by Alan Russell
“Maybe,” said Sharon, her excitement ill suppressed.
Her tone made Am turn around. Sharon’s face was flushed. “Notice the signatures,” she said.
He was prepared to tell her that an individual’s signature could vary greatly, the result of everything from a guest’s being drunk to their using any handy surface (a server's back was quite often the object of choice) to sign a check. But the David Stern who had signed three other room service checks was clearly not the same David Stern who had signed for the last bottle of bubbly. There had to be a logical answer.
Almost triumphantly, Am announced, “The woman signed for it.”
Sharon stared at the writing. “That doesn't look like a woman's signature.”
It was Am's turn to scrutinize the scrawl once more. The handwriting did look masculine. “Lots of women have a blocky signature.”
Sharon didn't appear to be listening. She handed Am a copy of another charge. “Did she sign for the dry cleaning, too?”
Am looked at the invoice. A man's suit had been drycleaned—no, express-cleaned, the one-hour service. The same hand that had signed for the cleaning had signed for the champagne.
“Apparently so,” he said.
“That's funny,” said Sharon. “According to the time and date when this was signed, she should have been dead for at least twelve hours.”
XXXVIII
Am wondered how it was that the dead kept managing to accumulate hotel charges. When he had perused room 605's account the night before, he had assumed the laundry charge had just been a late posting, but that hadn't even proved to be the last of the charges. The updated printout showed that the honor bar had been used. Housekeeping, which only that morning had been given permission by the investigative team to clean the room, had inventoried the portable bar and found that virtually all the food had been emptied out of it. Am supposed it was possible that the investigating team had done the eating, but he didn't think so.
“It's so—grisly,” said Sharon. “Can you imagine murdering someone, then hanging around the room? And how could he have ordered champagne afterward? Have you ever heard of anything so sick?”
Am nodded his head, then shook it, both agreeing and disagreeing. “Sick, yes. But the room service waiter said the man hardly looked like he was in the partying mood. Usually when someone orders a pricey bottle of bubbly they're ebullient. Augustin said this man was so subdued as to stand out.”
“Explain the champagne, then.”
“I can’t.”
Am and Sharon had compiled a list of everyone they believed had come into contact with the suspected murderer. Everyone agreed he was of average height or less, had thinning red hair, and was on the heavy side. His age was gauged from thirty-five to fifty-five.
Teresa Fuentes had tried to do turndown service in room 605 and had talked with him. Henry Polk, the sixth-floor butler, had picked up the man’s suit for cleaning and brought it back. And bellman Albert Slocum had delivered the wine and cheese and had happened to ride up the service elevator with a man fitting that same description. All the employees described him as soft-spoken and polite and agreed that he was withdrawn, perhaps even confused. By description, he hardly seemed to match the profile of a coldblooded murderer.
“So,” said Sharon, “I guess we should call the police?” Her words were more a question than a statement.
This time they had more than a missing rubber. They had witnesses, charges, and signatures that didn’t match. They even had descriptions that were in general agreement. This time, she knew, they wouldn’t be laughed at.
“They’ll probably get one of those police artists,” said Am. “They’ll put together a sketch. It will be on the evening news, and someone steaming carrots in some town will say, ‘I know that man.’ ” He sounded envious.
“I suppose it’s the right thing to do,” Sharon said, but not very convincingly.
“A police artist, to go along with the police photographer who’s already been here, and the forensic scientists, and the trace evidence people, and the detectives, and McHugh.” The last name didn’t settle well with Am.
“We don’t have their…” Sharon was going to say expertise but thought better of it. “Personnel.”
“I know an artist,” said Am, brightening suddenly.
“But what good would a picture…?”
“He’s fast.”
“Without a name—”
“I’ve seen him do sketches in a minute.”
“But I still don’t see how that could—”
“He’s a Hotel guest. The Hotel guest. Wallace Talbot.”
Sharon remembered the name. He was the guest who had come to stay. The tour guide had pointed out his artwork around the Hotel and said that he had been a resident for more than fifty years. In her silence, she assented.
“Holden,” he said, stretching forth his hand to grasp Am’s. “Friends. Come in! Come in!”
Wallace Talbot had checked into the Hotel California for a week’s stay in 1942; so far, his reservation had been extended for more than half a century. There was a second greeter at the door, but this one had four legs. Cinder, Wallace’s black cocker spaniel, tried to give everyone a kiss. Cinder was happiest when there was a party, and she was convinced the appearance of seven people in her doorway could mean only that.
It had taken arm twisting, juggling of schedules, and pulling employees from the floor to assemble everyone who might have encountered the potential murderer. Am hadn’t explained the necessity for the meeting, had just termed it important and made it mandatory. He had advised Wallace of the need for his artistry but hadn’t given him any more details than that.
“Coffee, tea, or sodas, anyone?” asked Wallace. He was genuinely delighted to have all the visitors. In any other room, and with any other guest, the staff might not have felt at ease, but everyone knew and liked Wallace. He bore a resemblance to Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., was tall, thin, and urbane, and like the movie actor seemed to manage everything effortlessly and with much savoir-faire. Wallace was one for flourishes, from hand gestures, to opening a door. He never forgot staff birthdays: flowers for the ladies, cigars for the men. Some employees called him “Peppermint” because of his daily promenades around the Hotel, where he handed out peppermint sticks to all, especially small children. Am had never had the heart to tell him he couldn’t stomach peppermint.
“If it’s all right with you, Wallace,” said Am, “I’ll take care of the refreshments in a few minutes. But for now, I’d like the rest of you to get to work.”
Am took a few minutes to explain why they were gathered and said he hoped a sketch of this mystery man, and perhaps murderer, might help in their investigation. He swore everyone to secrecy. He didn’t want rumors and didn’t want to involve the police prematurely. Most of all, Am said, he didn’t want the Bob Johnsons on the case.
The mood of the room changed. With the purpose of their gathering revealed, an excitement built, ancient hunting instincts brought to the fore.
Wallace seated everyone in front of his easel and brought out a sketch pad and pencils. He usually worked in oils, could often be seen painting from the wraparound balcony of his fourth-floor room. There, he had a panoramic expanse of the Pacific as well as a sweeping view of the Hotel gardens. Fully half of his paintings were seascapes. He truly knew all the moods of the La Jolla Strand and loved to capture the human element at play on the beach, the children at their sand castles, the adults with their pants legs rolled up, walking along the surf. He was a popular artist who commanded high prices for his works, but at the same time he was a very skilled painter, a combination that often doesn’t go together.
To many, San Diego is still regarded as a navy town, but that’s a designation that is at least a generation removed. It was accurate enough, though, when Wallace arrived in San Diego, maybe even doubly so because there was a war going on. A bad knee had made him ineligible for the service, but his talents as an illustrator were put t
o use by the defense industry. In 1942 housing was at a premium in San Diego. Wallace was supposed to stay in the Hotel for only a week, but he said that from the moment he checked in it felt like home to him. Rather than move into an apartment, Wallace remained. He could afford to, being the only child of wealthy parents who were long deceased. His ultimate artistic success supplemented his inheritance and deferred the necessity of his ever having to check out. Wallace had never expected to live out his life at the Hotel, but whenever he thought about leaving, thought he should get a home and have all the normal trappings, he always asked himself, “Why? Why leave what I love?”
A local paper had recently interviewed Wallace. He had said, “Most of my money has gone to the Hotel California. It’s an investment I’ve never regretted.” In many ways Wallace paid rent to be a resident manager. He made rounds every day, walked all over the Hotel grounds, and saw that everything was as it should be. He took it upon himself to help guests and act as a goodwill ambassador. Many children had grown up on his peppermint sticks and came to him now as adults with open hands and big smiles. To date, he had never run out of either peppermint sticks or good cheer. This morning he needed the latter.
The seven blind men describing the elephant were more in accord than the four witnesses (the fifth witness, T.K., was early on convinced that the deliveryman could not have been the mystery man) describing whom they had seen. Though everyone agreed to the same general description, finding the common ground of a face proved tough work.
How do you describe a nose? How do you remember the direction of the part of the hair? Were the eyes close set or far apart? And how chubby were those cheeks? Was it really a double chin, or was the chin just not very well defined? Did he wear glasses or not?
A room attendant, a butler, a room service waiter, and a bellman opined, argued, confessed to ignorance, and called each other blind. In between the collaborating and the bickering, a desk clerk inserted attempted comedy sketches and an artist tried to work. Am thought the cast of Clue had nothing on these characters. He tried to organize what Wallace wearily called “the artistic charades.” Only Cinder seemed totally happy with the situation. She went from lap to lap. In the early 1960s, some twenty years into Wallace’s stay, the owners had instituted a “no pets” rule, but they had grandfathered Wallace’s black cocker spaniel. How had Cinder managed to live so long? The dog that was happily trading up laps, and lapping up faces, was really Cinder IV. Other GMs had turned a blind eye to the situation, but not Kendrick. He had vowed this would be Cinder the last.
“Holden,” said Wallace, “would you mind getting that other pencil? Thank you.”
Wallace called Am “Holden,” after Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye. He insinuated that Am was the incarnation of Holden, now grown up and gone west. The confusion of youth, Wallace had noted more than once, was translating nicely into Am’s midlife crisis. Wallace insisted that Am was the Hotel’s catcher in the rye. “You are he,” said Wallace, “whose job it is to wait for the innocents to fall off the cliff and be there to catch them.” Am had always liked that job description better than assistant general manager.
The bickering gradually quieted. In their mind’s eye all of the witnesses had a picture of their man: he was younger, he was older. He had small lips, he had lips like a clown. But an overall description was hashed out, and expanded upon, and agreed to, even if the consensus wasn’t quite true to their individual vision. One by one the witnesses came around to the sketch and offered their suggestions. When Wallace finally knew the direction he wanted to go, he banished everyone to their seats and worked out his own finishing touches. Between penciling, he talked.
“There have been other deaths here, of course,” he said, shading in a section with a critical eye, “but none like these. I remember, though, two very troubling suicides.
“Very different deaths,” he added. “The first victim was a girl. Must have happened thirty-five—no, forty years ago. Dick Murray was the house dick then.
“I’ve told you about Murray, Holden. He was a tough SOB, a little guy with a big chip on his shoulder. He always had his nose in the Racing Form. This was one instance where he took it out long enough to find out about this girl. Real melodrama, that. She was in love with a naval officer, believed he shared her same feelings, but learned differently. When she took an overdose of pills, she didn’t only kill herself: apparently she took the life of the young child in her womb.”
Wallace stopped talking, chewed on his lip for a moment, brought out the eraser, and delicately removed some of the lead. “Murray went and found that officer,” he said. “He called him out. They say he gave up six inches, and sixty pounds, but he still beat the tar out of him.”
The artist thought for a moment, then nodded, as if agreeing with a long-lost voice. “The other suicide was a drowning. Man went swimming in the ocean and didn’t come back. Guess that happened thirty years ago. Murray looked into that one, too.
“Everyone just assumed it was a drowning. But Murray didn’t like something. He made a few calls and found out the man’s business was going under and the creditors were moving in. As it stood, it didn’t look like he was going to be left with a proverbial pot to pee in. Murray figured he couldn’t stand the thought of poverty. The guest lived like a king his last few days at the Hotel. His final meal was chateaubriand and a French wine, after which he went out and took that fateful swim. There were those who believed the rich meal made him cramp up, but after Murray found out what he did, he said it just fueled him on to the deed.”
Wallace stopped working for a moment, bit softly on the pencil he was holding. “Murray told me he went to the Del Mar track that day and won a bundle on a horse named Big Splash. Said he never bet hunches, except that one time.”
Wallace eyed his effort critically. “I’m almost there,” he said. “I must say he doesn’t look like one of those faces you see on ‘America’s Most Wanted,’ though.”
Am and Sharon both stood up to take a look at the sketch, but Wallace held them off with a hand. “Holden, Miss Baker, I will signal the time for the unveiling.”
Impatiently they both returned to their seats. Wallace asked the witnesses a few more questions, and started a few more arguments. He wanted to know about moles, wrinkles, birthmarks, clefts, and dimples. Mostly, though, he wanted a “feel” for the face, an idea of what the man was.
“Don’t think of him as a murderer,” said Wallace. “If you saw him on the street, you’d probably think he was a…”
“Baker,” said Augustin.
“Accountant,” Henry said.
“Store manager,” said Teresa.
“One of those technical kinds of people,” Albert said. “The kind who always bring their little computers.”
“Pedophile,” said T.K., hoping for a laugh but not getting one.
Wallace explored their reasons (except for T.K.’s), and their answers made him alter his drawing slightly. He examined his work with one long, last look and finally decided that it would have to do. He turned around the sketch and held it aloft for all to see.
The four witnesses were the first to respond. Although they hadn’t been able to come to verbal terms with the man, they did agree on the result. What was represented was their collective man; or at least a close facsimile thereof.
But it was T.K., Sharon, and Am who were the most vocal. “I know that dude,” said T.K.
“I’ve seen that man,” Sharon said.
Am, who claimed to never forget a face, said, “I’ve seen that face before.”
“I know,” said T.K., snapping his fingers. “I checked him into the Hotel.”
“Yesterday morning,” said Sharon, her tone one of disbelief, “he took the Hotel tour with me.”
“I saw him,” said Am, straining for the memory. “I saw him…”
Then, triumphantly, “I saw him in the rumba line.”
XXXIX
The actors were hung over, and most of the Bob J
ohnsons were hung over. No one had gotten enough sleep, and tempers were short.
Carlton hadn’t slept much, either, but he wasn’t suffering in the same way as those around him. The night before, he had walked Bobbi to her door. There, they had kissed for the first time. It was the purest moment of ecstasy Carlton could ever remember.
So much had happened in the last few days. He had experienced betrayal, murder, discovery, and passion. It felt as though he had died and been born again. He had stayed up most of the night trying to sort things in his mind. He had never given much credence to those multiple personality types, but at the moment he figured Sybil had nothing on him. Everything was churning inside. He had performed the most heinous crime imaginable. To take those moments back, he would do almost anything. What he had done had destroyed a part of himself. But since meeting Bobbi, he felt like that bird that was consumed by fire, then raised itself from its own ashes. That Tucson. Or was it toucan? No, it was a phoenix. Maybe that’s what love was. You burn up inside to nothing. You erase all the sins that were there and become a better person, another person. With Bobbi, it felt as if he had been offered a chance for a new life. There were so many things about her that he liked, from her generous lips to the way she dotted the i in her name with a little heart.
She sat next to him, and with her there, all was right. Bobbi felt his eyes on her. She looked up, smiled at him, then returned her attention to what was going on. Damn, now what was happening? Turn your head, and you miss everything. Not like soap operas. She could tune in once a week and still know what was going on. But this here was sure confusing. The actors kept jumping around, and things kept popping up—like bodies. There was a lot of flapping of hands. What she would have preferred was the flapping of more flapjacks. ‘Course that didn’t make things any easier to follow, what with the waiters serving brunch between all the folderol.
