A Friendly Game of Murder

by J. J. Murphy

  “No, I didn’t.” Mary cast her eyes downward.

  Dorothy felt anxious just then. She hadn’t had a chance to get back to Lydia to ask her some questions. Such as, what had gotten Lydia so upset that she needed to talk to Mary? And what would make her faint like a Victorian dowager from just one question from Woollcott?

  Woollcott stood up again. “That was quite a lot of questions from someone who refused to even play the game of Murder, Artie. You seem to have picked up the game quite well, my good fellow.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “But as I’ve said already, this is no parlor game—”

  “Indeed it’s not,” Doyle said, frowning. “I’m afraid there’s something deeply wrong going on here, much more than it even appears just from the body of a dead woman in the bathtub.” He turned to Dorothy and Benchley. “Mrs. Parker, Mr. Benchley, would you accompany me, please?”

  Dorothy set her empty coffee cup on the side table and stood up. “Where to?”

  “My friend Quentin’s room. I could use your excellent help in looking for a particular item.”

  Doyle turned and went out the door. Dorothy and Benchley followed him.

  “You’re leaving? Now?” Woollcott sputtered indignantly, jumping up. “But we’re just getting some answers here. What about Fairbanks going out the window like a circus monkey?”

  “I think that’s also where your theory went, Aleck,” Dorothy said over her shoulder. “Feel free to chase after it.”

  Chapter 19

  Doyle didn’t say a word as they took the elevator down to the ninth floor. Now, as he strode along the corridor, he slowed and turned to Dorothy and Benchley. He spoke in a whisper. “I need to find something in Quentin’s room. A brown bottle. Will you help me?”

  “We didn’t come down here to play tiddledywinks,” she said. “Of course we’ll help. We’ll turn his room upside down if we have to.” She moved forward.

  Doyle raised a big hand. “One moment, if you please. There is an obstacle in our path: Mr. Jordan.”

  Benchley seemed to bristle.

  “Dr. Hurst’s attendant is an obstacle?” she asked. “Just tell him to step aside. Better yet, he can help us look.”

  Doyle’s forehead wrinkled in thought. He removed a briar pipe from his jacket pocket and leaned his broad back against the hallway wall. “That is much easier said than done.”

  Benchley took this as a cue to get out his own pipe. Not wanting to be left out, Dorothy searched in her little purse for her pack of Chesterfields. Soon the three of them were filling the hallway with smoke and plotting quietly.

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “What’s the matter with Jordan all of a sudden?”

  Doyle nodded. “He seems quite agreeable, doesn’t he?”

  Dorothy, sensing Benchley wouldn’t like her answer, didn’t respond.

  Doyle continued, “He and I were getting along famously well, I thought. All laughs and slaps on the back and what-have-you. Indeed, after we brought Quentin to his room and put the old boy to bed, Mr. Jordan and I sat down in two armchairs and proceeded to talk and pass the time just like two school chums. Peas in a pod, we were.”

  “So, again, what’s the matter with Jordan?”

  “I’m getting to that,” Doyle said, annoyed, yanking his pipe from beneath his bushy mustache. “Before long, our genial conversation naturally turned back to the murder, and the peculiar circumstances in which the body of Miss Bibelot was found—in particular, the pink, rash-like quality of the skin surrounding her mouth.”

  “You mentioned that upstairs,” she said. “Do you know what it is?”

  “I was a volunteer field surgeon during the Boer War, and on occasion we’d see that condition of the perioral skin. It was not uncommon back in those days, although I daresay surgeons don’t see as much of it now.”

  “Boer War? What does that have to do with Bibi? Are you saying she had some rare, foreign-born disease?”

  “Oh, hardly,” he chuckled. “Back then we saw it from poor administration of chloroform, which was sometimes used to anesthetize a soldier for surgery. It was used when better, safer anesthetics were in short supply—which happened far too often. The medics we had didn’t know chloroform from chamomile tea. They were just boys, of course.”

  A melancholy look came into Doyle’s eyes, and his thoughts seemed to drift back to that time—or perhaps to another, similar sadness, Dorothy thought.

  “Chloroform burns the skin?” she asked.

  Doyle snapped back to the present. “Yes, if it is applied sloppily or with improper equipment, or left on the epidermis for too long, chloroform will cause exactly the same rash-like appearance that Miss Bibelot had around her mouth.”

  “So someone gave Bibi chloroform?” she asked.

  “Someone who didn’t know what he was doing?” Benchley added.

  “Or,” Doyle said thoughtfully, “perhaps someone who hasn’t done it in a long, long time. . . . Perhaps someone who had a great deal to drink and didn’t take the proper precautions.”

  Now Dorothy understood. “Dr. Hurst, you mean?”

  Doyle didn’t answer. He stood silently in the cloud of smoke. She couldn’t make out his expression.

  Suddenly she remembered something and snapped her fingers. “You recognized it right away! When you and Dr. Hurst came up to see Bibi’s body in the bathtub, you acted a trifle strange at first. It was because you noticed the rash immediately, didn’t you? Why didn’t you say something then?”

  Doyle’s face clouded over. “Well, honestly, the notion of it took me by surprise at the time. I can’t admit to being as cool and as calculating as my famous detective. When I saw the irritation of the skin and realized that it most likely came from chloroform, I naturally jumped to the same conclusion you did—my friend Quentin.”

  “But you had doubts that he was the one who did it?”

  “Most certainly,” Doyle said. “So I held my tongue. Although, upon consideration, I must say the circumstantial evidence seems rather against him. She was wearing that necklace of his. And he did go into the bathroom and have it out with her, and he acted very ungentlemanly, I must admit. And, most damning, he’s probably the only one in this hotel with a bottle of chloroform in his possession.”

  “His medical bag!”

  “Precisely. If you recall, I searched through his medical bag after he had the stroke. I was looking for the blood pressure cuff—but I also had the chloroform in mind.”

  “And?”

  “It wasn’t in there.”

  “So he didn’t have any chloroform after all?”

  Doyle shook his head. “There was an empty spot for it, along with a strap to hold the bottle in place. And the strap was clearly marked ‘chloroform.’”

  “So if it was missing from his bag, you think it might be in his room?”

  He nodded. “If we can get a look at the bottle itself, it might provide some confirmation of Quentin’s innocence.”

  “How so?”

  Doyle was less certain about this point. “Hmm, perhaps the cap will be stuck, indicating it hasn’t been opened in a long while? Or perhaps the bottle will be full, suggesting it hasn’t been used at all?”

  They all knew that Doyle was grasping at straws, but no one had the heart to say it.

  “Well, I know a full bottle when I see one,” Dorothy said, moving along the corridor to Dr. Hurst’s door. “Let me at it.”

  “Just a moment,” Doyle said. “Remember Mr. Jordan?”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “He’s some kind of obstacle, you said? I doubt that very much.”

  “Don’t doubt it at all. It’s very true. He would not let me search the room. We almost came to fisticuffs over it.”

  “There didn’t seem to be any love lost between Jordan and
Dr. Hurst,” she said. “I got the feeling he was downright unhappy about his assignment with Dr. Hurst, even.”

  “That may be so. Indeed, I have it from his own lips that he’s not terribly fond of my friend Quentin, his employer. I know full well that Quentin can sometimes be difficult to get along with. Be that as it may, Mr. Jordan is a very studious employee and fiercely loyal, no matter his personal feelings. He stoutly refused to let me look through Quentin’s things.”

  “Did you explain to Jordan that it could confirm Dr. Hurst’s guilt?” Benchley said. Then, after a concerned look from Doyle, he added, “Or confirm his innocence, I mean, of course.”

  “Not quite,” Doyle said. “I thought it best not to discuss the matter of the chloroform with Mr. Jordan. I want to see the bottle with my own eyes before I bring him into my confidence.”

  “But you let us in on it?” Dorothy said, smiling. “We’re honored.”

  Doyle spoke jovially. “Foxholes make fast friends. Now we’re in this together, for good or for ill.”

  She wasn’t sure whether to take this as a compliment. “So what do you want us to do with Jordan? We distract him while you search for the bottle of chloroform?”

  “Something like that,” Doyle said, blowing the last puff of smoke from his pipe. “Actually, Mrs. Parker, I was hoping you could distract him, while Mr. Benchley and I look for the chloroform.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Well, call me Mata Hari. I’ll do it.”

  Benchley folded his arms. “No, Mata dear, you most certainly won’t. I’ll do it.”

  They argued for a minute. Dorothy insisted that she was fully capable of leading Jordan astray. But Benchley wouldn’t hear of it. He explained how he regretted that he had let her go out onto the snowy roof by herself, and it was now his turn.

  She batted her eyes at him. “Well, who’s Hari now?”

  Chapter 20

  Doyle knocked on Dr. Hurst’s door. When Jordan answered, he cast a suspicious eye on Doyle but appeared to be genuinely happy to see Dorothy and Benchley.

  “Well, if it isn’t our little amateur detectives!” he said cheerfully.

  She was taken aback until she realized that Jordan was referring to the guessing game they had played with him in the dining room. “Oh, our detective skills have vastly improved since we first met. I now detect . . . you’d like a cup of coffee.”

  This was no mystery. Jordan was stifling a yawn at that very moment. Nevertheless, he seemed pleasantly surprised. “Yeah, I sure would. But where can you get coffee at this hour? It’s nearly two o’clock in the morning. Room service must have ended.”

  “Not if you go to the right room,” she said.

  Benchley jumped in. “Mrs. Parker is right. There’s a whole sea of coffee up in Mr. Fairbanks’ penthouse.”

  Jordan looked back at Dr. Hurst lying immobile in the bed. “I can’t leave him”—he eyed Doyle suspiciously—“by himself.”

  Dorothy had an idea and changed the plan on the spot. “Nonsense. Mr. Benchley and I will stay and keep an eye on the doctor. You two go up for a cup of coffee.”

  Now Jordan looked at Dorothy and Benchley with suspicion but spoke to Doyle. “If this is some kind of ploy—”

  Doyle shook his big, shaggy head and lied very convincingly. “Not at all, my good man. I haven’t said a word to them about our disagreement—nor should you, I’ll warrant. They suggested, out of the goodness of their hearts, that you might benefit from some of the hotel’s fine coffee. Now, come, come, let’s you and I let bygones be bygones. I daresay you’ll need some refreshment to get through this night.”

  Jordan allowed Doyle to lead him out. But he turned before closing the door. “Don’t touch a thing. I’ll know if you do. And if Dr. Hurst makes the slightest move, you come get me right away. Understand?”

  “Completely,” Benchley said. “Scout’s honor.”

  “Absolutely,” Dorothy added. “Girl Scout’s honor.”

  When the door was closed, they turned and looked at Dr. Hurst. He lay faceup in the bed and was now wearing a set of navy-blue pajamas. Dorothy realized that Jordan, perhaps with the assistance of Doyle, must have dressed the paralyzed old man, and she shuddered to think of it.

  They moved closer. One of Dr. Hurst’s eyes was open a crack. Dorothy froze, clutching Benchley’s arm.

  “Ouch,” he said, prying her fingernails out of his arm. He saw what alarmed her. “Don’t worry. That’s the immobilized side, remember? Poor fellow. His eyelid must be unable to close all the way.”

  Dorothy looked closer. The eye wasn’t looking at them. It gazed forward at nothing. She moved nearer. Still the eye didn’t detect her. Now she stood by the side of his bed. The eye, peeking from beneath the half-lowered lid, continued to stare dead ahead. She waved a hand in front of Dr. Hurst’s face. The eye didn’t move. She sighed with relief.

  “He must be out of it, thank heaven,” she said. “Come on, let’s look for that bottle of chloroform.”

  Benchley put his hands on his hips and looked around. “Where might it be?”

  The corners of the large room and every other surface were stacked with suitcases, books or equipment. Dorothy approached the most interesting of these: a portable desk that had been unfolded from the interior of an upright trunk. “Get a load of this. Have desk, will travel.”

  Benchley was inspecting a similar large piece of luggage, only this one was like a lab bench that was compartmentalized into an even larger traveling trunk. It was complete with a Bunsen burner (now unlit) and microscope. Benchley peeked into the microscope. “Looks like I found something. Perhaps a new species of fungi.”

  “There’s no fun guy in this room,” she said, glancing again at Dr. Hurst in the bed. “Keep looking.”

  “What exactly does a bottle of chloroform look like?” Benchley asked, turning to a crate full of beakers and books.

  “According to Doyle, it’s a stout brown medicine bottle. Holds about ten ounces. Smells like sweet dreams—if you smell it, that is.”

  Benchley peeked into a small suitcase. “And what exactly do sweet dreams smell like?”

  “Damned if I know,” Dorothy muttered as much to herself as to him.

  He gagged. “Doesn’t smell like this,” he sputtered, and slammed closed a small valise. “And I thought the fungus smelled rotten.”

  “What?” she asked, alarmed. “What is it?”

  “His dirty underwear.” Benchley dropped the valise onto the floor.

  She shook her head and turned to a pile of books on an armchair. They were about all kinds of subjects. Butterfly hunting. Stamp collecting. Orthopedic surgery. Model trains. Fly fishing. And several more. Then Dorothy noticed they all had something in common.

  “Bless me, look at this!” She read a few titles aloud. “British Philately of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries . . . Surgery of Knee and Elbow Joints . . . The Best Salmon Streams of the Scottish Highlands . . .”

  “So Dr. Hurst enjoys a little light but dry reading. So what?”

  “He didn’t read them. He wrote them!”

  “Imagine that.” Benchley came and peered over her shoulder. All the books were authored by Quentin Hurst, MD, FRCS. “Our good doctor must be quite a Renaissance man—that is, if the Renaissance had been about beekeeping, model trains and paper clip collecting, instead of the more mundane subjects of painting, sculpting and architecture.” He stole a guilty glance at the man in the bed. “Enough of the world’s driest literature. Let’s find that little brown jug before Artie and Jordan get back.”

  He started whistling the jazz tune “Little Brown Jug,” and resumed his search.

  She put down the books and looked around. She noticed Dr. Hurst’s tweed suit hanging on a hook on the back of the hotel room door. She went over to it. It smelled of whiskey
and body odor. Something weighed down the jacket pocket. Reluctantly she put her hand inside. She pulled out a stethoscope, then a pocketknife, a few coins and a balled-up piece of paper. But no brown bottle of chloroform.

  “Anything in there?” Benchley asked. He was leaning against the bureau and sorting through an old leather toiletry case.

  “No.” She put the items back in the jacket pocket. But she held on to the yellow ball of paper. Something about it was familiar. Yes, that was it—it was the color of a telegram! Could it be . . . ?

  She carefully unfolded it. It was indeed a telegram! She recalled the telegram envelope that Frank Case had handed to Dr. Hurst in the lobby much earlier in the evening. She looked at the time and date stamped at the top of the page: SAT DEC 31. 7:41 PM.

  Yes, this must be that telegram. Now, what had made Dr. Hurst so anxious when he saw it?

  “What do you have there, Mrs. Parker?” Benchley asked. He had given up on the toiletry case.

  She explained about the telegram. Benchley hadn’t yet arrived at the hotel when it had been delivered.

  “Well, for heaven’s sake, what does it say?” he asked.

  She looked again at the immobile old man lying in the bed. His thin white hair was splayed out on his pillow. His one eye was still open slightly, staring straight ahead at nothing like a dead fish. She shuddered and turned away.

  It was wrong, she knew, to read this man’s personal correspondence. Still, if it had anything, anything remotely, to do with Bibi’s death, then she had an obligation to read it. After all, the moment he received this telegram, Dr. Hurst had suddenly asked for a safe place to store that locket—the one that had been around Bibi’s neck, the one that was now missing.

  “Please, Mrs. Parker, just read it!” Benchley was nearly hopping up and down like an impatient child.

  She read aloud:

  DOCTOR, AUTHORITIES IN ENGLAND KNOW YOU TOOK VALUABLE ITEM. BRING IT TO CHICAGO AT ONCE OR DEAL IS OFF. LLOYDS HIRED PINKS. BERLEY BROTHERS ON YOUR TRAIL TOO. LOSE THEM ALL. IF YOU BRING THEM TO CHICAGO, DEAL IS OFF. KEEP ITEM SAFE AND IN GOOD CONDITION OR DEAL IS OFF.