Death Checks In

by David S. Pederson

  Marty pushed his hat back on his head, exposing a pale, wrinkled brow and a jagged scar above his right eye. “Jesus, Mike. How did you get involved in this?”

  Mike shrugged. “Heath’s a friend of mine, old school chum. When he found Blount’s body, he figured he should call me since I’m the hotel dick.”

  “Not your jurisdiction in the leased shops, Masterson.”

  “I know that, but Heath didn’t.”

  “I did know it, but I didn’t stop to think. I’m sorry I called you, Mike.” I shouldn’t have involved him.

  Mike looked at me and then back at Marty. “It’s okay, Heath. Marty and I go back a long way, too, don’t we, Marty?”

  Marty grumbled. “Yeah, we’ve known each other a long time. I guess a friend of Mike’s is a friend of mine, and fellow cops, even if you are from up north.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I replied, then regretted it, realizing it sounded pretty stupid considering the circumstances. “I uh, didn’t catch your full name.”

  He glanced at me sideways. “Detective Martin Wilchinski, homicide, eighteen-year veteran on the streets of Chicago. I’ve seen it all.” He looked grizzled, hardened. Eighteen years in this business would do that, I suppose. I wondered if that would happen to me. He turned to the other man in the gray hat and snapped sharply, “DeCook, I want this place dusted for fingerprints, every inch. I want to know who’s been in this place recently. Get the boys from the lab down here pronto and call the coroner.”

  “Yes, sir.” DeCook left to radio for the lab crew, then returned. I was thankful I had used my handkerchief to dial the phone and open the desk drawer earlier.

  Wilchinski continued barking orders. “Ask the doorman if he noticed anything, check with folks on the street, find out who was the last to see him alive. Find out if he had any enemies. You know the routine, DeCook. I suspect it’s a robbery gone bad, but we have to go through the motions nonetheless.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “From what I’ve heard, Mr. Blount wasn’t well liked by several people,” I said.

  “I’ll want your statement in writing,” Marty said, still staring at me sideways. Then he turned to Mike again. “Jesus Christ. Another twenty minutes, and I would have been off duty, Masterson.”

  Mike shrugged. “Sorry, Marty.”

  The detective sighed. “It’s all right. Death never did punch a clock, I guess.” Then he took out a cigarette, lit it, and blew out a cloud of smoke, his face relaxing a bit. He turned to the two uniformed police officers still standing by. “You two, Baril and…”

  “McNulty, sir,” the brunette said.

  “Right. Cordon off the alley. I want no one in and no one out without my authorization, especially the press. Where the hell is the coroner?”

  I wondered to myself what exactly Wilchinski was going to do himself, but then everyone had their own way of doing things, I supposed. It was fascinating to observe someone else in action as I stood on the sidelines. Wilchinski kneeled down by Blount’s body and examined the chest wound, then the spool of thread still grasped tightly in the dead man’s hand.

  “Looks like he wrote this ‘W’ on the floor with his blood before he died. Find out if he knew anyone that had the initial ‘W,’ DeCook. Specifically, anyone who was in here tonight.”

  “Yes, sir.” DeCook vanished into the night again to start on his long list of orders, while Wilchinski got to his feet and made some notes in his notebook. He returned it to his breast pocket before kneeling again and moving Blount’s left hand.

  “The watch is smashed, probably when he hit the concrete floor. Looks like the hands are stopped at two minutes after eight. Make a note of that, Barrington,” he said to me, since DeCook had already left.

  “Ah, right. Alan, you have your notebook?” I said, glancing over at him.

  “No, I left it in the room.”

  “Never mind, I’ll do it myself,” Marty grumbled as he took out his notebook again and made his notation, his cigarette dangling from his lips. “Probable time of death, 8:02 p.m.”

  “Expensive-looking watch,” he added.

  “Blount told me it was a Longines.”

  “Did he now?” Wilchinski looked up at me.

  “We were just making conversation yesterday while we were shopping.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “Not that I can recall, nothing of importance. Can you think of anything, Alan?”

  “Nope. Just shop talk, small talk, that’s all.”

  “Right. Well, I’m finished with you three for now. I’ll want written statements, of course. DeCook can take them, then you’re free to go. But be sure we know where to find you.”

  “Sure thing, Detective. Alan and I are staying here at the hotel until Monday morning, room 804.”

  Marty made a note of that. “What brought you to the big city, Barrington?”

  “Just an outing, a weekend away, see the sights. You know how it is.”

  “Uh-huh. Seeing the sights, just the two of you. Not married?”

  “No, we’re both single, so far anyway.”

  “Uh-huh. Maybe you came down to find a couple of pretty girls.”

  “Chicago’s full of them, I hear,” I said.

  “Full enough, and not enough fellows to go around since the war. Of course, I’m married. Nine years now, two kids.”

  “Congratulations,” I said.

  “Uh-huh. Well, Detective, enjoy the city but don’t leave without checking in with me. And if you think of anything you forgot to tell me, don’t hesitate to call. Here’s my card.” He handed me a business card, which I put in my wallet next to the one Blount had given me yesterday.

  “Thanks. I’ll keep you informed if I turn anything up.”

  “Don’t go turning anything up, Barrington, not in my city, not on my beat. Just keep me posted if you remember something you hadn’t before, got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Good. Make your statements to DeCook, he’s probably out on the sidewalk, then get the hell out of here.”

  The three of us left him standing over Blount’s body, the coroner and lab crew just arriving. We made our way past the police barricade, where curious onlookers and a few reporters, some with cameras, tried to catch our attention.

  “Sorry, boys, we have nothing to say. The detective on the case will be out shortly,” I said, holding up my hand as a few flashbulbs went off.

  We exited the north end of the alley and went around to the front of the hotel, where the doorman gave us a curious look. “Have you seen a tall, redheaded fellow in a gray fedora and dark coat, Henry?” Mike asked.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Masterson. He asked me all kinds of questions, said he was the police. What’s going on?”

  “Police business. Where is he?”

  “He went inside to talk to the bell captain and the desk clerks.”

  “Right, thanks.”

  “Everything okay, Mr. Masterson?”

  “Blount’s been murdered, shot, but keep it to yourself. I don’t want the guests to get wind of it just yet,” Mike said quietly.

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Good.” Mike went into the lobby and we followed, glad to be out of the cold, damp night air.

  “Was that wise, Mike, telling him what happened?” I asked.

  “Henry’s worked here twenty-eight years. He has secrets he’ll take to his grave, Heath. He can be trusted.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Besides, word will be out soon enough. You can’t keep a murder under wraps for long.”

  “I suppose not,” I said. “There’s DeCook over there.”

  We walked up to him as he was furiously scribbling notes into his notebook. He glanced up at us, somewhat surprised, his hat pushed back on his head, revealing a shock of red hair.

  “Detective Wilchinski said to give you our statements.”

  He looked annoyed. “Oh good. One more thing for me to do.” He sighed and turned back to t
he clerk behind the counter. “That’s all for now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Then DeCook turned to us. “All right, one by one. I’ll start with you, Mr. Masterson. You two wait over there.”

  The process was brief, probably briefer than it should have been, but DeCook looked stressed and tired.

  When all three of us had given separate statements, Mike said good night. “I still have to finish my shift, boys. You going back to your party?”

  I took out my pocket watch. “Coming midnight, I think I’m done in. How about you, Alan?”

  “Call me Cinderella.”

  I laughed. “Careful, I just might.”

  “I’ll send a note up to Mrs. Verte and Mr. Bennett explaining that something came up and we’re off to bed,” I said to Mike. “See you tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, sometime. I’m here until two in the morning, then back at nine, remember.”

  “Right. Sorry again about dragging you into this.”

  “S’okay. I needed a little excitement, it’s been a long dry spell around here. Nothing but noise complaints and drunks.”

  I smiled. “Well then, glad I could perk things up for you. Did you know Blount very well?”

  “Not very. Like I said yesterday in my office, I said hello to him when I saw him, and I bought a few things in his store, some ties, handkerchiefs, and whatnot. He gave me a nice discount since I work in the hotel.”

  “Considerate of him,” I said.

  “Yeah, though I must say he always kind of gave me the creeps.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I don’t know. Just something about him, like I said before. I hate to speak ill of the dead but he was an odd duck, the way he’d look at you, talk.”

  “Did he ever mention some dark, secluded rendezvous? In dark, secluded rooms? Beautiful women, handsome men? Entertainment to be had, discreet, private?” I asked.

  Mike looked at me strangely. “Uh, no. I think I’d remember that, why?”

  “Just curious. He mentioned it to us when we were in his shop yesterday afternoon. He said he could set us up with an experience we would not forget, for a small fee, of course.”

  “Interesting. Sounds to me like he was definitely involved in something shady.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, that occurred to me as well.”

  “Did you mention any of this in your statement?”

  “No, I just remembered it.”

  “Better let Marty know, could be important.”

  “Right. I’ll call him in the morning,” I said.

  “Do that.”

  “I will. Good night, Mike.”

  “Night, Heath, Alan.”

  When he walked away, I went over to a desk near the front window and wrote out a quick note on hotel stationery to Mr. Bennett and Mrs. Verte, which I then slipped in an envelope.

  “What did you say?” Alan asked.

  “Just that something came up and we will explain tomorrow.” I flagged down a nearby bellboy. “Take this to the Sky Star Ballroom and give it to Mrs. Verte. They’re at a window table, and she’s in a white dress with a blue sapphire necklace. Blond, very attractive.”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied, pocketing the dime I gave him.

  “Well, this has been an interesting turn of events,” I said to Alan.

  “My thoughts exactly. Let’s get some sleep, eh? I think I’m danced out for tonight.”

  “Me, too.”

  Without another word we walked over to the elevators and headed up to our room.

  Chapter Ten

  I woke up slowly, though I hadn’t really slept well all night. I opened one eye, then the other, and found I was nose to nose with Alan, who still had his eyes closed. Even asleep, mouth slightly agape, snoring softly, he was so damned attractive. I turned over and looked at the clock on the nightstand, which we had moved off to the side. Alan stirred and yawned as I moved.

  “You up?” I asked quietly, looking back at him over my shoulder.

  “Ugh, not really. What time is it?” he asked groggily.

  “Seven twenty.”

  “Too early. Wake me at eight.”

  “Right. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” I crawled quietly out from under the covers and sank my feet into the lush carpeting. I might have to invest in some of that for the hardwood floors in my apartment. I sat on the edge of the bed for a while wiggling my toes back and forth in the warm softness before finally getting up, stretching, and peeking out the window. The fog had lifted, the skies were clearing, and it looked to be a beautiful day. I rubbed my eyes and scratched myself.

  “Heath, what the hell are you doing? It’s too early, come back to bed,” Alan grumbled from behind me.

  “Sorry, I can’t sleep. Too much on my mind. Go back to bed, I’ll try and be quiet.”

  “What’s the weather like?”

  “Clear, sunny, and much improved, it appears.” I looked back at him, looking so adorable, stretched out on the bed, his head snuggled into the pillow. “Get some more sleep, I’ll wake you at eight.”

  He sat up, his bare chest glistening with just a touch of sweat. “Too late. I’m awake now.” He stifled a yawn.

  “I’m sorry, Alan. I didn’t sleep much at all last night. The elevator was rumbling more than usual.”

  He looked at me. “Funny, I didn’t notice more noise from the elevator last night than the night before. If you ask me, I’d say you didn’t sleep last night because you had something on your mind.”

  I grinned at him. “Guilty as charged. I was thinking about something.”

  Alan smiled back at me. “And I think I can guess what you were thinking about.”

  “You, of course.” I laughed.

  Alan laughed, too. “Nice try. But I know you better than that. You were thinking about Blount’s murder, weren’t you? You thought about it all night, probably.”

  I nodded sheepishly. “You know me so well already.”

  He yawned again and threw back the covers. “You have a one-track mind sometimes, and I know this particular track all too well. I might as well get up, too, since I’m awake. Open the window, it’s a bit warm in here.”

  He stood up and stretched before padding to the bathroom as I pulled the curtains open, flooding the room with morning light, and opened the window. A soft breeze billowed the drapes. Feeling hungry, I walked over to the phone and ordered room service for Sunday’s breakfast. Alan reappeared just as I was hanging up.

  “Who was that?”

  “Room service. I ordered us breakfast.”

  “Room service? That’s expensive. Why don’t we just go down to the coffee shop again?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t feel like getting dressed yet.”

  “Because you want more time to think about the case.” Alan rubbed his eyes and walked over to the window to peer outside.

  “Just so many odd things about it, that’s all.”

  He turned back to me. “We’re on vacation, remember? Let that Detective Wilchinski fellow handle this one. He doesn’t want you butting in anyway.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I know, but it’s curious. No sign of forced entry, nothing obviously missing, the clutched spool of green thread, the ‘W’ written in blood.”

  Alan sighed. “Did you order me a glass of orange juice?”

  “I did.”

  “And you know me so well already. We’d better get the room back in order before it arrives.”

  “Right, that.” Once more we pulled the two twin beds apart, moved the nightstand back into position, and tidied up.

  Alan glanced around. “I think everything’s back to normal. So what do you think it all means?”

  “What do I think what all means?”

  “The spool of thread, the bloody ‘W,’ all that.”

  “Oh, so now you’re interested, are you?”

  Alan smiled. “Maybe a little. And I know you are, so I am, too.”

  “Good. And I don’t know yet what any of it means. I have bee
n thinking about it all night, as you guessed. It seems to me Blount was trying to send a message, possibly a clue, as to who shot him.”

  “Cryptic.”

  “Yes. So I think he must have known his killer. If it was a random burglary by some unknown burglar, Blount wouldn’t have known who it was and wouldn’t have left a clue.”

  “If he did leave a clue,” Alan chimed in. “Maybe it wasn’t a clue at all, Heath. Maybe as he was dying he thought of a lost love, possibly named Wesley or Wilma, and with his last dying breath, he wrote out the initial.”

  “Romantic,” I said sarcastically.

  “I’m just saying a guy like Blount would be bound to have regrets as he was dying, maybe about someone he left back in France. It doesn’t necessarily have to mean the initial of his killer. It could mean anything, really.”

  “Good point. Keep thinking, but I’m working on the theory at the moment that the green thread and the ‘W’ are clues. I don’t think Blount would let a random stranger in the back door of his shop, not late at night like that.”

  “That’s true enough. But maybe someone knocked on the door, Blount opened it, perhaps expecting someone he knew, only instead it’s a burglar with a gun. He forces his way in, makes Blount open the safe, and then shoots him and flees. As Blount lies dying, he writes the ‘W’ in blood for his lost love Wesley.”

  “What happened to Wilma?”

  “I think it had to be Wesley. You weren’t the one getting felt up by Blount as he fitted my pants.”

  I laughed. “I noticed he was rather attentive.”

  “Very attentive. So I think the ‘W’ was for Wesley, or maybe Wolfgang.”

  “Wolfgang?” I said, arching my brow.

  “Hey, it worked for Mozart. Besides, Mr. Blount was a bit on the exotic side.”

  “I see your imagination is in full swing this morning. What about the green thread?”

  “Hmm, that one is trickier. Of course, he might have been holding it when he got shot.”

  “Not if he had to open the safe.”

  “True. Maybe the safe was already open when the burglar knocked.”

  “Perhaps. And maybe he just happened to grab the thread as he fell, no hidden meaning.”

  “Exactly. Or maybe Wolfgang was a fellow tailor back in France, and green was his favorite color.”