Death Locked In

by Douglas G. Greene (ed)

  Eddie Courlander had been sent over for the third time. Happened to be the only one on hand, maybe. The whole thing was just a monotonous repetition of the first two times, but too grisly—to Striker, anyway—to be amusing.

  “This is getting to be a commutation trip for me,” the police dick announced with macabre humor, stalking in. “The desk lieutenant only has to say, ‘Suicide at a hotel,’ and I say right away, ‘The St. Anselm,’ before he can tell me.”

  “Only it isn’t,” said Striker coldly. “There was no note.”

  “Are you going to start that again?” growled the city dick. “It’s the same room again, in case you’re interested. Third time in a little over two years. Now, don’t you think that’s rubbing it in a little heavy?”

  Courlander didn’t answer, as though he was inclined to think that, but—if it meant siding with Striker—hated to have to admit it.

  Even Perry’s professional bias for suicide—if the alternative had to be murder, the bête noire of hotel men—wavered in the face of this triple assault. “It does look kind of spooky,”

  He faltered, polishing the center of his bald head. “All the rooms below, on that line, have those same floor-length windows, and it’s never taken place in any of the others.”

  “Well, we’re going to do it up brown this time and get to the bottom of it!” Courlander promised.

  They got off at the ninth. “Found the door open like this, too,” Striker pointed out. “I stopped off here on my way down.”

  Courlander just glanced at him, but still wouldn’t commit himself. He went into the room, stopped dead center and stood there looking around, the other two just behind him. Then he went over to the bed, fumbled a little with the covers. Suddenly he spaded his hand under an edge of the pillow, drew it back again.

  “I thought you said there was no note?” he said over his shoulder to Striker.

  “You not only thought. I did say that.”

  “You still do, huh?” He shoved a piece of stationery at him. “What does this look like—a collar button?”

  It was as laconic as the first two. I’m going to hell, where it’s cool! Unsigned.

  “That wasn’t in here when I looked the place over the first time,” Striker insisted with slow emphasis. “That was planted in here between then and now!”

  Courlander flung his head disgustedly. “It’s white, isn’t it? The bedclothes are white too, ain’t they? Why don’t you admit you missed it?”

  “Because I know I didn’t! I had my face inches away from that bed, bending down looking under it.”

  “Aw, you came in half-asleep and couldn’t even see straight, probably!”

  “I’ve been awake all night, wider awake than you are right now!”

  “And as for your open door—” Courlander jeered. He bent down, ran his thumbnail under the panel close in to the jamb, jerked something out. He stood up exhibiting a wedge made of a folded-over paper match-cover. “He did that himself, to try to get a little circulation into the air in here.” Striker contented himself with murmuring, “Funny no one else’s door was left open.” But to himself he thought, ruefully, “It’s trying its best to look natural all along the line, like the other times; which only proves it isn’t.”

  The city dick answered, “Not funny at all. A woman alone in a room wouldn’t leave her door open for obvious reasons; and a couple in a room wouldn’t, because the wife would be nervous or modest about it. But why shouldn’t a guy rooming by himself do it, once his light was out, and if he didn’t have anything of value in here with him? That’s why his was the only door open like that. The heat drove him wacky; and when he couldn’t get any relief no matter what he did—”

  “The heat did nothing of the kind. I spoke to him at twelve and he was cheerful as a robin.”

  “Yeah, but a guy’s resistance gets worn down, it frays, and then suddenly it snaps.” Courlander chuckled scornfully. “It’s as plain as day before your eyes.”

  “Well,” drawled Striker, “if this is your idea of getting to the bottom of a thing, baby, you’re easily pleased! I’ll admit it’s a little more work to keep digging, than just to write down ‘suicide’ in your report and let it go at that,” he added stingingly.

  “I don’t want any of your insinuations!” Courlander said hotly. “Trying to call me lazy, huh? All right,” he said with the air of doing a big favor, “I’ll play ball with you. We’ll make the rounds giving off noises like a detective, if that’s your idea.”

  “You’ll empty my house for me,” Perry whined.

  “Your man here seems to think I’m laying down on the job.” Courlander stalked out, hitched his head at them to follow.

  “You’ve never played the numbers, have you?” Striker suggested stolidly. “No number ever comes up three times in a row. That’s what they call the law of averages. Three suicides from one room doesn’t conform to the law of averages. And when a thing don’t conform to that law, it’s phony.”

  “You forgot your lantern slides, perfessor,” sneered the police dick. He went next door and knuckled 915, first gently, then resoundingly.

  The door opened and a man stuck a sleep-puffed face out at them. He said, “What-d’ye want? It takes me half the night to work up a little sleep and then I gotta have it busted on me!” He wasn’t just faking being asleep—it was the real article; anyone could see that. The light hurt his eyes; he kept blinking.

  “Sorry, pal, “ Courlander overrode him with a businesslike air, “but we gotta ask a few questions. Can we come in and look around?”

  “No, ya can’t! My wife’s in bed!”

  “Have her put something over her, then, cause we’re comin’!”

  “I’m leaving the first thing in the morning!” the man threatened angrily. “You can’t come into my room like this without a search warrant!” He thrust himself belligerently into the door opening.

  “Just what have you got to hide, Mr. Morris?” suggested Striker mildly.

  The remark had an almost magical effect on him. He blinked, digested the implication a moment, then abruptly swept the door wide open, stepped out of the way.

  A woman was sitting up in bed struggling into a wrapper. Courlander studied the wall a minute. “Did you hear any rise of any kind from the next room before you fell asleep?” The man shook his head, said: “No.”

  “About how long ago did you fall asleep?”

  “About an hour ago,” said the man sulkily.

  Courlander turned to the manager. “Go back in there a minute, will you, and knock on the wall with your fist from that side. Hit it good.”

  The four of them listened in silence; not a sound came through. Perry returned, blowing his breath on his stinging knuckles.

  “That’s all,” Courlander said to the occupants. “Sorry to bother you.” He and Striker went out again. Perry lingered a moment to try to smooth their ruffled plumage.

  They went down to the other side of the death chamber and tried 911. “This witch,” said Perry, joining them, “has got ears like a dictaphone. If there was anything to hear, she heard it all right! I don’t care whether you disturb her or not. I’ve been trying to get rid of her for years.”

  She was hatchet-faced, beady-eyed, and had a cap with a draw-string tied closely about her head. She seemed rather satisfied at finding herself an object of attention, even in the middle of the night, as though she couldn’t get anyone to listen to her most of the time.

  “Asleep?” she said almost boastfully. “I should say not! I haven’t closed my eyes all night.” And then, overriding Courlander’s attempt at getting in a question, she went on: “Mr. Perry, I know it’s late, but as long as you’re here, I want to show you something!” She drew back into the center of the room, crooked her finger at him ominously. “You just come here!”

  The three men advanced alertly and jockeyed into position from which they could see.

  She swooped down, flung back a corner of the rug, and straightened up again,
pointing dramatically. A thin film of dust marked the triangle of flooring that had just been bared. “What do you think of that?” she said accusingly. “Those maids of yours, instead of sweeping the dust out of the room, sweep it under the rug.”

  The manager threw his hands up over his head, turned, and went out. “The building could be burning,” he fumed “and if we both landed in the same fireman’s net, she’d still roll over and complain to me about the service!”

  Striker lingered behind just long enough to ask her: “You say you’ve been awake all night. Did you hear anything from the room next door, nine-thirteen, during the past half-hour or so?”

  “Why, no. Not a sound. Is there something wrong in there?” The avid way she asked it was proof enough of her good faith. He got out before she could start questioning him.

  Courlander grinned. “I can find a better explanation even than the heat for him jumping, now,” he remarked facetiously. “He musta seen that next door to him and got scared to death.”

  “That would be beautifully simple, wouldn’t it?” Striker said cuttingly. “Let’s give it one more spin,” he suggested. “No one on either side of the room heard anything. Let’s try the room directly underneath—eight-thirteen. The closet and bath arrangement makes for soundproof side-partitions, but the ceilings are pretty thin here.”

  Courlander gave the manager an amused look, as if to say, “Humor him!”

  Perry, however, rolled his eyes in dismay. “Good heavens, are you trying to turn my house upside-down, Striker? Those are the Youngs, our star guests, and you know it!”

  “D’you want to wait until it happens a fourth time?” Striker warned him. “It’ll bring on a panic if it does.”

  They went down to the hallway below, stopped before 813. “These people are very wealthy,” whispered the manager apprehensively. “They could afford much better quarters. I’ve considered myself lucky that they’ve stayed with us. Please be tactful. I don’t want to lose them.” He tapped apologetically, with just two fingernails.

  Courlander sniffed and said, “What’s that I smell?”

  “Incense,” breathed the manager.

  “Sh! Don’t you talk out of turn now.”

  There was a rustling sound behind the door, then it opened and a young Chinese in a silk robe stood looking out at them. Striker knew him, through staff gossip and his own observation, to be not only thoroughly Americanized in both speech and manner but an American by birth as well. He was Chinese only by descent. He was a lawyer and made huge sums looking after the interests of the Chinese businessmen down on Pell and Mott Streets—a considerable part of which he lost again betting on the wrong horses, a pursuit he was no luckier at than his average fellow-citizen. He was married to a radio singer. He wore horn-rimmed glasses.

  “Hi!” he said briskly. “The Vigilantes! What’s up, Perry?”

  “I’m so sorry to annoy you like this,” the manager began to whine.

  “Skip it,” said Young pleasantly. “Who could sleep on a night like this? We’ve been taking turns fanning each other in here. Come on in.”

  Even Striker had never been in the room before; the Youngs were quality folk, not to be intruded upon by a mere hotel detective. A doll-like creature was curled up on a sofa languidly fanning herself, and a scowling Pekinese nestled on her lap. The woman wore green silk pajamas. Striker took note of a tank containing tropical fish, also a lacquered Buddha on a table with a stick of sandalwood burning before it.

  Striker and Courlander let Perry put the question, since being tactful was more in his line. “Have you people been disturbed by any sounds coming from over you?”

  “Not a blessed thing,” Mrs. Young averred. “Have we, babe? Only that false-alarm mutter of thunder that didn’t live up to its promise. But that came from outside, of course.”

  “Thunder?” said Striker, puzzled. “What thunder? How long ago?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t a sharp clap,” Young explained affably. “Way off in the distance, low and rolling. You could hardly hear it all. There was a flicker of sheet-lightning at the same time—that’s how we knew what it was.”

  “But wait a minute,” Striker said discontentedly. “I was lying awake in my room, and I didn’t hear any thunder, at any time tonight.”

  “There he goes again,” Courlander slurred out of the corner of his mouth to Perry.

  “But your room’s located in a different part of the building,” Perry interposed diplomatically. “It looks out on a shaft, and that might have muffled the sound.”

  “Thunder is thunder. You can hear it down in a cellar, when there is any to hear,” Striker insisted.

  The Chinese couple goodnaturedly refused to take offense. “Well, it was very low, just a faint rolling. We probably wouldn’t have noticed it ourselves, only at the same time there was this far-off gleam of lightning, and it seemed to stir up a temporary breeze out there, like when a storm’s due to break. I must admit we didn’t feel any current of air here inside the room, but we both saw a newspaper or rag of some kind go sailing down past the window just then.”

  “No, that wasn’t a—” Striker stopped short, drew in his breath, as he understood what it was they must have seen.

  Perry was frantically signaling him to shut up and get outside. Striker hung back long enough to ask one more question. “Did your dog bark or anything, about the time this—promise of a storm’ came up?”

  “No, Shan’s very well behaved,” Mrs. Young said fondly. “He whined, though,” her husband remembered. “We thought it was the heat.”

  Striker narrowed his eyes speculatively. “Was it right at that same time?”

  “Just about.”

  Perry and Courlander were both hitching their heads at him to come out, before he spilled the beans. When he had joined them finally, the city dick flared up: “What’d you mean by asking that last one? You trying to dig up spooks, maybe?—hinting that their dog could sense something? All it was is, the dog knew more than they did. It knew that wasn’t a newspaper flicked down past their window. That’s why it whined!”

  Striker growled stubbornly. “There hasn’t been any thunder or any lightning at any time tonight—I know what I’m saying! I was lying awake in my room, as awake as they were!”

  Courlander eyed the manager maliciously. “Just like there wasn’t any farewell note, until I dug it out from under the pillow.”

  Striker said challengingly, “You find me one other person, in this building or outside of it, that saw and heard that thunder and lightning’ the same as they did, and well call it quits!”

  “Fair enough. I’ll take you up on that!” Courlander snapped. “It ought to be easy enough to prove to you that that wasn’t a private preview run off in heaven for the special benefit of the Chinese couple.”

  “And when people pay two hundred a month, they don’t lie,” said Perry quaintly.

  “Well take that projecting wing that sticks out at right angles,” said the dick. “It ought to have been twice as clear and loud out there as down on the eighth. Or am I stacking the cards?”

  “You’re not exactly dealing from a warm deck,” Striker said. “If it was heard below, it could be heard out in the wing, and still have something to do with what went on in 913. Why not pick somebody who was out on the streets at the time and ask him? There’s your real test.”

  “Take it or leave it. I’m not running around on the street this hour of the night, asking people ‘Did you hear a growl of thunder thirty minutes ago?’ I’d land in Bellevue in no time!”

  “This is the bachelor wing,” Perry explained as they rounded the turn of the hall. “All men. Even so, they’re entitled to a night’s rest as well as anyone else. Must you disturb everyone in the house?”

  “Not my idea,” Courlander rubbed it in. “That note is still enough for me. I’m giving this guy all the rope he needs, that’s all.”

  They stopped outside 909. “Peter the Hermit,” said Perry disgustedly. “Aw, don’t take
him. He won’t be any help. He’s nutty. He’ll start telling you all about his gold mines up in Canada.”

  But Courlander had already knocked. “He’s not too nutty to know thunder and lightning when he hears it, is he?”

  Bedsprings creaked, there was a slither of bare feet, and the door opened.

  He was about sixty, with a mane of snow-white hair that fell down to his shoulders, and a long white beard. He had mild blue eyes, with something trusting and childlike about them. You only had to look at them to understand how easy it must have been for the confidence men, or whoever it was, to have swindled him into buying those worthless shafts sunk into the ground up in the backwoods of Ontario.

  Striker knew the story well; everyone in the hotel did. But others laughed, while Striker sort of understood—put two and two together. The man wasn’t crazy, he was just disappointed in life. The long hair and the beard. Striker suspected, were not due to eccentricity but probably to stubbornness; he’d taken a vow never to cut his hair or shave until those mines paid off. And the fact that he hugged his room day and night, never left it except just once a month to buy a stock of canned goods, was understandable too. He’d been “stung” once, so now he was leery of strangers, avoided people for fear of being “stung” again. And then ridicule probably had something to do with it too. The way that fool Courlander was all but laughing in his face right now, trying to cover it with his hand before his mouth, was characteristic.

  The guest was down on the register as Atkinson, but no one ever called him anything but Peter the Hermit. At irregular intervals he left the hotel, to go “prospecting” up to his mine pits, see if there were any signs of ore. Then he’d come back again disappointed, but without having given up hope, to retire again for another six or eight months. He kept the same room while he was away, paying for it just as though he were in it.

  “Can we come in, Pops?” the city dick asked, when he’d managed to straighten his face sufficiently.

  “Not if you’re going to try to sell me any more gold mines.”

  “Naw, we just want a weather report. You been asleep or awake?”