The Hotel Detective

by Alan Russell

  “Herring and sour cream,” the server advised, dropping off yet another serving dish for the table.

  The herring had been dyed red. Bobbi covered her eyes with a napkin. Fish in the morning. How disgusting. Didn’t these people know what real food was? And it was red, mashed fish. Ugh.

  Carlton noticed Bobbi’s discomfiture. It matched his own. He was tired of the actors serving up murder. It was enough that he had to live with what he had done without their bombastic reminders.

  “Are you all right?” he asked Bobbi.

  Bob was such a dear, always so considerate. “Fine,” she said, but she did wrinkle up her nose at the fish.

  “Would you like to leave?” he asked hopefully. “We could go to the…”

  He almost said zoo. But Carlton didn't want to see caged animals. “Around San Diego. See the sights.”

  Bobbi thought about it. It seemed a little unfair to be skipping out on her kindred Johnsons, but most of them were acting a bit, well, grumpy. And she did want to be with Bob. Why, last night that kiss of his had made her knees go weak. She had almost invited him into her room.

  “Uncle Charles!” screeched one of the actresses.

  “Yes, Charlie,” said the other actor. “Known as Good Time Charlie!”

  She, aggrieved: “But you don't really mean Uncle Charles?”

  He, triumphant, raising his eyebrows high for the audience: “Yes, I do.”

  “Let's get out of here,” said Bobbi.

  XL

  Before everyone dispersed from Wallace's room, Am reminded them of the need for secrecy. All took a vow of silence, promising to say nothing about the sketch or the possible murderer. The cabal went their separate ways, except for Am and Sharon, who walked together. When they couldn't be overheard, he ventured, “I suppose that gives us an hour before everyone knows.”

  Sharon had more faith in humanity. She thought it would be two hours.

  “We're looking for a man who has murdered,” said Am, his tone suddenly very serious. “In the security hut there's a stun gun. I'm going to get it, then I'll meet you in the lobby.”

  He started off at a trot, remembered something, and ran back, handing her Wallace's rolled sketch as if it were a relay baton. “Better make some copies of this. Who knows, we might need help finding him. Use the copy machine in reservations to shrink it down to a less conspicuous size—say, five inches by five.

  “And,” he added, “find out where the Bob Johnsons are meeting.”

  She nodded, and he was off. The idea of Am getting a gun, any kind of gun, was sobering. Sharon wondered, not for the first time, whether she should call the police. Instead she went and made copies. Or at least tried. The copy machine wouldn’t have looked out of place in a video arcade. It had lights, flashing arrows, and multicolored trays. There were buttons to designate paper size, the darkness desired, the number of copies needed, and whether collating was in order. Let’s see, she thought, trying to determine whether she was in a shrinking or enlarging mode. Wasn’t that Alice’s dilemma? But this wasn’t Wonderland. And Alice would never have gotten there if she’d had to make copies all day.

  Typical male, she thought. Given any excuse, they revert to the primordial. Me hunter, you gatherer. I’ll get the gun and you make the copies. Or coffee.

  Her first effort at shrinking the sketch failed, which didn’t make her any happier. She moved her face closer to the keypad and was trying to make out some impossibly small print when a voice behind her asked: “May I help you?”

  Sharon turned around and eyeballed the name, rank, and serial number of the man doing the offering: Roger, Front Office Manager, Racine, Wisconsin. The one Am called Casper.

  “Why, yes, thank you. I’m trying to shrink this to a smaller size. About so big.”

  She motioned, and Roger did his gauging. “About eight inches?”

  Sharon had been told that the reason women had difficulty estimating sizes was that they were always being told by men that six inches was a foot. “A little smaller,” she said.

  Roger confronted the machinery with a knowing air, pressed two buttons (damn, that was my next guess, she thought), and a moment later the miniaturized copy popped out. “Do you only need one?”

  “Several, please,” she said.

  He punched a button. “You’re the intern?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you like it here?”

  “Never a dull moment.”

  The copies were already finished. Belatedly Roger began to think he should have made the process appear much more involved than it was. He was usually expert at doing such.

  He handed Sharon back her original and all but one of the copies. Because he had helped, he assumed that gave him the right to analyze the work “they” had done.

  “So, what is this?”

  Sharon wanted to say, “None of your business,” but instead replied with the obvious: “A sketch.”

  “Do you draw?” he asked.

  “I dabble.”

  “It’s good,” said Roger. “Who’s the guy?”

  “Just a fellow.”

  “Your boyfriend?”

  Her first impulse was to laugh. Yes, she always hung around with murderers. Bank robbers, too. Where did this weenie come off asking personal questions?

  “I suppose it shows,” she said, attempting dewy eyes.

  Roger tried to hide his disappointment. He started to pass her the copy, but stopped the hand-off just short of her hand, examining it once more.

  “I think I’ve seen him before,” said Roger.

  God, she thought. Was there an employee in the Hotel whom this murderer hadn’t run into?

  “He’s not a guest, is he?” asked Roger.

  Sharon shook her head. “Of course not.”

  “Because,” Roger said piously, “fraternization with guests is forbidden.”

  “I would hope so,” said Sharon. “And with managers, too?”

  Starchly: “Why, yes.”

  He handed her the copy. With it came another quotation of company policy: “The copy machine is to be used for business purposes only.”

  Sharon could almost understand why women were known to bare their ass on a copier and anonymously mail (male) the sentiments to their supervisor of choice. She thanked Roger for all of his help and advice, then walked out of the office, doing her best to jiggle her buns like an advertising streetwalker. It wasn’t something that she could ever remember doing before, but in this instance it felt damn satisfying.

  Roger’s attention was held for the length of her passage, then, sighing, he decided it was time to be off. The front desk promised to be busy soon, and he didn’t want to be around. But before leaving, he reached down into the recycling bin. Sharon had left her aborted copy attempt, an oversize reproduction of her beau. It was as big as the sketch she had taken with her, eleven inches by seventeen, not the shrunken visage she had wanted. The larger portrait looked even more familiar to Roger. He had seen that face, but where?

  While waiting for Am, Sharon had consulted a reader board to learn that the Bob Johnsons were meeting in the Neptune Room for a brunch and “entertainment.” The concierge confirmed the reader board listing and was also able to give Sharon a detail sheet of group activities for the day. The Bob Johnsons had a full agenda. Their brunch wasn’t supposed to adjourn for another half hour, but Sharon hoped Am would hurry, because after their meal the Bob Johnsons would be dividing up, some going to the golf course, others to the tennis courts, and the rest sailing. And maybe one murdering.

  Am arrived breathless, carrying a brown bag. The concealed stun gun looked conspicuously like a fifth.

  “You look like a wino,” she said.

  “I can dream, can’t I?”

  “Neptune Room,” she said.

  “Not far,” Am said gratefully.

  Sharon had already figured out the route and started walking. When you don’t like following, you work out those matters ahead of time. She had al
so tried to work out the murders.

  “There was some forethought in what happened,” she said.

  Am, still short of breath, nodded.

  “Our Bob Johnson knew the couple. He sent up the wine and cheese to them. He called upon them. Presumably, he killed them.”

  Am nodded again.

  “Our Bob must have plotted this for some time. He planned a murder, and he also planned to attend a convention. Talk about killing two birds with one stone.”

  “Don’t think so,” Am puffed.

  “Why not?”

  He took a deep breath. “A couple of things. He let too many people see him. If it was as premeditated as you say, everything would have been thought out much better. This strikes me as a crime of passion, a—a…”

  The analogy came to him. “A St. Julian-type murder.” He didn’t remind Sharon that she was the one who had originally put that same label to the crime.

  “You said ‘a couple of things’,” said Sharon.

  “It may be nothing, but when the Bob Johnsons checked in, they were one over on their room allotment. Now I know that’s not uncommon. Sometimes guests who are supposed to double up opt for their own rooms. Or someone who was going to stay with a friend in town decides to check in instead. Or…” He didn’t finish, just shrugged.

  “Or a murderer,” said Sharon, “decides to change his name to Bob Johnson and stays around the scene of the crime.”

  “Maybe,” said Am.

  “Didn’t all the Bob Johnsons guarantee their stays with credit cards?”

  “He could have put down a cash deposit.”

  “It still doesn’t make sense. You commit murder, and then you check into the same hotel?”

  “You’re trying to think logically. Why didn’t he immediately flee the Hotel after the murders? Why did he sleep in the same room with his victims?”

  Sharon offered what she thought was the only obvious answer: “He’s a psychopath.”

  “Do you really think so?” asked Am. “Did you sense that when you walked and talked with him?”

  Would she have ever been able to guess he was a murderer from their time together on the Hotel tour? No. He was an innocuous sort. She had sensed his melancholy but had also been witness to his curiosity. He had asked all those questions. “For someone who’d killed a couple of people the day before,” Sharon said, “I find it strange that he would have cared about how many petunias were planted here in the spring.”

  Her statement implied that the man was mentally ill, but Sharon really didn’t think that. The man might have acted a bit odd, but he didn’t strike her as being either loony tunes or a hardened criminal. “I don’t think he was crazy,” she admitted. “I think he was sad. Lonely.”

  “Penitent,” said Am.

  As far as she was concerned, that was stretching it. Wasn’t this the man he had spotted in the rumba line? “No doubt like St. Julian?” she asked sarcastically.

  Am shrugged, beginning to regret his reference.

  “But instead of repenting like Julian,” Sharon said, “and tending to the needs of travelers for the rest of his days, our murderer joins a convention and goes on vacation.”

  Am didn’t respond to Sharon’s barb. “The Jane Doe,” he reminded her, “was wearing a wedding ring. And a man’s wedding ring was left in the Bob Johnson hospitality room,” he added significantly.”

  At first Sharon had trouble speaking. Am’s implication struck her as more than farfetched. “So,” she said, “you murder your wife, and her lover, then you check into a hotel for some well earned R and R, and what the hell, you dump your wedding ring so that you can pick up some babes.”

  Am opted to not defend his speculation. Uttered aloud, it did sound ludicrous.

  “It would only be possible…” Sharon almost said “in a nightmare.” “In a madhouse.” “In an opium eater’s deranged fantasy.” But she thought about it and reluctantly finished her sentence.

  “In this Hotel.”

  Roger was adrift in the Seven Seas. That’s what the staff called the collection of seven meeting rooms on the north side of the Hotel, all of which had maritime names. It was a safe spot, far enough away from the demands of the front desk that he could relax and not worry about encountering anyone of rank. Usually there was just banquet staff, tuxedoed men and women running in and out of meeting rooms.

  He stopped at a water fountain to spray his lips. He wasn’t really thirsty but out of habit paused at virtually every water fountain. Someone had spat out their gum into the bowl. Disgusting, he thought. For the briefest moment he considered picking out the gum and flicking it into an adjacent trash receptacle but decided to leave that task for the grounds crew. They needed something to do anyway.

  A familiar voice made him freeze. Am Caulfield. Here. He shouldn't be here, Roger thought. This is unfair. He should be in his office working. Of all the forty acres to the Hotel, of the thousand spots he could be, why does he have to be here? I can say that I'm checking on whether a meeting room was set up, responding to a guest inquiry. That's it. The moment passed when he thought discovery imminent, and Am's voice moved past him. Somewhat sheltered by the overhang of the water fountain, Roger dared a glance. Am wasn't alone. That intern was with him, the one he'd helped at the copier. He watched as they disappeared into the Neptune Room, carrying water pitchers.

  The coast was clear for Roger to escape, but his curiosity was piqued. Something was going on, and it was his job to keep tabs on the unusual, wasn't it? No one knew about that, of course. That was his secret. But it pleased him to know that he had some power over Am and the others who impugned his abilities. They didn't know about his double life. Still, everything was supposed to be hush-hush. He was just supposed to pass on what he heard and saw and not be obvious about it. But the only way he could find out what was going on was to follow them. Uncertain as to what he should do, Roger walked toward the Neptune Room and cracked open the door. It was mostly dark inside. What light there was emanated from the front of the room. Probably a slide show going on, he thought. That was good. He could scuttle in unnoticed. His steps followed his thoughts.

  From experience, Roger knew there would be a coffee setup somewhere in the back, a good place, he was sure, to observe. While making his way there, Roger heard loud voices. Some kind of strange commotion was going on, but he didn't dare turn around, not yet. His imagination, and nerves, amplified the sounds. Roger's hands were shaking by the time he reached for the coffee, and his pour was unsteady. The voices hadn't let up. They were louder now, and there were more of them.

  “Intruder! Interloper! Spy!”

  They were talking about him. Roger turned to face his accusers. He had an explanation, he always did, but this time he didn't have to offer it up. The cries came from the Murder Mayhem Weekend actors. Deep breath, short thought. That meant these were the Bob Johnsons. So why were Am and the intern here?

  In the dim light, Roger could make them out. They were on opposite sides of the room, both proceeding forward along the far aisles. A few of the Bob Johnsons raised their hands for water, but neither Am nor Sharon noticed them. They weren't looking for empty glasses, no, they seemed to be staring at faces.

  Roger wasn't the only one ignoring the thespians. Bull had been bored from the moment his plate had been cleared away and the actors had started their prancing. Who cared about this Uncle Charles? Did anyone really give a fig about how his family members were dropping like flies? Bull was interested in the story behind David Stern and the woman with him. Those were real murders, not some fruity characters mincing about.

  What was the I lotel dick/manager/spoilsport doing skulking around? Was he a busboy in his spare time? Seemed odd for him to be helping out in this capacity. Bull watched him for a minute. If his job was to be making with the water, he sure was stingy about pouring. Must be that drought Californians were always lipping off over. Strange, Bull thought, how places with the least amounts of rainfall always liked to sport the lu
shest vegetation.

  He watched the house detective pause and look across the room. Bull followed his gaze and saw that the dick wasn’t working alone. His lady friend was also making the water circuit, but she wasn’t doing any glass filling, either. They acknowledged each other, and their efforts, with a shake of their heads, then both of them started forward again. It was clear they were looking for somebody. Who? And why did they keep looking at their trays? There was something they had there, something other than a water pitcher. Now what was it they kept consulting? It sure as hell wasn’t a dessert order. They were looking at faces and checking with a road map. A picture, that’s what they had to be carrying.

  As for the Hotel dick, it looked as if he were carrying more than a picture. The bulge in his coat made him look as though he were packing a piece. Interesting, he thought, a hell of a lot more interesting than the play. So what was going down? The busboy detectives were almost up to the stage now, and still they hadn’t found their face.

  Maybe it was time to call that bellman who always had his hand out. The boy had given him his home number, had said he would help in whatever way possible. His information had been good, even if it hadn’t come cheap.

  Bull decided to stretch his legs and make that call.

  XLI

  Mary Mason was lingering outside the Neptune Room, ready to guide the Bob Johnsons to their activities. They would be participating in three of her favorite contests: “big balls,” “mixed doubles,” and the “paddle boat demolition derby.” The object of big balls was to drive a golf ball farther than anyone else. Mixed doubles was similarly misleading, not a pairing of the sexes, but more of a three-legged-race tennis contest, with the players’ ankles tied together. As for the paddle boats, the contestants were encouraged to ram into each other and knock the opposing captains into the drink. Mary was glowing. It all promised to be such fun!