The Con Man by Ed McBain

Negro people staying here.”
    “I’ll bet the place is just packed with them,” Brown said. “Is Deutsch registered here, or isn’t he?”
    “The name don’t ring a bell,” the clerk said. “He a transient?”
    “A regular,” Brown said.
    “I got no Deutsches in my regulars.”
    “Let’s see the list.”
    “Sure, but there aint a Deutsch on it. I know my steadies by heart.”
    “Let’s see it anyway, huh?” Brown said.
    The clerk sighed, dug under the counter, and came up with a register. He turned it on the desktop so that Brown could see it. Rapidly, Brown ran his finger down the page.
    “Who’s Frank Darren?” he asked.
    “Huh?”
    “Frank Darren.” Brown pointed at the name. “This one.”
    “Oh.” The clerk shrugged. “A guy. One of the guests.”
    “How long’s he been here?”
    “Couple years now, I guess. Even more than that.”
    “He register as Darren when he checked in?”
    “Sure.”
    “What’s he look like?”
    “Tall guy, kind of skinny. Blue eyes, long hair. Why?”
    “He in now?”
    “I think so, yeah. Why?”
    “What room’s he in?”
    “312,” the clerk said. “I thought you was looking for somebody named Deutsch?”
    “I am,” Brown said. “Give me the key to 312.”
    “What for? You need a warrant before you go busting in on—”
    “If I have to go all the way home for a warrant,” Brown said levelly, “I’ll also pick up one for violation of PL 514, excluding a citizen by reason of color from the equal enjoyment of any accommodation furnished by innkeepers or—”
    Hastily, the clerk handed him the key. Brown nodded and crossed to the elevator. He stabbed at the button and waited patiently while the elevator crept down to the lobby. When it opened, a blonde chambermaid stepped out of it, winking at the elevator operator.
    “Three,” Brown said.
    The elevator operator stared at him. “Did you see the clerk?”
    “I saw the clerk, and the clerk saw me. Now, let’s cut the bull and get this car in motion.”
    The elevator operator stepped back, and Brown entered the car. He leaned back against the back wall as the car climbed. Darren, of course, might very well be Darren and not Deutsch, he reasoned. But an elementary piece of police knowledge was that a man registering under a phony name—especially if his luggage, shirts, or handkerchiefs were monogrammed—would generally pick a name with the same initials as his real name. Frederick Deutsch, Frank Darren—it was worth a try. Besides, the RKC card had given this as Deutsch’s last address. Maybe the card was wrong. Or, if it was right, why hadn’t the mastermind who’d figured out where Deutsch was staying also have mentioned the fact that he was registered under an alias? Brown did not like sloppy police work. Sloppiness made him impatient. Slow elevators also made him impatient.
    When they reached the third floor, he said, “Doesn’t it hurt your eardrums?”
    “Doesn’t what hurt my eardrums?” the elevator operator asked.
    “Breaking the sound barrier like this?” Brown said, and then he stepped into the corridor. He waited until the doors slid shut behind him. He looked at the two doors closest to him in the corridor, to ascertain which way the numbers were running, and then he turned right.
    302, 304, 306, 308, 310…
    He stopped outside room 312 and reached under his coat. He pulled the .38 from its shoulder rig, thumbed off the safety, and then took the key the clerk had given him and inserted it into the latch with his left hand.
    Inside the room, there was sudden movement. Brown turned the key quickly and kicked open the door. There was a man on the bed, and the man was in the process of reaching for a gun that lay on the night table.
    “Better leave it where it is,” Brown said.
    “What is this?” the man asked. He was somewhat better looking than his photo, but not much. He looked a little older, possibly because the photo had been taken many years back when he’d been