CHAPTER 13AS RAMSEY GOT out of the station wagon in front of the Gulf Hotel, the fat man named Victor said, “Good luck.”
Ramsey turned angrily, remembering Phil Stark’s parting goad, but he saw nothing but solemn concern in Victor’s eyes. “Thanks,” he said shortly, turned and entered the hotel. He stopped at the desk, but there was no mail or any message for him. He smiled grimly, wondering what he had expected. The last message had been from Marcia, and there would be no more messages from her—unless her ghost haunted him. And that wasn’t funny, he thought, as he went up to his room. Nothing was funny. How long had it been since he’d laughed?
In the bathroom he inspected the small lump behind his left ear. It was very tender, but the skin wasn’t broken. He bathed it carefully with cold
