Читать книгу The Luck of Leavenworth Louis - Thomas Thursday - Страница 4

Into the ornate lobby of the Gold Palm Hotel walked Cecil Jonathan Amherst, alias Leavenworth Louis—real name known only to police—and sat in one of the red-upholstered chairs. Mr. Amherst was between 45 and his third stretch in the clink. More, his hotel bill was now one week in arrears and his net cash balance on hand was two twenty-dollar bills.

He had registered at the very swank and expensive hostelry with the notion that Miami Beach was the winter playground of over-ripe suckers, panting to be picked. This information was quite accurate, as both police and news reports will attest. When bigger and better jewel robberies are pulled off, Miami Beach will still lead the field.

Business with Leavenworth Louis was not on the boom but rather, on the bust. A few weeks before his descent info the famed Florida Gold Coast, he had been checked out of Leavenworth Prison as a non-paying guest of the penal hotel. It seems he had a strange, uncontrollable passion for penmanship. This yen led him to try his art on checks that were as blank as the accounts behind them.

As you observe him now, his tonsorial appearance is far from bummish. In fact, it is exceptionally good, if not this side of elegant. He might pass easily as a successful race track operator or perhaps part owner of a night club. He had purchased the outfit just before he left Chicago and it had TKO’d his cash supply.

As he lounged in the chair, eyes half-closed, he studied the lobby occupants. Women to the left, men to the right, and brats prancing in the middle. It was near the winter season’s halfway mark, and the hotel was operating in full bloom. All rooms were occupied, mostly by sportive people who had come to Miami and the Beach for a shot at the horse, dog tracks and a fling at jai ali.

Becoming bored at looking at more-or-less human faces, he shut his blue-green eyes and began to meditate about the why and the wherefore of his luck and especially why it had been so lousy. Any cop, bright or dumb, could have given him the correct answer. In his weird imagination he believed that luck, plain or fancy, ruled all, and everything. You will notice that his head was just that shape.

Suddenly, a tall, stately-looking gentleman sat down in the chair to the right of Leavenworth Louis. A quick look-see informed him that this guy was likely prey, complete with waxed mustache and beige spats. He noted the fellow wore a smartly tailored Palm Beach suit, immaculately white buckskin shoes, and carried a Malacca cane.

Soon after completing his inspection of the elegant stranger, he fell asleep. He didn’t want to fall asleep, at least in public places, but sleep had a lifelong bad habit of reaching out very suddenly and placing him in the arms of Morpheus.

“I—er—beg your pardon, sir.” To him the voice seemed to be coming from another world. He awoke with a shiver and, instinctively, his right hand reached for his dough pocket to see if his two twenties were still there. Turning his blinking eyes upward, he beheld the clean and cultured face of his prey.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” the stranger went on, “but may I have a glance at your paper, please?”