Winter at Death's Hotel (8 page)

***

“Not a new word in a one of them!” Louisa cried. She pushed the newspapers off her bed. She was testy because without morphine her ankle hurt, just as the doctor had said it would, and besides the pain itself she hated his being right about it. “There wasn't a single new word about that woman in today's papers. Nothing new at all—not a syllable! That isn't right, Ethel. It isn't normal. The police are supposed to find clues, witnesses, all of that! And the newspapers are supposed to report it. And it's as if nobody's doing anything!” She thought of the young woman in the lobby, that brilliant smile. “It's as if she never existed! As if she'd been…” She searched for what she meant, couldn't quite yet face the word
erased.

“She was a fallen woman, madame.”

“Was she? How do we know? Did the newspapers say how they knew? ‘A lady of the pavement.' What an expression! Who writes these things? Who makes these judgments?” She pushed herself up again, groaned, and motioned for Ethel. “I had a newspaper that had a sketch of that poor woman in it. I want a copy of that sketch.”

“Oh, dear me, madame.”

“I want…I want…I don't know what I want! Yes, I do—I want that woman not to have been murdered!” She stared into the distance. “I want a telephone.”

“There are telephone boxes off the lobby, madame.”

“And I can't get down to the lobby! Oh, blast!” That was a curse word of Arthur's that he had told her would pass muster in good company. “Drat!” So was that. “Oh, dammit to hell!” That was not.

“Madame!”

“I want to know who wrote that article for that newspaper—it was the
Express
, I'm sure it was the
Express
—that had the sketch with it.
He
must have known something. As soon as I'm able, I shall use the telephone to talk to him.” She let herself fall back, then propped herself up again. “Although he'll be perfectly awful. Some poorly shaven drunkard in a collarless shirt and a bowler hat, I daresay. Smoking a cigar. With his feet up on his desk and holes in the soles of his shoes. Smelling of onions. And it's men like this whom we allow to write things like ‘lady of the pavement.' It's
men
who do that, Ethel, vulgarians like this cigar-smoking brute who wrote the piece in the
Express
. I
must
talk to him. Next time you go downstairs, Ethel, tell Reception that I
particularly
want a copy of two days ago's
New
York
Express
, and they're to send it up the instant they have it!”

She lay back and closed her eyes and waited for sleep to come, as it had come so easily throughout the day before. But morphine, which takes its name from the god of sleep, becomes a demon of wakefulness when it fades from the body: now, images chased each other like playful dogs across her brain: the lobby, that woman, the house detective, Arthur, “mutilation,” the awful Carver; that poor woman…

Erased
, she thought.
It
isn't right. I shall have to—to—?
To what? Go to the police? What police? Did they have divisions here, as in London? Would she have to go to a division in the horrible Bowery because the murder had been discovered there?

And then a name popped into her head. A name that Arthur had mentioned: Theodore Roosevelt, whom Arthur had said something good about because he was cleansing the New York police of corruption. And he had written an admiring letter to Arthur about one of his non-Sherlock Holmes novels.

She would write to Theodore Roosevelt!

“Ethel!”

Ethel, who was sitting near by and was almost asleep, jumped up and gave a yelp.

“Ethel, pen and paper! At once! And I shall need a messenger!”

***

In his office at police headquarters an hour later, Terrible Teddy was striding up and down, smacking one fist into the palm of the other hand and dictating a memo titled “To All Officers of the Rank of Lieutenant and Above.”

“—the tidal wave of corrupt behavior that smashed upon the shores of this city years ago must be strangled at the very root!” He stopped, fist in palm. “No, strike that last part; it's a mixed metaphor. Tidal wave—mm, ah—back to, where was I…?

“Tidal wave of corrupt behavior that smashed upon the shores of this city years ago must be—”

“Right. Yes. Must be, must be—ready?—must be driven back by an effort—make that concerted effort—by all members of this department with every fiber of their beings! No, make that singular—being. Every fiber of their being. Therefore—new sentence, got that?—Therefore, I am directing that every officer of the rank of lieutenant and above will make a full accounting each July first of all bank accounts, real estate, business holdings, mmm—let's see, where else do they put money…?”

A mahogany door opened; a head appeared. “Can you be interrupted?”

“What now!”

A young man pushed through into the room and held up a piece of paper. “Interesting letter, sir!” He had an accent like Roosevelt's, rather British in its dropped Rs, rather New England in its precision and its flat vowels, recognizable as probably Harvard, as his clothes were recognizable as certainly bespoke.

Roosevelt looked at the stenographer, another young man, but one who had a New York accent and inferior clothes. Roosevelt said, “Leave us, but stay handy.”
Handy
was a word he'd learned in the West. He thought it made him sound both manly and democratic.

When the stenographer was gone, Roosevelt said, “Well?”

“Chief, you remember the woman whose body was found in the Bowery? She'd been—”

“Of course I remember; don't go into it!”

“Pree-cisely! Well, here's a note to you on the stationery of the New Britannic Hotel from a woman who says she saw the victim in the hotel
with
a
man
on the day before the body was found.”

“Another crank.”

The young man grinned. “She's the wife of Arthur Conan Doyle.”

Roosevelt frowned, then took off his pince-nez and stared at the young man. “The newspapers.”

“There's that potential, Chief, but she's appealing to you to ‘keep this poor woman from being erased.' Her words.” He said, with the satisfaction only the young can know when they think they're scoring on their elders, “Maybe she's a crank even though she's the wife of Sherlock Holmes.”

Roosevelt took the letter, replaced the pince-nez, and said as he was reading, “I'm attending a dinner for Doyle when he gets back from some tour he's making. Why the devil isn't she with him? Women have become so unpredictable.”

“I could find out.”

“No! ‘No fuss'—those are the words to go by. I don't want any public fuss about poor Harding's wife. I promised him that…” Roosevelt shook his head, then shook the letter. “This woman says she saw the victim with a ‘young man.' I don't think a man of Harding's caliber need hear that sort of thing about his wife, and certainly not read it in the gutter press.” He handed the letter back. “Turn it over to the Murder Squad and have them deal with it. Tell them only that none of this is to come out and the watchword is ‘No fuss.' He thought of what he'd said. “Watch
words.
Are.”

The young man saluted. “Right, Chief.”

“And send back that stenographer.” He began to walk up and down, smacking a fist into a palm. Where was he when he had been stopped? Tidal wave—fiber—aha, listing assets…

Telegram to Mrs. Arthur Conan Doyle, New Brittanic Hotel, NY, from Iroquois Hotel, Buffalo, NY:

MY DARLING STOP CHANGING LECTURE ENTIRELY STOP PRIVATE LIFE OF SHERLOCK HOLMES INSTEAD STOP ERIE PENNSYLVANIA TOMORROW STOP FOOD WRETCHED SO FAR STOP THINKING OF YOU STOP ALL MY LOVE DEAR ONE STOP LEAVING FOR ERIE TEN MINUTES STOP YOUR ADORING HUSBAND

***

Telegram to Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle, Cattaraugus Hotel, Erie, Pennsylvania:

DEAREST ARTHUR STOP MISSING YOU EVERY MINUTE STOP OH THE FOOLS STOP FUTURE OF NOVEL WAS BRILLIANT STOP DO YOU HAVE ENOUGH SHIRTS STOP DITTO UNDERSHIRTS STOP YOUR LOVING WIFE

***

Telegram to Mrs. Arthur Conan Doyle, New Britannic Hotel, New York, from Cattaraugus Hotel, Erie, Pennsylvania:

SWEET DOVEKINS STOP ARRIVED ERIE 1 HOUR LATE STOP MUCH VEXATION AT HOTEL OVER MISPLACED RESERVATION STOP LECTURED 50 OVERWEIGHT WOMEN STOP QUESTIONS RE HOLMES' SHAVING SOAP, COLOR OF TOWELS, BEDLINEN STOP DITTO WATSON STOP AM GOING MAD STOP WHEN WILL YOU JOIN ME I NEED YOU STOP ARTHUR PS CLEVELAND TOMORROW 2 DAYS 3 WOMEN'S CLUBS STOP THIS IS HELL STOP MISPLACED RUBBER OVERSHOES SOMEHOW STOP SNOWING HERE STOP YOUR ARTHUR

***

“Mr. Doyle is unhappy,” Louisa said, waking on the third morning after her accident.

“I should think so, madame! Worried sick about you and in a strange country—it's a wonder he can go on.”

“Well, it's only been three days.”

“Will you get up today to go to the convenience, madame?”

“Of course I will; I did yesterday, didn't I?”

“You spent a restless night, nurse said.”

“Oh, that nurse! Every time I did go to sleep, she woke me to ask how I was feeling. And that voice! I've been trying to make some of the sounds she does—‘
naow
'—no, that isn't quite right; I can't get quite far enough up into my nose. ‘
Naow, Miiiz Doy-uhl, haow arrrre we.
' No, I can't do it. Perhaps Americans have different nasal passages.”

“What she says, madame, is she can't understand a word you say.”

“I suppose that would make sense.” She leaned back, focused, said, “
Naow.
No, I can't get it right. Well, practice, practice.” She handed Ethel the telegrams and told her to put them somewhere. “I shall write Mr. Doyle several real letters and send them ahead so they'll be waiting for him. Telegrams are finally rather irritating. I keep reading STOP as an imperative that begins the next sentence, so that if he's written ‘Missing you,' I read ‘Stop missing you.' I'd think they could have found a way of sending the full stop instead of having to spell out ‘stop.'” She put her hands on the mattress and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “I'm getting up.”

“Oh, wait—wait—”

“Nonsense! I feel a thousand times better today, Ethel! I feel
energized—because I did something!
And I have a task for you, Ethel. I want you to summon that house detective.”

“Oh, madame, is that wise?”

“I wrote to Commissioner Roosevelt, and I need to have all my thoughts and ideas marshaled for when he wants to talk to me about the matter. Anyway, I shall go mad if I don't do
something
. I can't just lie in bed! I feel like one of those whales that washed ashore on the Irish coast. Beached! Out of my element. How bored they must have been! When they weren't terrified, I mean. That hotel detective, you see, knows things. And
I
know something—that that woman was in his hotel, and he saw her, and so he knows who she is. And obviously he's done nothing about it, or it would be all over the newspapers! Therefore, I shall talk to him. Get him.”

“But—a detective, madame—I don't know what to say…”

“Say, ‘Mrs. Doyle wishes to see Mr.'—what's his name? Find it out—ask at Reception. Anyway, he'll be sitting in the lobby, looking masculine. Say to him—‘Mrs. Doyle wishes to see you at once on an important matter.' You may say ‘Mrs. Doyle demands' if you like. You could also say ‘requires.' But not ‘needs,' that sounds so sort of wilting. ‘Requires' may be a bit too royal. Well, you decide.”

“Now, madame?”

“After I have my breakfast.”

Ethel looked terrified. Louisa supposed she would have to give Ethel something special. A pay rise? No, she couldn't afford that, and thinking so brought up the problem of money. Now that she thought about it, she had only what she had had in her handbag when she had suffered the fall.

***

Lieutenant Cleary was sitting in his office. His door had a pane of glass in it so that he could look into the big room and see who wasn't pulling his weight, an expression he used a lot to cover the responsibilities of the Murder Squad, which included investigating murders, beating suspects senseless, and finding illicit sources of money.

Cleary was looking through his window, but he wasn't focusing. He saw a D named Francotte reading a dirty book he'd taken from a suspect, but he didn't react. His real concern lay on his desk.

He looked down at it. It was a piece of heavy notepaper, slightly off-white, deckle-edged. At the top, “Mrs. Arthur Conan Doyle” was embossed in letters that looked to Cleary like some of the adverts for girlie shows. There was also a smaller piece of paper clipped to it; on it, in a very neat hand, were the words “TR says see to this at once. The watchword is No Fuss. Keep Ezra Harding in the dark. Shut the woman up.”

Cleary lifted the paper and read what Mrs. Arthur Conan Nose-poker had written. He made a face, then surged from his chair like a sea lion coming out of the water and pulled open his door.

“Grady!”

Without waiting to see whether he had been heard, he collapsed back into his chair. He had been heard, of course; the entire Murder Squad had fallen silent for a few seconds, then started up again: a few chuckles, several sarcasms aimed at Sergeant Grady, a few farts.

“Yeah?”

Cleary blew out his breath to show disgust. “Harvard Harry brought this down.” He flicked the note across the desk with a finger.

Grady pulled a chair that matched those for suspects to the desk and sat without being asked. He read the note that was clipped to the embossed paper, then read the embossed paper itself. “Jeez,” he said.

Cleary grunted. “This case is supposed to be sewed up.”

“Tighter'n a virgin's twat! Finn says Dunne's doing the paperwork.”

“Well, whaddya think? This bitch thinks she saw Harding's wife at the New Britannic, for fuck's sake.”

“Aw, it's bullshit. Women.”

“TR's arse-kisser says the word is No Fuss.”

“I thought the word was Crime Prevention.”

“That was last week.”

“Fucking Teddy is gonna be the death of us, Jack.”

“Look, what I see here is some aggravation and a chance to make some spondoola, just the two of us, okay?”

“I don't see it. What, shake down this nit-brain woman?”

Cleary leaned in. He tipped his head a little on one side; his voice became soft, slightly impatient, condescending. “The husband, Grady. The
hotel
. Do I make myself clear?”

“The note says leave the husband alone.”

“Fuck him. You go to Harding,
from
me
, and you say we have a witness saw your wife in a hotel with a good-looking guy; what's it worth to you to keep it quiet? Get it?”

“Harding ain't an easy guy, Jack. Oh, yeah, boo-hoo, my wife is dead, all that, but this is the guy put down a miners' strike with fucking
Gatling
guns, Jack. He won't be easy.”

“Sure he will. You go to him at home, he's got a house in Murray Hill someplace. First, you remind him I was the one helped him at the mortuary, I'm the one—you can include yourself in this part—quashed the investigation. Then you say how sorry you are to intrude on his grief, all that bull, then you tell him about this bitch saw the wife, then you say Mr. Roosevelt wants to keep this quiet but we're committed to the pursuit of criminals and so on. Harding's gonna climb all over you trying to keep it quiet. You think an old guy like him wants everybody to know his young wife was getting laid by some gigolo? Fuck, he'll take your dick out for you and offer to kiss it, he'll be so anxious to keep it quiet. Then you say, well, you gotta buy off the papers for so much, and there'll be overtime, and like that. Harding knows how things are done. He'll pay.”

“How much?”

“Get a thousand. He's got it, what the hell? Then the hotel. We'll go together, right to the manager. Tell him we have this witness, we want to give it to the newspapers so's other people will come forward. We're looking for the gigolo, right?”

“I get it—he don't want his fancy hotel in the papers.”

“Damn right. We'll try to get another thousand.”

“That's pretty good money.”

“Well, we don't take less than five hundred. This is just you and me—samee-samee split.” Cleary grinned. “The word is No Fuss.”

“What about the bitch?”

“We'll do her together. Scare the shit out of her, tell her she's nuts, shut up or we'll arrest you for criminal libel.” He squinted his eyes. “Who's the house john at the New Britannic?”

“Not one of ours; I don't know him.”

“Well, we'll square him after we do the manager. Lay twenty on him. Tell him he never seen anything and this Conan dame is loony.”

“She's a missus. Maybe the husband—”

“I'm terrified.” Cleary waved him away. “Go deal with Harding. The word is Make Hay While the Sun Shines.”

Grady went to the door and stopped with his hand on the knob. “You think fucking Roosevelt is ever gonna leave?”

Cleary looked grim. “He can't last. He's costing everybody too much money.”

***

“Mr. Manion, madame. The hotel detective.”

“What?” She had been asleep again. Now, she floundered up, calling for a hairbrush, the eau de cologne. She put a hand over her mouth to exhale and sniff her own breath. “Am I decent?” She had hopped into the sitting room with Ethel's help to wait there for the hotel detective, and of course her body had chosen that moment to put itself to sleep.

“Everything is in order, madame.”

“All right—produce this Manion.”

The detective came in quickly, his head up, showing a lot more manly confidence than Carver had when he had tried to get her to sign whatever it had been.
He
looks
as
if
he
owns
the
hotel
, Louisa thought. He wasn't wearing a bowler hat or smoking a cigar, as she had more or less expected. In fact, he was a good-looking man. She thought
dangerous
, and then wondered where that had come from.

“Mrs. Doyle.” He looked around at the flowers people had sent her, then at her. “That's some eight-ball.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You need a sirloin on that eye. That's a beaut. Can I sit?” Not waiting for an answer, he fetched a chair.

She was nonplussed. She had expected him to be diffident, even fawning, as if he had already known that she knew about the woman in the lobby, but of course he couldn't. She was being foolish—was it the morphine, some sort of after-effect, what was called a hangover? “I don't like your being so very familiar, Mr. Manion.”

“Was I? Gee, I'm sorry. Trying to break the ice.”

“There is no ice to break.”

“So to speak. We talked in the lobby the other day, didn't we?”

It was as if
he
had summoned
her.
She was beginning to think that summoning Mr. Manion was a mistake. “That isn't why I want to talk to you, Mr. Manion.” She was trying to be regal, in response, as she now saw, to a definite sexual pull from the man.

“Okay, shoot.”

“Mr. Manion!”

“Figure of speech.”

“Your figures of speech may be thought colorful in some circles, but I do not appreciate them. I am a guest; you are the house detective!”

“Low life.” He grinned.

“Sir?”

“‘Low life.' Maybe it's American. What I guess you'd call working-class. Or worse. The house Hawkshaw.”

She felt as if she should take deep breaths. “Mr. Manion, I wish to speak to you about a young man and woman who were in the lobby of this hotel when my husband and I arrived.”

“Yeah?”

“A handsome young man and a very pretty young woman with quite lovely copper-colored hair.”

“No kidding. She sounds like a peach. Wish I'd seen her.”

“Oh, you saw her, Mr. Manion! You saw her very well, and you and her escort exchanged a
look
.”

“We did, eh? A look. Gee.”

“A significant look, Mr. Manion. You were
colluding
.”

“In cahoots, you mean? No kidding.”

“You may make vulgar jokes all you want, Mr. Manion, but I
saw
you, and I know what I saw. I also recognized the young woman as the victim of a vicious and horrible murder that same night. Now: who was that young woman, and why haven't you gone to the police with what you know?”

Manion gave her a look that suggested he thought she'd broken more than her glasses when she fell, but before he had got the look on his face there had been a flash of something else—fear? astonishment? horror? “I think you're putting the horse in the wrong stall.”

“No, I am absolutely right about this. I don't like putting this sort of thing into words, Mr. Manion; it isn't quite nice; but as you seem to like to put things as bluntly as possible, I shall say that the young man and woman were using the hotel for illicit purposes, and
you
were letting them do it!”

“Oh, hey…!”