Desolation Flats

by Andrew Hunt

  “What have you got in mind?” asked Myron.

  “A return trip to the Hotel Utah,” I said. “Care to join me?”

  DeVoy Beckstead suddenly lit up: “Hey, mind if I tag along? I’m going stir crazy in here.”

  I was still staring at Myron. He closed his eyes and offered a solemn nod.

  “Make it snappy,” I said, rising from my chair. “We haven’t got all day.”

  Twenty-six

  By the time DeVoy Beckstead and I arrived at the Hotel Utah in the late morning, I was starting to feel like I was spending too much time there. Once again, the same colorful banner high above greeted me:

  SALT LAKE CITY WELCOMES THE FOURTEENTH ANNUAL NORTH AMERICAN RADIO SELLERS’ CONVENTION.

  Today, however, the crowds had thinned out to a dedicated few convention-goers milling about on the last day of the event, sitting on chairs and couches, smoking and chin-wagging about the latest models for 1939. With DeVoy behind me, I headed past potted palms and the barred windows for Western Union and various ticket agents: Union Pacific, Denver & Rio Grande Western, and United Airlines; past Jorgensen’s Floral Shop and the bustling Lafayette Ballroom, where diners feasted on a ritzy breakfast buffet.

  In the center of the lobby, a pair of teenage newsies hawked newspapers: “Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Famous English motorist Clive Underhill is missing!” “Don’t miss the afternoon edition of the Examiner! Learn the details of world-famous English racer Clive Underhill disappearing!”

  I leaned near DeVoy. “Let me do the talking.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “May I help you, sir?” asked a desk clerk I hadn’t seen before.

  “Yes, please,” I said, producing my badge. “Detective Art Oveson, Salt Lake City Police. This is Detective DeVoy Beckstead.”

  DeVoy held up his badge as well.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Nils Thornton,” he said. “Assistant manager.”

  “Good to know you, Thornton. I was wondering if I could ask you about an employee of yours who’s gone missing.”

  “Are you talking about Mr. Booker?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “He’s never missed a day of work in the two years he’s been here. His parents dropped by here this morning looking for him. I told them I had no idea when he finished. I checked his time card. He did not punch out at the end of his shift.”

  “Were you working at the time his shift ended?” asked DeVoy.

  “Yes,” said Thornton.

  “But you didn’t see him actually leave the building?” asked DeVoy.

  “No. At six o’clock, the Lafayette was packed, and there were a hundred or more out in the lobby.”

  “What about the rear entrance of the hotel?” I asked.

  “What about it?”

  “I’m assuming there would’ve been a lot of folks around there as well?” I said.

  “The whole ground level was packed that time of the evening,” he said.

  “I see. It’d help if I could talk to Mr. Metzger,” I said.

  “He’s no longer in our employ.”

  “Oh? When did he quit?”

  “He failed to show up yesterday, and today, as well. I tried to reach him by telephone, but to no avail. Our night watchman, Owen Nebecker, has been promoted to head detective.”

  “May I speak to him?” I asked.

  “Certainly. I’ll ring him.”

  Thornton lifted a telephone. “Mr. Nebecker’s office, please. Yes, I’ll hold.” Several seconds passed. Then: “Mr. Nebecker, this is Thornton at the front desk. Some police detectives wish to speak to you.” Pause. “Thank you. I’ll let them know.”

  Thornton hung up and smiled. “He’ll be right here.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Behind my back, the newsies were unrelenting.

  “One nickel buys you all the news you need to know! Paper, mister?”

  I turned face-to-face with a kid, who couldn’t have been more than thirteen, wearing a plaid newsboy cap. He held up the front page: FBI AGENTS COMB STATE FOR MISSING BRITISH RACER.

  My eyes dropped to a smaller—yet still sizable—headline halfway down: EX-POLICEMAN NUMBER-ONE SUSPECT IN FED KIDNAPPING PROBE.

  “Paper, mister? Only one nickel.”

  I reached in my pocket, scooped out a handful of coins, and dropped a dime in his hand.

  “Keep the change.”

  “Gee, thanks, mister!”

  He handed me a paper, then went back to his preferred spot to resume peddling. A photo splashed across page A-1 showed Clive Underhill’s futuristic car roaring across the Flats on Saturday, before it overturned. A smaller image inserted above the car showed Underhill himself in happier days, complete with his leather helmet and his thick goggles perched atop his head.

  “The phone has been ringing off the hook,” Thornton said.

  I looked up at him. “Come again?”

  “Our switchboard has been buzzing all morning with calls about Mr. Underhill, ever since the FBI announced he’s missing.”

  “What sort of calls?” asked DeVoy.

  “The press, mostly,” said Thornton. “They call constantly, hoping for updates, which of course we don’t have, because we’ve no idea what’s happening.”

  I nodded, holding up the newspaper. “One of the stories here suggests that Underhill may’ve been kidnapped.”

  “I’m under strict instructions not to publicly discuss either of the Underhills,” he said. “I don’t wish to add to the churning rumor mill. Reckless talk of abductions and murder can only undermine this establishment’s fine reputation.”

  “Of course, I get it,” I said. Right as I said that, I suddenly remembered Blue Booker telling me about delivering some pillows to room 710 in the wee hours of Sunday morning. “By the way, can you tell me if someone was staying in room seven-ten on Saturday night?”

  He rotated the large guest book so he could read it, and he ran his finger down a series of lined columns, filled in with neat penmanship. His finger stopped, he made a long face, and looked up at me. “Mr. A. J. Randolph, manager of station WTAM, Cleveland, Ohio, stayed there. Didn’t leave any contact information. It lists his hometown as Cleveland Heights.”

  “I see,” I said. “What about that couple from Canada—Claude and Grace McKenna? Are they still staying in the room seven-oh-four? I’d like to talk to them again, if I could.”

  He checked and shook he head as he looked up at me. “Nobody by that name staying there. The guest in seven-oh-four that night was Horace Reynolds of the Radio Corporation of America, Chicago offices. Says here he checked out the next day.”

  His words chilled me. “Who were Claude and Grace McKenna then?”

  “I don’t know. They’re not in the guest book.”

  The new Hotel Utah detective arrived. He was younger than Metzger, likely in his late twenties or early thirties. He was a clean-cut golden boy, with a prominent chin and sinewy neck. I filled him in on Winston “Blue” Booker’s disappearance, and he listened intently to my every word, nodding from time to time. At some point in the conversation, I switched gears, bringing up Metzger and my need to question him about Booker.

  “Metzger’s gone,” said Nebecker.

  “Gone?” echoed DeVoy. “You mean he skipped town?”

  “I’m not sure. I tried looking for him yesterday when he failed to show up at work. I called the landlady at his apartment building. She said he’s gone. Moved out. He picked this place clean. Didn’t leave so much as a file folder behind. He took all of the office supplies—you know, the stapler, pen set, ruler, paper, and even the darn city directory. Good riddance, I say.”

  “Why?” asked DeVoy. “Was he that bad?”

  “I kept my distance from him,” said Nebecker. “He had a mean temper, and he was involved in some shady groups. A few years ago, he pressured me to join some hate group he’s involved with. Something with legion in the name.”

&nbs
p; “The Platinum Legion?” I asked.

  “That’s it!” Nebecker snapped his finger. “Real scary group. They want to overthrow the government and prop up Hitler. Before that, Metzger was in the Klan, but he dropped out of it at some point. He used to brag that he started the local chapter here in Salt Lake City, but he said it dried up. I’ll tell ya, he had high hopes for the Platinum Legion. Said they were gonna start a revolution. I wasn’t gonna have any part of that business, I’ll tell you that.”

  “Would you be willing to testify to any of this in a court of law?” asked DeVoy.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not unless Metzger’s in the cold, dead ground. He’s a dangerous man.”

  “Any chance you’d be willing to take us up to room seven-oh-four?” I asked.

  “Why?”

  “The other day, I questioned a woman claiming to be from Canada who said she was staying in the room,” I said. “It turns out she was lying to me. Someone else was staying there. Horace Reynolds of the Radio Corporation of America. I just want to examine the place. I won’t be long.”

  He fished a large ring out of his pocket that jangled with keys.

  “Right this way.”

  Up the elevator we went, which opened onto to an adjoining suite and bedroom. Spotless. Elegant furniture filled the large carpeted space, and several spectacular seascape oil paintings were hanging on the walls. He switched on the lights and stepped aside. DeVoy and I found the bed meticulously made and everything in its place. We looked around the room, our footsteps muted by plush carpet. DeVoy leaned over to get a better look at the Zenith console radio in the corner of the room. I picked up a Holy Bible off the bedside table. The blue ribbon marker was holding a place in the Book of Joshua.

  Finding nothing unusual about the pristine room, we thanked Nebecker for his help, and then spent an hour questioning hotel employees who had been on duty Tuesday, the day Booker went missing. Nobody had witnessed anything out of the ordinary, although the news about Claude and Estelle McKenna amounted to a major breakthrough. She was the only witness who actually claimed to see Roscoe assaulting Nigel Underhill. Now it seemed clear that the mystery woman definitely wasn’t who she claimed to be.

  * * *

  I slowed my car on Foothill Drive when the Bonneville municipal golf course came into view. Not a moment too soon, either. DeVoy had been prattling endlessly about a series of opera records that he’d blown his last paycheck on, and he started comparing the sound quality of these two record labels that specialized in classical music. I pretended to care by nodding and saying “uh-huh” and “oh, is that so?” over and over, but the truth is, I couldn’t care less about anything he was saying. So far that morning, the only encouraging development had been the movement of dark storm clouds over the valley, threatening rain. As a result, the temperatures had cooled substantially, down into the high 70s, and the air had that rainy smell.

  Bonneville was a picturesque golf course up on the east bench, near Hogle Zoo and the This Is The Place Monument, at the mouth of Emigration Canyon. I found the parking lot, shut off the car, and we got out. DeVoy scanned the rows of automobiles all around us. He plucked a linen hanky out of his pocket and dabbed the beads of perspiration on his face.

  “You sure he’s here?”

  “I’ve ruled out everyplace else,” I said.

  “After you, sir,” said DeVoy.

  We crossed the parking lot to the green. The freshly mowed emerald grass hummed with activity. Caddies towed bags of clubs, and golfers teed off. Most wore caps or visors to shade their eyes. I caught sight of my brother Frank at the sixth hole. He had on an airy white polo shirt with navy-colored trousers, and he wore his flat cap low to keep the sun out of his eyes. He furrowed his brow when he spotted me. It was not my imagination: He was not pleased to see me. His golfing partner wore a seersucker shirt, airy khakis, and saddle shoes. I did not know him, this man with my brother, but I recognized him from somewhere. His kept his dark hair tightly slicked back, and he had bulging eyes—always searching—and bulldoggish jowls. I kept wondering: Where had I seen him before?

  “Hey kid,” said my brother, walking toward me. “What are you doing here?”

  He stopped a few feet away and eyed DeVoy.

  “This is my partner, DeVoy Beckstead,” I said. “DeVoy, this my brother, Special Agent Franklin Oveson.”

  They exchanged handshakes. “Call me Frank.”

  DeVoy nodded. “Will do, sir.”

  Frank looked at me with a raised eyebrow. “Well? How about it?”

  Suddenly, the man with my brother cut in front of him, extending his right hand. “I’m J. Edgar Hoover, director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  My mouth fell open in shock. “Art Oveson,” I managed to say. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Likewise. Nice, firm handshake, son. I like that.”

  He released my hand and offered his to DeVoy, who proved equally at a loss for words, a rarity for this heavy talker. Hoover stepped away from DeVoy and looked me up and down.

  “Your brother speaks highly of you,” he said. “We recruit heavily among the Mormons, you know. They don’t drink, don’t smoke, don’t use profanity, and don’t carry on with the ladies until all hours. Yes, indeed, they represent the ideal pool of prospective employees.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were here, otherwise I wouldn’t have—”

  “Nonsense,” said Hoover, raising his golf club, flashing a grin. “Quite the sport. I find it remarkably exhilarating, in its own peculiar way.”

  “As you can see, I’m busy at the moment,” Frank told me. “Can it wait?”

  “Applesauce!” protested Hoover. “He came all the way out here. Surely, there must be something we can do to help.”

  I hesitated, but with Hoover smiling and Frank glaring, I knew I had to say something. “It’s about the Underhill investigation.”

  “You were ordered to stay away from it,” Frank said. “It’s in our good hands.”

  “A Negro bellhop who works at the Hotel Utah has gone missing,” I said. “His name is Winston Booker. Goes by the nickname Blue. His parents dropped by Public Safety this morning to report his disappearance.”

  “Why are you interrupting our game to tell me this?” asked Frank.

  “I suspect his disappearance has something to do with Clive Underhill vanishing,” I said. “I’m convinced if we find Booker, there’s a good chance Underhill won’t be far away.”

  “We?” asked Frank testily.

  I sighed. “Look, I can’t be responsible for any overlap this may have with the Underhill investigation.”

  “Then leave it alone,” Frank said.

  “His folks reported him missing,” I said. “I can’t ignore it.”

  Frank hooked me by the elbow and tugged me away from the prying ears of DeVoy and J. Edgar Hoover. Near the trunk of a towering oak, he leaned in close and spoke in a near-whisper. “I see what you’re up to.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “You’re trying to save Roscoe’s neck. It’s not going to work.”

  “You’ve got to listen to me, Frank,” I said. “The house dick at the Hotel Utah, Dooley Metzger, most likely had a hand in Booker’s disappearance. I know for a fact he scared Booker into giving the police a false eyewitness testimony implicating Roscoe in the murder of Nigel Underhill. Metzger also concocted a phony Canadian couple to corroborate Booker’s claims. He even found a woman to play the part of the wife. I’m telling you, Frank, he’s rotten to the core. Used to be in the Klan. Now he’s in the Platinum Legion. I have a feeling he’s in on some sinister dealings, and he scared Booker into providing false testimony in order to throw the police off his trail. Now he’s gone, too. It seems like everybody’s disappearing, but you can’t be bothered with it.”

  “You know what I think, kid?”

  “No. What?”

  “You rubbed elbows with the rich and fa
mous after you saved Clive Underhill’s life out at the Salt Flats on Saturday,” he said. “It went to your head. You don’t want it to end. But there’s plenty you don’t know about his disappearance. For instance, Director Hoover has reason to believe Underhill’s been kidnapped, and this abduction is the work of a cunning criminal who’s out for the money. There are no higher principles at work here than that.”

  “Kidnapped? Where’s the ransom note? What are the kidnappers asking for, exactly?”

  “The specifics are none of your concern,” said Frank. “All you need to know is Roscoe Lund is our number one suspect. He’s our murderer and our kidnapper. I’m certain of it. Think about it. He’s heavily in debt. His house is about to be foreclosed. He can’t make ends meet with his crummy detective agency. He’s got a daughter to support. I think he went there to abduct Clive, and Nigel got in the way.”

  I shook my head. “None of that proves anything.”

  “Sure it does. It all adds up to a desperate man, who’d resort to extreme measures for pecuniary gain. Believe me, kid, I know what I’m talking about. I’ve been around the block a fair bit more than you have, and the last thing I need is law-enforcement tips from a greenhorn like you.”

  “What about Winston Booker?” I asked.

  “What about him?”

  “I don’t trust the FBI to mount a proper search for him,” I said.

  Now Frank was glowering at me. “Listen, I’ll spell this out for you as clearly as possible, because you’re no good at grasping subtleties. There are politics involved here that you cannot even begin to understand. Director Hoover expects a swift resolution to this case. Careers and promotions and funding are on the line. We’re working with a great deal of information to which you’re not privy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got twelve more holes to play with the most powerful man in America.”

  “I won’t give up until I find Booker.”

  He let out a long and deep sigh, and his glower melted into a forlorn gaze. The silence allowed me to reflect. Since the time my father was murdered, when I was twelve, going on thirteen, Frank had assumed responsibility as the next-in-line patriarch, and he was not used to having his orders disobeyed. My defiance left him at a loss for words. He left me in the middle of the golf course, and as I watched him walking away, I began to wonder what—if any—consequences awaited me for my little act of rebellion.