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A Friendly Game of Murder

Page 19

by J. J. Murphy

The elevator door suddenly opened—she had been so caught up in her thoughts that she hadn’t even heard it arrive. Inside was Ben Jordan. He smiled when he saw her, his face lighting up. He had changed out of his pajamas and back into his street clothes.

  She was struck again by his rugged, handsome looks. Benchley one minute. Jordan the next. Her head felt dizzy from the mental leap from the one to the other.

  “Mrs. Parker, are you all right?” he asked warmly, assuredly taking her arm. “You look faint.”

  “I’m delightful, Mr. Jordan. But call me Dorothy,” she heard herself say. What am I doing?

  He smiled. “All right, Dorothy.”

  He led her back into the lobby. Despite his limp, he moved smoothly. Jeez, he could lead her around like she was a trained lapdog.

  She rallied her good sense. “So, Mr. Jordan, how is Dr. Hurst?”

  “The doctor is sleeping soundly. And call me Benedict.”

  Benedict? There was no way she would call him that!

  “Okay, Ben,” she said. “What brings you down here?”

  “Looking for Dr. Doyle. Have you seen him?”

  “No, but I know where he is,” she said, gently freeing her arm from his hand. “He went to check on the family with smallpox.”

  “What a good man he is. True blue, that’s him. Too bad he’s a little cracked.”

  “Cracked?” Was he joking?

  “You know, all the ghosts and spirits and such.” He spoke with pity, as though he was saying that Doyle suffered from some unwholesome affliction. “He actually believes in all that mumbo-jumbo.”

  “Oh, right . . .”

  Before she could offer any further response, he asked, “So what are you doing down here?”

  “Looking for Mr. Benchley. Have you seen him?”

  “No, but perhaps we can look together. Me for Dr. Doyle, and you for Mr. Benchley.” He took her arm again and led her back to the elevator. She couldn’t help herself. She felt a little thrill when he touched her arm. He was so tough, yet so gentle. And because of his clubfoot, she couldn’t help but feel a certain tenderness toward him. Not pity, but sympathy. A desire to take care of him as he seemed to take care of others . . .

  He opened the elevator door and escorted her inside.

  Chapter 28

  Luigi flipped the switches one last time, but the hotel kitchen remained dark.

  “Forget it!” he said, adding a curse or two in Italian.

  Behind Luigi and Benchley, the stairway down to the basement opened like a darkened void. Ahead of them the kitchen was shrouded in shadow. Only indistinct shadows and outlines of cooking equipment broke the blackness.

  Then, on the other side of the room, the kitchen doors suddenly swung open. Someone stepped into the room. Then the doors closed just as quickly.

  “Who that there?” Luigi said in alarm; his grasp of English broke down along with his nerve. “Who is it?”

  “Luigi?” the stranger said in a cool voice. “Dear me, is that you? What are you doing here in the dark? You gave me quite a start.”

  “Mr. Case?” Luigi asked.

  “Frank?” Benchley added.

  “Ah, Mr. Benchley,” Case said with a chuckle. “Of course you’re here, too. So what are you two doing in my kitchen in the wee hours?”

  “Quaking in our boots, that’s what,” Benchley said.

  They heard Case move forward. “Mr. Woollcott already stole the secret stash of brandy, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  “Certainly not,” Benchley said. “But perhaps you have an additional stash of something you might offer as a token of apology for that rude accusation?”

  Case chuckled. “Unfortunately I don’t. But speaking of apologies, the phones went crazy and a fuse blew a few minutes ago. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Mr. Benchley?”

  Benchley snorted. “Again you’ve offended me by your unfounded allegation!” Then his voice softened. “But I’m willing to bury the hatchet over a nice glass of secretly hidden scotch.”

  Case sighed. “Oh, very well.”

  They heard the clack of a cabinet door opening and closing, and the clank of a bottle on the enamel preparation table. Then there was the squeak of a cork, and a glug and a splash into a glass.

  “Ah, music to my ears,” Benchley said, moving toward the sound. He smelled the sharp, smoky scent of good old scotch.

  Case put a small, heavy glass into his hand. “Happy New Year, Mr. Benchley. One for you, Luigi?”

  “Not while working, sir, thank you.”

  “Nor I,” Case said. “Never touch the stuff.”

  “My feelings exactly,” Benchley said, glad that they couldn’t see him lying to their faces. “But I hate to see it go to waste. So bottoms up!”

  He took a healthy sip and felt that familiar, soothing warmth.

  “Oh, Mr. Benchley, I nearly forgot,” Case said apologetically. “Mrs. Parker is looking for you. I just ran into her in the lobby.”

  Benchley put the glass down half-finished. “Is she? Well, let’s go see what she wants.”

  “This way,” Case said, turning away. “Follow my voice. I would know my way around this hotel blindfolded. You, too, Luigi?”

  “Of course, sir,” the waiter said. But Benchley felt Luigi grasp his shirtsleeve.

  Case led them forward. He pushed through the double swinging doors and into the service corridor. Light from the lobby filtered in, so Luigi let go of Benchley’s sleeve with an appreciative wink. Benchley nodded in return.

  A moment later they were back in the low-lit lobby. But Dorothy was nowhere to be seen.

  “Darn the luck!” Benchley said. “Where did she go? I really must speak with her.”

  Case had already turned to go, undoubtedly on his way to replace the fuse. But he hesitated. “Something related to tonight’s mystery, I presume?”

  “Very perceptive, Mr. Case,” Benchley said. “Lack of alcohol hasn’t dulled your wits one bit. Specifically, it’s something related to Dr. Hurst—and Mr. Jordan.”

  Case was intrigued. Even Luigi listened closely.

  “Mr. Benchley,” Case said after a moment’s pause, “you can’t just drop a hint like that and expect us to walk blithely away.”

  “Walk however you please.” But Benchley considered this. “Can you keep a secret?”

  They agreed that they could keep a secret.

  Benchley whispered, “Dr. Hurst isn’t exactly all he’s cracked up to be. And, I suspect, neither is Mr. Jordan.”

  * * *

  Once inside the elevator, Dorothy and Jordan made a quick inspection of elderly Maurice, who still stood leaning in the corner like an old broom and snoring quietly.

  Jordan closed the elevator door and reached for the controls. The elevator ascended smoothly. He turned to Dorothy and gave her a look so warm it would melt ice, she thought.

  “Listen,” he said softly, “I want to apologize to you about how I acted earlier in Dr. Hurst’s room. I’m sorry I became so upset.”

  “I-it’s all right,” she said, trying to be nonchalant. She had handsome, rugged men breaking down and apologizing to her in elevators all the time, right? Happened every day.

  “It’s just—I take my job very seriously. But I failed twice tonight. Two tremendous failures. Dr. Hurst went into an apoplexy, and I wasn’t there to help. Then one of his prized possessions was stolen from my own protection.” He took a step closer to her. She could see the suntanned lines at the corners of his eyes and the five o’clock shadow of whiskers on his jaw. “You see, I’m afraid—afraid I might make another mistake.”

  “You?” she asked. “You don’t look like you’d be afraid of anything.”

  He smiled, moving closer now. “Usua
lly I’m not.”

  She gently put her hand on his chest. She didn’t want him any nearer—yet she didn’t want him to move away either. His chest felt hard, muscular. Oh brother . . . She should take her hand away, but she didn’t. She stared into his dark, confident, serene eyes.

  “So,” he said, his voice in a whisper, “can I ask you something, Dorothy?”

  “Of course,” she whispered back. “Anything.”

  “The name that Dr. Hurst said. What was it again?”

  The elevator jolted to a stop—and so did her interest in him. She was this close to him, and he wanted to know about some crazy thing his boss had said?

  She dropped her hand from his chest and took a step back. She noticed that his hand was on the elevator controls. He had stopped the elevator. But he hadn’t yet opened the door.

  “What was the name?” he asked, no longer whispering.

  Should she tell him again? He’d heard it once already.

  He smiled and gave her that direct look again. But while it had been entrancing and charming a moment ago, it now seemed artificial and contrived, she thought. Who was this guy?

  “Ted Besh,” she said. “Dr. Hurst said Ted Besh.”

  Jordan nodded and thought about this. “I don’t know any Ted Besh, and I’ve never heard Dr. Hurst mention him before. Who is he?”

  How the hell should I know?

  But she only shrugged. She wanted out of this elevator.

  “Maybe he’s the one who ransacked Dr. Hurst’s room,” he said. “Maybe he stole the valuables. Maybe Dr. Hurst wasn’t asleep through it all. Maybe he saw who it was and was trying to tell us.”

  Growing animated at this idea, Jordan took a step closer again. Dorothy couldn’t move away any farther. Her back was against the elevator wall.

  “But,” she said, “Dr. Hurst said the name before his room was turned upside down, remember?”

  Now Jordan was standing right over her. His eyes were no longer serene—they now seemed cunning and cruel. “Then perhaps Dr. Hurst said it as a warning. Perhaps he knew that this Ted Besh would attack. Perhaps the man is even closer than you think.”

  She looked at him. Is he trying to tell me he’s Ted Besh?

  “Closer than I think?” she said, folding her arms over her chest. “Ha, I’m not thinking about that guy at all.”

  * * *

  Frank Case was skeptical. “Dr. Hurst is not who he’s cracked up to be?” He put his fists on his hips. “Then who is he?”

  Benchley smiled. “He’s still himself. But he’s not. Not what you think.”

  “Who is he, then?” Case asked impatiently.

  “He’s a thief. He stole a very precious item in England and smuggled it here. The locket.”

  “The locket that he asked me to put into the safe? The locket that wound up around Bibi’s neck? You’re saying that he stole it?”

  “That’s the one!”

  “Absurd,” Case said drolly. “Dr. Hurst is here for a medical conference. He’s a wealthy man who is widely published in the medical field and many others. Why would he steal a simple locket? It’s quite absurd.”

  Benchley pursed his lips. He went to the elevator and pushed the call button. “Well, I didn’t say I could explain it. But that’s what the police told me. Dr. Hurst is a wanted man.”

  Frank Case and Luigi stood a few paces behind him. Case was still skeptical. “And Mr. Jordan?”

  Benchley’s eyes widened. “Guess what? He’s not a cripple.”

  Case’s expression soured. “Oh, now, really, Mr. Benchley! Mr. Jordan has a clubfoot. You’ve seen it yourself.”

  “But I also saw him run from one room to another, Frank. I was on the telephone with Captain Church when I realized that I’d seen Jordan run. Not hobble quickly—he ran! How do you explain that?”

  “Perhaps you misremember.”

  “No, no,” Benchley said. “I saw it. Mrs. Parker was with me. I must ask her if she remembers too.”

  Case frowned and looked around. “I swear she was here a moment ago. . . .”

  “Perhaps you misremember,” Benchley taunted. Then he punched the elevator button again. “And you know what else? There are robbers in the hotel. They have the locket. They’re taking it to a man in Brooklyn. I overhead it when I was on the switchboard.”

  Case smiled slyly. “So it was you who caused the telephones to ring all over the hotel? And I gather you were also the one who caused the fuse to blow?”

  Benchley froze a moment. Then he turned back to the elevator and pushed the call button again and again. “I’d love to stay and talk, but I really need to find Mrs. Parker! I must tell her about these things. Where is this blessed elevator?!”

  Case softened. His voice lost its edge. “Dear old Maurice must be asleep. Come with me, Mr. Benchley. I’ll put you on the service elevator. It’s faster anyway.”

  Benchley was reluctant to leave the passenger elevator. He felt that it might arrive at any moment, and Dorothy would step out. But then again, if Maurice was asleep and the passenger elevator was not running, Dorothy wouldn’t be on it. So he might as well use the service elevator. He followed after Case and Luigi toward the darkened kitchen.

  Chapter 29

  Jordan finally opened the elevator door, and Dorothy gladly and hurriedly stepped out into the ninth-floor corridor. She led the way back to Dr. Hurst’s room. The door was halfway open. She pushed it open all the way and saw Doyle sitting in an armchair at Dr. Hurst’s bedside and reading a book. When Doyle saw them, he stood up and took off his half-moon reading glasses.

  “I was wondering where you scampered off to,” he said.

  Dorothy and Jordan spoke at the same time.

  “I was looking for Mr. Benchley,” she said.

  “I was looking for you,” Jordan said.

  Doyle eyed them curiously. “Mr. Jordan, I was addressing Mrs. Parker. Are you wont to scamper?”

  Dorothy looked down at Jordan’s clubfooted shoe and wondered, Is he wont to scamper?

  Jordan spoke quickly to Doyle like a schoolboy trying to explain to a stern teacher why he lost his homework. “I left Dr. Hurst by himself for only a few minutes while I went to look for you. Honestly, it was only a few minutes. I-I ran into Mrs. Parker—”

  “Well, I daresay you’ve found me.” Doyle spoke softly, and his droopy eyes were gentle, but Dorothy could hear the challenge in his voice. “What is it you want of me?”

  “The necklace,” Jordan stammered and glanced at Dorothy. He didn’t want to talk about this in front of her, she could tell. “It’s missing. That is—”

  “I am well aware that the necklace is missing,” Doyle said. “But I don’t have it in my possession.”

  “I know. That’s not why I was looking for you. I mean, that’s exactly why I was looking for you—”

  “Make up your mind, young man.”

  Jordan was getting more flustered. “No, you see, I found the necklace—”

  “Oh, did you now? That’s wonderful news. But if you found it, then how can it be missing?”

  “It was stolen!” Jordan said. “I was hoping you could use your . . . your abilities to help me recover it.”

  Doyle’s face clouded over. “My abilities? What abilities?”

  “Because . . .” Jordan stammered. “Because . . .”

  “Because of Sherlock Holmes?” Doyle said wearily. “As I’ve said many a time before, the doll and its maker are never identical.”

  Jordan floundered. “No, no, of course not. It’s just—”

  Dorothy sat on the side of Dr. Hurst’s bed. “Before he solves your mystery for you, perhaps you could do something first?”

  Jordan nodded enthusiastically. “Of course.”

  “Go dow
n to the kitchen and bring back a glass of milk.”

  He was perplexed. “Milk? For you?”

  Dorothy scoffed. “Not for me. For Artie here.”

  Doyle raised his sagging eyes. “For me?”

  She turned to him. “Your stomach is bothering you, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, it is,” he said in surprise. “Indigestion and dyspepsia, very likely from that rich lobster dinner earlier in the evening.”

  “There you have it,” she said to Jordan. “Off you go. Fetch milk for the master.”

  Slowly, still flustered and confused, Jordan backed out of the room.

  She called after him. “And take the service elevator at the far end of the hall. It’s faster.”

  Once he was gone, Doyle turned to Dorothy. “How did you know I was not feeling well?”

  “Elementary!” She looked at him haughtily. “It’s obvious to a trained observer. The dust on the cuff of your sleeve and the smell of your cologne give you away, of course.”

  “Oh, do they?”

  She nodded. “The dust is clearly pollen from Ethiopian honeybees, which is a known irritant of the stomach lining. And that cologne you’re wearing smells of spearmint, which, as anyone knows, all British gentlemen use to mask the scent of bad breath, a common symptom of indigestion.”

  His mustache drooped as he frowned. “Very interesting observations, Mrs. Parker. But entirely incorrect. For instance, how do you account for the facts that I do not have pollen on my sleeve, that there is no such thing as an Ethiopian honeybee, that I am not wearing cologne of any sort and, to the best of my knowledge, I am not emitting bad breath?”

  She spoke airily as though teaching him a lesson. “When you have eliminated the digestible, whatever remains, however indigestible, must be the food.”

  He smiled knowingly. “What Sherlock Holmes actually said was, ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ Now you tell the truth. How did you know my stomach was bothering me?”

  She shrugged and winked. “I heard your stomach gurgling, and I took a wild guess.” She leaned closer. “And I just had to get rid of that Ben Jordan. He’s turning into a real creep.”

 

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