Shamus in a Skirt

by M. Ruth Myers

  Taking a breath, Tucker drew himself up to what height he could muster.

  “Okay, kid,” he said with a wink. “Curtain going up.”

  * * *

  For the next hour or so, I traipsed after Tucker. I met William, the manager, a reserved old gent with noticeable arthritis in his fingers. I met the desk clerk who’d ignored me earlier and now acted faintly embarrassed. I met the maître d’ and the bartender who had replaced the one fired.

  Every dozen steps, or so it seemed, someone on the staff stopped Tucker to ask or tell him something. He called each one of them by name. He introduced me as an efficiency expert, calling me “Miss Sullivan” or “Margaret”. I asked random questions — what was the busiest hour for lunch; what was the average number of tables occupied — and scribbled pointless notes on my clipboard.

  Whenever Tucker got tied up talking to someone, I unfolded my ruler and measured. I was jotting away after one performance when I felt someone watching. Glancing up, I tried not to stare. A man sat on the couch in the small conversation area. He looked as if half his face had been painted over, erasing his features.

  “I guess I can’t put off in back any longer,” Tucker sighed.

  His reluctance became clear as soon as we stepped through a swinging door into the kitchen and housekeeping department. At the sound of his voice a rail-thin woman with a silk chrysanthemum cringing on her bosom, flew out of a side room and lit into him. Miss G. It had to be. Her eyes gave me the Brillo pad treatment.

  “Efficiency expert? I’ll tell you how to be more efficient right now,” she snapped. “Hire somebody to replace that silly girl who got herself killed.”

  Not exactly a font of compassion.

  While the two of them argued about how to keep things sparkling until they found another girl to clean at night, I studied the kitchen that stretched almost the entire width of the hotel. The kitchen door stood open to the alley. Two men were lugging in bushels of apples. Polly Bunten’s body had been discovered in a garbage can two buildings down.

  A white-clad chef and his assistant barked orders as underlings jiggled past each other, chopping, stirring, and setting out platters. It wasn’t their lunch preparations which held my attention, however. It was a staircase squeezed into one corner of the kitchen. Those stairs must be how chambermaids and room service waiters went up and down to the rooms above without bothering guests.

  It also made a handy way for someone to slip up and down unseen. Especially in the dead of night.

  TEN

  Seeing how many demands were made on Tucker’s time was an eye-opener. Assuring him I could find a room one floor up on my own, I picked up my key. Tucker handed me another of his cards. This one had a number written on the back.

  “That’s our private number. Nobody has it but William. It rings day or night.”

  There wasn’t anything to notice inside an elevator. Besides, Tucker had told me it was locked every night at half-past twelve and out of operation until six the next morning. I climbed the stairs to the second floor. The room I was to occupy was immediately across from me, next to the elevator. As I fitted my key in the lock, I heard another door open softly. Before I could determine where it was, it clicked shut.

  The room I let myself into was a far cry from Mrs. Z’s, or anywhere else I’d ever spent the night. My feet left indentations in the thick carpet. Floating on one edge of it was a double bed with a padded headboard covered in cream colored satin. Embroidered garlands of pink flowers embellished the satin. A single small window looked out on the building next door. The window’s pale green draperies matched the bedspread. A nightstand held a telephone and a lamp with a rose colored shade. I was glad no one had accompanied me, leaving me free to gawk.

  The biggest luxury was the bathroom I’d have entirely to myself. At Mrs. Z’s, a dozen of us shared. A tiled ledge surrounding the tub on three sides held soaps and bottles of bath oil.

  Smith had left my suitcase on a folding luggage rack. I shook out my one-and-only other suit and opened the closet to hang it. Someone tapped on the door.

  “Miss Sullivan? It’s Frances Tucker.”

  She hugged a manila envelope to her chest as she entered.

  “I thought I’d be formal in case anyone overheard,” she said when the door had closed. “Smith told me he’d just seen you head up. I hope you don’t mind the small room—”

  “It’s wonderful. Thanks.”

  “Here’s a list of our employees, and one of who was here when the man went missing, and some other things you may find useful. She gestured toward a slipper chair. “May I?”

  She pulled it up and perched on the edge. Taking several sheets of paper from the envelope, she spread them on the bed, pointing as she talked.

  “I’ve made some rough floor plans so you can get an idea of rooms and where people are. This is your floor, for example. Count Szarenski and his family are here, in a suite that’s far too small for four people, really. They’ve put their daughter in what’s intended as the maid or valet’s room, poor thing. Loren Avery and his mother are here, across from them.”

  The perky old lady in the Chinese get-up had been named Avery, I recalled.

  “Next to the Averys we have Lena Shields, in our smallest suite,” Frances was saying, “with her boyfriend — his name’s Nick — conveniently next door in a room much like yours. They’re the pair who were having the blowup yesterday.”

  She hesitated.

  “Be wary of Nick. I overheard two women who stayed here last week gossiping about him. They’d seen him at some resort when he was with a different rich girl. They seemed to think he’s a fortune hunter.”

  “That should eliminate me.”

  She laughed. “He might be a womanizer as well. And he can turn on the charm when he wants. I’ve seen him in action with some of the guests.”

  Legs tucked under me, I sat on the bed and watched as her finger moved over the rest of the drawings. The names of each room’s current occupants had been written in. That was handy. I started to think Frances had a better grasp than her husband of what information might be useful to me.

  “Who’s Bartoz?” I asked, reading the name directly across from Lena Shields.

  “He’s with the Szarenskis. He’s the count’s, um, aide de camp, I guess you’d say. He was with the count in the army.” Frances made a small face. “I’m afraid I don’t really like him. He stands around and watches people.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “No, I don’t think so. And maybe he’s not actually looking at anything. It may just seem that way because, well, he has only one eye. And he seems rather cold.”

  The man whose face had unnerved me, I thought. He must wear some sort of mask or flesh colored eye patch.

  “Are some of the names on these floor plans people from Hollywood?”

  “Yes, the Clarkes and Ronnie — Veronica Page — and a few others. I’m not sure what they’re doing in Dayton. It’s all quite hush-hush. Why?”

  “I just seemed to recall your husband mentioning something about it the day he came to see me. I wanted to be prepared and not jump to conclusions if someone acts screwy.”

  She laughed again and checked her dainty gold wristwatch.

  “I must get back downstairs and do what I can to help Joshua. Miss Gumm keeps going on about being one person short as if it’s the only concern in the whole place.”

  * * *

  The other pages from Frances’ envelope helped me piece together the rest of the hotel’s layout. The second floor, where I was, had more rooms than suites. On the floor above, there were slightly larger suites but only two rooms. The top floor had just four large suites, plus the double one the Tuckers occupied.

  The rear of the hotel, where the count’s suite and the Averys’ suites were located, overlooked the alley. Those two suites were closest to the fire escape, which had a window opening out to it. They were also closest to the service stairs. Lena Shields and boyfriend Ni
ck weren’t much farther away, however. The metal fire escape stairs probably went all the way up to the Tuckers’, but the back stairs used by the hotel staff must end on the floor above me and pick up in a new location to reach the top.

  When I could, I’d take a stroll through the floors above me. For now, I looked at who was staying where. Except for Mrs. Avery, only two names were familiar. Archie Clarke, the guy who’d pushed in yelling about a telegram, was on the top floor. So was Veronica Page, the actress whose name had nearly caused Jenkins to turn cartwheels.

  I put the floor plans back in their envelope and stowed them with a library book and my folding ruler. I didn’t think that accessory for my little charade was necessary when I went down to lunch. The dining room, I figured, was the ideal place to get a look at some of the people staying here. Resisting the urge to try the inviting bed with its pile of pillows, lest I inadvertently close my eyes, I headed down.

  The staircase to the lobby had the added advantage of giving a view of everyone milling about below. As I neared the bottom, I saw the old lady in the red Chinese jacket coming out of the lounge. Her arm was linked with that of a man half her age. His head bent solicitously as he talked. She brushed a hand at him in dismissal.

  “Go hold Archie’s hand,” she told him as I turned toward the dining room. “You know I’ll be fine on my own. We can knock around some other time.”

  Catching sight of me, the old woman came to a halt. Her gaze sharpened.

  “You,” she boomed, pointing at me with a finger whose nail was as red as her jacket. “Get over here.”

  ELEVEN

  I drifted over, wondering what in the devil I’d done. I’d barely exchanged half a dozen words with the woman earlier.

  “Go on now,” the old lady said to the man beside her. “Butter our bread.”

  She offered her cheek, which he kissed obediently. It won him a pat on his arm. Thanks to Frances’ briefing, I guessed he must be the other Avery, the son. As he turned away, Mrs. Avery planted her hands on her hips and gave me the once over.

  “Tell me, girl-who’s-not-a-decorator, are you from around here?”

  “Not too far away.”

  “Are there any museums in this city worth seeing?”

  “There’s a really nice art museum.”

  It was new, ten years old. I went every chance I got.

  “Does it have any nudes? I’m partial to nudes.”

  “Uh, probably. To tell you the truth, I’ve never noticed.”

  She chuckled, a hearty sound midway between laugh and cackle. Whether at my reply or because she was testing me, I couldn’t guess. I also wasn’t sure how Miss Efficiency Expert ought to react.

  “Is it open today? Do you know? My son and I were going to see the sights in the area, but now he’s got to pacify Archie Clarke and get him simmered down.”

  Clarke was the one who’d been in a tizzy over a telegram. I smelled opportunity.

  “Oh, I know it’s open,” I said. “In fact I was going over myself after I checked one more thing here.” I hesitated with what I hoped was the right amount of reticence. “I’ve got a car. I’d be glad to give you a lift.”

  “Honey, you’ve got a deal.” Mrs. Avery broke into a grin. “You give me the ten-cent tour and lunch is on me.”

  * * *

  I’d gambled on a few hours with Mrs. Avery yielding more information than sitting in the hotel dining room. It was a smart bet. She talked almost nonstop from the minute I helped her into my DeSoto. It wasn’t mindless chatter; she was an intelligent woman, well read and interested in everything we passed.

  She said we ought to eat before we hit the museum, so I took her to a two-story red building on Springfield Street. It was far enough out that no one who knew me was likely to come ambling up. The Union Stockyards once had occupied the spot.

  “You’re okay,” Mrs. Avery said as we sipped gin and tonics. “Not nearly as dull as that job of yours makes you sound.”

  She’d made a face when I answered her question about why I had the ruler. She didn’t seem eager to know any more when I told her I did time-motion studies.

  “What about you?” I asked. “You said your son was here on some kind of business?”

  “He’s a choreographer. He’s working on Archie Clarke’s big new picture. There, that’s all I’m allowed to say.” She twisted a hand in front of her lips as if locking them.

  I made a pretense of frowning.

  “Clarke. That’s the man who was upset over the telegram? Gee, I hope it wasn’t telling him a relative died.”

  The old woman snorted. “Archie wouldn’t put his fork down for that. His biggest star just wired from Havana saying she won’t get here til Monday. Routes out of France were all blocked so she and the people she’s with had to sneak into Greece and then hire somebody with a yacht to bring them to Cuba. We haven’t heard from her in almost two weeks. Loren’s been frantic.”

  It took some effort to absorb the reality of what she was saying. It took even more to maintain the role I was playing.

  “It’s that bad over there?”

  Her head bobbed affirmation as she cut into the steak just placed before her.

  “That’s why Loren and I came back last fall. When Hitler went into Poland, it didn’t take specs to read the handwriting on the wall. Those Nazis were likely to march into France; maybe even cross the channel. We didn’t want to get stuck.”

  She popped a bite of meat into her mouth and gave a moan of pleasure as she chewed.

  “Now this is what I call a steak.”

  It signaled her desire to change the subject, which was fine by me. An unseen shadow had edged its way onto our table.

  * * *

  Eulahbell’s stamina put to shame that of women half her age. As we crossed the river and she got her first view of the tile roof the Art Institute on its hill, she exclaimed with delight. Inside, she set course immediately for the double staircase. Her red jacket bobbed in front of me as she raced up the marble steps.

  We trotted through every floor and saw, I felt certain, every painting, plate and statue in the place. I managed to learn a couple of things about people at the hotel. Veronica Page was “a swell gal” who traded books and recommendations with her whenever they bumped into each other traveling. The actress coming from Cuba was named Mitzi, and she was “a ball of fire”. While vacationing in France, she’d struck up a friendship with an American woman married to a Frenchman, and when he was killed and things fell apart faster than anyone anticipated, the two of them had thrown in together to get out of the country. Eulahbelle Avery traveled with her son because he wouldn’t hear of her staying alone and she wasn’t about to have what she considered a nursemaid.

  When we finally returned to the hotel, I let her out at the door. Eulahbelle thanked me effusively. I parked in a gravel parking lot halfway down the block that had some spaces set aside for hotel guests and took my sweet time walking back. The small lounge at the hotel was deserted, which I took to be a sign I should slake my thirst and do a little more work before heading upstairs.

  “What will it be for the lovely Miss Sullivan?” the bartender asked as he straightened from the afternoon paper spread on the bar before him.

  My eyebrows raised.

  “You know my name?”

  “Yep. Got the word you’re here doing efficiency studies. What’s your poison?”

  “Martini with an extra olive.”

  According to the list Frances had given me, his name was Len Welles. His brown hair was just unruly enough to be on the sassy side. He’d replaced the man who was fired, and Polly’s death made him the hotel’s most recent employee.

  “On the house,” he said, sliding the glass in front of me and crossing his arms on the bar with a grin.

  “Oh, I couldn’t,” I said primly.

  “Oh, you must. I’m wildly inefficient. I’m going to need personal tutoring to bring me up to snuff.”

  I laughed in spite of myself. He
was flirting. The question was, what lay behind it?

  Len was a bit too breezy for an establishment like The Canterbury. It made talking to him all the more fun. His fingers were smooth and well-tended enough for safe cracking, but that applied to quite a few men in the hotel. Trimming my list of suspects here wasn’t going to be easy.

  Halfway through my martini three men came in engaged in affable disagreement.

  “Come on, if Congress agrees to send weapons to England and Germany defeats them, the Germans will turn around and use those weapons against us.”

  “And if we don’t send them, England doesn’t have weapons to defend itself!”

  “Because they left their own tanks in France when they retreated.”

  Bypassing the bar, they went to a table.

  “Engineers here to meet with Boss Kett. Got in this morning,” Len whispered as he left to wait on them.

  I used the opportunity to slip away.

  A girl now occupied one of the chairs in the conversation area near the elevator. She was maybe fourteen with a round face and hair so brown it was almost black. It coiled in a braid at the crown of her head. She was looking down at her lap and chewing her nails with a vigor which made me wince.

  I’d been a nail biter once, when I was younger than this girl. A woman my father knew had told me I had pretty hands and ought to wear nail polish. She’d held them in hers and filed and fussed, and then used pale pink polish which she gave me to keep. It was only later that I learned the truth about Maeve Murphy and my father.

  On the couch to the right of the girl sat the man with the distorted face, the one I now knew to be Bartoz. He was facing the door, as if to keep tabs on everyone who entered the lobby. There was something insolent in the way he sat. Defiance over his missing eye? A black patch would have drawn little notice. The flesh-colored one he wore instead was jarring.

  As I passed, I sensed more than heard him stand up behind me. I started up the stairs. At the second floor, I veered to the edge of the landing. I gripped the railing and peered down at the lobby. A few steps behind me, Bartoz also came to a stop.