”
    â€œYes, we do. Until now she has been quite comfortable. But you have been disobeying our instructions, Mr. McCorkle. Those instructions were quite explicit.”
    â€œLet me talk to my wife.”
    â€œYou were instructed to tell no one about Mr.