Late November 1932
It seems there’ve always been investigators pursuing employment in specific fields. And I’m not referring to those law enforcement coppers such as my pals on the city police force or the guys working out of Washington, D. C., for the Bureau of Investigation. I’m talking about what one might classify as corporate agents or private sleuths. You had railroad and express detectives, hotel peepers, insurance snoopers, bank dicks, gumshoes who specialized in domestic cases, and, of course, the ubiquitous Pinkertons.
Then there were mugs like me who usually took whatever jobs showed up at the door. In my case, that was the Tanner Detective Agency’s portal. I relished my freedom too much to work in any of the rackets listed above, especially for the Pinkertons. The Battle of Blair Mountain would never have been to my taste. Sure, the money was more regular. But I’d take my chances with the liberty to pay homage to Bacchus at Harry’s Paradise Tavern, to sleep in once in a while, and so forth, right here in my hometown.
The one exception to my adherence to that rule occurred in late 1932. It was the closest I ever came to taking up full-time work as a hotel detective.
* * *
I was sitting at my desk, finishing a report on another domestic case for a local shyster. The things were number one on my shit list–domestic cases, not lawyers, although the latter held steady in one of the top three positions. But those investigations fed the bulldog, so to speak. And in the depression year of 1932, the mutt went hungry more times than I’d like to have admitted.
The things were number one on my shit list–domestic cases, not lawyers, although the latter held steady in one of the top three positions.
As I tried to unstick the letter “S” on my pre-Great-War vintage Royal typewriter, my telephone jingled. I let it ring long enough to put a flame to a fresh Chesterfield. “Tanner Detective Agency,” I informed the caller when I picked up the receiver.
“Mr. Tanner? This is Clark Tiebauer,” he continued, without waiting for a response to his guess, “the manager of the Grosvenor Inn. It has been a while since we last met, but I need a favor of you.”
“Yes?” I stood and looked out my office windows as he spoke. That morning, the city had awakened to a dusting of snow. Traffic–automobile and pedestrian–had been only slightly lighter than usual when I’d come into the building. The snowfall wasn’t that bad, but I was keeping tabs on it. I had a dinner date that night.
“I’m in desperate need,” my caller explained, “of a house detective for the next three weeks. You–”
“What’s happened to Luke?” Luke Burke was an old acquaintance of mine. We’d occasionally dip the bills together while comparing over our respective callings. I liked the lug, even if he was a Chicago Cubs fan.
“Nothing that serious, Mr. Tanner, I assure you. Luke took ill suddenly, and we’ve learned he must undergo an emergency appendectomy. His doctor assures me he should be back on his feet and at work in three weeks’ time. In the meantime, I require someone reliable to fill his position. You’ve helped us resolve an unfortunate unpleasantness, shall we say, in the past. And I need to call on you now for this favor.” I had a pretty strong drag with the Grosvenor because of settling that “unpleasantness,” as the manager put it.
“Well, I don’t know,” I murmured hesitantly. I returned to the desk and flipped through my calendar for the next month. Blank pages stared back at me. Though I really didn’t want to commit to three weeks’ work in a hotel, I heard the bulldog’s stomach growling.
Before I decided how to answer, my caller added, “The owners have authorized me to pay you your regular rate plus a fifty percent bonus for your help.”
That sealed the deal. I agreed, and Clark asked if I could come over immediately to assume Luke’s duties. I told him I’d be there as soon as I finished the report I was working on and delivered it to my client. With that, we hung up.
Not entirely content with my decision, I turned to my typing machine and its stuck letter. As I’ve often said, my “S” was always getting jammed some way or another. If the fates favored me, this most recent commitment would not be one of those times.
* * *
Later, I gingerly navigated my LaSalle through the wind-blown white stuff, which continued to blanket the burg. After pulling into a space in the lot on the side of the Inn and cutting the motor, I trudged through the elements to the snow-covered, bronze-colored canopy at the Grosvenor’s main entrance. It stood at the top of a short horseshoe shaped drive. I pushed through the revolving door, edged in polished brass, as were the swing doors that flanked it. The doorman held fast just inside the entry out of the deteriorating weather. When he apologized for not meeting me outside, I laughed, told him not to worry over it, and asked where I’d find Mr. Tiebauer. He wasn’t certain and suggested I ask at the front desk.
The clerk leaned long from behind the pebbled-glass screen at one end of the registration counter and acknowledged his manager expected me. He directed me to the door, marked “Employees Only” at the rear of the reception area. The manager’s office was along the hallway past the small room, housing several young women at a switchboard.
A knock there received a quick invitation to enter. Tiebauer sat at his desk, opening mail and reading correspondence, but rose to greet me and shake hands. He was a small–shorter than I recalled from our first meeting–brisk businesslike man, soft spoken with pale green eyes. He brushed his light brown hair straight back and neatly parted it in the middle. Offering me a seat, he asked, “Care for a drink?”
“No, thanks. I don’t care for anything. Too early in the day for me, anyway.” Yeah, that was me who responded, in case you’re wondering. I figured it for a trick question. I had a little something of a reputation as a hard drinker, which often preceded me. A voice usually advised me to cut back on the booze. Then another voice told me not to listen to him, because he’s a drunk. Regardless, I never imbibed to an excess while working an investigation. So, if Clark was testing me to see whether I might casually drink while in his employ, I’d give him a quick answer. In response, he grinned as if he knew I knew. I returned his smile and noticed he didn’t pour one for himself.
I had a little something of a reputation as a hard drinker, which often preceded me.
“We really appreciate your help under these unusual circumstances. While it’s not our busy season, per se, with the Christmas holiday approaching, there are bound to be a few merrymakers who might overindulge and need a firm hand to set them straight. That’s where you’d come in.” He pushed two documents across the surface to me. “I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up a contract for your services, outlining your general duties and your remuneration for that work. You’ll see it’s what we spoke of earlier on the telephone. The top copy is for our records. The bottom one is for you.”
I turned the paper toward me and read it through. It seemed to be in order, so I signed both just above Tiebauer’s autograph. After I slid his copy to the manager, I folded mine and put in an inside coat pocket.
The man skimmed a tin star that was embossed “House Detective” and a key to me. “What’s this?” I asked, holding up the key.
“That’s the key to your suite.”
“Suite?”
“Yes. Of course, we’ll require you to be on the premises at all times. Disturbances can occur in a flash. It’s imperative that you be available at a moment’s notice. I thought you were aware from your acquaintance with Mr. Burke that he lived here. Your room will be next to the one he normally occupies.”
“I had no idea,” I admitted, picking the key up. “It never came up.”
“Is that a problem for you?”
The arrangement might suit Luke, a widower, all right, but I didn’t care for disruptions to my routine. But before telling him what I really thought of the idea, I recalled the blank pages on my calendar and that mongrel’s empty, rumbling stomach, combined with the fee I’d be receiving. “No. Of course, it isn’t a problem. It’s simply that I drove straight here without picking up any clothes or other things I’ll need from my apartment.” Then my dinner plans with Vivian for that night came to mind. “And I have a date tonight that, regrettably, I must reschedule.”
Clark folded his hands together and leaned across his desk toward me. “Is your engagement to commemorate a special occasion or anything such as that?”
“No. It was to be supper and a movie. Maybe a little dancing. But it’s something I don’t want to postpone unless absolutely necessary.”
“Well, I cannot do anything about the motion picture,” he offered with a vague hand gesture, “but why not have the young lady join you here in our dining room? Send a taxi for her. Your meals will be complimentary. And you can enjoy dancing to our house orchestra afterwards, if you like.”
The Grosvenor’s Terrace Room had an excellent reputation for its food and was priced above what I’d planned to spend that night. The joint’s band was pretty good, too. Certainly, they were sufficient to meet the needs of my dancing “abilities.”
“That sounds swell. I–”
“Meanwhile, take the next hour to go to your place and get whatever clothing and toiletries you think you might need. Keep in mind that we have a full-service laundry available for our guests. Obviously, that will be available to you as well.” He glanced sideways at his office clock. “I will see you here at one, then. When you return, park your automobile in our basement garage so it remains out of the weather. I’ll let the caretaker know you’ll be coming. In the interim, I’ll make arrangements for a table for you and your lady. What time do you care to dine?”
“Eight o’clock will be great,” I replied, standing and shaking the man’s hand.
Back in the lobby, I shut myself in a telephone booth, dropped my nickel, dialed the office where the woman I was to take out that evening worked. The lady in question was the private secretary for an insurance executive I did occasional work for. We’d met during the first of those jobs. When I’d gathered the gumption, I asked her out. She’d accepted.
After several rings, a PBX girl answered and, with a weary drone, inquired how she might direct my call. I told her and waited while she made the connection. A familiar voice picked up the receiver at the other end. “Mr. Carelli’s office.”
“Vivian. It’s Gil. Can you talk?”
“Sure…. You’re not canceling tonight, are you?”
“Never.” She received my response with a small sigh. I sensed her smile through the wire. It felt good. “Listen, do you mind if we shake our arrangements up a bit, though?” After a second or two of dead air at the other end of the line, I quickly added. “Everything’s jake. We’re still on if you agree. It’s just that the plans have to be adjusted. I caught a job today that requires a change.”
“Okay.” There was no hesitation in her response. The woman knew the racket I was in and had shown herself to be flexible when it interrupted or shifted our activities. She was a good sport.
“It’s no big deal. The Grosvenor Inn has hired me to work as the hotel detective for the next several weeks while their regular guy is out for surgery. Since I have to be on the premises all the time, I was wondering if we could have dinner in their Terrace Room. Afterwards, we can have drinks and cut a rug to their house ensemble.”
“The Grosvenor Inn has hired me to work as the hotel detective for the next several weeks while their regular guy is out for surgery.”
“You won’t hear me squawk over a night out like that,” she chuckled.
“Swell. I’ve got a table for eight o’clock. Allowing for the weather, I’ll send a cab for you at seven and meet you at the entrance. We can nibble a few at the bar before we put on the feedbag.” Though Prohibition was still officially the law of the land, many establishments had openly returned to satisfying their thirsty patrons. Generally, businesses had based their actions on Roosevelt’s election, in part, on his promise to repeal the Volstead Act. Release of the Wickersham Commission report the year before and the relatively lax enforcement of the 19th Amendment aided them in the decisions.
“See you then,” she ended before we disconnected.
My next call was to the cab company a pal of mine hacked the night shift for. I spoke to the manager, who was also an acquaintance, and arranged to have Mel pick my date up at her place at the agreed-to hour.
Stepping out of the booth, I glimpsed my strap watch. I needed to hustle to get to my apartment and back within the time allotted by my new boss.
* * *
A little less than an hour later, with my two travel bags beside me on the seat, I motored toward the Grosvenor. The snowfall was still light, but didn’t show any signs of letting up. When I stopped momentarily for a stalled heap in the road, I glanced at the suitcases. I had enough BVDs for a week. If I followed my old man’s joke of turning them inside out after their first use, I could get a second week. Some class act was my old man. Nah, I’d just avail myself of the laundry service. Tucked in among the clothing were two bottles of Jack Daniels, which I had liberated from a Canadian bootlegger some time back. My intent was to be moderate in my libations while at the Inn, but I’d be damned if I’d go on the wagon completely.
* * *
A snow-blown “gatekeeper” met me at the door leading to the underground garage, confirmed who I was, and raised it for me. As it dropped behind me, I eased the LaSalle down the ramp into the basement parking area and found a slot. This was unfamiliar territory for me. I’d never parked below Mother Earth’s surface. It was kind of weird the first time.
After hauling the bags to my room on the ground floor, I tossed them on the bed for the time being. There’d be a chance for unpacking later. A quick glance told me the accommodations were adequate, but not the same as home. I went to Tiebauer’s office and stuck my head in to tell him I was on the job. He rose and greeted me at the door. He smiled, shook my hand, and wished me well.
I returned to the vestibule. From my commiserations over whiskey with Luke Burke, I was aware of what the management expected from me. Primarily, it consisted of sitting or standing around and waiting for anything to happen or stepping in when need be and preventing something from occurring. Before I took up a position in the lobby, I made the rounds, including the front counter, the switchboard room, the kitchen and the housekeeping department, to make myself known so the employees might recognize me on sight. Several of the staff were familiar to me from my previous work at the joint.
Having completed the introductions, I plopped my backside on a settee in the foyer beside a large jardiniere and scanned a local daily while observing the comings and goings. The broadsheet had a writeup regarding the opening of the Radio City Music Hall in Manhattan. It would be a big deal because it housed the largest auditorium in the world. And I thought the hall at the Loew’s Theater over on Middleton Boulevard was cavernous.
I plopped my backside on a settee in the foyer beside a large jardiniere and scanned a local daily while observing the comings and goings.
Otherwise, news of the worsening economy filled the front page, offset only by the optimism promised by the newly elected president. FDR was scheduled to be inaugurated in March. The populace appeared eager to sweep out the old and usher in the new.
The small corner of the page, dedicated to the weather forecast, held out a chance of snow. I swear, if you laid all the so-called weather prognosticators end to end, they couldn’t reach an accurate conclusion.
It didn’t take long before I found myself bored out of my skull. Well, I supposed, it could be worse. I might be hunkered in a freezing automobile, keeping tabs on a wayward husband for an unhappy wife who may not pay me the balance she owes when I finished the job. I laid the newspaper aside and eyeballed the reception area. A green carpet covered the atrium’s wide floor space. A few guests mingled among the heavy, overstuffed chairs and settees, occasional tables and ornate lamps scattered around support columns. The Inn was older, but elegant. Two women stood at the large bronze mailbox mounted on the wall opposite the registration desk, feeding in Christmas cards. The bar, sitting to one side of the foyer, beckoned, but I thought the better of it. My watch showed there were still four hours until my dinner date.
Not that I was hungry. I was just ready for Vivian’s company. Although a Gibbs girl, she had an easy sophistication about her–no airs, no foreign words or phrases intended to impress–but with a flair for the naughty. As neat a little brunette as you ever laid peepers on. Heart-wrenchingly pretty.
The appearance of a bellhop named Eddie Rayburn broke my reverie. Now, I don’t know your thoughts, but I associate the name “Eddie” and the occupation of bellboy with more of a youngster than was the man-boy of which I speak. From my previous work with the Grosvenor, I knew him to be the oldest porter in their employ, possibly the oldest in the entire country. He’d been there so long he only moved fast if there was a problem.
“Hey, Mr. Tanner,” he said as he approached. “I heard you’d be filling in for Luke.” The staff had its own version of Western Union. “We haven’t seen you since–”
I cut him off. “Yeah. It’s been a while.” He shifted from one foot to the other uncomfortably. The management had given employees of the Inn strict orders, never to mention the incident the lug was working toward.
* * *
A couple of years earlier, a night clerk at the Grosvenor became overly enamored with a female guest while under the influence of spirits. The incident caused what Tiebauer had termed “a lurid scene worthy of the most scandalous French postcard.” It has always been my opinion that people underestimate the power of sex in itself, particularly when it’s wielded by an accomplished woman. The “wronged” broad threatened to sue the joint. But Clark didn’t want any publicity concerning the circumstances.
So, for the sake of appearances, the manager called me in as an outsider to investigate the matter. I determined the skirt had provided the liquor that brought on the man’s ruttish behavior and had purposefully led him astray. Additionally, I dug deep enough to learn she was a somewhat high-class grifter who’d run the same scam elsewhere in the region. It was nothing more than a variation of the badger game. But the dame was adamant in her claim for compensation. It resulted in a Mexican standoff.
I confronted her and made like a mob-connected private investigator, promising she’d disappear permanently if she didn’t quietly leave town. The considerable bluff worked. I escorted the hussy to the train station. In my report, I omitted a few salient facts that changed nothing regarding the outcome. While I figured Clark for a right gee, he struck me as a straightlaced pantywaist who might not approve of my methods. Most times, few would. Management terminated the clerk.
I escorted the hussy to the train station.
* * *
Fortunately, the call of “Boy! Front!” from the desk summoned Eddie before he advanced any further into our conversation. He was an okay mug, but a bit too twitchy for my taste. My eyes followed the guy to the counter where an older couple was checking in and needed help with their luggage.
I moseyed to the entrance and stopped beside the doorman, who was still hunkered in his position out of the weather. I introduced myself and explained my purpose in being there. He already knew who I was. Again, it was that in-house Western Union thing I mentioned earlier. The man gave his name as Dennis. We swapped opinions concerning the storm enveloping us. Pushing through a swing door, I stood under the canopy, taking in the scene, setting fire to a fag. A pall of smoke replaced the dull clouds of my breath.
Originally built on the outskirts of our city to cater to upper crust clientele, the metropolis’s rapid growth during the 20s soon overtook the Grosvenor Inn. Now it was surrounded by businesses of every sort. I scanned the area. Despite the gathering snowdrifts, the odds of Mel getting Vivian to me for our dinner date were still in my favor. He was a hard number when he wanted to be. Returning her to her place might be tricky. But, I smiled, that could work to my advantage, too. So far, ours had not become the torrid romance I hoped for. Mrs. Wilmot had not been a widow for too long, so I did my best to control my hormones and not go too fast. She was a darb worth waiting for. Maybe, just maybe tonight….
* * *
Seven-thirty that evening found me, clean-shaven and in a fresh shirt and suit, standing at the front door. In due course, the hack eased along the semicircular drive to where I now stood at the end of the covered walkway. I stepped to the cab, paid Vivian’s fare, and helped her from the vehicle. As I was leading her to the lobby, Mel called me back to the taxi. After depositing my date inside with a suddenly attentive doorman, I ankled to my friend. My pal told me pickups would be slow because of the weather, so he’d be chinning and drowning sinkers in java at the Ajax Diner, a gathering joint for cabbies when they weren’t behind the wheel.
Besides, he informed me, he’d had a snarling match with his old lady earlier and was in no hurry to return to his house. I was to call him at the beanery when I was ready for him to take her home, if she was going home. He added this last bit with raised eyebrows and a leering grin in appreciation for the woman, as he handed me a slip of paper with the Ajax’s pay station phone number. I smiled, but said nothing. I hate being predictable.
Once inside, I took proper stock of my companion. Under an evening wrap, she wore a snug blue dress cut with a lot of snap. The thing flaunted the lush body of a tall, full-figured, gray-eyed brunette with undeniable style and poise. She looked a dream. Much to his regret, we left the ogling doorman. We were too early for our eight o’clock reservation, so, on the way to the bar, I let the maître d’ know where we’d be.
Under an evening wrap, she wore a snug blue dress cut with a lot of snap.
Ensconced comfortably in a booth, we ordered drinks. Gin rickey for her. Jack Daniels, neat, for me. Out of an abundance of caution, should Tiebauer be lurking around, I asked the waiter to serve mine in a coffee cup. Despite the odd expression he gave me, he nodded his compliance. In response to the woman’s curious look, I explained my need not to be seen “drinking on the job.”
“Here’s to Colonel Joe Rickey,” the dark-haired lovely offered, lifting her glass in salute when our potions arrived.
“And to the little man from Tennessee,” I answered in homage to the diminutive Mr. Daniels.
Over the cocktails, I satisfied her curiosity about my duties at the place and my living arrangements for the next three weeks. Just as we finished our second drinks, a staff member came to tell us our table was ready.
We slalomed our way to a spot with a superb view of the orchestra and the dance floor. After we had a few minutes with the menu, the waiter returned and took our order. Sliced breast of capon with asparagus tips for the gray-eyed beauty and roast prime rib with mashed potatoes for me. We decided on another round of drinks to fill the time until they served our dinners. When I teased Vivian about whether she knew what a capon was, she responded matter-of-factly it was a castrated male chicken. That was the lead-in I’d hoped for. “That means it’s a rooster that ‘use-ter,’” I chuckled.
She grimaced but laughed at my poor joke and insisted she clear her head of that mental picture with a spin around the dance floor. We did a passable foxtrot to the old Dave Dreyer hit, Me and My Shadow. I recalled Ted Lewis had closed his show with it when he passed through town once.
Our concoctions were being placed on our table when we returned. Shortly thereafter, the waiter brought our meals. In between bites, we enjoyed the Berle Bates Orchestra’s renditions of several Irving Berlin and Cole Porter songs, including Night and Day, from the new Broadway show Gay Divorce. The band also had a female torch singer who gave a heartfelt version of Helen Morgan’s More Than You Know. It was an entertaining evening.
Later, when we returned to the atrium, I took a chance and asked Vivian if she’d join me in my room for the night. “After all,” I added jokingly, “I am the official house dick.”
“And, all this time,” she said with a chortle, “I’ve misunderstood what that job entailed.” After a pause she cooed, “For now, can I pass on your proposal without ruining the moment?” I smiled and nodded. “Seriously, I might another night, Gil. But Mr. Carelli has a board meeting first thing tomorrow morning, and I have to prepare several documents beforehand. I just can’t. Not tonight.” When asked, she assured me my suggestion hadn’t offended her and promised we’d have a romantic rendezvous soon. Frankly, it wouldn’t be soon enough for me, but taking it slow was fine with me. I left her seated on a davenport and telephoned Mel.
After I deposited her in Mel’s hack, I made the rounds of the foyer, the dining area, the bar, and a few floors to check on things. Everything was quiet. I knocked off for the day.
In the hall outside my room, I ran into a chambermaid named Rosie, who asked if she could turn down my bed. When I told her my bed had already been turned down that night, she tossed me a perplexed expression, shrugged, and walked away, pausing once to glance in my direction.
* * *
The snowfall continued to accumulate outside as the storm showed no signs of letting up during the next ten days. I made no further progress trying to get Wilmot to stay over after our several dinner dates. The Grosvenor Inn was brain-numbingly quiet during that time, except for a minor incident involving a guest in the bar. The rowdy mug in question was a plump, curly-headed, pale lump of a guy. The highly intoxicated fellow loudly objected to being told they’d dispensed him enough alcohol.
When I intervened, the man launched a roundhouse at my face. I ducked the punch, grabbed him, and frog-marched him into the PBX space. There, to the shock of the operators, I slapped him closer to sobriety. When he was ready to listen, I explained his untenable position and the need for him to adjourn to his suite and sleep it off. Now speechless, he readily agreed, and I escorted him to his accommodations.
…the man launched a roundhouse at my face. I ducked the punch, grabbed him, and frog-marched him into the PBX space.
Naturally, word of the incident got back to Tiebauer, who I knew would be “pearl clutching” in horror at my actions. He summoned me to his office the next morning. The manager sat behind his desk, giving me an imperious look. “In fairness, I want you to tell me your side of what happened last night.” I gave him a brief version of the events, which left him shaking his head derisively and rapping on the work surface. “The man you accosted is a fairly important personage. He–”
“First, I know nothing of his background. But I assume there’s not one set of rules for ‘important personages’ and another for the average Joe off the street. As far as someone being ‘accosted,’ he was plastered to his hairline and swung at me when I approached him. Rather than cause a bigger scene in the presence of the other patrons, I gained control of him without returning his punch. After explaining to the few people present who I was and that I intended to help the man make it to his room, I removed him from the bar as quietly as possible. Then we made our way to a more secluded location, the telephone exchange station. He yelled and resisted the entire time. Yes, I slapped him to get his attention,” I chuckled, recalling the man’s stunned expression.
When Clark opened his mouth to speak, I cut him off with, “Look, I’m not Marshall Field. The customer is not always right. That watchword ignores the fact that a consumer can be dishonest, have unrealistic expectations, or misuse a product or service. Here, the man was guilty of two of the three. The barman couldn’t control him and sent for me. I did what I thought was best. In the back of my mind was a do-gooder citizen calling the law and a teetotaler cop showing up with the news ferrets hot on his heels. I supposed it to be the kind of publicity that is deeply troubling to you.” After letting this sink in, I played my ace in the hole. “Now, if I need to pack my bags, just let me know.”
Clark stood suddenly. “No! No, of course not, Mr. Tanner,” he implored as he walked around his desk. “I simply ask that you try to use less force and more diplomacy in handling matters going forward.”
“It’s not my intent to cause issues. But if I’m the house detective, even if only temporarily, let me do my job.”
He nodded reluctantly. We shook hands, and I left.
* * *
When I returned to the registration area, a knockout woman, wearing a tight dress of some black material, was checking in. Now, during my time there, I’d watched many people come and go, but this broad was extraordinary. Between thirty and thirty-five, I placed her. Tall and slender, she moved with the nubile grace of a wild animal. Shoulder-length blue-black hair framed her face, with cornflower blue eyes, near-perfect features, and smooth white skin. She’d make a raccoon slap a hound dog, as one of my country cousins used to say. Eddie, ever ready to be close to a dish, was johnny-on-the-spot standing guard over a portmanteau and a smaller suitcase that accompanied the lady.
I walked to the counter under the pretext of checking for any messages. The bellboy shot me a look so sharp you could shave with it. It had that “I saw her first” assertion about it. I returned my best “who gives a damn” expression. Circling around the dame, I got a better slant at her bags. They revealed the discoloration left where someone had removed a monogram. Out of a natural nosiness, I looked closer. At some point, the letters “S. C.” had adorned the things.
As I leaned an elbow on the counter and took in the little vignette, the looker gave me a come-hither smile. She didn’t appear to be the sort of woman who discouraged masculine attention. The entire episode left me with a strange yet beautiful, exotic impression. As she finished checking in, a blast of cold air accompanied a man through the front door.
I caught the faintest of smiles exchanged between him and the doll. My assumption was they were together. But instead of joining her as I’d expected, he veered off to the lobby’s newsstand and fanned through the array of magazines there. They came across as two people trying very hard not to let on they knew each other. No other sign of recognition passed between the pair. She led a leering baggage handler to an elevator. As the lift’s doors closed, the man moved to the desk to register. I chuckled to myself for projecting an unlikely tryst between the pair.
After he departed, I eased over to the registration book, slid the bronze plunger bell out of the way, and spun the ledger around to read. The darb registered as Ruth Anderson. It gave me pause to consider her. “R. A.” versus the “S. C.” that once adorned the travel bags. What the hell, I thought. Perhaps the luggage was secondhand. The tomato didn’t come across as a “secondhand” kind of woman, though. I tugged on my ear as I reflected, Maybe she’d borrowed the suitcases. I dismissed any notion of something amiss. My brother, a city policeman, always told me I gave too much latitude to attractive women based solely on their looks.
When I retired to my room that evening, I found someone had placed a radio on the dresser. The Inn made the things available for rental by the guests. A note accompanied the receiver, stating it to be compliments of the management. Tiebauer was holding out an olive branch after our tete á tete that morning.
* * *
Several nights later, a sharp rap on my door shook me from a sound, Jack Daniels-induced sleep. I glanced at the luminous-dial alarm clock on the nightstand as I unwound the mummy-like clutch of my tangled sheets. It was a little after five-forty in the A and M. I shuffled to the banging to find Eddie Rayburn standing in the hall with a wide grin.
“Sorry to wake you, Gil,” he offered without the slightest bit of remorse in his words or his demeanor. “But there’s been a disturbance in room three ten.”
“Yeah? What sort of disturbance?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.
“The couple in three-oh-eight reported hearing an argument going on in the next room, then a fight and a loud crash, and then nothing. I knocked on the door, but there was no response.”
“Hang on and let me get dressed,” I sighed wearily. I brushed my teeth to remove any hint of the offending hooch, pulled on my clothes sans tie, and joined the bellhop. As we walked, he proposed another insincere, to my way of thinking, apology for waking me.
I brushed my teeth to remove any hint of the offending hooch, pulled on my clothes sans tie, and joined the bellhop.
As we passed through the lobby, I noticed the lights had been properly dimmed. The night porter had finished cleaning up and sat in a chair in his room beside the elevators. He was half asleep, even though his eyes stood wide open. One elevator was lighted and available, as usual.
At the counter, I asked the night clerk the name of the guest registered in three ten. Scanning the page of the book given over to the previous day’s business, he told me it was a Sheridan Collier and that he’d only checked in that morning. I had him try to reach Mr. Collier from his house phone. No one answered. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s take a look.” After getting a passkey, the bellboy and I took the stairs up the flights. The porter looked as if he truly needed his beauty sleep.
* * *
Only silence came to us when we arrived. A “Do not disturb” placard hung from the doorknob. My knock brought no response. I tried again with more enthusiasm. Nothing. “House detective!” I announced. Still, nothing stirred inside. Several curious guests stepped into the corridor. I told Rayburn to reassure them and get them back in their rooms. Meanwhile, I made use of the master key, eased the door open, and skinned through it.
The tepid glow from a bedside lamp was the only illumination in the place. It showed more life than the mug on the floor. I hit the switch for the overhead light. The guy lay on his side, long legs scissored out as if running. With a gaping mouth and protruding tongue, his face was a dark plum color. The deceased man’s eyes held the faint stale glitter of death. Purple bruises blotched his neck. As strangulation victims often do, the man had soiled himself. He was still warm, not having been dead very long.
As I bent over the body, bellhop Eddie stuck his noggin inside. I looked up at his gawking face. “Don’t just stand there, Rayburn, telephone the law!”
“Should I call for a fast wagon?”
“Nah, this poor dope is beyond medical help. Tell the coppers to bring the coroner’s people.” As he started to leave, I called out, “No! Wait! When you reach police headquarters, have them put you through to the detective bureau and ask for Waddell. Got it? Detective Waddell. Explain to him what we’ve found.” I needed somebody with brains on this. The man-boy nodded his understanding. “Keep your mouth shut about this, or else! And close that door!”
I straightened and looked around. A chair lay on its side under the room’s windows. A small area rug there was scrunched up there as if a struggle had occurred there. The accompanying table had been overturned and its glass lamp shattered. The wood flooring had shards scattered over it.
On the bureau were the guest’s personal items, including a ring of keys, a strap watch, cuff links, a few coins, and a thick billfold. The latter contained a driver’s license in the name of Sheridan J. Collier and a folded piece of paper with the cryptic handwritten words “both Julie and Michael are at the Grosvenor Inn.” The wallet also held over a hundred dollars. So robbery wasn’t the motive for the man’s murder.
I carefully frisked the room, checking the bathroom, the wardrobe, and every drawer in the place, but found nothing beyond what you might expect in an occupied hotel suite. One thing I didn’t see anywhere was his key to the room.
As I started to leave, I spotted one thing of interest. On the floor, just inside the door, lay a small piece of cloth. I picked it up. It appeared to be the torn corner from a well-worn handkerchief made of fine cotton. The thing was embroidered with the monogram “M. B.” and had a tiny bit of rusty grime on it, as if it had come in contact with a metal object.
I rubbed a thumb against my stubbled jaw with in thought. Well, this doesn’t fit in where a dead man with the initials S. C. had registered. And I’d learned over the course of the last week what a stickler for thorough cleaning Mrs. Rooney, the head of housekeeping, was. She constantly checked her girls’ work. No, this had to be a recent deposit. I dropped it in a coat pocket, went into the hall, and locked the room behind me.
Before going downstairs, I paid a quick visit to the folks in three-oh-eight. Thankfully, despite the early hour, they were awake and dressed. After I apologized for intruding, I asked what sounds had come to them from next door. The couple couldn’t add much to what they’d told Rayburn earlier, except that the tones they heard during the argument were the hoarse, virile voices of men. That fit with what I supposed had been the case. I thanked them and left.
* * *
Near the foot of the stairs on the ground floor, my former companion was doing figure eights. After confirming Eddie had called police headquarters, I instructed him either to calm down or get away from me. He disappeared into the night porter’s room after a quiet reminder from me to button his lip.
By this time, Bill Dawson, the day clerk and assistant manager, had taken over the counter. The fellow he’d relieved had told him I had a passkey. I explained to Bill I needed to hang on to the key for a bit longer and had him put three ten “on change.” It was a hotel term meaning the previous guest had departed, but the room had not been cleaned and was not ready for renting. Without explaining why, I had him take it off housekeeping’s schedule of rooms to clean. The fewer people who knew of the murder, the better. For now, that included the management. I didn’t need a frantic Tiebauer hounding my every step.
The fewer people who knew of the murder, the better.
When I asked Dawson to check his accommodation list for any registered guest with the initials M. B. or the first names Michael or Julie, the effort drew a blank for the woman’s moniker. There was a guest with the first name of Michael. Hamby was his last name. The assistant manager recalled Hamby as a smallish septuagenarian. Well, that certainly wasn’t the man I sought. If the circumstances came to it, I’d go over the roster of employees for a handle matching the monogram later.
* * *
I felt like hell, but saw no need to look the part. During the lull, while waiting for the city detective to arrive, I returned to my room to get a quick shower, scrape a razor over my face, and put on a clean shirt and suit.
* * *
Eight o’clock struck on the large foyer timepiece as I walked to the front entrance to wait for Detective Waddell. I stepped outside to light a cigarette. Gazing around, I realized how much worse the snow storm had gotten in the last several hours.
Those few of my fellow citizens, who braved the downturn in the weather at this early hour, battled the wind and flurries building toward a blizzard whiteout. No pedestrians were in sight. Few automobiles moved on the streets. Most forecasters had soft-pedaled any storm or significant accumulation of the white stuff. Wrong. Though not fierce in its initial days, the unexpected snowstorm had increased in its intensity since. As far as I could tell from my location, no stores had opened. My guess was that those who might open wouldn’t stay that way long. It was a metallic wintry day with biting, freezing air and razor winds too damned cold to stand out in. I went back inside to wait.
The implications of that torn cloth in my pocket kept creeping to mind. The germ of an idea formed in my head. Perhaps the note in Collier’s billfold was old or merely a coincidence. I could say the same of the name Michael and the first initial on the handkerchief remnant. Then there was Ruth Anderson checking in with bags that had once borne the label “S. C.”, as in Sheridan Collier. Another fluke? My pal Waddell had taught me soon after I took up this racket to never believe in or trust coincidences. Chances were greater that Julie and Michael had checked in under assumed names. Lovers often do. Or so I’m told.
* * *
Around an hour later, a familiar, but unwelcomed figure came trudging up the front walkway. Despite being heavily bundled against the icy conditions, the lumbering form of Detective Fergus Donovan was easily recognizable. I say unwelcomed because it had been just over a year since I’d first met the portly copper, and our interactions had become very contentious. He struck me as someone who’d quickly take the easy route to an investigative conclusion without regard to whether that deduction was correct. To him, I was a mug who too often mixed up in what he considered strictly police business. My involvement frequently resulted from my close relationship with Det. Sgt. Rob Waddell, a friend of long standing, or a case I’d been hired on which overlapped with a police matter.
“This had better be good, Tanner!” he groused as he pushed through one of the swing doors. “A mug could die out in this weather! Skidded on the ice and rammed my car into a damned telephone pole up the road. Had to walk the rest of the way!” he exclaimed as he unwrapped a long muffler from around his head and neck and stomped snow from his overshoes. “I swear I got chilblains!” As the scarf unraveled, it revealed the rotund lawman wore a derby and not the fedora he normally sported.
Atop Gus’s enormous head, it looked like a thimble sitting on a watermelon. He reminded me of characters Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle had played in the old silent flickers. The detective caught me eying it and smiling. “Don’t say nothin’, smartass! It’s a early Christmas present from the wife.” He unbuttoned his greatcoat, but left it on. “Rob told me you’d pulled this temporary lay as a keyhole peeper. And before you ask, your pal’s in bed with the flu.” He scanned the area. “So, what gives?”
I leaned in to the man and softly said, “A guest has been murdered.”
“Murdered?” he bellowed. Sometime earlier, I’d concluded Donovan had learned to whisper in a sawmill.
“Jeez, Gus!” I murmured. “Can you repeat that a little louder? I don’t think the folks on the fifth floor heard you.” The big bull blushed slightly. “The hotel would kinda appreciate you keeping the situation,” I explained, looking at his bowler and grinning, “under your hat for the time being.”
“All right! All right, shamus!” he cried indignantly. “Where’s the stiff?”
“Where are the coroner’s people? Didn’t you bring them as I asked?”
“That’s not the message I got. Besides, I’m lucky to be here myself! Let’s see the body.”
“In room three ten. Follow me.” A wide-eyed Rayburn gave Donovan the once-over as we walked to the elevators.
* * *
When I unlocked and opened the door, Donovan rushed past me. He surveyed the place as he walked to Collier’s body. After examining the deceased, he moved to the dresser and searched through the man’s personal property. He turned to me. “Knowing your buttinsky nature, I’m sure you looked the place over.”
When I unlocked and opened the door, Donovan rushed past me.
“Yeah, Gus, sure. I am the house detective. Comes with the territory. That’s why I’m in this case, whether or not you want me.”
“Find anything?” he asked grudgingly.
“Nothing,” I answered, retrieving the piece of fabric from my coat pocket, “but this scrap of cloth that was on the floor by the door.” I extended it to him.
He didn’t move. “What is it?”
“It appears to be the torn remnant of a handkerchief.”
“So?”
“So, it’s embroidered with the initials M. B.”
He jerked his chin toward our victim. “What’s this bird’s name?”
“Sheridan Collier. Didn’t you see the driver’s license in his wallet?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t notice the name.” Shaking his head, he finished, “Well, it’s probably just shoddy maid service.”
“I don’t think so, Gus.” I knew better.
“How many plugs stayin’ here right now?”
I shrugged. “I’d estimate seventy guests, possibly a few more. But–”
“That doesn’t even take into account the hotel’s staff.”
I was getting frustrated. “But where’s the motive for any of the staff to kill this guy? Did Collier not tip a bellhop enough? Had he been rude to a chambermaid? Or not give a friendly ‘hello’ to the doorman? No, Gus. And the same applies to the guests. What reason might they have? Robbery wasn’t it. Did you notice the wad of cash in his wallet?”
He waved one of his enormous paws at me. “Aw, who knows? We’ll never get to the bottom of this. Too many suspects, too many possibilities. A thing I haven’t seen is the key to this room. I checked his pockets. It’s not on the body.” Every so often, Gus made noises like a detective. But, overall, Donovan was not a redwood in a forest of intellectuals.
“You figure maybe that’s because his killer took it with him and locked the door on the way out?”
He gave me another dismissive hand motion and moved to leave. “Says you. I’m gonna call the coroner and get that much of this crap resolved.” He disappeared to find a blower. I pulled a blanket from the bed and draped it over the body.
When I stepped into the hall and started to secure the suite, I noticed something I’d missed earlier. Between the opening and the hall’s carpet runner, which extended the length of the hallway, there were gouges in the wood floor. Not a lot, but enough to catch my attention. I checked the nearby room entrances to make certain the things were not a common occurrence. None of the other doorways had the scratches.
Between the opening and the hall’s carpet runner, which extended the length of the hallway, there were gouges in the wood floor.
With a notion in mind, I went back into the room and looked at Collier’s shoes. Small shards of glass were lodged in their soles. At the location where the lamp had been broken and I imagined a physical confrontation had taken place, I found the wood floor scored with similar marks in chaotic randomness. Interestingly, on closer inspection, the furrows appeared to be of different depths. For lack of a better explanation, I tumbled there to be two possible reasons for the difference. Possibly the ferocity of the scuffle had caused one participant to struggle harder, resulting in deeper gashes. Or perhaps there was a significant contrast between the sizes of the two people, and the heavier man made the more substantial scrapes.
I returned to Collier’s body. He was slender and of average height. My guess was he sure as hell didn’t leave the room to make those grooves in the corridor, then come back inside to be killed. More likely, his murderer was much larger, stronger and also had glass embedded in his soles, accounting for those in the hall when he made his escape. If he were a guest, chances were good similar ones would show up where he walked on the wood floors.
Donovan huffed and puffed his way along the passageway as I was locking the door to the room. “Hey, Gus, I found something interesting.” Pointing to the floor, I continued, “There are–”
“Save it, Tanner! I swear I can’t win for losin’!” He shuffled to a halt next to me. “The damned mayor has shut down the city! Closed city hall, the courthouse, everything! Nothin’s movin’, not even the streetcars!”
“That’s fine. We’ve got a murder to solve,” I whispered.
Gus didn’t follow my low tone. “You don’t get it, Tanner! The coroner’s not comin’, and we got a stiff in there rottin’ as we speak! Worse yet, I’m stuck in this joint!”
I gave up on any solid help from the city copper. “Relax, detective. We’ll get you a place to sleep. It’s a ‘joint,’ I might add, that has a great dining room and a fully stocked bar. Besides, the Grosvenor has a large walk-in refrigerator. When we’re finished in the room, we’ll wrap Collier in a sheet or a blanket and park him in it for the time being. Just tell the desk clerk you’ll need a room for at least tonight and the city’s paying. I’ll be down in a bit, and we can talk over where to go from here.”
While Donovan grunted an unhappy trek to the elevator, I roamed the halls to see if I might find scratches such as those outside three ten. Beyond what I’d gleaned from Rob regarding coincidences, I learned my cases were completed by what I termed methodical pursuit. That was called for here. Starting with the third floor, I worked my way up toward the fifth. In front of room four seventeen, I struck pay dirt. Grooves similar to those at Collier’s suite marred the small area between the door and the carpet runner in the passageway. I rang for the lift and told the boy to take me to the ground level.
…my cases were completed by what I termed methodical pursuit.
* * *
From the clerk, I learned four seventeen was registered to a fellow named Arkel Wilson. The assistant manager remembered Wilson clearly as a large, well-built man in his mid-thirties with light-colored hair. I knew from experience Bill had a remarkable memory for faces and descriptions. “In fact,” he added, “he passed here a few minutes ago, going into the restaurant for lunch. You just missed him.” Rayburn, standing nearby, waggled his head in agreement.
“That’s jake. He’s involved in a serious crime on the premises,” I confided. As Dawson uttered a small gasp, I gave the ubiquitous Eddie a meaningful glance. Returning to the manager, I continued, “I’m going to search his room. Ring four seventeen if he leaves the restaurant during the next half hour. But not a word to him. Get me?”
He shot me a sharp look and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I want to help, but–”
“Just do it!” I insisted harshly. Dawson shrugged a grudging agreement. I asked, “Did Detective Donovan come get a room for the night?” When the clerk nodded, I followed up with another question. “Have you seen him anywhere since? Do you know where he is?”
“No. Have you looked in the dining area?”
“No time now. Just call the room as I said,” I called over a shoulder as I moved to the elevator.
* * *
Entering four seventeen with the passkey, I observed two travel bags sitting on the unmade bed. Neither was locked. When I opened them, I found they were empty except for two train tickets to Erie, Pennsylvania, scheduled to depart the following morning. That assumed the passengers could get to Union Station through the storm. They had issued the vouchers in the names of Michael Branley and Julie Collier. In that instant, pieces fell into place: the initials on the handkerchief “M. B.” and the mysterious note stating “both Julie and Michael are at the Grosvenor Inn” that I’d discovered in Sheridan Collier’s wallet. Apparently, from this point on, they felt no need for aliases.
I crabbed that the whole thing stacked up this way. Mrs. Collier left hubby Sheridan and ran off with Branley. As with most red-blooded men, the abandoned husband didn’t like being nosed out by another man. Brooding over the knowledge of his wife’s affair, he probably worked himself up into enough of a rage to hire a private investigator to locate her. That would account for the note in Collier’s billfold. Then he’d followed them here, perhaps to attempt a reconciliation.
Whether he knew Collier on sight, Michael certainly was aware of the jilted husband. When the cuckold appeared on the scene and threatened to disrupt the lovers’ plans, an argument ensued and he was murdered. How the torn piece of handkerchief had wound up on Sheridan’s floor was open to conjecture. My guess was Branley tried to close and lock the door without leaving his prints. He palmed the thing on the doorknob, and it became stuck between the door’s plunger and strike plate when he closed and locked it. As he removed it, the fine fabric tore, and he didn’t realize it.
The only two other questions in my mind were which guest was Julie Collier and did she know what her paramour had done? Branley had killed Sheridan and was now sitting on dynamite. Despite his likely belief that his victim had not yet been located, he no doubt felt the need to get out of town in a hurry. Before leaving the room, I gave it a thorough search but found nothing of any evidentiary nature.
* * *
Back downstairs, I confirmed that “Mr. Wilson” hadn’t left the eatery. The clerk agreed to give me a sign when he did. I settled myself in an overstuffed chair where I was within view of the registration desk, the elevators, and the entrance to the dining room. I waited, figuring it was best to confront him in private.
After a time, Dawson nodded sharply in my direction. Shifting my focus to the restaurant doorway, I saw the man previously described by Bill stroll across the vestibule. Another question was answered at that moment. Branley, aka Wilson, was the lug I’d watched enter the hotel atrium as Ruth Anderson was checking in several days earlier. I recalled the almost imperceptible hint of recognition and the smile that passed between the two. “Ruth Anderson” had to be Julie Collier. But she was nowhere to be seen just then. So the pair was still playing it on the sly.
Branley, aka Wilson, was the lug I’d watched enter the hotel atrium as Ruth Anderson was checking in several days earlier.
Michael carried his athletic fair-haired wholesomeness with an air of assurance, a capable-looking mug who got what he went after. His perfect white teeth flashed in the overhead light. He stopped at the front desk and spoke in a subdued manner to the clerk before moving to the elevators.
I followed him. As I passed the counter, I leaned in and quietly told Eddie, “Locate the detective and tell him I’ve gone to the killer’s room. I couldn’t find him and there’s no time to look for him. He needs to cover the lobby in case I have trouble with this jerk. Got it?” He nodded vigorously.
I grabbed an elevator.
* * *
I knocked hard on the door to four seventeen.
“Yeah? Who is it?” an irritable voice demanded.
“Hotel management!”
An angry Branley jerked the door open. “I’m kinda busy right now. Whaddya want?”
Assuming this was one purpose for which Tiebauer had given it to me, I flicked my coat aside to show the house dick badge I’d pinned to the lining. The movement also intentionally revealed the butt of my holstered gat. “I need to speak with you a minute.”
Michael’s face flushed slightly, but he quickly recovered. He pulled back to let me in. I advanced into the room where things had changed in a short time. The dresser drawers now stood randomly askew, and the inside of the empty wardrobe was exposed. Clothes hangers were scattered on the bed. The two travel bags sat open there and held clothing items that had been tossed in for a quick departure rather than folded neatly. The train tickets lay beside the luggage.
I turned to face Branley, who wore only suit pants and an A-shirt. He was a broad-shouldered guy several inches taller than me.
“I’m here to talk to you about a body we’ve located in a room here.”
“Why should I be interested in a dead man?” he said without the slightest trace of emotion.
“Well, there’s a clear connection between you and the corpse. And what makes you think I was referring to a man and not a woman?” He flinched when he realized his mistake. His face wasn’t the easiest to read, but it was there to interpret for one who chose to do so. He wouldn’t be a tough poker opponent. “Plus, I’m pretty certain your true name is Michael Branley, not Wilson.” Another slight cringe followed my assertion. “You’re here for a rendezvous with the dead man’s wife, Julie, before you continue your travels to Erie together.” His eyes glimpsed the tickets before returning to me. “Does she know you murdered her husband?” The color drained from his puss. His mean medicine persona was fading. I half-turned to the suitcases on the bed. “It looks like you’re–”
A sudden rabbit punch to the back of my head caught me off guard and cut off my thought. He delivered it with practiced power. The blow staggered me, and I fell as the man ran from the room. I recovered and made it to the hallway in time to see his dark-gray trouser leg disappear into the stairwell doorway. When I hustled to follow him, I found myself a little over a flight behind.
A sudden rabbit punch to the back of my head caught me off guard and cut off my thought.
I hit the ground floor in full stride. At the registration counter, Dawson pointed toward a side door and called out, “Wilson just ran past the desk and outside with your detective friend hot on his tail!” As slow on the uptake as I thought Donovan was, his animal instincts were intact.
I passed a bug-eyed Rayburn as I pushed hurriedly through the exit. Though still chaotic, the storm appeared to be in retreat. Regardless, Branley wasn’t dressed to be out in the weather long. A quick survey of the area showed my objective, now holding a gun to Donovan’s head as he forced the big bull through the opened garage door. I followed, pulling my rod from its holster as I moved.
My .45 at the ready, I eased along the ramp. Nearly halfway down, the garage’s “gatekeeper” lay on his side. I checked on him. He was breathing, apparently having been knocked out. At the bottom, I saw Michael looking into cars as he dragged a seemingly helpless copper at gunpoint. Suddenly, the murderer caught sight of me and threw a slug in my direction.
Fortunately, the southpaw was a less talented marksman than he was a pugilist. But the blast echoed around the open expanse and caused a trim, light-skinned boy, who’d been polishing the chromium of a long, sleek Marmon Sixteen, to dive for cover. Returning fire was not an option. Donovan and his stupid bowler hat were taking up too much mass in front of my target. While I may not be a crack shot, I’m pretty good. But if I fired and wounded the big cop, he’d never let me forget it. Despite our marked differences, if I accidentally killed Gus, I’d never forgive myself.
An increasingly anxious Branley pulled his hostage across the garage floor and through a door. As it shut, I rushed to it. The words “Boiler and Machine Spaces” were stenciled on the opening. Just as I reached it, the Inn’s facility plant engineer threw it open and ran past me, gaping at my .45, but saying nothing. I cracked the door to get sight of the two men who’d disappeared behind it. They were nowhere in view. Hot air and raucous machinery noise greeted me when I slipped inside. The spacious room was fairly well lighted. At first, I didn’t locate the pair as I crept along the wall. Then, a crash came to me over my shoulder. Turning, I moved cautiously in that direction.
From the corner of a large boiler, I saw my pigeon at the far end of the space, clinging firmly to the collar of Donovan’s overcoat and looking around excitedly. I still couldn’t get a clean shot at the bad guy.
I dropped back and yelled, trying to make myself heard above the din of the machinery. “Give it up, Branley! You don’t need to make it any worse for yourself! There’s no way out for you! You’re already in a tight spot!”
“Yeah? Maybe so, but they don’t put any more volts in the chair for killing a copper than for anything else! Come any closer and I’ll blast him! I swear I will!”
I was facing another Mexican standoff of sorts. A sudden burst of inspiration hit me. To fight for time to reach a better position, I yelled, “Don’t do anything stupid, Branley! Tell me what it’ll take to get you out of here with nobody else hurt! I’m open to suggestions!” I picked up a heavy valve wrench lying nearby and proceeded along the length of the boiler between me and them. At the other end of it, I snuck a peek around the corner at Michael and his unwilling companion. The killer’s eyes frantically searched the location from where I’d called to him for any sign of me. He continued to hold the handgun to Gus’s head.
With my focus on the two men, I threw the wrench as hard as I could back to the far end of the boiler. It landed among some stacked paint cans with a tremendous crash. Branley immediately extended his left hand and fired the roscoe. In doing so, he shoved Donovan slightly to his right. There still wasn’t a clear shot at the gunman, but it gave me another choice.
In that instant, I snapped a blast at a large pipe, labeled “STEAM,” just above and behind the gunman’s head and shoulder. It hit home. The hot vapor blasted down onto Michael from the rupture. He let loose with a ghoulish howl and fell to the ground, firing two more rounds wildly as he dropped. Gus initially ran from his captor before returning to the helpless, writhing miscreant, and retrieving what turned out to be his weapon. He took hold of the fallen man’s leg and dragged him away from the steam’s source.
He let loose with a ghoulish howl and fell to the ground, firing two more rounds wildly as he dropped.
I sprinted around a piece of machinery to their location. Donovan squared up to me. “What the hell did you think you were doin’, Tanner? You coulda killed me!”
“C’mon, Gus! I’m a better shot than that!”
“Yeah, but all that steam! I coulda been scalded to death!”
“Calm down, detective. First, this jasper is taller than you and was between you and the steam pipe. Second, you’re wearing a greatcoat worthy of Admiral Byrd’s expedition with your collar turned up and a hat. Not much of a lid, I’ll admit,” I chuckled, “but protection nonetheless.”
Anyone might see in Gus’s face the logic of my thought process overwhelm his brain. “Well…. Let’s take this joker upstairs and get medical help for him. I want him healthy when they strap him in Old Sparky.” Following a brief pause, he extended his enormous mitt and exhaled heavily, adding, “And thanks, by the way.” We shook hands. Perhaps Donovan and I were on the road to a new start in our relationship. Time would tell.
Even before we left the boiler room, the plant engineer re-appeared and began repairs to the steam line. Word of the “shoot-out” had rapidly spread.
While we hauled Branley to the vestibule, the detective sheepishly explained how he’d fallen on the ice as he was chasing Branley, who then came back to him, bashed him, and relieved him of his handgun.
* * *
At the manager’s insistence, we carried Branley through a small throng of curious gawkers in the atrium to his office. There, we laid him out on a divan. Eddie appeared with a jar of petroleum jelly to apply to the moaning man’s superficial skin burns. The manager stopped gasping in horror long enough to call for an ambulance. The hospital assured him the weather had broken sufficiently that they’d be on their way. The city gumshoe and I teamed up to explain to Clark what had brought about the vignette before him. He took the news of the events better than I’d expected.
After handcuffing Branley notwithstanding his injuries, Donovan telephoned the coroner’s office to come collect Sheridan Collier’s body when they could. Overhearing the big detective’s side of the conversation, Tiebauer swallowed hard and nearly swooned at the thought of a corpse in one of his rooms for all this time. But he stated his great appreciation that we’d kept the whole “affair” under wraps from the other guests as long as we had. Gus’s next call was to headquarters to get a patrol car to pick up his prisoner.
I briefly described to the city copper the gouges in the floor that had led me to the killer, the hint of familiarity I’d witnessed between Julie and Michael in the lobby, and the train tickets in their names in Branley’s possession.
Donovan and I agreed there was unfinished business in the form of questioning Mrs. Collier to determine her role, if any, in this sordid mess. Gus balked when I asked to accompany him in the interview. He relented when I reminded him, I had knowledge of a few of the case’s circumstances that he didn’t.
While we were still in Clark’s office, a uniformed officer appeared. The detective instructed him to go to Branley’s room and collect his shoes and the railroad tickets for evidence.
* * *
In the short time she’d been in residence, “Ruth Anderson” had earned something of a reputation among the staff. She was a woman of leisure who slept in, took her meals in her room, and was not inclined to dress most days. That noon, she had had lunch sent to her suite. As far as we knew, she had not left. Donovan suggested sending a chambermaid up to find out whether she was fit for company. He didn’t want to burst in on her while she was still in bed or only partly dressed. Although the idea of catching Julie in such a state wouldn’t faze me, I raised the concern that such a move might tip her off. Gus opted to take a maid with us.
Donovan suggested sending a chambermaid up to find out whether she was fit for company.
The elevator boy opened the lift on the fifth floor, and we walked soundlessly along the worn hallway runner to room five-oh-four. Our female companion knocked and called out, “Room service!”
Someone moved beyond the silent door, bare feet padding across a carpet. Julie Collier’s face blanched when she answered our rap and saw us standing there. We weren’t the “company” she’d been expecting. At that, the chambermaid returned to her regular duties.
“Miss,” Gus began, “I’m police Detective Donovan, and this is Investigator Tanner. We need to come in and ask you a few questions.”
The doll nodded and languidly she stepped back into the room to let us enter. Soft music came from one of the hotel’s rented radios on the dresser. As Julie was gathering and donning a dressing gown from the bed, the rotund detective walked over and roughly turned the thing off.
His move caught the woman by surprise. “What’s going on, gentlemen? Is there a problem?”
I’d decided to keep quiet until a time when my input was required. It was Donovan’s show. “To begin with, we know you registered under a false name. Your true name is Julie Collier. Also, you–”
She stared at the flatfoot coolly. “What makes it your business? Is that a crime?” she demanded defiantly, lighting a cigarette. There was no fabrication of graciousness in her tone. She blew a plume of smoke at him, then she turned her frosty glare to me.
“Actually, it’s not, Mrs. Collier.” Gus’s eyes crawled my way as he chuckled. “If it was, half the politicians in this city would be behind bars. No, it is only a problem when it leads to murder.”
“Murder?”
“Yes, murder. You see, your traveling companion, Michael Branley, killed a man in his room either late last night or early this morning.”
“Traveling companion? Michael Branley? I know of no such person.”
“Then it’s purely coincidental that he has train tickets in both your names in his possession and the mug that he killed was your husband, Sheridan,” he finished bluntly, without the least indication of pity for her loss.
At that, she nearly collapsed, but caught herself by the bed’s footboard. We stood firm, making no effort to assist her. I watched at her, getting hold of an idea. Julie regained some of her composure and moaned, “That can’t be. Sheridan knew nothing…. Surely, he’s back home–” She broke off with a catch in her voice. The skirt looked at me with tear-filled eyes that pleaded for a contradiction. I had none forthcoming.
Echoing words I’d heard Waddell tell people dozens of times, Gus admonished, “Look, you can remain a suspect or you can become a witness.”
Her peepers were wide and round, and there was fear in their depths. “How–? What happened?” Her speech was jerky, uncertain.
As the detective laid out the events, supplemented here and there by me, Julie’s face, by turns, showed alarm, fear, and bewilderment. As we explained further, these were replaced by increased confusion and then understanding.
When we’d finished, Collier pushed a lock of her dark hair behind an ear with a slim hand, bit her lip, and looked away. She lithely ambled to the windows and pulled the drapes aside to stare at the deserted street out front. Then she let the curtains fall together again and turned to us.
“Michael and I met two-and-a-half years ago in a speak he owned. He wasn’t anything like I thought someone in his business might be.” She hesitated for a moment, then continued in the same low tone. “He was kind and gentle. I noticed he always seemed to find it easy to gain the confidence of women. They liked his manners, his air of respect, his apparent interest in everything they said. But… but there was something in his manner. Just below the surface, there was the hint of an incorrigible rascal. I found it attractive.” She was describing what a friend of mine I called The Professor termed a scapegrace.
In a flat and hopeless tone, she continued, “Michael declared he wanted to marry me. He promised we could go away to Erie. My brother has an important job with Griswold Manufacturing there. He’d help us get settled after we got married. Maybe find work for my new husband.” After a pause, she sighed, “He was so different from the humdrum man I’d been stuck with. Oh,” she concluded, “Sheridan was a reliable provider, but our existence was too routine, too dull.”
I’d heard this crap from unfaithful wives and husbands before. It burned me up. “You mean Sheridan worked so hard to make a great life for you that he didn’t take the opportunity to cater to your desire for a good time! And did the idea that you’d be committing bigamy even bother you?” Donovan shot me a grim glance at my outburst.
I’d heard this crap from unfaithful wives and husbands before.
Either the woman didn’t catch my anger or didn’t care. “Bigamy? We aimed to be long gone to another part of the country, living under new names before anyone knew anything.” Emotionally drained, Julie settled in a limp pile on the chair, crying.
After Gus ordered her not to go anywhere, we left.
* * *
Back downstairs, he told me he’d decided she had nothing to do with her husband’s murder. Although still pissed at her attitude toward Sheridan, I had to agree.
Aware the girls at the PBX were known to put their ears up against the telephone conversations of guests, we questioned them. We determined there were phone calls between the two lovers during their stay.
Gus also later learned Branley, at lunch on the day of his arrest, had overheard of the presence of the police detective at the Inn. That had sparked his need for flight. As I watched him leave the dining room, he’d stopped at the desk to inquire about getting transportation to Union Station as soon as possible. Whether he intended to include Julie in his escape wasn’t clear.
* * *
The job went pretty smoothly after the Collier-Branley matter. When my three-week contract was up, Tiebauer called me to his office. “If you want to stay on….”
I didn’t wait for him to finish. Shaking my head, I answered, “Thanks for the thought. But no.” We said nothing more. He returned to his managing, and I loped back to my detective agency. I gladly handed the “keys to the kingdom” to Luke before I departed. He had recovered from his ordeal and had reported to resume his duties.
Afterwards, I learned Donovan had given his derby to a hobo somewhere between the Inn and police headquarters, telling his wife he’d lost it to a violent wind gust in the blinding snowstorm. I never mentioned the thing again. ©