|This is a part of a series that is not a series. It is only an ugliment of abstract creativity.|
He was to exit at the rear of the old hotel, through a door by the laundry room.
The deliveryman turned about and went back across the sunlit-from-above parquet, out the big wooden double front doorway, and into a waiting vehicle.
The sergeant-detective, pretending to casually read a quarter-folded newspaper, turned and went onto an elevator, because that was part of his ruse. He watched between the spotless brass doors as they closed.
The bagman was left-handed.
That was not good. Not for the sting.
The bagman turned rightward and the suitcase, conserving the angular momentum of the flywheel inside it, simply twisted his fingers open and dropped out of his hand.
The suicase plopped onto the floor upright. The bagman took off in a dead run, and was gone.