Death Checks In

by David S. Pederson

  “Now then, all of you knew Mr. Blount and were aware of his business practices. So, I’d like to go over various points about each of your whereabouts last night, for starters,” I said.

  “I thought we already went over that,” Gloria said, sounding somewhat irritated.

  “Yes, but perhaps one of you may know or may have seen something. As Detective Wilchinski alluded to, I’m not acting officially, but I was hoping I could clear some things up. Does anyone object to that?”

  “How long is this going to take?” Gloria said. “As I said before, I have work to do, and Manny is waiting.”

  “I’ll try to be as quick as possible, Miss Eye.”

  Mr. Bennett shrugged. “I suppose I don’t have any objection to a few questions. Would that be all right with you, Vivian?”

  “I’ve nothing to hide, but what about this Mrs. Gittings woman? Where is she?”

  “I am hoping she will be along shortly. In the meantime, in the interest of keeping this brief, why don’t we get started? I’ll get right to the point. I have reason to believe that one of you, or Mrs. Gittings, murdered Mr. Blount.”

  They all glanced at one another, and then back at me. “Don’t be absurd,” Miss Eye said at last.

  “I have evidence to support my theory, Miss Eye.”

  “What evidence?” Mrs. Verte asked.

  “Yes, Barrington,” Wilchinski growled again. “You said you had facts. I warned you I didn’t want to play your foolish games. If you have something to say, say it.”

  I stood and moved behind my chair, putting my hands on the back of it. “As some of you may or may not be aware, Blount was found clutching a green spool of thread. That had me puzzled. Was it green for ‘G’? There was also a bloody ‘W’ on the floor next to his body that Mr. Blount apparently wrote before he died. I was puzzled by that, too. Was the ‘W’ for Walter, as in Walter Gillingham? And was the green thread for Gillingham?”

  “Hey, what are you getting at?” Walter said, getting to his feet also and almost knocking over his chair.

  I took a step back. “Calm yourself, Mr. Gillingham. I’m hopefully getting at the truth, eventually. You’re engaged to Miss Eye, yes?”

  “That’s right. That’s an easy truth, and you know it.”

  “Yes, that’s a happy thing. But there’s some darkness, too. You were being blackmailed by Blount, weren’t you? Or rather, Miss Eye was, and you, Mr. Gillingham, were aware of it.”

  “How dare you,” Miss Eye said, uncrossing her legs and sitting bolt upright, the ribbon now held tightly in her fist.

  “What do you mean, mister?” Walter asked, taking a step behind Miss Eye and closer to me.

  “Miss Eye, you’re a fairly successful singer, aren’t you?” I continued.

  “Somewhat. I’ve done okay with the band, and I’ve cut a few records with them. Why?” She was eyeing me warily.

  “You have the talent, looks, and personality to make it big. But a couple years ago when you first came to Chicago from…where was it?”

  “Shiocton, Wisconsin.”

  “Ah yes, that’s right. You found yourself in Chicago, young, broke, all alone, and eager, I’m guessing. You answered one of Blount’s ads, didn’t you?”

  “You shut up.” Walter fairly shouted, his fists clenched.

  She looked up at him. “It’s all right, Walter. I can handle myself. Yes, Mr. Barrington, I answered one of his ads for modeling.”

  “Yes, and you posed for some photographs, including some nudes. And from there, it was fairly simple for Blount to convince you to entertain some of his clients in their rooms, wasn’t it?”

  “Watch your mouth,” Gillingham snarled, glaring at me from his one good eye and moving closer still as if preparing to swing.

  Alan stood up, blocking his path and putting his hand on Gillingham’s arm. “Easy, Mr. Gillingham. Let’s not add an assault charge.”

  “Sit down, Walter,” Miss Eye said sternly. Wilchinski was watching with an amused expression, as if he hoped Walter would sock me.

  Like a frustrated little boy, Walter returned to his seat but continued to pound his fist into the palm of his other hand and glare at me. Alan sat back down as well, keeping watch on Walter as I continued.

  “But then, Miss Eye, you met the charming Mr. Gillingham here, home from overseas early because of his injury. He got you a tryout in the band he was in, and you fell in love. And now you both have respectable jobs, promising careers, even. But your past, Miss Eye, has come back to haunt you, hasn’t it?”

  “Who told you all this?” Mr. Gillingham growled, his face red. A bead of sweat had popped out on his brow.

  “Some of it I found out on my own, with Alan’s help and Detective Wilchinski, I must admit. You see, as I believe you all know, Mr. Blount diversified his business to include photography. But not just any photography. He offered to take photographs of young women who were new to the city, just starting out, trying to break into modeling or show business. They’d answer his advertisements and he’d take photos. Perhaps he’d offer them a few bucks if they were willing to pose nude or partially nude.”

  “That’s disgusting,” Mrs. Verte said.

  “It certainly is, Mrs. Verte. Mr. Blount took advantage of their youth, their inexperience, their eagerness. He exploited them. Once he had the nude photos, he’d sell them to various underground publications. Occasionally, if a girl was very eager and willing, he’d give her the opportunity to make even more money, offering her services for the night to a lonely businessman in town for a meeting or two.”

  “So you’re saying he took photos of this young lady here?” Mr. Bennett said, indicating Miss Eye.

  “Yes, I’m afraid he did. And I suspect he exploited Miss Eye, continuing to blackmail her after she became a success. Isn’t that right, Miss Eye?”

  “Don’t answer him, Gloria,” Gillingham growled.

  She shook her head. “It’s all right, Walter. He already knows.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I do. We found some of his photos, including some of you, and some of those magazines and advertisements in the back room of his shop, hidden away for safekeeping.”

  “So what now?” Miss Eye asked quietly, her head down, the ribbon now limp in her hands.

  “Are you saying those two murdered Mr. Blount?” Mr. Bennett asked, his eyes wide.

  I looked over at him. “I believe, Mr. Bennett, that they made their way to his shop last night with the intention of working him over—beating him up, as it were, teaching him a lesson. Isn’t that correct, Miss Eye?”

  “I didn’t kill the louse, and neither did Walter.”

  “But I’m curious, Miss Eye. You made a point of getting to Blount’s shop late last night, almost at closing. And you insisted on trying on your dress, even though it had only been pressed, not altered. That struck me as odd, and I felt you used it as an excuse to get into the back room alone, but why?”

  “Yes. Why, Mr. Barrington? Please tell us why I did that,” she said, now looking up at me. Her eyes were moist and red.

  “Two possible reasons, Miss Eye. You either wanted to get the gun out of the drawer and shoot Blount, or you wanted to unlock the back door so you or Mr. Gillingham, or perhaps both, could come back later. But you hadn’t counted on me and Mr. Keyes being in the shop when you arrived. I suspect you went in the back room, unbolted the back door, and left again. You may have searched for the gun but found it missing. Perhaps you wanted to make sure Blount didn’t use it on the two of you after you learned of its existence. Then you met with Mr. Gillingham. You probably told him the gun was missing, and perhaps Blount had it on his person. You may have tried to talk Gillingham out of confronting him because of that, but Gillingham is headstrong and I doubt he could be persuaded to abandon his plan. So, the two of you went down the fire stairs to the loading dock in the alley, and then into Blount’s shop through the unlocked alley door about 7:40 or so, later than originally planned, because of you trying to persuade Wal
ter to change his mind. Isn’t that correct?”

  “There’s an awful lot of probablys and possiblys in your story there, mister,” Miss Eye said.

  “But still quite accurate, I’d say.”

  “We didn’t kill him. He was already dead when we got there,” Walter blurted out.

  “Walter,” Gloria exclaimed.

  “It’s all right, Miss Eye. I had already surmised that,” I said.

  “What’s that mean?” Walter asked, his face still red, his one good eye bulging.

  “It means, Mr. Gillingham, that I had already figured out you hadn’t killed him, that he was already dead by the time you got there.”

  “What are you on about, Mr. Barrington? Is this some sort of game?” Mrs. Verte asked.

  “Not a very good one. I must admit I suspected Miss Eye and Mr. Gillingham may have been planning on killing Blount, or at least roughing him up and scaring him into stopping the blackmail.”

  “Planning on it, but they didn’t?” Mr. Bennett asked.

  “No, because a random burglar had already shot him,” Wilchinski said, his arms folded across his chest once more as he leaned back in his chair.

  I glanced over at Wilchinski but didn’t reply. Instead I turned my attention back to Miss Eye. “When you found him shot to death it must have been quite a shock, yes?”

  “I suppose so,” Miss Eye responded.

  “I would say so. What to do next? Call the police? But how to explain why you were there? Do nothing? But what if someone saw you? Finally, you decided to do nothing and take your chances. You fled back to the Sky Star Ballroom, getting onstage late. Of course I’m speculating on most of that, but I would say that later, after your performance, you came up with the excuse of having the argument over your dress, and then Mr. Gillingham running the stairs to explain why he was disheveled and out of breath when he got to the stage.”

  “How do you know they didn’t do it? Maybe she did take the gun and they did shoot him, together,” Mrs. Verte said.

  “Vivian,” Mr. Bennett said. “Clearly, Mr. Barrington, Blount was a cad, a lowlife who took advantage of young women, but why drag me and Mrs. Verte into this?”

  I walked closer to Mr. Bennett. “It all comes back to the clues Blount himself left, Mr. Bennett, as I mentioned before. The photos we found, and the sales ledgers, all point to you, along with Miss Eye, Mr. Gillingham, and Mrs. Gittings as possible suspects.”

  “But you just said those two didn’t do it. That means you think either I or this Mrs. Gittings killed him,” he exclaimed, turning his head to look up at me.

  “That is a theory, Mr. Bennett. You were a client of Mr. Blount’s,” I said.

  “Of course. You know I was. I bought a few things from him. I’ve told you that before.”

  “But clearly you didn’t care for him, and he didn’t care for you.”

  “It’s no secret we didn’t like each other, Detective.”

  I looked at Vivian. “But you were quite fond of Mr. Blount, Mrs. Verte, is that right?”

  She looked uncomfortable. “I found him exotic and interesting, and rather funny. He was amusing. I must say his death was a shock. Of course, I wasn’t aware of all this nasty business.”

  I glanced back down at Mr. Bennett. “For not liking Mr. Blount, Mr. Bennett, you certainly bought a lot of clothes from Blount’s store, expensive clothes. Very expensive clothes.”

  “I liked his merchandise, even if I didn’t care for him. He had good taste. Good fashion is worth paying for.”

  “You seemed to be telling a very different story Friday night when we had cocktails. As I recall, you said his clothes were overpriced, and I would have to agree with you. Dress shirts for $20.00 apiece—you can get nearly the same thing at Sears, three for $2.75.”

  “Nearly the same thing and the same thing are two different things, Detective,” he said.

  “True. And he sold you ties for $15.00 each. Sears has them for seventy-nine cents.”

  “I don’t shop at Sears, Mr. Barrington.”

  “Maybe you should. Mr. Blount sells those same ties in his shop for $1.99, yet you paid $15.00.”

  “Not the same, I assure you,” Bennett replied. He had taken out a cigar from his pocket and was turning it over in his hands, end to end.

  “You’re probably right. Yours came with a guarantee of silence, can’t get that at Sears.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Bennett snarled, his mustache twitching, the cigar spinning faster between his fingers.

  “Blount was blackmailing you, wasn’t he? And you paid him off by buying overpriced merchandise, over and over again.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” His face was red, almost the same shade as Gillingham’s had been earlier.

  “I try never to be ridiculous, Mr. Bennett. I don’t always succeed, but I do try.”

  “I refuse to discuss this in front of Vivian and these people.” The cigar was now clamped in his fist and he was slowly squeezing it to death.

  “Oh, I think Miss Eye and Mr. Gillingham are very familiar with Mr. Blount’s business tactics. As we’ve already discussed, Miss Eye was one of his victims also.”

  “Maybe so, but I don’t want Mrs. Verte subjected to this. She didn’t even really know Blount. If you want to discuss the matter, let’s do it in private, in my office.”

  “We could, Mr. Bennett, but I think Mrs. Verte needs to hear what you have to say. I think we all do,” I said, moving further around the table.

  “You must be mad, Mr. Barrington,” Mrs. Verte said.

  “No, not mad, Mrs. Verte. Though certainly all of you were, and with good reason.”

  “What are you trying to say? That we all killed him?”

  I smiled. “That, Mr. Bennett, is a possibility, and a frequent theory of Mr. Keyes, here. I believe Blount wasn’t satisfied to make money from selling his nude pictures, or from his cut in the prostitution fees. He discovered that if he took secret photos of some of these lonely businessmen in the act, as it were, he could use those photos, and the threat of them going public, to blackmail those businessmen. Businessmen like you, Mr. Bennett.”

  “That’s absurd and a disgusting allegation. You’ll be hearing from the Edmonton’s lawyers.” A vein on his neck started to throb, his fists were clenched, the cigar in ruins, and he had started to sweat.

  “I doubt you’ll want those lawyers involved in this, sir. The photos were found, at least some of them, hidden in Blount’s back room, as I said, along with a movie reel with your name on it. Not just of you, but others, too. He had quite a little racket going, didn’t he? He would force you to buy overpriced merchandise in his store in exchange for his silence.”

  “Let’s go, Vivian. I think we’ve heard enough of this nonsense.” He started to get up but she just sat there, staring at him. The remains of the cigar were now in a pile on the tabletop.

  I put out my hand and Bennett sank back down. “Not yet, please. Blount’s account book shows consistent, fairly large deposits, increasingly so over the past few months. If I had to guess, and I do, I’d say Blount was putting increasing pressure on you for more money and you wanted to be rid of him. The police have the photos and the film reel in their possession, Mr. Bennett. Isn’t that right, Wilchinski?”

  Wilchinski nodded. “Quite a stash of perverted stuff. We took it all downtown.”

  Bennett’s face fell and he knew he was defeated. “Please, those photos, that movie, it can’t see the light of day. Please.” His voice fairly squeaked.

  “How did this all happen, Mr. Bennett?”

  He glanced at Mrs. Verte, his face now almost purple, eyes moist and red. A vein in his neck was throbbing. “Vivian, you must understand…”

  She stared at him, her face a mixture of shock and disgust. “I don’t believe this, George. Is this true?”

  He turned back to me. “Those pictures are horrible.”

  “Why don’t you tell me how it happened in the first place?” I asked a
s gently as I could.

  He dropped his head and stared at the remains of his cigar. He shook his head slowly. “How did it happen? I ask myself that every day. It was just a year ago. I stopped into his shop after work one Saturday night. I needed a sweater. Blount was there, of course. He was amicable, chatty, and a good listener. He knew I was a bachelor, and he asked if I ever got lonely.”

  “And you said?”

  He stared down at the table top again, avoiding Mrs. Verte’s glare. “I told him that of course I get lonely. I’m not what most women would call handsome, you know. I don’t get the chance to meet many girls, and the ones I do meet usually have no interest in me.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, Blount told me he could fix me up with a nice massage by a pretty girl. I said no at first and thought that was the end of it. But I ran into him again in the hotel bar the next night. He bought me a couple drinks, we started talking again, and what he had to say sounded like just what I needed, so I said yes. A girl came to my flat that night. He insisted it would be completely discreet, that no one would know.”

  “I see,” I said. “And then what?”

  He glanced up at me briefly and then back down at the tabletop and the pile of tobacco. “It was pleasant. She was a nice girl, if a bit simple.”

  “Oh, George, how could you?” Vivian said, hurt and disapproval in her voice.

  “I’m so sorry, Vivian, I truly am. I have been since the day it happened,” he answered, but he didn’t look at her.

  “And it was more than just a massage,” I said.

  He nodded slowly. “Yes, Mr. Barrington, that was the understanding. But you must believe, you all must believe, that it was the first time I ever did anything like that, and I felt horribly guilty. I still do.”

  “You disgust me,” Mrs. Verte said.

  He looked at her, and he had the expression of a little boy who was just scolded. Then he looked back down at the table again and began moving the bits of cigar tobacco around into little piles as he spoke. “Yes, well, anyway, the next day I stopped in to see Blount again, and he asked me what I thought. I told him that it was just okay, and he asked if I perhaps wanted something more exotic. I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I was intrigued, I must admit.”