was not enough.
He came to at the bottom of the stairs. His forehead was throbbing, and when he touched it, his hand came away wet with blood.
As his senses began to clear and he got to his feet, he heard their voices.
âIs he all right?â
That was the young womanâs voice. Reggie saw her standing halfway up the stairwell. The Saint Bernard was pressing its considerable bulk against her legs, slobbering and grinning.
Between the young woman and Reggie was the man with the two-tone jacket, and he answered her.
âHeâll live, Mara. Did he bother you?â
Mara shook her head, then she turned, and without waiting for more of a response from either Reggie or the man in the jacket, she started back up the stairs.
Reggie stumbled out to the street, looking for his cab. Thank God, it was still there. And there was the driver, already looking in Reggieâs direction and getting out to help, andâNo, nowseeing Reggieâs condition, he was tossing Reggieâs carry-on out of the boot and driving away.
Bloody hell.
Reggie pressed a handkerchief against his forehead, staggered over to the one bag heâd brought from London, and took out his mobile to call another taxi.
No signal. Heâd forgotten the damn thing wouldnât work here.
He looked about. There was not a public phone in sight, and given the location and condition of the street, he knew he could wait forever and not see another cab.
But three blocks up the street was a red neon sign for the Roosevelt Armsâa hotel with peeling pink stucco and rusty window air conditioners.
It was the only option. He picked up his carry-on bag and trudged toward it.
Several head-throbbing minutes later, he entered the dimly lit lobby.
He surveyed the floral-print carpeting, the five-dollar prints of waves crashing at sunset, and the purple simulated-leather chairs and concluded that if the cost of the place was like its decor, it had to be the cheapest lodging around.
Reggie considered that fact for a moment.
If Nigel was in the area, this would be his affordable choice.
Reggie approached the bored desk clerk and asked for Nigel Heath.
âYeah. He was here. Checked out.â
âWhen?â
The clerk shrugged. âNot long, I guess. Do you want a room or what?â
âThank you, no,â said Reggie. âDid he say where he was going next?â
âNo. Promised to write, though.â
âHas the room been cleaned?â
âYou want a room, I got one available on the third floor. Clean as a babyâs bottom.â
âNo doubt. But what about the room where my brother stayed?â
âI donât know if my staff has gotten to it yet,â said the clerk.
This was sarcasm. Reggie recognized the tone from weekend holidays in Paris.
âMay I see it?â
âYou can rent it.â
âOf course,â said Reggie. He paid the full dayâs rent with his American dollars and climbed the stairs carrying his bag with him.
In Reggieâs experience, American hotel rooms typically smelled too much of bleached linen and antiseptic cleaners. Unfortunately, the rooms of this hotel did not have that fault; the corridor smelled instead of mildew and substances best left unidentified.
Reggie found Nigelâs room. For reasons he did not understand, he knocked first. There was no response. Of course there wasnât. He opened the door.
He realized now he had half expected that Nigel would still be there, despite the clerkâs assurances that the occupant had checked out.
But there was no one.
The bed, small by American standards, apparently had not been slept in. There was nothing lying about on the faded carpeting to prove Nigel had been there, though Reggie supposed the absence of empty beer cans and whiskey bottles might in itself indicate that the most recent tenant had not been of the usual clientele.
The closet was empty; there were no toiletries left behindin the