Death Checks In

by David S. Pederson

  I stepped farther into the dressing room and looked into the mirror, cupping my hands to block the light. “I can’t be certain, but I think there’s something behind this.” I ran my hands along the edges of the mirror until I felt something near the top on the right edge. I pressed what felt like a tiny button and I heard a slight click, then I pulled on the mirror and it swung silently open, revealing a small chamber behind.

  “Holy cow,” Alan said.

  “What the hell?” Wilchinski added.

  Staring back at me from the chamber was the cyclops, a camera mounted to a stand. I turned and looked at Wilchinski and Alan. “It appears, gentlemen, that Mr. Blount was taking pictures or movies of people in the dressing room via a two-way mirror, unbeknownst to them.”

  “Jeepers. I used that dressing room,” Alan said.

  “I know,” I replied, turning back to examine the camera and the chamber.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Wilchinski said from behind me, though I could no longer see him with the mirror swung open. “This is a men’s clothing store. Blount was a guy, and he was filming men changing clothes?”

  “Brilliant detective work, Marty,” I said.

  “Well I’ll be, he was a perverted pansy,” Wilchinski said.

  I flinched. “I hate the word ‘pansy.’ And don’t make assumptions,” I said.

  “What’s the matter? Did I touch a nerve, Barrington?”

  “I don’t want you touching any part of me, Wilchinski, including my nerves.”

  Wilchinski laughed. “Don’t worry.”

  “How did he control the camera? Surely he couldn’t fit in there with it,” Alan said.

  “If I had to guess, I’d say this camera was rigged to a switch. When you went to change, Blount fiddled with something out front under the counter, and he did the same thing when you came back. A client goes in back to change clothes, Blount turns on the camera. He comes back out, Blount turns it off.”

  Alan’s face flushed red. “Good thing I at least kept my underwear on.”

  “And a damned good thing I never bought anything in this place,” Wilchinski added. “You about finished now?”

  I shook my head. “No, there’s something else in here, too.” I reached in and pulled out a large, black leather file case and carried it out to Blount’s desk.

  “What’s that?” Wilchinski asked, following me to the desk.

  “Let’s find out,” Alan said.

  “It’s locked.”

  Wilchinski pulled out a pocket knife and expertly picked the lock. “Not anymore.”

  “That’s illegal,” I said.

  “So call a cop, Barrington. Just open the damned thing.”

  I glanced over at Alan, undid the clasp, and opened it. Inside were small movie reels, each labeled in neat script with a man’s name and a date. There were also manila folders containing files with black-and-white photographs that looked like they were made from the films, all of men in various stages of undress, taken inside the dressing room. I took them out and set them on the desk.

  “Yup, big, blooming pansy all right.” Wilchinski laughed, glancing at them.

  “You’re hysterical,” I said dryly, pocketing a small reel that said Alan Keyes on it and hoping Wilchinski didn’t notice.

  “What else does the pervert have in there? Or don’t I want to know?” Wilchinski asked.

  “More folders, all arranged alphabetically by last name, apparently, with files in each,” I replied, taking a few folders out, “but these are different.” I removed the rest of them and set them on the other side of the desk.

  Wilchinski picked up one and whistled. “Well, I’ll be damned. Now I’m totally confused.”

  “What’s in those files, Heath?”

  “Color photographs of posed young women, many scantily clad or nude, and it looks like they were taken right back here in his makeshift studio, in front of those red velvet drapes.”

  “Golly,” Alan said, blushing a bit.

  “I don’t get it, Barrington, why would a pansy also take girlie pictures?” Wilchinski asked.

  I ignored him once more for the moment and started going through the files. “This folder’s empty, curious. Between Ginger Doud and Alice Dove there’s just an empty folder with no file in it.” I continued scanning the contents until I came to one file in particular with a name on it I recognized. “This one is labeled ‘Gloria Eye, Sept. 10, 1943.’” I flipped it open, and I must say I blushed a bit myself. “The photos of her are revealing, to say the least, taken four years ago. She was a brunette back then.” I set it back down on the desk and Wilchinski quickly picked it up.

  He whistled again. He really was annoying. “Well, what do you know?”

  “As you said earlier, Wilchinski, guys like Mr. Blount can surprise you,” I said.

  “No kidding,” Alan said.

  “Still think it was a random burglar, Wilchinski?” I asked, looking at him.

  He scowled. “So you proved he was a pervert. That still doesn’t mean he was murdered because he took some hidden pictures and movies.”

  “Maybe someone found out what he was doing, and they killed him,” Alan suggested.

  “I know I would have,” Wilchinski replied.

  I glanced over at the detective. “Nice.”

  “But I still don’t get the girlie pics,” Wilchinski added. “Even pansies can go the other direction sometimes, I guess.”

  “Actually, I’d say the hidden pictures and movies of men were indeed for his own entertainment, but the photographs of scantily clad young women I bet he took to sell to David Greene. Look, there’s a copy of the magazine here.”

  I picked up a thin tabloid magazine in the file case, the cover emblazoned with a redheaded girl on a bearskin rug.

  “Let me see that,” Wilchinski said, grabbing it out of my hands. He flipped through the pages attentively.

  “Do you want to take that home for further study, Detective, or do you already have that issue?” I asked.

  “Ha, ha, funny guy.” He handed it back to me, and I scanned the pages, stopping halfway through. “Look at the girls on these two pages. Doesn’t that backdrop look just like the one over there?” I asked, showing both Wilchinski and Alan the photos in the magazine.

  “It does, Heath. Those pictures were taken right here.”

  Wilchinski squinted. “Eh, that’s a black-and-white photo, and the backdrop is just curtains, could have been taken anywhere.”

  I shook my head. “But the curtain on the left has a dark spot on it, and so does the one hanging back there.” Both of them looked at the red drapes hanging behind the platform.

  “You’re right.”

  “So what?” Wilchinski said.

  I set the magazine on the desk next to the files I had removed and examined the case more closely now that it was empty. “There’s a false bottom in this file case, I think.” Using my fingertips, I lifted it out carefully. Inside the false bottom were more folders and small movie reels.

  “Wow, there’s more?” Alan said.

  I removed them and glanced at a few. I felt myself blush.

  “What’s the matter, Barrington? More nude girls?”

  “Not quite. Rather graphic, candid photographs of men.”

  “We saw those already,” Wilchinski said. “The first ones you took out of the case.”

  I shook my head. “No, these are different. They weren’t taken in a dressing room, that’s for sure. The men in these photos all appear to be engaging in various sexual activities with other men and women, all of them undressed. Each folder is labeled with a man’s name, address, and a date.” I handed a few of them to Wilchinski and Alan.

  Wilchinski glanced at one and then threw it down on the pile in disgust. “Vile.”

  “Jeepers, where were these taken?”

  I glanced over at Alan, who was staring at some of the photos wide-eyed. “My guess would be a cheap hotel or rooming house. It looks kind of seedy. The men, I imagine
, are or were clients of Mr. Blount’s. Look here. This movie reel has the name G. Bennett on it. There’s a folder of pictures of him, too.”

  “Mr. Bennett? Golly, you think he knew about that?”

  “Yes, but not at the time it was being taken. I suspect this and the photographs were taken through a two-way mirror, similar to the set-up he had back here in the dressing room.”

  “Who’s this Bennett fellow?” Wilchinski asked.

  “A man we met the other night and a client of Blount’s. He’s an assistant manager here at the hotel. I can imagine something like this would be ruinous for him were it to get out.”

  “Interesting. This Blount was more than a pervert and a pansy. He was a real son of a bitch,” Wilchinski said, making no attempt to hide his disapproval.

  “He was certainly crafty and cunning,” I replied. “He may have taken the initial pictures for his personal pleasure, like the dressing room ones, but then discovered he could make money by blackmailing some of these men. The wealthy, married, or influential ones, anyway.”

  “Like Mr. Bennett,” Alan said.

  “Yes.”

  Wilchinski looked skeptical. “What makes you say he was blackmailing them?”

  “Diversification. Mr. Blount had expensive tastes, more than he could afford from just his earnings at his little shop, I would say. He drove a fancy new car, lived in an expensive neighborhood in a ritzy apartment building, had a pricey watch and a gold lighter and cigarette case, among other things. So he sold pictures of girls to pin-up magazines and offered the girls’ services to lonely businessmen.”

  “Still doesn’t mean he was blackmailing people, Barrington. Maybe he made enough money off the girlie pics and he took all those other pictures and movies for his personal sick pleasure.”

  “Maybe, but I doubt it, Wilchinski. The hidden camera in his dressing room was most likely just for his own pleasure. But then he realized his store wasn’t making enough money and he needed to earn some extra cash. With his interest in photography, he decides to set up a makeshift studio back here and he maybe puts an ad in the paper offering his photography services for a small fee. Pretty young girls answer, hoping to break into show business, get their pictures taken. Step one, a new side business is born.”

  “Okay, then what?” he asked, wiping the back of his neck with his handkerchief.

  “Then he finds some of the girls are willing to pose scantily dressed, and he connects with the girlie magazine editor, who probably was a client of the shop, like you said earlier, Wilchinski.”

  “So step two, he sells the girlie pictures to the editor, maybe giving the girls a small percentage,” Alan said.

  I nodded. “Very good, Alan. And a second side business comes into being.”

  “Is there a step three?” Wilchinski asked, putting his handkerchief back into his pocket.

  I nodded. “Indeed. He realizes he gets a lot of lonely businessmen in his store. He approaches a couple of the girls and asks if they want to make some fast cash, and boom.”

  “Yeah, yeah, all of a sudden he’s got a third side business.”

  “Exactly. And he’s suddenly making some money, using his shop as cover. But then he figures out that some of these lonely businessmen have a lot of money. He has their names and home addresses from checks and bills of sale, and he figures if he takes hidden pictures of these men in the act with these young women, he can blackmail them for some tidy sums. His final side business, and probably his most profitable.”

  “You seem to be reading an awful lot into a few photographs and movie reels, Barrington.”

  “Not just the photographs, Wilchinski. I’ve also noticed in my interactions with him and people who know him that certain people didn’t care for him much, and I’d say they had good reason if he was blackmailing them.”

  “Reason enough to kill him?” Alan asked.

  “It could be reason enough for some people.”

  “Who are these certain people?” Wilchinski asked. “This G. Bennett fellow?”

  “George Bennett. That’s definitely one, yes.”

  “That’s the one whose name was on one of these movie reels,” Wilchinski said.

  “Correct. Also Miss Gloria Eye, the same one of the photographs, and her fiancé Walter Gillingham, the trumpet player I mentioned earlier. And then there’s Mrs. Gittings, whom I also mentioned before. She used to work for him and felt he was an evil man.”

  Wilchinski had taken out his notebook and was jotting down the information as I gave it to him. “I’d say she was right.” He picked up Gloria’s folder and glanced at it again, whistling. “I think I should have a personal word with this Miss Eye, in private.”

  I shook my head. “You’ll find you’re up against a tiger if you do. She’s not the same, innocent, cow-eyed girl in those pictures. She’s tough as nails.”

  “Well, maybe I’m a hammer,” he said.

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Wilchinski,” I said.

  He dropped the folder back onto the desk. “Eh, there’s no point in talking to any of them anyway.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “This Blount guy was a pervert and a pansy, and he’s dead. Case closed.”

  I bristled once again. “So because he was a pervert and a pansy, as you say, you don’t care who killed him?”

  “I know who killed him.”

  “Who?” Alan asked.

  “An unknown street thug.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Seriously? That’s your final word on it?”

  He glanced at his watch. “I have bigger cases to work on, so yeah, that’s my final word on it.”

  “What about all this?” I asked, motioning to the pile of folders and movie reels. “And the bloody ‘W’? The spool of thread? The burned remains in the bathroom sink?”

  He laughed. “You have a wild imagination, I’ll give you that. You find some overcharged customers, a hidden camera, some pictures and movie reels, and suddenly you’ve got this pervert running prostitution rings, selling nudie pics, and blackmailing people. Maybe that bloody ‘W’ was for ‘weirdo,’ which is what this guy obviously was.”

  I sighed. “Before you knew he was a pansy, as you call him, you were open to suspects, motives, and clues, all of which I have since provided. Now because you find out he’s queer, you’re writing up his murder to an unknown street thug?”

  “Fine, Barrington. Pack up all your so-called evidence back into that case and give it to me. I’ll take it all downtown and have it logged and documented.”

  I started tossing the material back into the case angrily. “Logged and documented? Really? More likely you’re going to take this downtown and lock yourself in the men’s room with it, aren’t you? You don’t care about this case.”

  “Shut the hell up, Barrington. I told you before this isn’t your case, not your jurisdiction. You got it?”

  I closed the case and slid it over to him. “I got it. Loud and clear.”

  “Good. Because there’s no point in questioning the suspects you mentioned. Why waste the taxpayers’ money? From the looks of what we found here today, Blount was a pervert, like I said, and a real sick one, so no loss to the community.”

  “Blount certainly was not without his faults, Wilchinski, to put it mildly. I think he was a Peeping Tom, a blackmailer, an extortionist, a pimp, and God knows what else, but he was also a human being.”

  Wilchinski shrugged. “Maybe so, but a lousy human being. I’m a father of two girls, Barrington. I wouldn’t want a creep like that on the loose, and I can’t say I’m not glad he’s gone. Just goes to show you, even the normal-seeming ones working in stores, selling you shirts and underwear, can be perverts.”

  “Even cops, I imagine,” I said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he growled.

  “Just that no one really knows what’s beneath the surface of anyone. People are like icebergs, Wilchinski. They can be all cool and seemingly harmless on the surface, but beneath
the water, there is a whole lot more, and sometimes that whole lot more is dangerous. We just never know, and it applies to everyone, fathers, mothers, sons and daughters, cops, shopkeepers, priests, innkeepers, everyone.”

  “No cop I know is a pervert or a pansy, Barrington, unless you’re trying to tell me something about yourself or your friend here.”

  “You’re missing the point, Wilchinski. No cop you’re aware of, but that’s not to say they aren’t.”

  “You go to hell.”

  “Have it your way. Live your life with blinders on. I’m finished here, I can see that.”

  “Good. Some of us have real police work to do.”

  “You’re right about that, some of us do,” I said.

  “Screw you, Barrington, and your buddy, too. Don’t leave town without checking in.” He picked up the case and walked to the alley door without another word, flicking off the lights as he yanked it open. We followed behind, stepping out into the alley. When we were out, Wilchinski turned and locked it up once more. “You can waste your vacation chasing phantom suspects if you want, but I say this case is closed.” He stopped just long enough to set the case down and light a cigarette, then he picked the case up once more and threw it in the back seat of his car.

  He opened the driver’s side door and looked back at me and Alan still standing by the shop door, our hats now pulled back down. “Take my advice, Barrington. Forget about Blount and his little perversions. Go find some of those nice Chicago girls and have a good time. Then go back to Milwaukee and play cop on your own time on your own turf.” He climbed in behind the wheel, slammed the door, started the engine, and roared past us down the alley, leaving us in a cloud of dust.

  “Jeepers, he sure turned out to be a jerk.”

  “I’d say he has issues of his own. Possibly the whole subscription.”

  “He’s not even going to bother questioning anybody.”

  I shook my head. “It doesn’t sound like it. I’m sure he’ll file a report for his chief that it was a robbery gone bad, and that will be the end of it.”