Death Checks In

by David S. Pederson

  “You’d gotten over your guilt by then?” I asked.

  “What? No. I told you, I still feel guilty, but I was intrigued. He had awakened something in me. It’s hard to explain.”

  “I get the impression Mr. Blount could be very persuasive,” I said. “I think I can understand.”

  He looked up at me. “Can you? I hope so. He could indeed be very persuasive. He said he knew a place not far from the hotel where anything goes, and that it could get wild and fun, no questions asked. For a price, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “He gave me the address of an apartment building in a rather bad part of town. I took a cab there, and I must have stood out on the sidewalk for fifteen minutes. At that point, I had changed my mind back and forth probably twenty times as to whether or not I should go through with it. Finally, I reminded myself that nothing ventured, nothing gained, so I went inside. I went through a door into a whole other world.”

  “In what way?” I asked.

  He had moved the cigar bits into three separate piles. “It was a dark world, mysterious, full of shadows, of men, of women, and God knows what else. Presently I felt hands on me, groping me, touching me. I was led to a small chamber with better light. That should have been a clue, but I was too scared, nervous, excited. Mirrors covered the walls, but I did my best not to look at myself.”

  “What happened next?” I asked. I got the impression that Bennett was relieved to be finally able to talk about this.

  “Things happened. They did unspeakable things to me in that room.” His voice was almost a whisper as he now destroyed the three mounds of tobacco and spread them flat upon the table.

  “I see,” I said quietly.

  He shook his head violently and his voice raised. “No, no, you don’t, no one does, no one could. I couldn’t describe them if I tried. When it was over, I went directly home. I got to my flat, took a hot bath, and washed my mouth out with soap. I had a horrible night’s sleep, and the next day I called in sick to work. The first time in seven years.”

  “And what of Blount?”

  He shook his head, not looking at me. “I never wanted to see or hear from him again, but of course I knew I would. I couldn’t avoid him forever. Still, I vowed never to set foot in his shop again, so I was quite surprised one day when I got an envelope from him at my office here in the hotel, marked private and confidential. Inside was a letter explaining that he expected me to buy clothing from him from now on, at his prices. If I did not, photos like the one he enclosed would be sent to the newspapers and to my employer. I hid the envelope in my desk drawer, wondering what to do next. I was so scared. I’m so sorry, Vivian. Please, I know I’ve shocked you.”

  She turned her head away from him, as if she couldn’t look at him anymore. “No wonder you hated him so.” She almost spat the words in disgust.

  “The photos were of you in that building, I presume,” I said.

  He nodded, slowly. “Yes. They were vile. He said he had a movie, too.”

  “So you gave him the money.”

  Bennett looked up at me then, tears running down his cheeks. “I wasn’t going to at first, but I felt I had no choice. There was an invoice enclosed in the envelope for some shirts and ties. I wrote out a check for almost a hundred dollars.”

  I nodded. “He used the clothing as a cover, of course. In case anyone ever questioned where the money was coming from. He could prove you, and others like you, were just purchasing expensive clothing by showing the invoices. It made it all appear very legitimate.”

  “Yes. The hundred dollars was just the start of it, I’m afraid,” Bennett said.

  “He continued sending you invoices and having you come in to buy clothes, didn’t he?”

  He looked up at me and down again, the cigar remnants now spread out in a circle in front of him. “Yes. The invoices kept coming along with more disgusting photos.”

  I looked again at Mrs. Verte. She was staring at him, her eyes narrowed, a scowl on her face.

  “So, Mr. Bennett, you went to his store last night to get the photos back, is that right?”

  He shook his head vehemently once more. “No, I didn’t go to his store. I didn’t kill him. I wanted to, believe me, and I think he got exactly what he deserved, but I didn’t do it.”

  I stared at him hard. “But certainly you had the motive and the opportunity, Mr. Bennett. You knew about the gun. You purchased a suit yesterday and went into the back room, presumably alone, to try it on, which would have given you ample time to search the desk for the gun and to pocket it. Then later, when Mrs. Verte broke her bottle of perfume and asked you to go in search of a replacement, you had the perfect chance.

  “You could have easily gone down the elevator, bought the perfume in the lobby boutique, and gone outside around to the alley. A knock at the door, Blount opens it, surprised. You tell him you want to talk to him about future payments. He lets you in, you pull the gun, and demand your photos. He gives you a file, which you mistakenly believe is all of them. You shoot him and then burn the folder in the bathroom sink. Then you hurry back upstairs, winded and disheveled, only to find me, Mr. Keyes, and Mrs. Verte waiting in the hall when the elevator door opened. Surprised, you make up an excuse about having to search up and down Michigan Avenue for the elusive perfume.”

  He stared at me, wide eyed, wiping away his tears. “Because I did search up and down Michigan Avenue. You must believe me.”

  “It all makes sense, George,” Vivian said at last. “You told me you hated him, and now I understand why. You murdered him. You told me you would get him in the end, and now I know what you meant. I never would have thought it, but then I guess I don’t really know you.”

  He turned to her, his face an expression of shock. “Vivian, I didn’t shoot Blount. Please!”

  “You’re lying,” she said, loathing in her voice as she leaned away from him.

  “I believe you, Mr. Bennett,” I said.

  “You do?” He looked up at me, his voice incredulous, shaking, hands trembling.

  I nodded. “Yes, I do. It was something Mrs. Gittings said that led me in a different direction.”

  “Mrs. Gittings again. What did she say? And why isn’t she here yet?” Mr. Bennett said, his voice still shaking.

  “Mrs. Gittings is a bit unorthodox and keeps her own timetable. I’m assuming she’s on her way.”

  Wilchinski took out a cigarette and lit it. “You certainly like your theatrics, Barrington. Entertaining, I must admit. So, how does this Gittings woman play into all this anyway? You said she’s a suspect, and that Bennett, Miss Eye, and Mr. Gillingham are apparently innocent. I’m assuming, then, that you think this Mrs. Gittings did it.”

  “Mrs. Gittings is indeed a suspect, Wilchinski. She used to work for Blount. She discovered what he was doing, at least some of it, and was fired.”

  “Gittings. Ah yes, I remember her now. She’s that dotty old woman we saw in the lobby Friday night,” Mrs. Verte said.

  “That’s right, Mrs. Verte.”

  “Well, if George didn’t kill Mr. Blount, though it still sounds like he did to me, then certainly this Gittings woman did,” Mrs. Verte said.

  “Why didn’t she go to the police if she discovered what Blount was doing?” Wilchinski asked, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air.

  “That’s a good question,” I said. “She probably was afraid of retribution against her by Blount. She is a widow, all alone in the world, and she probably didn’t have any hard evidence. Most likely if she had said anything, people would have put it down to the ramblings of a drunken old woman.”

  “How sad,” Mr. Bennett said, his voice soft, as he wiped his eyes and face with his handkerchief. He looked like he had been struck hard in the face several times.

  “Very sad,” I said. “So, Mrs. Gittings decided to haunt Blount, figuratively, anyway. She walked slowly by his store every day, staring in at him through the window. I think it bothered him at first, unnerved
him as she had intended, but he soon realized people didn’t take her seriously, that people laughed at her. She knew about the gun in his desk drawer, of course. She knew all about him, and she felt he was the epitome of evil and that he must be stopped.”

  “So this Gittings woman shot him,” Wilchinski said. “Fine. When she gets here, I’ll arrest her. Or maybe she didn’t show up because she’s guilty. We’ll find her, don’t you worry.”

  “No,” I answered, looking at him briefly. “She didn’t murder Blount.” I enjoyed watching the expressions on Wilchinski’s face as he alternated between confusion and rage.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mr. Barrington,” Miss Eye said, exasperated.

  “I second that. I’m out of here, Barrington, unless you can wrap this up with something other than games and riddles. The show’s just about over,” Wilchinski said again, standing up.

  I looked at him once more. “Give me five minutes, Wilchinski, please. I really am going somewhere with this.”

  He looked back at me. “Is this how you do police work in Milwaukee? Guessing games? Drama? That doesn’t fly here, Barrington. We don’t have time for this.” He ground out his cigarette on the bare table top.

  “Five more minutes.”

  He stared at me and then looked at his watch. “Four.”

  I nodded. “Fine. When Mrs. Gittings was in the back room of his store earlier that afternoon, she stuck her hatpin in the dress form for some reason known only to her, and possibly not even that. She came back last night looking for it. She eventually made her way to the alley and waited for Blount to come out, possibly to harass him as she has done previously, possibly to ask about her hatpin. But it wasn’t Blount who came out the back door at about seven twenty-five.”

  “Who was it?” Mr. Bennett asked, his face now more of a normal color.

  “An angel in white, as Mrs. Gittings described it.”

  “You’re joking,” Miss Eye said.

  “No, it’s not very funny, I’m afraid. Mrs. Gittings saw someone she believed to be an angel exiting the back door, leaving it ajar. She looked in and saw Blount dead, smelled the smoke of the burned evidence. It must have been a shock to her. She saw this angel fleeing down the alley, so she followed, just long enough to see the angel enter the hotel and go up, not to heaven, as she described, but just upstairs. She wandered about then, unsure of what to do. The evil she so hated had been destroyed, and it seemed as if it had been an act of God. She was still wandering about when I ran into her just after nine.”

  “So you’re telling us an angel murdered Mr. Blount?” Mr. Bennett said.

  “No, just someone Mrs. Gittings mistook for an angel.”

  “So since I didn’t shoot him, and apparently neither Miss Eye nor Mr. Gillingham did, and this Mrs. Gittings didn’t, I’d say you’re out of suspects,” Mr. Bennett said.

  “And almost out of time,” Wilchinski added, tapping his watch.

  “It would appear that way, wouldn’t it? Perhaps it was a robber after all,” I said.

  “Oh good heavens,” Mrs. Verte said. “This is all too much. I said from the start it must be a robber, but then you started in on Mr. Bennett.”

  “Well, I did not kill Blount,” Bennett stated firmly. “But didn’t you say, Mr. Barrington, that Mrs. Gittings was in the alley about seven twenty-five or so?”

  “Yes, I believe that is correct, Mr. Bennett.”

  “But Blount wasn’t murdered until after eight,” Mr. Bennett said. “And you said Miss Eye and Mr. Gillingham were there around quarter to eight, and Blount was already dead at that time. Your times don’t add up, Barrington.”

  “You’re correct, Mr. Bennett, but I’ll get to that in a moment.”

  “It sounds to me like this Mrs. Gittings is your murderer, as I said before, Detective. She’s obviously delusional,” Mrs. Verte said.

  “Actually, any one of them could have done it, Mrs. Verte. Mr. Bennett, Miss Eye, Mr. Gillingham, or Mrs. Gittings. They all had motive and opportunity, and they all knew of the existence of his gun and its whereabouts. But as I said, it all comes down to the clues Blount left behind. The green spool of thread and the ‘W,’ as well as Mrs. Gittings’s testimony.”

  “Meaning what?” Mr. Gillingham asked, clearly confused. He reached over and clutched Gloria’s hand.

  “The green spool of thread. I finally remembered my high school French. Green is verte in French, isn’t it?”

  “I wouldn’t know, I took Greek,” Mr. Bennett said.

  “But you know, Mrs. Verte. You speak some French, don’t you?” I asked, looking at her.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes what?”

  “Yes, I speak some French, and yes, green is verte. What of it?” She looked annoyed.

  “Because I determined Blount wasn’t trying to say ‘green’ by grabbing that spool of thread. He was trying to say ‘Verte.’”

  “That’s a bit of a stretch,” Wilchinski said, rocking back on his chair.

  “Perhaps. But if he was trying to say ‘verte,’ then I still couldn’t figure out the bloody ‘W.’ If it wasn’t for Walter, what was it for? I even ran through a rather extensive list of French words beginning with ‘W,’ but nothing made sense.”

  “So?” Mr. Gillingham asked.

  “So it finally occurred to me, it wasn’t a ‘W’ at all. My friend Alan here misread the banner over the stage, mistaking Mr. Henning for Heming, because from a distance the ‘N’s ran together.”

  “I don’t get it,” Walter said, scratching at his eye patch. “You mean Maynard Henning killed Blount? It was a ‘M,’ not a ‘W’?”

  “No, Mr. Gillingham, but you’re on the right track. I mean it wasn’t a bloody ‘W’ on the floor or an ‘M,’ it was a ‘V’ and a ‘V’ that had bled together, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

  “‘V’ and a ‘V’?” Bennett asked, confused.

  “Surely you can figure it out from there, Mr. Bennett. Vivian Verte, VV, Mr. Blount’s pet name for her.”

  “That’s absurd,” Mr. Bennett said, looking from her to me and back again.

  “Is it? Why don’t you tell us, Mrs. Verte?”

  Her face had gone red, flushed, and she grasped at her throat. “Preposterous, Mr. Barrington. You said yourself we were with you from seven forty until well after the murder.”

  “That, madam, is quite true, on the surface.”

  “Oh good heavens. I’m beginning to think you’re as mad as that Mrs. Gittings.”

  “No, not mad, Mr. Bennett. It’s quite simple to turn the hands of a watch backward or forward, then smash it against the floor to stop it, making it appear the murder happened later than it did. Blount was most likely shot sometime around seven twenty or so, but the hands of his watch made it appear it was just after eight. That gave Mrs. Verte the perfect alibi. I imagine, Mrs. Verte, you were even congratulating yourself on your good luck of running into us in the hallway and getting to spend the evening with us.”

  “This is ridiculous, Mr. Barrington. What possible motive would I have for killing him? I didn’t know about all of his disgusting little photos and movies. I only met him a few days ago. I barely knew him at all.”

  “Oh, but you knew about him years ago, Mrs. Verte, didn’t you? I recall you saying your maiden name is Dousman, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, so what?” she asked, looking at me suspiciously.

  “And when you mentioned your maiden name Friday night in front of Mr. Blount, he looked positively ashen, stricken almost, his face blank. The name Dousman triggered a memory for him. A very unpleasant memory.”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” she said, drumming her fingers on the tabletop.

  “I think you do. You see, there was an empty folder in Blount’s little black case where he kept the photos of all the young girls he had photographed. An empty folder between one for a young woman named Ginger Doud and one for a girl by the name of Alice Dove.”

&nb
sp; “So what?” She had stropped drumming her fingers now and had crossed her arms.

  “So, the name Dousman fits in perfectly between those two. And Ginger Doud and Miss Dove were young girls he had taken advantage of. Innocent, naïve girls, trying to break into showbiz, most likely. You mentioned the other day your sister died just before the war ended. What was her name, and how did she die?”

  She looked up at me, anger in her eyes. “Rose. Her name was Rose, and she killed herself.”

  “Rose Dousman. I’m sorry, Mrs. Verte. I know how difficult that must have been. How difficult it must still be. My friend Mike Masterson, the house dick here, told me Blount was mixed up in the death of a young girl just nineteen years old.”

  “Rose was nineteen years old,” she said, her voice suddenly softer as everyone stared at her.

  I kept going. “Yes, she was just a child. Rose Dousman, right between Doud and Dove. And Blount took advantage of her, just like he did them. You read about him and his store in the Tribune article your uncle sent you, and it angered you, brought up all those old memories. So, you came back to Chicago to meet Mr. Blount, and you feigned delight in him while figuring out how, when, and where to kill him. You pretended to be very fond of him, to be charmed by him, when in fact he disgusted you, didn’t he?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do, Mrs. Verte. He used your little sister Rose, he took advantage of her. He had her pose scantily dressed, even nude, and then he sold those pictures to a magazine.”

  “Preposterous. Rose would never do that.” Her voice was softer yet as she stared at me defiantly.

  “But she did, Mrs. Verte. And he did. Only those photos got leaked, and she was humiliated, ruined. She killed herself, and he was exonerated of any blame. So you decided to get revenge. You bought a gun in New York and came back here. Only your purse was stolen at the train station, and your gun was in it, wasn’t it?”

  “I told you my purse was stolen, it’s no secret,” she said.