Warrant for an Old Flame

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I had one small picture of him, and not a very good one. Schaegan had always been camera shy. But I had six nice ones of her. Two of them were publicity shots, taken when she was doing that routine with the fan and the thimbleful of glass beads at the Grace Bar in Chicago. Those two were full-length shots, with the baby spot reflecting tiny highlights off the instruments in the brass section behind her.

Leg work is a tiresome nuisance. And Mexico City is one big town. I grew more than weary of the soft whistle from the desk clerks when I shoved the picture of her across the reception desks.

My strike came on the second day. A nice hotel, not large, out in the Chapultepec section. The desk clerk had pretty good English.

“Ah, yes. I remember. That was, let me check the exact date, eleven days ago. Mr. and Mrs. William Sandler. Suite eight.” William Sandler, Walter Schaegan. The initials would match, probably to fit initials on his luggage.

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