A Friendly Game of Murder

by J. J. Murphy

  Dorothy lowered the book and found herself looking at the old man in the bed. Both of his eyes were open, and he stared back at her. He raised a hand, which was curled tight like a claw. He moaned, “Tête-bêche . . . !”

  His head dropped back to the pillow from the effort. His eyes closed, and once again he was still. Jordan went to the bed to check on the elderly man.

  “Is he still alive?” she asked.

  Jordan nodded.

  “So,” Woollcott said slowly, “the valuable stolen item is not the locket. It’s a postage stamp.”

  “A pair of them, at least,” she said.

  “Which must be hidden inside the locket,” Benchley said.

  “But that brings us back to the same old question,” Jordan said. “How do we find the locket?”

  Woollcott snapped at him, “I’ll ask the questions, if it’s all the same to you.” Then he turned to Dorothy. “Very well then, how do we find the locket?”

  She frowned in reply. “We need a detective, Aleck. A real detective.”

  Chapter 35

  Dorothy knocked on the door of Doyle’s room.

  There was no answer at first. Then from inside he called quietly, “Come in.”

  She opened the door and poked her head into the room. It was so dim that she could barely see anything. Only one tiny votive candle in a small glass placed on the dresser gave the room the faintest glow. Eventually she perceived Doyle sitting on the edge of the bed and facing away from her. He appeared to be staring at something on the wall—and mumbling to himself?

  Then without turning around he said, “Good early morning, Dorothy.”

  “Good morning to you,” she answered automatically. Then she realized that he couldn’t see her and she hadn’t even said anything. “Hold on, Artie, how did you know it’s me?”

  Only then did he turn to her. He spoke in a quiet but happy voice. “My son told me.”

  She had a cold feeling. “Your son?”

  He nodded. “I was just speaking with him.”

  “You were?” She didn’t see anyone else in the room. “So where is he?”

  Again Doyle’s voice sounded happy—delighted, even. “He’s passed on.”

  “Come again?”

  “He died during the Great War. He was injured in the battle of the Somme, and in his weakened state he caught influenza and died. On rare occasions his spirit now comes to visit me.”

  She involuntarily shuddered. Was Doyle really talking to the ghost of his son? Or, most likely, was he just plain crazy? Either way, she was unnerved by it. She was particularly disturbed by his happy, almost giddy mood as he talked of his own dead child.

  “Oh yes?” she said as breezily as she could, as though speaking to the spirit of one’s deceased son was a perfectly ordinary thing to do. “How’s tricks with him?”

  “Just heavenly, thank you for asking,” Doyle said with a pleased smile.

  Was he putting her on? Did he really believe in such nonsense?

  Then another thought struck her. She hesitated to speak, but only for a moment. After all, what did she have to lose? “Listen, can your son give us any clue about how to find that missing locket? Or tell us who killed Bibi? Or where her body went?”

  “Well,” Doyle said, a little put off, “I suppose I can ask.”

  He turned away to face the wall again, then mumbled something. Dorothy stood and waited and felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end as she listened. She heard only Doyle’s voice, but it was the complete ordinariness of his tone—so matter-of-fact that he might have been chatting with someone on the telephone—that spooked her.

  At last his mumbling stopped, and he turned again to her. “He’s gone.”

  Like father, like son, she thought. He’s gone, all right.

  “Switch the light on, please,” he said. “I can hardly see you there.”

  She flipped the wall switch by the door, and suddenly the small room was bathed in bright light. Doyle rose and shielded his eyes. He went over to the candle and blew it out.

  “So,” Dorothy finally said, “where did he go?”

  Doyle shrugged. “Well . . . everywhere and nowhere.”

  “What’s your son’s name?”

  “Kingsley. A fine boy.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “You really believe in it? In Spiritualism?” She blurted it out before she could think twice.

  He smiled, not offended. “I abandoned my congenial and lucrative work, traveled long and far away from home and subjected myself to all sorts of inconveniences, losses and even insults to bring the truth to people. It’s been my sole mission for some years now.”

  “Some years?” she asked. “How long have you been at it?”

  “My interest started in middle age, I suppose. It’s increased over the years. The older I get, the stronger my conviction grows.”

  “And your conviction has grown stronger . . . after your son died?”

  He smiled again. “I had been searching for answers long before Kingsley died.”

  She thought about this. “Must be sad to lose a son. Must be heartbreaking.”

  He beamed with the face of the converted. “But that’s the importance of Spiritualism! We’re never alone. There isn’t really an end to life.”

  She didn’t know whether to pity him or to envy him. We’re never alone. . . . It’d be nice to feel such comfort, she thought.

  But she couldn’t swallow the idea whole. Did Doyle really think he could talk to the spirit of his dead son? She looked at his beatific face, and she realized that it didn’t matter. Whether he imagined it or not, the effect was the same. He was happy in his knowledge, and that was that. She couldn’t argue facts against faith—not with such a pleasant, even jubilant old fellow, at any rate.

  She took a deep breath. “What did your son say to you? Does he know who killed Bibi?”

  “He did not say. He could not say.”

  “Oh . . .” She felt her skepticism rise higher.

  “But he did propose two ideas.”

  “Yeah? Let’s hear ’em.”

  “He told me: ‘Put Toby on the scent. And set a trap.’”

  She looked at Doyle for a further explanation, but he didn’t offer one. Finally she asked, “Who the heck is Toby?”

  Doyle bit his lip and chewed at his big walrus mustache. “Toby was a dog in a Sherlock Holmes story—a dog with an amazing power of smell. Holmes and Watson used Toby to track down a villain.”

  “I gather this pooch is purely fictional?”

  He nodded. “It’s my assumption that Kingsley was referring to your little dog, Woody.”

  “Woody? He’s a chowhound, not a bloodhound.”

  He shrugged his big shoulders.

  “All right,” she said with a sigh. “I suppose it’s a spirit’s nature to be vague on the details. So what did he mean, ‘set a trap’?”

  “Kingsley was somewhat more specific about that. He said to take the top hat—Mr. Woollcott’s hat, I presume—and play a new game. Like the game you played before.”

  She felt the hairs on her neck and scalp rise again. “Murder? Your son wants us to play Murder?”

  Doyle nodded. “‘Only use a different slip of paper this time,’ he said. Does that make sense to you?”

  She thought a moment; then she chuckled. “As a matter of fact, Artie, it does make sense to me. It’s one hell of an idea! Come on, now. You’re coming with me to the dining room—to the Round Table. Soon we’ll point the finger at Bibi’s killer.”

  Chapter 36

  Darting between chairs and under tables, Woodrow Wilson tugged at his leash. The dog wasn’t often allowed into the Algonquin din
ing room, and he was very excited. His stubby tail wagged rapidly. When he saw Benchley standing by the Round Table, the dog yanked Dorothy across the room. Doyle, bemused, followed behind them.

  “Hello, my friendly little fellow,” Benchley said, reaching down and scratching the dog on the head. “You’re certainly wide-awake for such an early morning hour.”

  “That makes one of us,” Dorothy said with a yawn.

  All the chandeliers were fully lit. The dining room was as bright as day, though it wasn’t yet dawn. Waiters and other members of the hotel staff were beginning to hustle in and out, getting ready for the breakfast service. Benchley grabbed one of them. “Excuse me, my good man. Can you please bring Mrs. Parker some coffee?”

  Dorothy smiled. Good old Benchley. He was always there for her.

  The waiter, a tall fellow, was the one who had hardly answered Dorothy on the stairs. The man gave Benchley a similarly unhelpful response—an indifferent nod—and moved toward the kitchen.

  Doyle called after him. “And perhaps a cup of tea, my good man?”

  The waiter didn’t even turn around. He disappeared through the swinging kitchen doors. They caught a glimpse between the doors and saw the kitchen staff cleaning up the mess from earlier.

  “I guess it might be awhile before the hot beverages arrive,” Benchley said, and gave Woody another pat on the head. “We don’t see this fellow down here too often. To what do we owe the delightful pleasure of his company?”

  Dorothy pointed her thumb at Doyle. “Artie gave me the idea. He didn’t come up with it himself—that’s another story—but he gave it to me. We’ll use Woody to track down Bibi or her murderer. Or both. We’ll see how it goes.”

  Benchley looked amused and curious. “How exactly is Woody going to do that?”

  She turned to Doyle. “Yes, how will he do that?”

  “Typically the bloodhound already knows the quarry’s scent. So in a fox hunt the dogs are set off in an area where they’re likely to pick up the trail. But in instances in which the hounds are unfamiliar with the quarry, if they’re being trained for the first time, the huntsman introduces an item that possesses the fox’s scent—a scrap of something from the fox’s den, for instance.”

  “His robe and slippers?” Benchley asked.

  “Not quite,” Doyle said. “Now, with human quarry—a fugitive prisoner or a missing child, for example—the hound is often given an article of the person’s clothing. Do you have something of Bibi’s? Where did her clothes go, after all?”

  Dorothy thought about this but was interrupted by the presence of Frank Case, who carried a steaming silver carafe. “I thought I heard your voices out here. Care for coffee?”

  She picked up a china cup and saucer from a nearby place setting. “Thanks, Frank. Just what the doctor ordered.”

  “Actually,” Doyle said with a smile, “I ordered tea. But coffee would be lovely. Thank you.”

  He, too, held out a cup, and so did Benchley. Case filled all three with the hot black coffee. Just the rich, roasted smell perked Dorothy up. Woody sat on his haunches and looked at her imploringly.

  Case turned to leave. “Is there anything else I can get for you?” he asked, almost as an afterthought.

  “Yes,” Dorothy said brightly. “Everyone.”

  The hotel manager stopped in his tracks with a puzzled expression. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Get everyone, please. Thank you.”

  “Get everyone? What exactly do you mean, Mrs. Parker?”

  “Bring everyone down here. We need to get this whole thing finally sorted out. And we need everyone to do so.”

  “Everyone? Every person in the entire hotel?”

  She thought about this. “Is that a tall order? Okay then. Get everyone who was at Fairbanks’ party last night. That should be good enough.”

  Case set the coffee carafe on the Round Table with a plunk. “Mrs. Parker, you know very well I can’t do that. I can’t go around the hotel waking up our guests at six o’clock in the morning.”

  “Not to worry,” she said. “Mr. Benchley already woke them up by ringing all the telephones a short while ago. You just need to bring them down here.”

  Benchley grinned sheepishly.

  “For what possible reason?” Case asked.

  She sipped the hot coffee. It soothed her and roused her at the same time. “For breakfast, of course.”

  Case folded his arms.

  She smiled. “I want to catch them unaware. We’ll start with a grilling of bacon and eggs—followed by a grilling of the suspects.”

  He took a deep breath. “We are not prepared to provide breakfast service for so many guests all at once.”

  She smirked. “And are you really prepared to last out this quarantine? A quarantine may have seemed like an inconvenient yet jolly good idea last night, when we were all in a party mood. But I’m sure the reality of it is sinking in now, isn’t it, Frank? How are you going to feed and entertain a hotel full of cranky guests for a week or more—especially with a skeleton crew of surly, overworked waiters and maids?”

  Case thought about this. He rocked back on his heels. “You make a good point—”

  She spoke quickly. “If we carry out a one-by-one interview of the suspects and a little sniffing by my canny canine here, we’ll have Bibi’s killer in our hands in no time—and we’ll get the quarantine lifted, too. So what do you say?”

  Case nodded. “I say that’s an intriguing idea. But I’ve already called the Health Department to cancel the quarantine—to come down and remove the sign and the seal from the front doors.”

  Her eyes went wide. “Why did you do that?”

  Case was confused. “Dr. Doyle confirmed that the Simpson family has chicken pox, not smallpox. There’s no longer any need for the quarantine.”

  “Yes, there most certainly is!” she said. “It’s the quarantine that’s keeping the killer inside this hotel. If the quarantine is lifted, and the doors are unlocked, then it’s bye-bye to Bibi’s murderer.”

  He pursed his lips in thought.

  She said, “How long until the authorities get here?”

  “With all the snow out there, and it being New Year’s Day, it could be as much as an hour until they arrive.”

  “Only an hour? They’ll be here that soon?” Then she spoke as much to herself as to the others. “How can this city be so abysmally inefficient when you actually need something and yet miraculously on its toes when you don’t?”

  “Very well,” Case said, resolved. “I certainly don’t want to be the one who let a murderer go free from under my own roof. I’ll do my best to get everyone down here right away, and you can have your grilling.” He turned and hurried off.

  They watched him go. Woody, bored, stretched and lay down on the carpet.

  “Oh no, my little man, you have work to do,” she said to the dog. “You need to track down a dead body.”

  Doyle frowned. “But with what, I daresay? The last time anyone saw the woman, she was naked as a jaybird. Where can we find Miss Bibelot’s clothes to give the dog her scent?”

  Dorothy thought, trying to remember Bibi’s movements and actions the night before. She snapped her fingers, and Woody jumped to his paws. “I think I have it. Remember how Bibi made her grand entrance into the lobby? She dropped her coat to the floor and flaunted herself in her little high-hemmed flapper’s dress.”

  Benchley shook his head. “That must have been before I arrived.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Follow me.”

  Tugging the dog on his leash, she led the way through the dining room and back into the lobby. She aimed at first toward the front door, but then she turned right toward the coat-check closet.

  “Here,” she said. “I think Bibi left her coat here.�
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  The entrance to the coat closet was a Dutch door, the top of which was partially open. Dorothy reached in and unlatched the bottom half of the door. She yanked a cord to turn on the overhead light, and then she quickly ferreted through the many coats, wraps and jackets.

  “Bibi came in wearing an ankle-length silver fur coat. I’d remember it anywhere—and here it is!”

  She held out a long, fuzzy garment of silky silver fur. Woody sniffed at it curiously.

  “Well done, Mrs. Parker,” Benchley said.

  Doyle reached out to feel it. “Dear me, is that—silver fox? How extraordinary. I was just speaking of foxes, wasn’t I? Perhaps her spirit is communicating to me . . . ?” He gently stroked the lustrous fur.

  “Nonsense,” Dorothy said, pulling the coat from his touch. “You must have seen her enter the building just like everyone else. That planted the seed of thought in your head, that’s all.”

  Doyle looked doubtful but didn’t argue with her.

  “Well, now we have the fox,” Benchley said. “Let’s see what the hound can do.”

  They all looked at the little dog. He plopped down on his rear end and lazily scratched behind his ear with his hind paw.

  “Woody,” she said, presenting the fur to him. “Here, smell this. Smell Bibi. That’s right. Smell that little vixen.”

  The dog sniffed at the fur indifferently at first; then he dug his nose deep into it and snorted up whatever it was that he smelled. He pulled his snout out and sneezed.

  “Bless you,” Dorothy said with motherly affection. Then she looked up at Doyle. “How do we get him to follow the scent?”

  “How, you ask?” he said. Then he bellowed deep as a bassoon, “Release the hounds!”