* * *
Parking downtown was always a hassle. Most of the parking towers that were built were for commuters who drove to work and stayed the day, and rates were set accordingly. That is, even if you only intended to be there an hour or two, you had to pay nearly the daily rate.
Banning grumbled as he took the ticket offered to him by the machine, which extended the wide, reddish tab like a mocking tongue. He stuck it in a slot on his dash and drove around looking for a spot. Of course it was nearly the highest level, and tight quarters, and he grunted as he squeezed himself out of the car, holding the door carefully so as not to mar that of his neighbor’s. It was a delicate operation, but he managed.
He hunted around until he found an elevator and pressed G for Ground. On the pavement he glanced about to take his bearings and started walking toward the hotel. A man who looked like an extra from George Romero’s “Night of the Living Dead” was sitting in a doorway, seemingly unconscious. It would have been too obvious for Banning to cross to avoid him; besides he saw the hotel on his side of the street, about a block or so up.
Suddenly the man sprang up in front of him. His stench was unbearable. “Hey, buddy, can you spare me some change to get something to eat?” He tried to corner Banning against the wall. Closer proximity intensified the noxious odor; he even smelled dead.
Certain that the money was simply destined not for food but for more of whatever this guy was smoking, inhaling, or injecting Banning managed to duck past him and quickened his pace. He was pursued by a few interesting obscenities which the man threw at him, but no projectiles with any solidity to them.
He reached the hotel entrance. The façade had seen better days, as had the lone footman that opened the door for him. His livery probably dated back to the founding of the hotel as well. Banning slipped him a twenty, which was certainly far more than the man probably ever saw in one day, much less one tip. Banning entered the lobby and surveyed the room.
The linoleum on the floor had appeal; it was, if fact, peeling at every seam. The scars of countless luggage cart wheels left record of their paths over the decades. The elevators looked like Mr. Otis’ first model; perhaps even a prototype. To the right, past the elevators, was a still impressive staircase; though the rails had evidently sampled of the wares available from the bar, and had a non-Euclidean warp to them. They were set back in a sort of side-lobby, and only plainly visible from where he stood. A side entrance opened off near the stair, probably for those who wished to enter and exit discretely. To the left was the bar itself, and the usual barroom sounds murmured from it.
Front and center, against a wall whose paper had the same appealing characteristic as the tile floor, was a great, long counter. Banning saw that it had been constructed of the finest wood, and must have been smooth and beautiful in its time; like some grand, dark lady. But time had been cruel to her, and she wore her scars as well, her finish long dissipated, grooves carved into her as by a schoolboy’s penknife, whole chunks seemingly cut off as souvenirs.
The man behind the once great desk looked of an age with the footman outside; both might have been young once, but like Walter Brennan, who had looked sixty when he was forty, they had probably resembled old men in their grade school photos.
He was dozing standing up, his arms crossed and leaning on the desktop, and his head bowed on his breast. Soft snores hummed from his nose on irregular occasion.
There was a service bell, but Banning was afraid its chime might give the poor fellow a coronary. Instead he tried a quiet, “Excuse me.”
No answer came, except another contented snore.
“Excuse me, sir,” Banning repeated, a little louder.
There wasn’t even a responding snore this time.
Banning conjectured that even if the man were awake, the soft tones that he had employed might not be heard, if the man was hard of hearing. But he didn’t want to shout. Cautiously, he touched the man’s arm and said, in normal tones, “Sir?”
Startled awake, the old man sprang back, a tiny gnarled, veined, wrinkled fist cocked to deck the SOB who dared break his slumber. He blinked a few times, remembered himself, and gave his body a shake like a dog as though to put it in order. He took the lapels of his vintage suit coat, arranged them more presentably, and blinked through his tiny glasses at Banning. “Yes sir? What can I do for you?” His voice though aged, was steady.
“Sorry to bother you, sir,” Banning said.
“Upton’s the name. Quite all right, young man. Just resting me eyes, I was. How can I help you?”
Banning took out his Phone and pulled up Grace’s picture. “My name is Banning, Mr. Upton; I’m a private detective.” He showed Upton the picture. “A cab driver may have dropped off this young lady yesterday. Did you see her?”
Upton adjusted his glasses, which meant trying them in different positions on his nose as he actually seemed to be peering over them to see the image on the tiny screen. “What is that, anyway? One of these new-fangled portable tee-vees?” He drew out the sounds of both syllables as though the term was unfamiliar to him.
“Something like that. This is a photograph of a girl I’ve been hired to find. Do you recognize her?”
Upton squinted hard at the picture and finally said, “By jing, sure I remember her. Came in yesterday. Met a fella who was waiting for her. Sat right over there,” he added, pointing to a chair that may have dated back to colonial times.
“What did this fella look like?” Banning asked.
“Oh, I dunno. About average, I guess.”
“Was he the same age as the girl, or older?”
Upton peered at him, tilting his head as though trying to see Banning under his glasses. “Not sure I can say.”
“You’re not sure of his age, or not sure you can give it?”
Upton shrugged.
“Listen, Mr. Upton.” He held up Grace’s picture again. “This girl’s name is Grace. Grace Fleming. She may be in danger, possibly in danger from the very man you saw meet her.”
“You the police?”
“No. I told you, I’m a private detective.”
“Then I guess I really don’t have to talk to you, do I, mister?”
“No, no you don’t.” He held up the Phone. “But you see this little device that you called a tee-vee? It’s also a phone.”
“Oh, go on.”
Banning wondered where this man had been in the last decade, but realized he probably hadn’t kept up with things since Fibber McGee and Molly were the hottest thing on radio. “It’s a phone, and I have a friend who is a real cop. I can call him on this and have him down here pretty quick. And he can bring a warrant to search this place.”
Upton looked doubtful about the supposed powers of the little flat box.
“Now, I’m sure you wouldn’t want that, would you, Mr. Upton?”
“Now listen; you know as well as I do why I can’t tell you about this man. I’m an innkeeper; an ancient and very hallowed profession. Part of that is that I can’t tell you nothin’ about my customers.”
“So the man was a customer? He had a room here?”
“He’s still got a room.” Upton snapped his jaw shut, realizing he had let too much escape from it.
“What’s his name?” Banning said.
“Don’t you understand nothin’? When you run a hotel business, you have to be discreet.”
“Especially the kind of hotel you’re running here, I would think,” Banning said. “It’s kind of a ‘no-tell hotel,’ isn’t it?”
“I dunno whatchu mean.”
“Sure you do. Why, I bet you’re real discreet; especially for any local celebrities who check in with someone other than they’re spouses. Or any of the neighborhood hookers who need a room to entertain somebody for a couple of hours.”
“You can’t prove any of that.”
“Oh? Are you denying it, then?”
Upton was silent.
“You know, I can have my friend the real cop brin
g a warrant to arrest you for aiding and abetting.”
“Aidin’ an’ abettin’ what?”
“Oh, prostitution for starters. Running a... I think the term used to be ‘disorderly house.’ If the man you mentioned is holding young Grace here against her will, then we can throw in kidnapping. That might bring the Feds into it.” Banning leaned forward on the desk. “You don’t want my friend and me to bring in the Feds, do you?”
“How do you know this Mr. Cald... this man that met her wasn’t her uncle or something?”
Banning grabbed the register, though Upton tried feebly to stop him. It was an old fashioned ledger book, antique like the rest of the place and persons of the hotel. He saw the name on the page: Caldwell and niece, it said. The name stood out among the Smiths, Browns, and Joneses who made up most of the clientele, though it was probably just as phony as the rest. He made a mental note of the room: 215.
“Look, mister, you’re not going to cause any trouble here, are you? I run a nice quiet hotel.”
“No; I’m not going to cause any trouble. All I’m going to do is make a phone call or two, then have a beer in your bar while I wait for some people. You don’t mind if I do that, do you?”
“It’s a free country.” He didn’t sound convinced even of that.
“Now, don’t go calling Mr. Caldwell and warning him.”
Upton was genuinely perplexed. “How in thunderation would I do that?”
“You’d call the phone in his room.”
Upton dismissed him with a gesture. “Pshaw. We don’t have no phones in the rooms. Why would we do such a thing? Our guests come here for their privacy.”
“I’ll bet they do,” Banning chuckled.
“So you go on ahead and get your beer, and make your call. There’s a pay phone right by the entrance to the bar.”
“That’s all right,” Banning said. He waved the Phone. “I’ve got this!”
Upton laughed. “That ain’t no phone. Folks talk about them cel-you-larr phones; I don’t believe in ‘em. But go ahead, play with your toy.”
Banning heard the old man chuckle to himself, muttering something about tin cans and string, as he strode to the bar. Poor old guy probably lived in the place. The rooms have no phones; bet they don’t have TVs either. Bet the old guy doesn’t believe in them.
He sat at the bar. The barkeep came over, polishing a glass with a cloth that looked like he had last used it to scrub the floor and had done a poor job of it. But at least he appeared younger than what he had seen of the rest of the staff; fifties, probably. “What’ll ya have?”
Banning figured correctly that his usual tastes in beers would be considered exotic, so he just asked for Miller Light.
“You want a glass””
Banning glanced at the grimy rag that was now employed in sanitizing the bar and said, “No. The bottle’s fine.” He called Fleming first. “Mr. Fleming, I think I may have found your daughter.”
“Where is she?”
“In a hotel downtown. Now, I haven’t seen her, but the hotel manager recognized her photo.”
“What’s the name of the hotel?”
“I’d better not tell you that over the phone, sir, until we know for sure. I’m calling my friend in the police department now and we’ll get back to you.”
“Thanks.”
Banning’s beer came and he clicked the hangup switch by touch as he took a pull from the bottle. Then he speed-dialed Ed Taylor of the Baltimore County police.
“Ed? Mark Banning here. I’m on a missing persons case, and I think I’ve found her.” He gave the hotel name. “She may be in Room 215. Can you come with a warrant and backup?”
“That dump is in the city!” Taylor retorted. “I’m a county cop, remember?”
“I know; but I’m not friends with any city cops. I know you are. Can you call in a favor and get a guy or two to join us here?”
Taylor sighed. “All right. An abduction case?”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“Hmmm. Maybe we’ll get the collar and gain a jump on the Feds.”
“That’s what I figured.”
“Okay. I get off in a half hour. Peggy, my partner, will come with me. She can take care of the girl. In the meantime, I’ll call my buddy Grayson; he’s in the precinct near you. In case he gets there ahead of me, he’s a rangy guy with iron grey hair.”
“Gotcha. I’ll be looking for him. Tell him I’m in the bar.”
“Have one on me.”
“Nothing doing. I’m nursing this one until you guys show up.”
* * *
Needless to say, the bartender wouldn’t have it that way and when Banning finished the first a newly opened bottle of the same was quickly traded for the empty, in spite of Banning’s refusal.
“Drink it or don’t.” The bartender shrugged. “Either way, buddy, you’re payin’ for it.”
Banning couldn’t fight that logic; the bartender was bigger than he was, and his ribs were still mending after the pounding they had gotten in his last case. “All right. But after this, I’m going on a coffee diet.” He took a swig from the beer.
“Coffee? Sure. I guess I know how to make that stuff.” He disappeared in the back, the filthy rag, like some noxiously soiled parody of a Linus blanket, thrown over his shoulder. Banning wondered if he sucked his thumb, too.
When the bottle was about half empty the bartender returned with a mug of something hot and faintly brown. Banning already regretted his change of liquid refreshment, but like the second beer, he knew he was going to be charged whether he drank it or not. It so scalded his mouth that he couldn’t tell whether it had any taste or not. After he had let it cool, he tried it again and decided that it wasn’t his singed taste buds; the coffee was weak as dishwater. With the queasy thought that it might even have been brewed with dishwater, he set that aside as well.
He ignored the bartender’s salty comment that marked his return to the beer as a tall man with iron gray hair came into his view followed by a square-built, dark haired companion. They were making a quick survey of the territory, as he had. He was starting toward the bar entrance to call them when the tall one spotted him.
“Are you Banning?”
“That’s me. Grayson?”
The rangy fellow came toward him in a long-legged stride, followed a little slower by his companion. He stuck out his hand and as Banning shook it he said: “That was my dad’s name, so it’s mine too. They call me Link for short. This is my partner Doug Flaherty.”
Banning shook with him too.
“What’s good to drink here, for us official on-duty types?”
“I can recommend the Miller Light, as long as it comes in the bottle.”
“What about the coffee?” Flaherty asked, gesturing at Banning’s nearly full mug.
“Only if you like it made from leftover dishwater.”
The bartender started a protest that died with the realization that these men were city detectives. “What is this?” he asked. “I’m not running anything crooked here.”
“This isn’t about you,” Grayson said. “Just rest easy and tell me what you have in bottles that doesn’t contain alcohol.”
The bartender stepped back, offended that a grown man would ask for something non-alcoholic in his establishment. “Colas. Ginger ale.”
“I’ll have a ginger ale,” Grayson said.
“Me too,” added Flaherty.
The bartender set up their drinks and retreated to the far end, as though fearful of contamination.
“Ed’s coming in on this?” Grayson asked after a pull from his bottle.
“Yeah. He’s bringing his partner, who’s female. We can take care of the guy, and she can protect the girl.”
It seemed like overkill to Banning for all of them to be gathered to bring home one wayward girl and arrest her abductor, but there were several factors involved here. For one, they didn’t know all of the circumstances. The manager had seen one man, but there
may be more. The man, or men, might be armed. There might even be a woman involved, which would give Peggy more to do. Even if it was just the one man and Grace, Taylor didn’t have any authority in the city. Besides, he was a homicide detective and this was a missing persons case; Grayson and Flaherty evidently worked that division in Baltimore.
Taylor came with his partner, Peggy Russell. He was compact and dark, she was seemingly small, her mane of auburn hair temporarily tamed into a pony tail with a blue decorative elastic. “Seemingly small,” but with hidden strength of both body and mind.
After greetings and introductions all around, Banning said: “I briefed our city friends here while we were waiting. Are you ready?”
A brief check of weapons and all pronounced themselves set.
A sound they all recognized popped, again, and once more, muffled and above them.
“Gunshots!” Flaherty identified them unnecessarily.
They bounded for the elevator which was waiting for passengers. They awakened the dozing attendant and, in spite of their urgency of haste, he took his time closing the old brass doors and folding gate and leisurely worked the lever to start the lift. In the time it took, you’d think they had traveled five floors instead of one, but the operator opened the double doors and they spilled out, separating until one shouted “215!”
The door was ajar. They flanked it, each drawing their sidearm, and on Grayson’s signal, they burst in.
The acrid smell of fresh cordite was the first thing to meet their senses.
The second thing was the three bodies lying on the floor.
CHAPTER THREE
The two city detectives quickly checked the rest of the accommodations, such as they were, and pronounced them empty save for the three corpses on the floor.
Banning knew two of them immediately: Grace and Al Fleming. Grace had been shot from close range, and Al had apparently shot himself. The gun, a .38, was lying beside his hand. The identity of the third was unknown.
Hunt for a Phantom Page 3
