An Unwelcome Guest

by Emily Organ

  Constables from Bow Street police station were soon in attendance, accompanied by Chief Inspector Fenton and Dr. S. Woolston. The doctor certified the proprietor’s death and a search is now underway for the culprit. The knife used in the murder has been retrieved, but the police do not yet know the identity of the attacker. Robbery has so far been ruled out, as many valuables were left undisturbed in Mr. Gallo’s bedchamber.

  Chief Inspector Fenton said: “This was the brutal murder of a popular and well-known gentleman in the hotel industry, and the motive for such a cruel act currently remains unknown. We will of course do our utmost to find the person, or persons, responsible.”

  Mr. Gallo hosted a dinner at the hotel, formerly known as the Corinthian, for a select number of guests on the evening of the murder. The special event had been arranged to help publicise the official opening of the Hotel Tempesta, which was to have taken place next week. Mr. Gallo purchased the hotel, which is situated on Victoria Embankment, from the estate of the previous owner, Mr. Boris Thompson, earlier this year. The hotel has undergone an extensive refitting since the purchase, and it was Mr. Gallo’s fervent hope that the respected guests the Corinthian had entertained during its heyday would return once again.

  Mr. Gallo was 42 years of age and of American origin. He owned a number of hotels in the United States, including the Maganza Hotel in New York. He had stayed in London for the past six months, overseeing the work being carried out at the Hotel Tempesta.

  His wife, Mrs Caroline Gallo, and his daughters, Miss Victoria Gallo, Miss Geraldine Gallo and Miss Harriet Gallo, recently arrived in Paris from New York, and were believed to be making their way to London at the time of writing.

  The Corinthian was built in 1869 and suffered a devastating fire in 1880, in which thirty-six people perished. The hotel was rebuilt, but the new owner, Mr. Thompson, committed suicide on the premises after filing for bankruptcy last year. The hotel’s chequered history has prompted many to speculate that the building holds a curse for anyone who dares to purchase it. This most recent tragedy at The Hotel Tempesta will do little to dispel such rumours.

  I found James waiting for me once I had finished reporting to Chief Inspector Fenton at Bow Street station the following morning.

  “Fenton hasn’t seen fit to arrest you yet, then?” he said with a grin.

  “I think he wants to ensure that I don’t jump on a boat to America.”

  “It is a legitimate concern,” he replied. “A good many criminals escape justice that way.”

  “Except that I’m not a criminal!”

  “Well, we don’t know about that, do we? The knife was found in your room, remember?”

  I gave James a good-humoured nudge with my elbow.

  “Fenton and his men intend to focus their investigations on each of the guests who stayed at the hotel,” said James. “We’ve agreed that I will investigate Mr Gallo’s acquaintances and any possible enemies. I’m on my way to speak to Mr Dubois at the Elysian now. Would you like to join me?”

  “I’d love to.”

  The fog was gone now, and in its place the low, grey cloud blustered above the rooftops, bringing with it drops of rain.

  “Did you sleep well last night after your hellish stay at the Hotel Tempesta?” James asked.

  “Of sorts. Actually, not too well at all. The thought that I had been asleep in that hotel while a knife-wielding madman was stalking its corridors felt rather unsettling.”

  “I can understand that, though you were never his intended target.”

  “Thank goodness. I wish I could understand why someone should have wished to do such a thing to Mr Gallo. I liked him. He wasn’t a particularly good husband, but he didn’t strike me as an evil man.”

  “Hopefully Mr Dubois can shed some light on this whole sorry business.”

  A strong gust of wind blew up the street and almost took my hat off. James clutched his bowler while I repositioned my hat pin.

  “That’s what I need,” said James. “A hat pin.”

  “It wouldn’t work. You need long locks of hair to loop a pin through.”

  “Then I shall grow long locks of hair. How do you think that would look?”

  “Ridiculous!” I laughed.

  “How about glue?”

  “That would keep your hat on your head, without a doubt.”

  “Forever. It would mean that I would have to wear my bowler hat on our wedding day!”

  We both laughed and then held each other’s gaze. I noticed James’ face redden a little, and mine did the same.

  He grinned and then looked away again, as if unsure what to say next. He gave a cough, then quickly changed the subject. “My solicitor has informed me of the date when the court hearing will take place. It will be held at Croydon Assizes on the twentieth of November.”

  “But that’s only next week!”

  “Conveniently, or perhaps inconveniently, depending on how you view it, there happens to be an assizes session coming up in Croydon. I suppose it means I can get this blasted hearing out of the way.”

  “Do you feel prepared?” I asked.

  “I think so. I can’t pretend that I have done nothing wrong, so I think it’s best to accept whatever punishment is meted out. I’m hoping the fine won’t be more than five hundred pounds.”

  “If only the Jenkins family had accepted your first offer.”

  “They were never going to, were they? They wish to punish me as harshly as possible, and who can blame them? If some rascal did such a thing to my daughter I would be thoroughly enraged about it.”

  Chapter 19

  We stepped into the marble-floored foyer of the Elysian. James showed his warrant card at the reception desk and asked to speak to Mr Dubois.

  “He’s usually in his staff meeting at this hour,” replied the clerk, “but seeing as you’re a police officer I’ll try to summon him.”

  He soon returned and told us that Mr Dubois would be with us shortly. We sat down on a velvet-covered sofa in the foyer while we waited.

  “So you’re not sure what to make of Mrs Mirabeau?” James asked me.

  “No,” I replied. “She’s quite unlike anyone I have ever met before. She appears to have been loyal to Mr Gallo, and he clearly thought highly of her. He valued her opinion, and they got along well. He told us he met her on a trip to Switzerland, and that she had worked for him in New York for a while before moving to London. She seemed genuinely devastated about his death and yet there’s something about her which doesn’t seem quite authentic.”

  “So what isn’t she telling us?”

  “Good question! I find her manner quite guarded, as though she’s protecting herself or someone else. I suppose years of working in the hospitality industry have led to her putting on a persona. It’s the sort of job in which you are constantly looking after people and seeing to their every need. It doesn’t matter what your own needs are, or even what you think about anything. Perhaps she has become trapped in that way of thinking, but I can’t help but think there’s something rather suspicious about her.”

  “I know what you mean, Penny. I wonder what she’s really like.”

  “Perhaps she is the one behind his murder. I can’t help thinking she might be, but I don’t see what motive she would have unless there had been a dispute between them. They seemed to be getting along very well the evening before he died. There were no signs of animosity.”

  “That doesn’t mean she didn’t murder him, however.”

  “I realise that. But I also saw her talking with the police officers the following morning, quite close to where his body had been found. Her distress seemed genuine to me, and she doesn’t strike me as the sort of lady who would be easily upset by anything. If she were the murderer you might expect more of a show of grief, as if she were keen to demonstrate how upset she was by it all. But with that said…” I shook my head, still unsure what to think of her, “she confuses me.”

  A slightly built, dark-haired man wear
ing striped trousers glided toward us across the marble floor.

  “Inspector?” he asked with a thick French accent. He wore a bejewelled pin in his cravat and several gold rings on his fingers.

  We stood to our feet and introduced ourselves.

  “I don’t quite understand,” said Mr Dubois, addressing James. “Why have you brought a news reporter with you?”

  “Miss Green is assisting in this case,” said James. “With your permission, she would like to print some of the details from our interview in the Morning Express newspaper. However, if you object she will refrain from doing so.”

  “Excuse my impertinence, but can she be trusted? She is a news reporter, after all!”

  “I assure you she can, Mr Dubois. I have worked with Miss Green on a number of occasions, and I know her well.”

  “Ah, I see,” replied the proprietor with a grin that suggested he had picked up on the true nature of our relationship. “Welcome to my hotel, Inspector Blakely, Miss Green. Step this way, please.”

  We followed him into an office decorated in white and gold. Its style was not unlike the Versailles Suite at the Hotel Tempesta.

  “Please sit,” he said, gesturing toward two elegant chairs. “You’d like to speak about Mr Gallo, would you? I couldn’t believe it when I heard the news. He was such a fine gentleman. I don’t understand it at all. It must have been a madman or a lunatic of some sort.”

  “Someone who is in possession of a singular mind, that’s for sure,” replied James. “But whoever it was had a reason for doing it, and by uncovering that reason we hope to bring ourselves closer to the culprit.”

  “That makes sense,” replied Mr Dubois with a shrug, “but what do you want from me?”

  “The most obvious question we have is: do you know of anyone who might have wished him any harm?”

  “As I said before, it could only have been a madman or a lunatic. I can think of no one else.”

  “Did he have any disagreements with anyone?”

  “I know nothing about that. Perhaps he did, but I wouldn’t have known about it.”

  A waiter brought in a tray, then made an elegant performance of setting out cups and coffee pot.

  “What about the usual rivalry between hotels and their owners?” James continued.

  Mr Dubois gave a slight smile, accompanied by another shrug. “Yes, there is always some rivalry, but it is never so bad that someone would kill someone for it. I have spent all my life working in hotels and I never knew of it happening. It’s the same as in any business; there will always be rivalry. But is someone often killed over it? No, hardly ever.”

  “How long have you known Mr Gallo?” I asked.

  “I met him in New York, which would be about seven years ago. And then I didn’t really know him after that, but he arrived here in London in the summer time, and then I met with him again. And after that we met a few times, actually. He was a fine gentleman, and he knew the hotel trade extremely well. When I heard he had bought the Hotel Tempesta I thought it was excellent news.”

  “You weren’t worried about the effect it would have on your business?” asked James.

  “No, why should I? There’s enough room for many hotels in London, Inspector.”

  “Are there any other hotel owners in the vicinity of the Hotel Tempesta that might have been alarmed at the prospect of losing business?”

  He gave a dry laugh. “Inspector, you are still holding on to the idea that another hotel owner was angry about Mr Gallo opening the Tempesta and decided to end his life. Does that solve the problem? No, it merely creates more problems than there were to begin with. A rival hotel owner merely responds by making his hotel superior. He offers more comfortable beds, better menus and a level of service that would please even a member of a royal household. That is how all our hotels get better, Inspector, and it is good for everyone. Nobody decides, ‘Oh, I must murder this American because he will steal all my guests.’ No, that is not good for business. And afterwards the police arrive and arrest him, and that is the end of it all.”

  “So you don’t believe Mr Gallo’s murder could be the result of a rivalry or disagreement within the hotel trade?”

  Mr Dubois’ next shrug was an impatient one. “How am I supposed to know the answer to this, Inspector? I am not an expert on why someone would want to murder someone else. I have told you all I know, and I feel sure that it won’t be another hotel owner who murdered him. But maybe I am wrong, and maybe there is a madman who owns another hotel. Who knows? Anything is possible. So maybe there is a very slight, but extremely small, chance that another hotelier is responsible for it. However, when you ask me if that’s what has happened, I must say that I doubt it.”

  “What sort of man was Mr Gallo?”

  “I told you, he was a fine gentleman. I didn’t really know him as a personal friend, but I enjoyed his acquaintance and he told entertaining stories. We were always supposed to be talking about business, but he would become distracted by a story he was telling me, and we would never get around to what we were supposed to be talking about. I liked him, and perhaps that’s because he was American as well. I have always liked American people. I hope I don’t offend when I say that they are easier company than many English people.”

  “Not at all,” said James. “Have you ever met Mrs Gallo?”

  “Yes. Twice, I think. She is a fine lady.” He sighed and rubbed his brow. “The poor lady. How she must be suffering with this. I don’t know how she will ever recover, and those beautiful daughters, too. Ah, it is a tragedy. The actions of a madman and now we have all this. The lives of Mr Gallo’s family members are ruined.”

  “Would you say that Mr Gallo was devoted to his wife?”

  “Of course! Why would he not be?”

  I thought of the lady who had been found in his room and hoped my expression would give nothing away.

  “It can’t have been easy for them while he was living in London and they remained in New York,” clarified James.

  “No, but people manage these things, and it’s not a big problem. Mrs Gallo understood the demands of her husband’s job, and she enjoyed spending the money he made from it, too.” He grinned.

  I supposed that if Mr Dubois happened to be aware of any infidelity on Mr Gallo’s part he would be too polite to admit it to us.

  “When did you last see Mr Gallo?” James asked.

  Mr Dubois paused to think about this. “It was last week. A group of us dined at Le Croquembouche. Do you know it?”

  “On Westminster Street?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “Can you remember the date?”

  The proprietor consulted a diary on his desk. “Wednesday the fifth of November.”

  “And can you recall who else was there?”

  “Let me see now. Mr Court-Holmes, Mr Talbot and Mr Ripley.”

  James wrote these names down. “Was it an evening for discussing business? Or purely a social occasion?”

  “A bit of both. There was some business talk, but just a little bit. And then Mr Gallo liked to talk about all sorts of other things as well.” He smiled. “It was an enjoyable evening. I can’t believe that was the very last time I’ll ever see him. It doesn’t seem real.”

  Chapter 20

  “I recognise the name Court-Holmes,” I said as we left the Elysian and walked up to the Strand. The rain was beginning to fall steadily. “I’m sure Mr Gallo mentioned him when he was talking about art. I think he said that Mr Court-Holmes owns an art gallery.”

  “I’ll look him up,” said James. “This interest in art intrigues me. Mr Gallo appeared to like paintings so much that he kept a number of them rolled up in his living quarters.”

  “He gave us the background to many of his artworks during our tour of the hotel. And I noticed that he had quite a detailed conversation with Mr Goldman about the paintings in the dining room while we were eating.”

  “Fenton is carrying out further investigations into the othe
r guests,” said James, “but perhaps you could tell me what you made of them?”

  “I’d like to get out of the cold and wet first,” I said. “And by good fortune we have found ourselves at the Twinings tea rooms.”

  The entrance was set beneath a small portico wedged between the imposing facades of two impressive-looking banks.

  “Perfect,” said James.

  Tea was served to us at a little table in the bustling tea shop, where many others also sought sanctuary from the rain. The spicy aroma of tea mingled with the smell of damp clothing.

  “Let’s begin with Goldman,” said James. “You say that he was interested in the paintings at the hotel. What else did you learn about him?”

  “Very little,” I replied. “I didn’t manage to hold any direct conversation with him. He was young and rather softly spoken, and he went about his business in a quiet, unassuming manner.”

  “Which publication does he write for?”

  “It had Islington in the name, I think. The Islington Chronicle, perhaps.”

  “How sure are you of that?”

  “It’s the only Islington-based publication I can recall at the moment.”

  James wrote this down. “Who else made little impression on you?”

  “Mr White. He was also young and fairly quiet. He had red hair and asked a number of questions on behalf of his publication, as I recall. Oh, and he went missing shortly before we all retired for the night.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “I couldn’t say. After dinner the gentlemen retired to the smoking room and Mrs Mortimer, Mrs Mirabeau and I went into the Lady Jane Lounge. By the time the gentlemen joined us they had lost Mr White somewhere along the way.”

  “Between the smoking room and the Lady Jane Lounge?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what time was this?”

  “About ten minutes before midnight. The general assumption was that he had slipped up to his bedchamber.”