The Girl Who Remembered the Snow

by Charles Mathes

  “You don’t need to make up the room today,” Emma shouted from the bed. At least the morning maid had respected the DO NOT DISTURB sign she had put out yesterday.

  There was another knock, this one louder.

  Emma turned off the television set with the remote. Who was this? She was still in her pajamas and hadn’t even washed her face. Why bother? Where was she going to go? What was she going to do? She had no home, no work, and no one left to talk to at the hotel, though she was stuck here for two more days.

  Dragging a blanket around her shoulders to serve as the robe she didn’t have, Emma got out of bed and waddled to the door, feeling as big a mess as the place looked. Remnants of a room-service lunch littered the bed. Yesterday’s clothes were strewn on the floor, punctuated by an occasional towel.

  “Who is it?” she shouted.

  “Benno Poteet, Miz Passant,” the familiar honey-toned voice called back.

  Emma opened the door. The short, fat, bald detective grinned sheepishly. He wore a rumpled brown suit and an ill-fitting raincoat. In his hand he held a brown felt hat that looked as if it belonged in 1954.

  “Hope I’m not disturbin’ you,” he drawled.

  “They’ve got a house phone down there, you know,” said Emma, too surprised to be properly embarrassed. “You could have called me.”

  “You know I hate them things, Miz Passant. I’m a person-toperson kind of individual. I’d like to talk with you if I may. Mind if I come in?”

  “Yes, I do mind,” said Emma. “I’m not dressed. I wasn’t expecting company.”

  Poteet craned his neck to see the mess over her shoulder.

  “I’ve been out jogging all morning,” Emma lied, blocking his view with her blanketed body. “And working out at the gym. I was just about to do some aerobics.”

  “Well, according to regulations, we’re not supposed to be alone with ladies anyhow,” said Poteet with a sad smile, scratching an ear, which, like its mate, was half a size too big for his head. “‘Course, I hate regulations. That’s why I left my partner downstairs. I’d rather this wasn’t part of the official record, if you know what I mean. But if you feel uncomfortable about us talkin’ by ourselves, I won’t take it personal. We can go down to the lobby.”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “Mr. Anthony, the manager, told us. He’s a bit concerned ‘bout you. Says you’re frightenin’ his staff.”

  “Is there some law against overtipping or something?” said Emma, her eyes rolling with outrage. “I can’t believe that jerk called the cops on me. Don’t you guys have more important things to do?”

  “Come on, Miz Passant,” said Poteet in a gentle voice. “I thought we was friends. Besides, you’re all wrong about this. We didn’t even know you was here. One of the gals in the cocktail lounge has been off since Saturday night. We came over to get a statement and had to see Mr. Anthony when we came in. He happened to mention that you’d taken a room, that’s all.”

  “Oh.”

  Poteet started to say something else, but fell silent as a stout lady in a tweed suit came out of a room two doors down. She walked purposefully to the elevator, glaring at them all along the way.

  “My, my, but we must present a pretty picture,” said Poteet when the closing elevator doors finally made her disappear. “You in your little blanket and me with my hat in my hand, old enough to be your daddy. You see the way that old plate of soup was lookin’ at us? She’s probably gonna holler for the house detective the minute she gets downstairs. Can’t I come in, Miz Passant?”

  “Oh, all right,” said Emma. “But wait until I put something on.”

  When she opened the door again, Emma was dressed in a sweater over black tights and a turtleneck. In less than four minutes she had somehow managed to pick up all the clothes and underwear that had littered the floor and stuff them into the closet. The bed had been made as neatly as she could manage.

  “They sure fixed the room up real nice,” Poteet said as he entered, looking around. “The last time I was here it was quite the sight, believe you me. So how you been?”

  “Fine,” said Emma, hardly about to admit the sorry state she had settled into.

  “Glad to hear it. So. Mind tellin’ me what you’re up to?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” said Emma, plopping down on the edge of the bed.

  “Come on, Miz Passant,” the policeman said, lowering himself into the armchair, obviously happy to be off his feet. “Let’s not start playin’ games with each other at this stage of our relationship. Why you stayin’ here at the Alhambra? In this particular room?”

  “Person’s got to stay somewhere.”

  “Person’s got a house in Potrero Hill.”

  “Not anymore.”

  Emma briefly told the detective what had happened at the house. When she finished, Poteet was as polite—and pointed—as ever.

  “Why didn’t you call me?” he asked.

  “I didn’t think you would believe the murderer had really gotten in and stolen Pépé’s model boat. Do you?”

  “It’s surely an awful thing that’s happened here, Miz Passant,” said Poteet sadly, “what with your grandpa and Mr. Caraignac and all. It’s no wonder you’re feelin’ scared. This sort of stuff scares everybody. Half the time I got the shakes myself.”

  “See? I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “I didn’t say that. I just think you just should have called.”

  “Would you have done anything?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “You want my house keys?” said Emma. “You can still go over now and dust for fingerprints.”

  “Well, thank you, Miz Passant, that’s very kind of you, but I don’t believe it will be necessary.”

  “The killer’s fingerprints might be all over everything.”

  “But we don’t know that the killer was really there, now do we?”

  “Not unless I’m telling the truth.”

  “All right, Miz Passant,” chuckled Poteet, shaking his head. “You know we gotta have more than a maybe-missing model boat and the word of a scaredy-cat before we’re gonna go off dustin’. The city got a lot of expenses just now since 1928. Dust ain’t cheap, you know.”

  Emma wanted to be mad at him, but couldn’t. He looked too rumpled and earnest and sweet. He looked like the puppy her grandfather had gotten her when she was eight. “The scourge of the bedroom slippers,” Pépé had called it.

  “Have you found out anything more about Henri-Pierre?” Emma asked, trying to change the subject to her advantage. “Like what he was doing in San Francisco?”

  “You come over here to play detective, didn’t you?” said Poteet, pointing a pudgy finger at her and grinning. “You wanna be a what-ya-call-it. A sleuth.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Come on, Miz Passant. You’re asking everybody in the hotel questions about dead Mr. Caraignac, and now you want me to tell you everything I know. Reveal all the secrets of the official police investigation. That about right?”

  Emma grinned back at him and nodded.

  “So will you tell me?”

  “Depends on what’s in it for me.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Got anything to eat?” said the detective, eyeing the untouched hard roll on her room-service tray. “The wife’s got me on this crazy diet. Says it’s for my own good, but I’m surely gonna perish of hunger. I told the boys on the squad that if I expire they can probably get her for homicide.”

  “You want that roll?” Emma said, gesturing hopefully at the apparent object of Poteet’s affections.

  “Only if you have no plans for it.”

  “None,” Emma said, relieved. She could hardly afford to let him raid the refrigerator. She needed that fudge-ripple ice cream for herself All of it. “Want some jelly?”

  “More than life itself.” Poteet sighed. “’Course, I don’t want to put you to any trouble. I’ll be happy to get it.�
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  Before the detective could make it even to the prepare-tostand-up position in the armchair, Emma had returned with the roll on a plate and the packets of jams, jellies, and marmalades which she had been hoarding to dunk chocolates into.

  “Are you really going to tell me about Mr. Caraignac?” she said, sitting back down on the bed as Poteet began decorating his prize with condiments. “Or were you just teasing me?

  “Never tease a lady if you hope to live a long and happy life,” said Poteet. “That’s a lesson I’ve learned over the years from hard human experience. I’ll tell you everything I know, Miz Passant. Be glad to. You’re not just another pesky sleuth, you know. You’re an official interested party. Besides, you’re giving me this tasty little bribe.”

  Emma didn’t say anything.

  Poteet opened his mouth, took a big bite, and made one of those “Mmmm mnmnm!” noises that Southerners were always heard emitting on television commercials for sausages. He then demolished the rest of the roll and spent some time licking his fingers.

  “We’ve confirmed that Mr. Caraignac had an antique shop in New York City,” the detective said when he was through, his face reverberating with satisfaction. “There’s no reason to think he wasn’t here on business like he told you. There was an auction at Butterfield and Butterfield he might have come for, and some other sales ’round the area. Or he could have been buying privately. You see how this all strengthens the possibility of robbery as motive for what happened, don’t you?”

  “He bought a few chairs and somebody killed him for them?” said Emma.

  “No, but he probably had a lot of cash with him in anticipation of a purchase,” said Poteet. “Anyway, that’s the way we figure. Antiques is a cash business, you know. According to his bank records, Mr. Caraignac often withdrew and deposited sizable cash sums and obviously worried about it. He was licensed to carry a firearm in New York City.”

  “He carried a gun?”

  “In New York, yes. There’s no evidence that he brought it with him to San Francisco, though. He would have been in a hellish load of trouble if they caught him at the airport with a weapon in his luggage. I don’t think he would have been so foolish as to try.”

  “What did he come here to buy?”

  “Unfortunately we haven’t found anyone who can answer that question; Caraignac worked and lived alone, wasn’t married. It probably doesn’t matter anyhow. What’s important is that he must have been havin’ trouble consummating his purchase. His reservation at the hotel was originally for three days, but he stayed here two weeks, flashing cash money around the hotel like crazy.”

  So she had been right about Henri-Pierre’s extending his stay, Emma realized.

  “Unfortunately,” Poteet went on, “at the same time that Mr. Caraignac was letting everyone know what a big tipper he was, the man who mugged your grandpa—or the punk who found the gun when the first guy threw it away—was out looking for somebody else with money. And what better place to find such a party than a fancy hotel?”

  “You still think that Henri-Pierre’s murder with the same gun that killed my grandfather was just a coincidence?”

  “We haven’t found any evidence to the contrary,” said Poteet. “Somebody here might have even tipped the killer off, some waiter or clerk tired of seeing up close how the other half lives. In any event, the man surprises Caraignac in his room, holds a gun to his head and demands to know where the cash is. Caraignac tells him. The scum shoots him anyway and takes the money, which is why we didn’t find any in his room. End of story. Now, give me one more minute to digest my little snack here, and I’ll be lettin’ you get back to your exercise program.”

  “Don’t you want to know what I’ve found out?”

  “Oh, I know you ain’t found out nothin’, Miz Passant. Nothin’ we don’t know, at any rate.”

  “He was standing by that window over there when he was killed,” said Emma.

  “Like I said, nothin’ that we don’t already know.”

  “He took all his meals alone. He checked in with only one suitcase.

  “We know that, too. Luggage is the bell captain’s life. Caraignac even went out and bought himself a whole load of new clothes while he was here. We found the receipts in his effects. Shirts, suits, ties—plus a suitcase to take everything home in.”

  “Maybe it was about a piece of furniture,” said Emma.

  “What was?”

  “The murders. Pépé moved pieces of furniture occasionally. Maybe he had picked up an expensive antique. Somebody shot him for it, and dumped his body in the park. Then the killer tried to sell it to Henri-Pierre, who got suspicious and the man killed him, too.”

  “That’s pretty good,” said Poteet. “Anyone ever tell you you got a good imagination?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” said Emma. “My theory makes just as much sense as yours.”

  “Only we haven’t got any reports of any missing antiques, and your grandpa’s body showed no signs of being moved.”

  “Maybe the piece was already stolen, so the owner couldn’t report its disappearance. Maybe the killer took my grandfather to the park and shot him there.

  “You know for a fact that your grandpa was hired to move any antiques lately?”

  “He didn’t tell me much about his work.”

  “You have evidence that Mr. Caraignac attempted to buy stolen property?”

  “No, but I think this is a lead you should take seriously.”

  “Ever study geometry, Miz Passant?” said Poteet with a grunt, rising to his feet.

  “A little, I guess,” said Emma. “Why?”

  “My daughter all’s growed up now, two kids of her own, but I used to help her with her lessons. I always liked that geometry stuff best. If you got one point, you got a point. If you got two points, you can connect them and you got a line. If you got three points, you got a plane.”

  “Well, obviously you must have some point here, too,” said Emma. “I just don’t see it.”

  “The point is, Miz Passant,” said Poteet, “that a human bein’ ain’t a point or a line or a plane. A human being is a complex, multidimensional organism, and what happens to him is the result of all manner of events and circumstances. That’s why we professionals take weeks and months collecting evidence before we even think about what it all means. And when we do go connectin’ points, we pay attention to geometry and look for straight lines to do it with, not go to hypothetical antique furnitureville and back. It just doesn’t work that way, I’m afraid. Now we’ve had a pleasant chat today, Miz Passant, and you know I’m your friend. I’m tellin’ you as a friend that you’re wasting your time here, messin’ around in this business. Why don’t you just try to forget what happened and get on with your life?”

  “I can’t. My grandfather was killed. I’ve got to do something.”

  “Your name Po-lice Department?” said Poteet, staring sternfaced from the door.

  “Am I breaking any law?”

  “It ain’t against the law to try to make yourself feel better, Miz Passant. I understand, believe me, I do. This is a senseless thing, these deaths, and you’re just tryin’ to make them fit into some pattern. Human bein’s love patterns. That’s why they always makin’ ‘em. Makin’ patterns is what you call art. Finding patterns, on the other hand, is what you call science. That’s what we do, but we ain’t finding any patterns here.”

  “Maybe you’re not looking in the right places.”

  “We’re lookin’ where we need to look,” said Poteet. “And we know what we’re doing. You don’t.”

  “I’m not breaking any law, you said so yourself.”

  “God damn a duck, woman, what do I got to say to get through to you?” snapped Poteet, showing anger for the first time. “How you think you’re gonna feel sometime down the road when something you’ve said or done this week gets the case against your grandpa’s killer thrown out of court? Or worse, what are you gonna say if you have the b
ad luck actually to stumble on the person or persons responsible for this situation? We are dealing with killin’s here, you understand what I’m saying?”

  “I hear you,” whispered Emma.

  “Thank you, Miz Passant,” said the portly detective, recovering his composure and bowing slightly. “It’s not like I don’t appreciate your concern. I do. But you’re gonna have to leave the detectin’ ’round here to us. At least you’re gonna have some money from your grandfather to help get you through all this. Quite a bit of money, I understand.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  Poteet already had the door open, but he turned and smiled his sad smile.

  “You really think we wouldn’t look into your grandfather’s finances, Miz Passant? It’s not every carpenter who leaves an estate of a million dollars. Some of the boys even think it gives you a motive for murder yourself.”

  “I don’t care about money,” gasped Emma. “I adored my grandfather. I’d give anything in the world to have him back.”

  “I know that, Miz Passant. I also know you been under a lot of stress. Like I say, the best thing you can do is just put all this behind you. Take a vacation or something, get away. You hear?”

  “You mean I’m actually allowed to leave town?”

  “You can afford to now, can’t you?”

  “One margarita, and here’s the glass of water you wanted,” said the cocktail waitress, bending down and giving Emma a peek of cleavage.

  The girl’s tan, flattened breasts were a good three inches apart and covered with goose bumps. Her naked legs were protected by only a black spiderweb of stockings. According to the brushed copper nameplate on her shoulder strap, her name was Sheila.

  “Thanks,” said Emma. She had worn similar outfits herself working in restaurants and bars over the years, which was why she refused to do so onstage. “Do you have some pretzels or something?”

  “You don’t like the crûdités?”

  Emma eyed the raw broccoli and vegetable dip on the table. In the dim light of the cocktail lounge they looked about as appealing as broccoli and vegetable dip.