The Hotel Detective (26 page)

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

“You look like a wino,” she said.

“I can dream, can’t I?”

“Neptune Room,” she said.

“Not far,” Am said gratefully.

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

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

Am, still short of breath, nodded.

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

Am nodded again.

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

“Don’t think so,” Am puffed.

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe,” said Am.

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

“He could have put down a cash deposit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Penitent,” said Am.

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

Am shrugged, beginning to regret his reference.

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

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

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

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

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

“In this Hotel.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Intruder! Interloper! Spy!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bull decided to stretch his legs and make that call.

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

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

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

“Where’s the phone?” asked Bull.

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

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

“Hello, Am! Hello, Sharon!”

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

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

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

“Recently?” Am asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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