“Oh?”
“Sure, we could practically hear it in the lobby.”
I looked at the bellboy, so sharp in his dark green uniform. “So, you were in the lobby near the shop yesterday afternoon?”
“Yes, sir, that’s right. I was going to deliver a message to Mr. Blount.”
“And you heard Mr. Blount arguing with someone?”
“As soon as I got off the elevator and near the glass door to the shop. They were quite vocal.”
“What were they saying?”
The bellboy looked quite excited, and I could tell he relished telling his news to a police detective. “Well, one fella was yelling about not taking it anymore, or something like that, and the other was telling him to shut up. Not that I was listening or anything. As I said, you could hear them from the elevator, practically.”
“Interesting. About what time was that?”
“Just before two, I think.”
“Okay. So eventually you went in.”
“Oh, yes. I had a message for Mr. Blount, like I said. The minute I entered, it got real silent in there. The gentleman at the counter never turned around. Mr. Blount motioned for him to go in back, which seemed odd.”
“Do you recall what he looked like? What he was wearing? The man with his back to you, I mean.”
“I didn’t get a good look at him, it was as if he didn’t want me to see him. I supposed he was embarrassed, figuring I’d heard them arguing.”
“Naturally. Anything distinctive about him? How was he dressed?”
“Oh, golly, I don’t really remember. He was wearing a dark suit, I know that. But I didn’t see anything unusual about him.”
“Very nondescript.”
“Very what?” the bellboy asked, a puzzled look on his young, fresh face.
“Nondescript. It means basic, ordinary.”
“Oh. Right. Nondescript he was. Anyway, Mr. Blount asked me what I wanted, snapped at me really. I walked over and gave him his message, and then I left. He didn’t even tip me like he usually does.”
“Did you hear anything else once you were back in the lobby?”
“No, sir, but I didn’t stick around. I had to get back to the desk. You think that guy killed him?”
“I have no idea at this point.”
“I bet he did. I bet he came back later and shot him, bang.”
I raised my brow. “Perhaps. Do you know what the message was that you delivered?”
The bellboy shook his head. “No, but I know it was from Miss Eye. She’s a singer in the Sky Star Ballroom, a real looker.”
“Yes, I’m familiar with Miss Eye. Probably the message she mentioned saying she would be late picking up her dress. Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of, but if I remember something else, I’ll be sure and let you know.”
“Thanks, kid, and thanks for the information. Here’s another quarter.”
He beamed at me. “Thank you, sir.”
He left, and I shut the door behind him, not realizing how hungry I was and how good the food smelled.
Alan came out of the bathroom freshly shaved, and he looked over at the tray on the cart, filled with silver domes covering the plates.
“What all did you order, Heath?”
“Scrambled eggs, toast, two orange juices, black coffee, a whole pot of it, and two bananas.”
“How much did that set you back?”
“Two dollars and thirty cents plus tip, but don’t worry about it. I can afford it.”
“We could have eaten in the coffee shop for half that.”
“But I couldn’t go to the coffee shop in my boxers, and I would have had to shave first.”
“I’ve already shaved, and you’re going to have to do that anyway if we’re going to go to the conservatory.”
“I know, but I’m feeling lazy this morning. It’s Sunday.”
Alan poured the coffee and handed me a cup. “It’s your money, mister.” Alan glanced about the room. “There’s only the one desk chair. How are we going to manage this?”
“You take the chair, I’ll sit on the edge of the bed.”
“Fair enough, since this was your idea,” Alan replied, picking up the newspaper from the desk.
He pulled the chair over and sat down as I made myself fairly comfortable on the bed.
“Want part of the newspaper?” Alan said.
“Sure. Give me the front page. You’ll want to read your horror-scope.”
“Ha, very funny. It’s horoscope, and you know it.”
I smiled and glanced at the headlines, which I read aloud. “‘Truman names board to probe air safety.’ Hmph. You wouldn’t catch me in one of those flying tin cans.”
“It’s the wave of the future, Heath, don’t be left behind.”
“Your horoscope tell you that?”
“No, I’m just saying it’s a changing world.”
I sighed. “Yes, I know. Everyone keeps telling me. That, unfortunately, doesn’t change.”
“Anything on Blount’s murder?”
“Not that I’ve found so far. Not front-page news in a city this size, I suppose.”
“I suppose not.”
“The bellboy knew all about it, though. News travels fast.”
“Golly, what did he say?”
“He told me Blount was having a heated argument with some fellow in his shop yesterday afternoon. Something about the guy not taking it anymore, and the other, presumably Blount, telling him to shut up.”
“Who do you suppose the fellow was?”
“No idea, but it could have been Mr. Bennett or Mr. Gillingham,” I replied.
“Wowzer.”
“Wowzer, indeed.”
“My money’s on Gillingham.”
“With Miss Eye as his accomplice,” I said.
“That’s right.”
“You may be right, Alan. You may be right.”
We ate the rest of the meal in relative silence, each of us reading something of interest to the other from the various parts of the newspaper. It wasn’t great food, but it was passable, and it filled us up.
Finally, we put the newspaper aside and drained our coffee cups.
“Say, Heath, I was just thinking about the bloody ‘W’ some more. Do you think it could be a French word? What’s a French word that starts with ‘W’?”
I frowned. “There are dozens, probably hundreds.”
“Hmm. It was just a thought.”
“And a good thought. Not to be discarded just yet. More logical than Wolfgang, I think.”
Alan laughed. “Maybe so, but I still think somewhere in Blount’s past is a Wolfgang with a broken heart.”
“I do like the way you think.”
“Thanks. Of course, this is all speculation, right? All this talk about suspects, and who did it? We are still on vacation, right?”
“Of course.”
“And it is still that Wilchinski fellow’s case, not yours. Not your jurisdiction, remember?”
“I remember. Don’t worry.”
“So we spend the day at the conservatory as planned, right? Not questioning suspects and chasing down clues?”
“Right.”
“Good.”
“All done with breakfast?” I asked.
“Just about, yeah. I should shower and get dressed, it’s already ten to nine. What time does the conservatory open?”
“I’m not sure. We can ask at the desk when we go down. Go ahead and shower, then, I’ll shave.”
“Sounds like an excellent use of time, Detective.”
We both squeezed into the tiny bathroom, Alan climbing into the shower while I lathered up my face. The room soon filled with steam, and I had to wipe the mirror constantly to see myself. Finally I gave up, wiped off the rest of the soap, and traded places with Alan as he finished. Soon we were both showered, shaved, dressed, and ready to face the day.
I strapped on my shoulder harness once more and put on my suit coat as Alan slung
his camera over his shoulder. “All set?” I asked.
“If you’re waiting for me, you’re wasting your time.”
“To the conservatory we go.”
Chapter Twelve
I opened the door to our room and almost slipped on a Chicago Tribune laid in front of the door.
“That’s odd. We already got the newspaper,” Alan said as I bent down to pick it up.
“Yes, I know. Even odder, this is yesterday’s newspaper.”
“Why would they leave yesterday’s newspaper at our door?” Alan asked, peering over my shoulder as I perused it, still standing in the hall.
“Hmm, interesting. Let’s go back inside for a moment.”
“What’s interesting?” Alan asked, following me back in and closing the door.
“This newspaper. Someone is trying to tell us something. What do you see?”
Alan looked again at the paper and read aloud off the front page. “‘Threatens two Congressmen. Reps. Thomas, Rankin tell of death letter.’ That’s the headline, anyway. What about it?”
“Not the headline. Someone’s folded over the corner at the top. Look at that page,” I said, handing the paper to him.
“‘Search reveals Britain is low on seismographs.’ Somebody circled the word ‘search.’”
“So I’ve noticed.”
He turned a few more pages, scanning each section. “Hey, look on page twelve at the ad for ladies’ hankies, fifteen cents. The fifteen is circled, followed by the number twenty-seven in the ad for screen wire, twenty-seven cents a square foot at Montgomery Ward. And in the ad for Douglas, Michigan, weekend getaways, the word ‘Michigan’ has been circled.”
“Search 1527 Michigan,” I said.
“I don’t get it.”
“If I’m not mistaken, that’s the street address for Blount’s Menswear and Furnishings.” I took the newspaper back from him and finished looking it over myself. “Look here, on page fourteen under Complete Radio Programs and Highlights for Today, someone circled the word ‘Murder’ under 8:30: WGN, Murder at Midnight.”
“What do you think it means, Heath?”
“It seems pretty obvious to me someone wants us to search Mr. Blount’s shop.”
“That seems like a pretty complicated way to send a message. Why not just write it on note paper?”
I shrugged. “Somebody being theatrical, perhaps. Someone who’s seen too many movies and listened to too many Murder at Midnight programs on the radio. Or just someone who doesn’t want their handwriting to be recognized.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. All of the prime suspects know we’re staying here—Bennett, Miss Eye, Gillingham, Mrs. Gittings. Anyone of them could have left it.”
“Why leave it here? Why us? Why not contact Detective Wilchinski?”
“My thinking is that it was one of those four who left it. None of them know Detective Wilchinski, but they know us, and they want us to find something out.”
“What do they want you to find out?”
“That remains to be seen,” I said, “or found.”
“I see,” Alan said, frowning. “I think you should call Detective Wilchinski and tell him about this. You were going to call him to tell him about Blount’s mysterious offer to us the other day anyway, remember?”
“Yes, that’s right.” I sat back down on the edge of the bed and flipped through the rest of yesterday’s newspaper again in case I missed anything.
“We’re going to be late for the conservatory, Heath. Give Wilchinski a call and let’s get going. This is his business, remember?”
I sighed. “You’re right, of course. But still, so very curious. Okay, I’ll call him right now and then we can go. I promised you the conservatory, mister, and you shall have it.”
Alan smiled. “Thanks. We’re on vacation, don’t forget. You’re not getting paid to solve mysteries.”
I smiled back. “Very true, Officer. The only mystery I plan on solving the remainder of this weekend is finding out what you’re wearing under that suit.”
He laughed. “That, Detective, is no mystery. You watched me get dressed.”
“Still, I think it shall require some investigating later.”
“You always get your man, Detective.”
I smiled. “One way or another. All right, I’ll call and then we can be on our way. The sooner we go, the sooner we get back here and I can start my investigation of you.”
Alan grinned. “I like the sound of that.”
As I sat down at the desk and reached for my wallet with Wilchinski’s card in it, a sharp rap came at the door. I glanced over at Keyes, who walked over and opened it. Another smart-looking bellboy in a green uniform was standing there, this one with an envelope on a silver tray.
“Message for Mr. Barrington, sir.”
“I can take it,” Alan said. He took the envelope off the tray, dug in his trousers pocket, fished out a dime, and handed it to him. This tipping thing was getting expensive for both of us. “Thanks.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Where did this come from, by the way?” Alan asked.
“I was told someone brought it in and left it at the desk, sir.”
“Know anything about yesterday’s newspaper being left at our door this morning?”
He scratched his head. “Yesterday’s? Must have been a mistake. I will see to it you get today’s.”
“No, that’s all right, we got today’s already, too. Someone left us yesterday’s and today’s.”
The bellboy looked puzzled. “Gee, that’s strange.”
“Yes, it is. Well, thanks again.” Alan closed the door and turned back to me.
“A message for me?”
“Yes, addressed to H. Barington, missing an ‘r.’”
“Curious.”
“Very. Rather shaky handwriting, too,” Alan said as he handed it to me.
I slid open the envelope and pulled out a single piece of faded pink stationery, lightly perfumed:
Dear sir, please come see me immediately—
Aimsley Arms, 132 East Erie Street, Apt. 212.
Utmost importance.
Mrs. Gittings
“Mrs. Gittings? Well, I would never have guessed that,” Alan said.
“Nor I.”
“What do you suppose she wants?”
“I’m not sure, but she was here in the hotel the night of the murder. She may have seen or heard something and might be in danger. She’s also still a suspect. I think we have to see her right away.”
“As in right now?”
“I’m sorry, Alan. The conservatory will have to wait.”
“What about Detective Wilchinski? Aren’t you going to call him?”
“I will, but not right now.” I slipped Wilchinski’s card back in my wallet. “I want to see what Mrs. Gittings has to say first.”
“Maybe he could talk to her.”
“She trusts us. I don’t think she’d talk to Wilchinski.”
Alan sighed. “Somehow I almost knew something like this would happen. It’s okay. Let’s go.”
I stood up and put my hand on his shoulder. “Thanks, I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
“I understand. At least we’re together.”
“Always.”
He set his camera on the desk as we headed out the door, down the elevator, and out onto Michigan Avenue.
The doorman tipped his hat. “Good morning, may I get you gentlemen a cab?”
“I don’t think so. Do you know the Aimsley Arms apartments on Erie Street?”
He furrowed his brow. “I’m not familiar with that building, but Erie Street is just south of here.”
“Thanks. Lovely day for a walk, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.” He tipped his hat again and we were off, heading south from the hotel.
It was a short walk to the Aimsley Arms Apartments, and we found it easily enough. It was a narrow, dark brick building just off Michigan Avenue, set back from the
street a good distance, with a small courtyard in front. A lanky, older doorman was dozing on a stool just outside, basking in the morning sun as we approached. His legs were sprawled out across the entrance, and we couldn’t pass without disturbing him.
I nonchalantly kicked the leg of his stool, causing him to come crashing down, a rude but effective awakening. He jumped to his feet, looking abashed.
“I was just resting a bit.”
“So I noticed, Jenkins,” I said, reading his name off the gold engraved badge on his uniform. “I’m Heath Barrington, and this is Alan Keyes. Mrs. Gittings is expecting us.”
He looked the two of us up and down. “Mrs. Gittings doesn’t get many visitors, but she told me to send the two of you up. She’s in 212, toward the back.”
“Thanks.” We stepped inside and climbed the stairs to the second floor, a musty odor hitting our nostrils.
“This place needs some airing out,” Keyes said.
“Indeed it does. It must be down this way.”
We found it and knocked, but no response.
“Maybe she’s gone out,” Alan said.
“The doorman didn’t mention it, and I don’t think Mrs. Gittings could have high-hurdled over him. Besides, he said she was expecting us.”
“True.”
I checked my pocket watch. “It’s twelve after ten, still early.” I knocked again, louder this time. A door across the hall opened, and a nice-looking, barrel-chested fellow with a mustache looked us up and down. I turned to him.
“Good afternoon. We’re friends of Mrs. Gittings, do you know if she’s in?”
“She got home about an hour ago. She was over at the Edmonton again, I believe. I haven’t heard her go back out.”
I glanced at Keyes, then back at the mustached fellow. “I see. Was she alone?”
“She’s always alone, mister. I’ve never known her to have visitors or friends.”
“Well, you know two of them now. I’m Heath Barrington, and this is Alan Keyes. We’re friends of hers.”
“Oh ya are, are ya?”
“Yes. Are you a friend of hers, too?”
“I’m her neighbor, I live across the hall.”
“Good neighbors make good friends, Mr…”
“Laska. I’ve got to get back to my work. I’m an artist, you know.”
Death Checks In Page 13
