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Swinton was gone from the bench when Ferron walked back to his
car. He drove on through the silence to the Inn.
He made certain the trunk of his car was locked and started into the Inn
only to stop at the sight of a big black car with New York license plates that
was parked to one side of the door.
He realized he was breathing through his mouth and forced himself to
breathe normally. He had to get over his jumpiness. This starting at shad-
ows had to stop. He wasn t Les Ferron any more. He was Paul Parrish.
And Paul Parrish, as yet, had done nothing more illegal than drive a car
that was, in the words of the state trooper, a menace to life and property.
He walked on into the Inn. It smelled sour, of dry rot and faulty plumb-
ing. The original guests, no doubt, had used bowls and pitchers and cham-
ber pots, and the small sheds in back of the Inn that now housed the
innkeeper s chickens. The plumbing, such as it was, was strictly an after-
thought.
A slim, rather pretty girl in her late teens or early twenties was stand-
ing at the foot of the stairs leading up to the second floor while a well-
dressed man of thirty-odd was talking earnestly to old Si Jepson who ran
the Inn. As Ferron walked up to the desk, the man said:
 But you must have a room. It s late and my wife is tired. I can t
drive on into New York tonight.
 Sorry, Jepson said.  I m full up. Hain t got a room in the Inn.
The man started to argue, shrugged instead, picked up the bag at his
feet and walked back to where the girl was standing.  We ll have to drive
on, honey, he told her.  Anyway to the next town, unless one of the
motels on 9W happens to have a vacancy.
 But why can t we stay here? she wanted to know.
Her companion told her.  He says he hasn t a room.
Ferron set down the battered paper suitcase he was carrying.  That
puts me in rather a bad spot, Si.
 Why? the old man asked him.
Ferron said, wryly,  I intended to stay the night. In fact I intended to
stay until Amy and I are married.
Jepson swung the dog-eared register around.  Glad t have you, Mr.
Parrish. Glad t git the business.
Ferron looked over his shoulder at the departing couple.  But I
thought you were full up.
The old man winked at him.  That was jist a story I told. Ain t got but
56
SLEEP WITH THE DEVIL
one room rented. An that t a drummer for dog food. The old man was
indignant.  You ever hear the like? As effen dogs had t have a special food
of their own  stead of eatin the scraps from the table.
There was a late edition New York paper lying on the counter.
Ferron picked it up.  But I don t see 
Jepson confided.  It was that paper that give  em away. They ain t goin
into New York. They re a comin out. Weren t married, see? But I could
have told without the paper. When you bin in the Inn business as long as I
have you git so you kin spot  em right off. The girl always acts too cool.
The old man was indignant.  The nerve of them a tryin t git away with that
in my hotel. I let one fornicatin couple in an the first thing you know, bein
as close t New York an the main highway as we are, I d be runnin a
regular Sodden Gomorrah.
Ferron didn t bother to correct him. Sodom had undoubtedly been
sodden. He picked up the key the old man laid on the counter and carried
his paper suitcase up to the front room he always occupied when he stopped
at the Inn.
There was a bed, a dresser, a washbowl, and a chair. An unshaded 25-
watt bulb hung from the high ceiling at the end of a long length of green
cord. The three pieces of furniture were massive. The room smelled musty.
Despite the almost stifling heat the bedclothes felt damp. Ferron swatted at a
mosquito that had found its way in through the rusted screen, then threw
back the patchwork quilt and yellowed sheet to air the bed.
As he did he realized he was still holding the newspaper he d picked up.
He tossed it on the bed and took off his coat and shirt and undershirt. He
wanted a cold shower but didn t have the energy to wrestle with the eccen-
tricities of the ancient water pipes in the equally ancient bathroom in the
hall.
Instead of attempting to bathe he sat on the edge of the bed eyeing the
plug of chewing tobacco dubiously. He didn t like the looks of it. He
gnawed a small fragment of tobacco from the plug, chewed it industriously
for a few seconds, then spat it into the wastebasket. It tasted even worse
than it looked. Attempting to chew tobacco was worse than going without
cigarettes. He d just have to go without.
He walked to the window and looked out into the night. It was so black,
so silent; there was so much of it. Restless, he returned to the sway-backed
bed and sat on the edge of it. The paper that the disappointed would-be
fornicator had left on the counter was a fairly late-edition tabloid.
Ferron s restlessness left him as he opened it. The police had stopped
being cagey. The whole thing was out in the open now.
57
SLEEP WITH THE DEVIL
It was established that Whit had been a loan shark. At least fifty of the
men and women in debt to him had so testified. A certain Les Ferron,
believed to have been Whit s strong-arm man, was wanted for questioning.
He was described as big and blond, a flashy dresser who drove a late model
yellow Cadillac convertible. The description would fit any man who was
big and blond and could afford to drive a Cadillac.
Whit s body had been found at ten o clock on Tuesday morning by
the drab who cleaned and cooked for him. The wall safe in his bedroom
had been opened. There was evidence he d been robbed but the only
fingerprints found on the safe were the dead man s own fingerprints and
the police had no idea how much money the killer might have gotten.
To date the police had only one suspect. Ferron read, then re-read, the
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