The Hotel Detective (A Hotel Detective Mystery Book 1)

by Alan Russell

  “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 what had brought Am and the intern to this spot?

  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 or 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 weirdo characters dancing about.

  What was the Hotel 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 lushest 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.

  Chapter Forty-One

  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!

  And now even Murder Mayhem Weekend was back on track. That made Mary extremely happy. The next act was scheduled in three hours, another episode of murder to be performed over cocktails and snacks. She looked at her watch and hoped this performance would conclude on time. There was so much to do.

  One of the doors to the Neptune Room opened. Were they convening already? No, not yet. It was only that rather dour Bob Johnson.

  “Where’s the house phone?” asked Bull. He was hoping that bellman was on duty.

  It doesn’t cost you anything to smile. That’s what Mother always said. Mary smiled and pointed. “Right over there, sir.”

  A minute later, and the doors again opened. But the Bob Johnsons still weren’t emerging en masse. How odd! It was Am and Sharon, carrying water pitchers and talking very intently with one another.

  “Hello, Am! Hello, Sharon!”

  The two of them looked up, but before approaching Mary, they paused for an ocular consultation. Apparently they came to some mutual decision. Sharon pulled out one of the copies of Wallace’s sketch and handed it to Mary. “Does he look familiar?”

  She examined the drawing. “I’ve seen him,” she said.

  This guy has better face recognition than the president, thought Sharon.

  “Recently?” Am asked.

  “Yes,” said Mary, then remembered. “This morning, in fact. He should be inside. He’s one of our Mr. Johnsons. I remember he asked for some nonfat milk. He said something about how he was now watching his calories.”

  Sharon bit her tongue again. There seemed something terribly ironic about murdering and then going on a diet.

  “It was dark inside,” Am mused. “Maybe too dark to make out red hair.”

  “We might have missed him,” Sharon said hopefully.

  Am pointed out how there were only two exits, neither one too far from the other. They agreed to take up positions and wait for the Bob Johnsons to emerge. They talked too cryptically for Mary to understand what they were saying and w
ere so intent that she didn’t dare interrupt. It was a shame, though, because she wanted to tell them about the woman the man was with, the one with whom he was so obviously smitten. They looked quite the item.

  Roger was glad of his caution. He had paused at the door before exiting the Neptune Room and had heard Am and Sharon talking outside. It was difficult to make out their words, but it was clear they were after one of the Bob Johnsons. Roger decided it would be best to leave when everyone else did. Judging by the building crescendo of the actors’ voices, that wouldn’t be long.

  Bull Johnson was too far away to overhear what the Hotel dick and Miss Marple were discussing, but he was close enough to watch what was going on. The bellman with the Eye-talian name said he’d be right down. In the meantime, Bull would continue with his look-see.

  Like a classroom of students waiting for recess, everyone was watching clocks, and doors, and each other. A minute passed, and another. Then the first door was kicked open, followed by the second, and the Bob Johnsons started streaming out. “Big balls here,” shouted Mary. “Anyone for big balls, line up here.”

  One of Mary’s assistants was calling for mixed doubles and another for boat people. The stream of Bob Johnsons stalled, and the hallway grew congested. From their opposite vantage points, Am’s and Sharon’s heads moved side to side, scanning the crowd. Am spied a patch of red hair but couldn’t make out the face. He started to push through the Bob Johnsons, but there was gridlock. The lines started moving only when Mary and her assistants took their shouting and followers and headed outside.

  Sharon had seen Am’s agitation, had watched him try to wade into the crowd, and had looked to see which individual had grabbed his attention. Then she also caught a glimpse of some red hair. The man was on the short side, his features obscured by the shoulders and bodies around him. Sharon figured out his likely route (he was with the big balls group) and made for the exit, beating the body of Bob Johnsons to the door. There she waited for him, watched as his red head bobbed closer and closer to her. She stepped into his path and managed a face-to-face, then expelled a lot of air and a lot of disappointment. He wasn’t their man.

  It took Am another half minute to get to her. “No go,” said Sharon. “Not our carrot top.”

  Am sighed. It seemed that just about everyone had seen this guy, but where was he? They backtracked, looked inside the Neptune Room and examined the bathrooms, but their Bob Johnson wasn’t to be found.

  “What if he was wearing a hat?” Am asked. “Or what if he dyed his hair?”

  Sharon shook her head. “He just wasn’t here,” she said.

  “What about Mary’s remembering his request for skim milk?”

  “Are you saying Mary’s infallible?”

  Am wasn’t inclined to argue that point.

  “Or, let’s assume he was here,” said Sharon. “We didn’t do a head count, but I’m willing to bet a number of Bob Johnsons skipped out after the breakfast, and our man was one of them.”

  “Then it’s time,” said Am, “to figure out what room he’s staying in.”

  Am did a printout of the Bob Johnson Society room block. Groups the size of the Bob Johnsons were invariably preregistered, their paperwork processed ahead of time to avoid the kind of madhouse check-in that had occurred. Because each of the Bob Johnsons had registered personally, they could try and compare the rooming list with the registration cards. What Am was particularly interested in was if any of the Bob Johnson group had arranged to pay with cash or check instead of credit card. After doing a search history, Am found out that five of the Bob Johnson check-ins had opted to put down a cash deposit instead of presenting credit cards. The vast majority of guests usually used plastic, simplifying check-ins and check-outs. However, according to the group’s master list, only four of the Bob Johnsons had indicated they wouldn’t be paying with a credit card.

  Am and Sharon pulled the five registration cards and examined their handful of potential murderers. There was Bob Mayfield Johnson, Bob William Johnson, Bob Carlton Johnson, Bob Thorp Johnson . . . and what was this? Ah, yes, Bob “Sleepy” Johnson. One of the Seven Dwarf Johnsons.

  “Bob William Johnson is with his wife,” Sharon noticed.

  “Still doesn’t rule him out.”

  They compared the writing on the registration cards with the David Stern champagne and dry cleaning signatures. Bob Thorp Johnson and Bob Carlton Johnson looked like the closest matches, but after examining letters, loops, and slants, they weren’t able to proclaim an identical match. The comparisons became odious, and the signatures started blurring, similarities emerging with all of the handwriting.

  Outside Am’s office, Roger/Casper wished he had X-ray eyes like Superman. It was something he had been fervently dreaming about since puberty. Roger had stationed himself around the front office for much longer than usual, hadn’t left it for almost half an hour, which was a new record for him. He had watched Am and Sharon going back and forth between the front desk and Am’s office and had surreptitiously spied on them. But for the last five minutes Am’s office door had remained closed. Roger had been forced to wait and wonder about what was going on.

  Keeping tabs on Am and Sharon had made Roger visible to the front desk staff. The operator flagged him, saying that someone on the line was mad, someone asking for the manager. Usually Roger ran from angry calls. He directed them to anyone but him. But this was one time he agreed to take the call and was actually glad to be on the receiving end of a temper tantrum. The caller insisted that the GM and hotel security be immediately dispatched up to the Montezuma Room, as a major burglary had occurred and immediate action was required.

  Roger now had the opportunity to interrupt Am and Sharon’s closed-door tête-à-tête. Am would be forced to handle this call, and that would give Roger time to snoop around and find out what they were up to. He went and knocked, rather loudly, on Am’s closed door. “Oh, Am,” he said. “Sorry to bother you, but you’re needed.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  In just twenty-four hours Sharon figured she had progressed up the company ladder. Instead of searching the trash for condoms, she was now just searching the trash. Adriana Dominguez, one of the room checkers, was trying to help her, even if she wasn’t sure what Sharon was looking for. But Adriana was also reluctant to ask. As a room checker, Adriana was used to examining guest rooms to make sure everything looked and operated correctly, inspecting how the towels were folded, checking under the beds, testing out televisions, and acting as the last line of quality control between the hotel room and the guests. Adriana couldn’t figure out why Sharon was looking in the garbage, in the closets, and in the drawers, but she played along with her game. She also helped translate for Sharon, who kept holding up a sketch of some man and asking staff whether this was the guest currently occupying the room (the rooms changed, but her questions didn’t). Nothing she did made much sense, but gringos were always doing strange things, especially this one. She had a reputation already. Some of the men said she was a nymphomaniac, while others said she was just crazy. Adriana had been warned not to talk about condoms with her. It was a subject that was said to fascinate her to no end.

  Sharon was glad Adriana was so amenable in assisting her. After Roger had interrupted them and given Am little alternative but to deal with a new problem, he had calmly, too calmly, suggested, “Why don’t you get a room checker, Sharon, and look into the situation. Then we can meet here and discuss your findings.” His cryptic suggestion to take along a room checker had been a good one; going in and out of rooms, and scrutinizing them, was their job. They would have a feel for what looked right and what didn’t.

  She was also pleased, even though she didn’t want to admit it to herself, that Am had shown some concern over her safety. As she was leaving he had called out to her and said, “Just the facts, ma’am. Nothing else.” In his eyes she had seen his care and his caution. It was clear he didn’t like her going into a murderer’s den without him, but Roger had m
ade the other situation sound like a matter of life and death.

  Sharon hoped this was not another wild goose chase. Ruling out two of the Bob Johnsons as murderers had proved easy. The maids said the occupants weren’t the man on her sketch. A third Bob Johnson room also looked doubtful. The guest had been tentatively identified by a carpenter as a tall, dark man, which didn’t sound like their Bob Johnson. The carpenter was sure he was not the man in the sketch. Well, almost sure.

  There were still two rooms with unidentified Bob Johnsons. No one had seen the guests, at least no one Sharon could find. Perhaps not coincidentally, they were Bob Carlton Johnson and Bob Thorp Johnson, the two guests whose signatures had most closely resembled the forged David Stern’s.

  Under Adriana’s questioning eyes, Sharon carefully searched both of those Johnson rooms, looked under the mattresses, tilted the lampshades, and felt in the upper reaches of the closets; but she didn’t find anything conspicuous. On the face of that, the lack of clues might have seemed discouraging, but in the case of the Bob Carlton Johnson room less seemed to be more, and Sharon was convinced she was on to something. The very absence of items in his room made it stand out. He had virtually no luggage, only a shirt, a three-pack of new boxer shorts (one of which was removed), and two pairs of socks. Both the underwear and the socks looked new. According to Adriana, they were brands sold in the Hotel haberdashery.

  “All I can tell you,” said Roger, “is that a lot of costly food was taken out of the Montezuma Room.”

  Like most of Roger’s emergencies, a call to 911 didn’t look in order. “What food?”

  “I didn’t get details. The man was so mad that he didn’t want to give them. But I said you’d be over right away.”

  The caller wasn’t the only one who was angry. Am was tired of being offered up as the daily sacrifice. He wanted to shout that he was on a murder case, dammit, but he refrained. He would have delegated, but there are times when you know it’s a mistake to send a subordinate. But taking along company wasn’t out of the question. He gave Roger/Casper a speculative look. Maybe he’d need a go-fer, someone to run around and do the busy work while he returned to tracking down a murderer.