by JM Bannon
“I’m Detective Sergeant Williamson of the Metropolitan Police Service. I understand that you were on duty Saturday night and Sunday morning.”
"Yes, I was.”
“I would like to ask you some questions,” voiced Dolly.
“And I would be delighted to answer them. Tell you what, I have a break in a ‘alf hour and I go over to that alleyway to have a smoke in peace. Meet me there,” replied the doorman.
Dolly made his way to the register to discuss the events of the evening with the bell staff and concierge, four young bell hops and an elderly gentleman.
“Good evening, gentleman. I’m Detective Sergeant Williamson of the Metropolitan Police Service, and I would like to speak with you if you worked the night of the eleventh.”
“This is my first night in a week,” pointed out the Concierge without glancing up. “I was off that night,” one of the four bell hops said.
Dolly looked at the remaining three. “Would you mind if I had a chat with you three in Mr. Hodges’ office?” The three acknowledged yes with looks, shrugs and head nods. “Then let’s make our way there. You can take the lead as I don’t know my way around here.”
The door to the manager’s office was open. This was the shared workspace of both the day and night manager. It was small berth with a roll-top desk and two wooden chairs to its side, not much more than a closet. Hodges was seated at the desk. Dolly took the rear, following the group into the office. Seated at the desk, Hodges voiced, “Can I help you gentlemen?”
The lead bell hop replied, “The detective told us to come in here to have a chat.”
Dolly pushed through the trio “Sorry about the change of plans, but I felt it best to speak with the boys in private.”
“Oh, yes. Alright, let me get my things, and you can have the office. We are short on chairs. Adams, go down the hall to the accounts office and pinch a chair from them,” said Hodges.
“Yes, Mr Hodges,” shot back the young Adams as he scurried down the hall to fetch a chair.
The three lads and Dolly settled into the cramped office. The boys sat on wooden chairs facing the desk, and Dolly perched on the corner of the desk to make the situation more casual yet still assert his authority. He started the questioning with a simple query. “You hear about what transpired last Saturday in room 8A?”
“Slaughter, I heard,” declared a bell hop.
“Blazed up in his bed was what I was told," said Adams.
"I would appreciate if you fellas help me catch the criminal,” said Dolly.
“How can we help, mate?” asked Adams.
“All of you think about that night and if you witnessed anything unusual. If perhaps you spoke with Señor Moya, or knew about his whereabouts or associations with others that evening,” instructed Dolly.
The taller bellman spoke up. “I was on the eighth floor collectin’ shoes to shine and saw a fella enter that suite.”
“What time was this?” Dolly asked, pulling out his journal and pencil.
“I’d say round two in the morning, gov," the boy said.
“Your name?” questioned the detective.
“It’s Tim Walter, sir.”
"What else did you see, Tim?”
“None to speak of. I was going about my business collecting boots and shoes to shine,"
“Do you remember what the man looked like?”
“No, I was a ways down the hall. He was a gentleman, smartly dressed with a fancy walking stick. He was at the door talking to who I assume was Señor Moya, then he went in," said Tim.
Dolly thought this could be helpful but needed more. “When you say he was smartly dressed, you mean like a dandy, as some of Señor Moya’s associates may dress?”
"No, more like a gentleman, you know—a business man, but there was something a touch flash about him,” answered Tim.
"Did you see the man leave?"
"No, I didn’t think much of it, so I went about my rounds and finished the floor before he left the room.”
"Did any of you other fellas see the gentleman with the walking stick?"
The group looked to each other for an answer. None came.
“Did any of you observe an African woman in the hotel?” asked the detective.
Again the three exchanged silent befuddled looks.
“Thank you for your time. If any of you recollect anything further, please come see me at the Yard.” Dolly pulled out his silver card case and handed each of the men one of his cards.
It was just about time to meet the doorman. Dolly made his way to the alley. He packed a pipe with tobacco and lit it. The doorman finally took a break and walked up the alley to Dolly. "I can talk now," said the doorman.
“So you were on duty last Saturday night?”
“Yes sir. I rolled in about ten to get on me livery and have a cup of tea,” the doorman answered as he rolled a cigarette.
“Did you see Señor Moya leave the hotel?” asked Dolly. He knew from the valet he left earlier, but he was looking for conflicts.
“No, I didn’t see him leave,"
“Do you remember Señor Moya returning?”
“Yes, sir. Well, sir, he returned by a cab around twelve-thirty, I’d say," answered the doorman.
“Was he with anyone?” followed on Dolly.
“No. Just himself."
“Did he say anything to you?”
“Just the usual pleasantries.”
“Did you happen to see a man, a smartly dressed business man with a walking cane that night?”
“Quite a few at this place, sir.”
“This would have been later, around the time Señor Moya returned, or even later?”
“Well, there is Mr. Strathmore. If I recall, he came in about one-thirty that evening,” the doorman said as he finished up his smoke.
“Why would he be coming in that late?” Dolly asked.
“Well, I don’t know the specifics, but he is a regular guest here. When he is in town from America, he stays with us.” The doorman blew out smoke with a puzzled look and stamped out his cigarette butt on the pavement.
“He is staying with you now at the Carlton?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you happen to see a negro woman come into or leave the hotel?”
“Now that, sir, I would have noticed, and I did not,” said the doorman.
“Thank you for your help. Here is one of my cards. If anything crosses your mind, you can reach me by wire-type at Scotland Yard," recited Dolly.
The detective made his way back into the hotel and found the manager. He waited by the lobby counter until the manager had completed some task. When he finished, he looked up over his glasses and presented Dolly with a pleasant smile. “So, Detective Williamson, were we of any help?”
“I have a few questions for you.”
“By all means, should we step into my office?” asked Hodges. Dolly followed Hodges behind the reception desk to his office. Once ensconced Hodges settled into his chair behind the desk. Dolly stood in the doorway.
“Did you see anyone here that seemed suspicious that night?” asked Dolly.
“I did not.”
Did you see either Señor Moya or Mr. Strathmore come into the hotel?
“I did not, but Mr. Strathmore has the penthouse, and that suite has a private verticulator and entrance on the east lane. He uses it from time to time.”
Dolly made notes. “Is Mr. Strathmore in tonight? I would like to ask him some questions. Could we have Walter run a message up to him?” asked Dolly, thinking this would be a quick way to qualify if the man the bell boy saw in the hall was Strathmore.
“No need to have him do that. I can call up to the penthouse butler and ask if he is available. We recently installed a telecom system of Mr. Bell. What a time-saver. Rather than have a bell boy run up, now I can just call up to that floor.” Hodges went to a walnut box on the wall with a brass cone on the front. “This won’t take a moment.” He selected an input hole to plug in
the connecting cable. “This is Hodges. I have a Detective Williamson who would like to speak with Mr. Strathmore. I see. I will let him know.”
Hodges placed the earpiece back in the holder and unplugged the cable. “Detective, you will need to call on him tomorrow. He has already retired for the evening.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Hodges, and if you would please leave a message for Mr. Strathmore that I would like to have a word with him at his convenience.”
“I will pass on the message,” replied Hodges.
Dolly got up and made his way out to the front of the hotel to catch a cab.
It had been a good day. Rose and the bell boy had given him solid leads to follow. He had identified two murder suspects, a negro woman with supernatural abilities and a society gentleman. A gentleman that just may be in this hotel.
Tuesday the 15th of June
1:00 PM, White’s Gentleman Club
This was not Detective Williamson's first time at White’s, He had been there in the past to report to the Home Secretary on the status of a case. Sir Walpole was a member of London’s most exclusive club. Located at 37–38 St. James's Street in the city of Westminster, the building was famous for its bow window, where the table directly in front was reserved for the throne of the most socially influential men in the club. They called them the arbiter elegantiarum. First Beau Brummell held the honor, then Lord Alvanley. It was that very window that Alvanley bet a friend £3,000 as to which of two raindrops would first reach the bottom of a pane of glass. It had been remodeled since then to include the latest technology from the UK and abroad mainly for members to brag about since few were comfortable with all the newfangled mechanisms coming of age. Rather than cause a stir, he took a soft approach and asked the permission of his superiors to provide access to the club. Less chance of ruffling the feathers of the secretary or a powerful club member and setting his investigation back days or weeks. The club had a member list that included the royal house, ministers of Parliament, lords, dukes, and barons.
The manager allowed the detective to interview the staff that worked the front desk and in service at the club. It had to be discreetly done, so Dolly spoke with the staff behind the closed door of the manager’s office. He determined from the interviews that, as the guest of Lester Chilton, Señor Moya dined with Sir Rory Birch and Mr. Strathmore, Chilton’s American partner. Following supper, the gentleman retired to the game room to play billiards. The party broke up at 11:30 PM. with Lester Chilton leaving in his steam coach and Moya catching a cab.
Dolly asked if any of the party were present at the club and would take the time to speak with him about Señor Moya. The manager returned and advised that Mr. Strathmore was currently at the club and would meet with him in the smoking lounge.
The Detective was escorted by the manager to the smoking lounge. Floor to ceiling windows illuminated the entire room. It was a voluminous space for an older building. The walls were paneled in exotic wood with ornate cornice work. Eight separate seating areas encouraged members to gather and socialize with enough space between to deliver privacy. Each cluster comprised overstuffed leather sofas, wing-backed lounge chairs with end tables, pedestal ashtray, and floor standing phosphor lamps. Dolly contemplated the wealth that built this esteemed building as he took out his notebook and reviewed his questions.
The ceiling had a network of belts and pulleys to operate a fan system to keep the air moving in the room.
Randall Wells Strathmore stood near the teletype clacker, reading the strip to get the latest stock quotes and news. The clacker was in a prominent position in the lounge behind the sofa that faced the massive fireplace. Most members considered themselves too elite to look at a stock tape but wanted to show off the status of instantaneous worldwide communication. Strathmore was different. He needed to stay on top of world finances. Many of the club members’ inheritances were invested with Chilton House, and Strathmore was a steward of that wealth.
A striking man, Strathmore towered over his companions; seeming even taller with his long neck. He wore a standard banker’s dress of gray pants with spats, white round-collared shirt, black tie, his pinstriped waistcoat and a black overcoat with tails. He had a black mourning armband. Dolly wondered if he might mourn his own victims. Strathmore, by Dolly’s guess, had to be in his forties given what he knew of his financial exploits but looked much younger, almost boyish.
The manager handled introductions. There was a level of formality that all endured at these prestigious clubs. “Mr. Strathmore, may I introduce Detective Sergeant Fredrick Adolphus Williamson of the Metropolitan Police. Detective Williamson, may I introduce Mr. Randall Wells Strathmore of New York.”
“Thank you, Milton,” said Strathmore, acknowledging the introduction and dismissing the manager.
“I wasn’t aware that White’s had any American members,” said the detective.
“I am a guest of the late Sir Chilton and his son. While I hail from New England and now live in New York, I spend an inordinate amount of time in London and need a place to unwind,” said Strathmore in a Yankee accent. He let go of the ticker tape. It dropped in the waste bin set to collect old tape and put out his hand.
Dolly returned the outstretched hand with a firm grip and a shake.
Upon release of the clasp, Randall’s hand went to a walking stick that rested against the pedestal holding the ticker. It was made of ivory and a lacquered wood. “Let us have a drink and talk.” He used the cane to steady his gait as he walked around the sofa, his left leg suffering a handicap. “The irony is, as managing partner of the New York office, I spend more time in London than I do in New York.”
Dolly asked another question. “Did you recently hurt your leg?”
“Aren’t you Brits supposed to put social decorum above all? Not mention the elephant in the room, even if you’re waist high in elephant dung.” Randall tapped his leg with his cane and gave Dolly a smile. “No, this was a hunting accident some years ago.”
“I’m a Scotsman and a cop. People expect me to ask uncomfortable questions and lack social propriety,” retorted Dolly.
The two men sat down.
Strathmore was the American managing partner of the investment banking partners of Chilton, Chilton, Owens and Strathmore. Randall had become only named partner ever to not be a citizen of the United Kingdom. The firm had international interests that included naval shipping, plantations, railroads and industrial investments, and was aligned with the mechanists. They financed the guild’s projects. This banking house was so powerful that wars could not be waged without their funding. The rumor was during the Napoleonic wars that Chilton was financing both sides.
Randall amassed a fortune with his financial wizardry and insight into the new world markets. He was an early backer of Cornelius Vanderbilt, enabling the commodore to finance the Vanderbilt Air Transit Company. Vanderbilt proposed that air rather than sea or rail would win the race for transcontinental travel and that he could build an airship line crossing the wilderness between the east and west coast of America. The prize was a lucrative postal contract with the government between New York and San Francisco. At the time, LQ airships were only operating out of Prussia and were experimental. It was worldwide news when Vanderbilt struck the first deal to export LQ gas from the Europe to America. He built a special steam tanker to bring the gas by sea from the Baltic then across the Atlantic Ocean. When the first mail was delivered to San Francisco by air in only eleven days, the stock for the company shot up and Strathmore and his investors made a packet.
“Now, Detective, before you ask about my whereabouts and movements with Mr. Moya and where I was at when he died, I would appreciate if you would share with me what exactly happened to Moya.”
Dolly wondered if this was his way of throwing him off kilter before he answered, “Señor Moya was murdered in his rooms at the Carlton. I cannot share the specifics, but it was not a pleasant sight, and we are still finding out the exact cause of death.”
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br /> Randall looked over to one of the staff standing near the wall. With only his gaze and a small wave of his hand, he signaled for service.
A server approached the gentlemen. “Can I get you something, sir?”
“Why, yes. What is your name, son?” The waiter was at least twenty years older than Randall.
“Arthur, sir.”
“Yes, Arthur. You can fetch me a glass of whiskey and a Partagas. Mr. Williamson will have?” Randall’s tone dropped off as he shifted Arthur’s attention to the detective.
“I will have the same.”
“Excellent! Thank you, Arthur,” said Randall, unbuttoning his coat and the lower buttons on his vest to get comfortable.
“What can you tell me about Señor Moya?” asked Dolly.
“Well, Detective, what would you like to know?”
“I would like to know who murdered Señor Moya and Sir Francis. That would make my day. In light of that, I need as much as you can share about Moya, beginning with his visit to this club,” stated Dolly, looking at Randall to assess body language and tone.
Randall smiled, sitting both hands on the top of his walking stick, arms outstretched in front of him. He then leaned in closely and quietly said. “I can’t answer that question, but I will let you know all about what Señor Moya and I were up to on Saturday night.” Randall leaned into Dolly. “I would like your professional opinion on something,” Randall said in a quiet and serious tone.
Men like Strathmore, smart privileged men, would play this game. The game where they presumed Dolly was a dumb Scot, that he was too stupid to find out what they were hiding. Dolly relished that game because he had so much practice. So, let’s play thought Dolly before declaring, “What might that be, Mr. Strathmore?”
“How many murders have you investigated?”
Dolly thought for a moment. “I have closed seventy-eight cases as a detective. Some of those cases had multiple victims.”
“Impressive. What would you say was the most common cause? Lust? Greed? Envy?” Randall said, bouncing his eyebrow as he pronounced each sin.