by Claire Logan
The clerk wrote on a pad, then handed over a slip of paper. “There’s the address.” He pointed past
Mr. Jackson’s left shoulder. “Three blocks that way, just past the gun shop. It’s open until nine tonight.”
“Excellent,” Mr. Jackson said, slipping the paper into his jacket pocket. On to number two. “I wonder if we might speak with the manager.”
The young man seemed uneasy. “I hope all is well?”
“It is. Very well indeed. We just need to speak with him on a private matter.”
Relief crossed the man’s face. “Very good, sir. You’ll find him in his office,” he pointed behind him, “down the hall. The door is on your left.”
The couple edged past the scrubbing maid and moved down the hall.
“Mr. Flannery Davis, Manager” lay marked upon the door. Before they reached the open doorway, the manager’s voice came forth in a shout: “By thunder!”
Mr. Jackson peered inside. “Is all well, sir?”
The manager glanced up, an open lunch-pail marked with his name in front of him. “Someone’s been at my lunch again! I’d always blamed that poor foolish clerk, but —”
Mr. Jackson stared at the man, horrified. “Where do the staff take luncheon?”
“Continue down the hall and turn right. The lunchroom is downstairs. Why do you —?”
“Don’t touch a thing!”
Mr. Jackson raced down the hall, but as he got to the corner, screams emerged from below. He turned to his wife, who remained standing in the doorway, mouth open. “I’m afraid we’re too late.”
6
Sergeant Nestor stood observing the lunchroom turned crime scene. He’d deliberately placed himself near the couple, who’d inexplicably been witness to two murders in three days.
A clump of uniformed officers stood around the contorted body of a little blonde gal. Agnes Odds, age eighteen, worked at the Hotel these past three years. Rented a room in the basement. No one knew of any family.
The rest of his men were busy. They gathered evidence, took samples, photographed the body, spoke with witnesses.
Across the lunchroom, the manager paced up and down, wringing his hands. “I shall be ruined! If this gets out, no one will stay here. We’ll all lose our jobs!”
The staff gaped at him.
The manager stopped, turned to them. “Not one word of this to anyone, not one. You hear?”
Fearful nods all round, then the room filled with discussion.
Sergeant Nestor thought the man was likely right. The rich men who owned places like this tossed their employees away like day-old trash at a moment’s notice. But the manager's order would now make it much more difficult to get any of these people to talk.
One of the officers stood near a distraught middle-aged woman with black hair. “She just came in, started eating, and got the most horrible look on her face! Oh, I’ll never forget it!” The woman began sobbing, her friends around her.
Mrs. Jackson seemed notably unaffected by the sight. “I suspect strychnine.”
Her husband nodded, uneasy.
The sergeant said, “The manager told us you knew this might happen.”
“We went there to see him,” Mr. Jackson said. “The manager mentioned his lunch had been tampered with in the past. He’d suspected the clerk who died yesterday of being the culprit. It occurred to me that if this clerk had been pilfering lunches, then perhaps he wasn’t the true target.”
The sergeant nodded. “And this young woman was?”
Mrs. Jackson shrugged. “Perhaps. Although the manager claimed his lunch had been tampered with today as well.”
This didn’t seem like something a killer would want known. The sergeant turned to an officer beside him. “Bring every lunch to the lab, including the manager’s. Search them all for poison. And put a round-the-clock guard on the food pails until the killer’s found.”
“That does seem wise,” Mr. Jackson said.
The couple weren’t acting like killers. And they’d been upstairs with the manager at the time of death.
Mrs. Jackson said, “Is there anything we might do to help?”
She sounded too eager. And he didn’t believe for one minute she was a professional investigator. “I don’t want you involved.” He pointed at them. “I don’t want you two to do any nosing about whatsoever. Stay out of it. You understand?”
Mr. Jackson chuckled. “Very well.”
Sergeant Nestor regretted his harshness. He didn’t want to discourage people from coming forward.
“But if you do hear something —”
“We’ll inform you at once,” Mrs. Jackson said, with a smile which made the sergeant more than a bit envious of her husband. She took her husband’s arm. “Let’s see to the manager before he has a coronary.”
As the couple strolled away, Sergeant Nestor watched her go. How did that fellow get a woman like her?
He walked over to the group of police standing around the dead woman. One of his officers glanced past him towards the couple. “You suspect those two?”
“I suspect everyone.” A couple of people claiming to be private investigators — one a woman! — appearing right as a rash of deaths began. And then offering help — on their honeymoon?
They found the body. And now they wanted to be part of the investigation. “Something tells me they’re going to be trouble.”
***
Mr. Jackson and his wife walked over to the manager, who was most distressed indeed. “Let me assure you, sir, that we have NEVER had such goings-on here before. I want to —”
Mr. Jackson raised his hand. “We’re quite confident in your hotel. I’ve stayed here many a time. But there is a matter in which you might aid us.”
The manager’s shoulders slumped. “How much do you want to keep quiet?”
Mr. Jackson felt amused. “Nothing so crass. We’re both gentlemen here!”
Relief crossed the manager’s face. “How then may I help?”
“Might you recommend a discreet private surgeon? For my wife. We were told to contact one in a few days.”
The manager glanced at Mrs. Jackson’s sling. “We have one on retainer. No charge to you whatsoever.”
“Very good,” Mr. Jackson said. “You may call him in whenever it’s convenient.” He gestured to the group still milling about. “I’ll let you get back to your staff.”
“Thank you, sir,” the manager said. “And please, not a word to the other guests?”
“Of course not,” Mrs. Jackson said. “I dislike even to think on it.” She glanced at the contorted body and shuddered. “How horrid!”
“I’m most grateful. If you need anything — anything at all, you have only to ask.”
***
Mrs. Jackson considered the pretty little blonde who’d sold her the pack of cigarettes a day earlier lying crumpled on the floor.
Whatever the girl might have done, killing her this way was wrong.
Once the manager left, Mr. Jackson said quietly, “My ... wife. I feel astonished. I never thought such words would ever come from my mouth.”
Mrs. Jackson chuckled, taking his arm, and the couple moved towards the lobby. “And yet here we are.”
They strolled through the lobby, past the grand fountain, towards the elevators. Then Mr. Jackson spoke. “It surprised me that you mentioned strychnine.”
“Oh?”
“And offering to help a second time. I’m not sure either was wise. I’m certain the sergeant suspects us.”
She felt amused. “He’s the sort to suspect everyone.” She smiled up at Mr. Jackson, and to her surprise, he blushed.
“Well,” Mrs. Jackson said. “Our stay has become much more interesting than I would have ever thought.”
7
The couple ate lunch in her room. Then Mrs. Jackson took her pain medication and lay in bed reading the paper. “Tell me about Chicago,” she said, “since you’ve been here before.”
Mr. Jackson downed
his coffee, then shrugged. “It’s a place, much like any other. The police here are competent; the criminals, somewhat less so. Only alcohol is forbidden. But of course, because alcohol’s forbidden, everyone wants it. There are speakeasies on every corner, if you know where to find them. But many of the police will look the other way, especially if you hand them a fiver.”
Mrs. Jackson nodded.
“And there’s every amusement one might possibly imagine.” At that, his face brightened. “Oh, my dear, we must see the talkies.”
“Whatever are talkies?”
“Pictures which talk and move! And they often have the most wonderful music. Like a play, only the characters are projected upon the screen using light. They’re all the rage!”
Mrs. Jackson folded the paper, astonished at the idea. She felt positively sheltered! What else in the world went on that she knew nothing about? “That does sound interesting.”
“Then we shall go, just as soon as you feel well enough.”
Her wound did hurt quite a bit, especially when she moved her arm. And she hadn’t quite gotten the dose right on the medication: it still made her sleepy. “Perhaps in a few days.”
“Anything you desire is yours, my dear; you have only to ask.”
She recalled his blush. Which, although attractive and sweet, conflicted with what he’d said just before they arrived. “May I ask something personal?”
“You may ask anything at all.”
“Why are you being so kind to me? The truth.”
He leaned his elbows on the table, rested his chin on his closed hands. “Because, strange as it sounds even to me, I like you. I find you fascinating. I’d like to spend more time with you.” He leaned back, crossed his arms. “And I always try to speak the truth, as much as I can.” He relaxed, just a bit. “I’ll understand if you need to be alone, after everything that’s happened, but if you do need me, even to talk with, I won’t feel it a burden.”
She felt abashed. “I don’t mean to be ungrateful. And I’m sorry for not trusting you. It’s just —”
Mr. Jackson put his elbows back on the table, his face in his hands. Then he raised his head and smiled at her. “Things certainly could have gone better.”
In spite of how awful she felt right then, she chuckled, wiping her nose on her handkerchief. “It certainly could have.” She took a deep breath and let it out, feeling better. “So what do you think of these murders?”
“Ever the investigator, are we? Well, it’s possible that someone had it in for the young lady, badly enough to try again when failing the first time. The real question is why? Once we know why, well, then who is never far behind.”
This threw Mrs. Jackson into some thought. Why would someone poison a girl’s lunch? And with strychnine, of all things. “If they simply wanted to kill her, they could have killed her down in the basement. Or used some more peaceful solution. Or some longer acting agent which would kill many hours later to hide their involvement.”
But they didn’t. “Is it possible this killer meant to send a message to another member of the staff?”
Mr. Jackson smiled. “There you have it.”
“But why kill a young woman? She had her whole life ahead of her.” She shook her head, eyes stinging. “This is wrong.”
***
Mr. Jackson surveyed his wife. Her eyes were drooping. She’d be asleep soon. But the young woman’s death had affected her. If he didn’t persuade her to remain still, she’d begin searching for the girl’s killer despite her injury.
Sure enough, she said, “I can’t just lie here — a girl is dead! And to kill her in this way?” She shook her head, face turned away. “There must be something I can do.”
“What you can do is rest. You’ve just had surgery.”
She slid down in the bed, eyes sleepy. “But to do nothing seems wrong.”
He shrugged. “The sergeant strictly forbade our involvement. He already suspects us as it is.”
“Yet the manager asked us to speak with the staff. They need us.”
What should he do? “How about this: once you’re asleep, I’ll walk through the hotel, take a look around. It’s likely someone will speak with me.”
She beamed. “If you should find a clue to these murders, I suppose the time I have to spend asleep won’t have been entirely wasted.”
He laughed. “If you think my amateur questioning adequate.”
“Don’t be silly.” She gave him a sleepy smile. “I can’t wait to see what you discover.”
“Shh, dear girl. Rest now.” He moved his chair beside her bed, rested his hand upon her forehead. “Sleep. You must get strong. Then we can find this killer.”
She smiled, eyes closed.
He sat, stroking her thick black curls for a long while as he watched the clouds play over the sky.
As soon as his wife seemed firmly asleep, Mr. Jackson slipped out, locking the door behind him with the “Do Not Disturb” sign on.
He stood in the hall, hesitant. Normally, he wouldn’t leave someone so recently injured unattended.
But in her eyes, this girl’s murder had changed everything. She’d never truly rest until the matter was resolved.
So he set off.
The halls were quiet, as was the elevator. But the lobby bustled with people. Bellhops brought gleaming brass carts filled with luggage to and fro. Valets brought keys, escorted men to their cars. Families strolled the walkways on the upper levels, guarded by wrought iron, gazing and pointing at the sights.
Beside the busy front desk, the dining room doors stood open, its tables full of people reading, drinking coffee, and talking. Waiters and maids moved to and fro. A handsome young man with dark hair played the grand piano in the center of the room.
While Mr. Jackson had stayed at this hotel before, he’d been a guest for the night, simply using it as a place to sleep while conducting business. Downstairs, he’d only visited the dining room and lobby. If they were to stay at the Myriad Hotel until his wife recovered, he wanted to see what it had to offer them. And perhaps he’d learn something.
He moved back across the wide marble-tiled lobby, past the glorious fountain and the grand curving stair. As he passed the foot of the staircase, a large grandfather clock upon the first landing struck two.
Just past the stair was a wide expanse. Down a hallway to his left, people waited for the elevators. On the wall straight ahead was a soda bar. Ahead and to his right (near the front of the hotel) lay the gift shop. Between the two, a hallway marked “Library“ stood before him.
The soda bar's counter stretched eight feet in and twenty long, made of polished rosewood trimmed in brass. Brass barstools with cushions of black leather stood at intervals. Golden light came from decorative bulb fixtures in the ceiling. Six small tables nestled in the room. The one in the far back right held a couple sipping drinks through paper straws.
The soda jerk — a boy of perhaps sixteen — glanced up from wiping the bar. “Care for a glass, sir?”
“What do you have?”
The boy gaped at Mr. Jackson, eyes wide. “We have over two hundred flavors — more if you combine them!” He gestured at the bottles lined floor to ceiling along the wall, each labeled with their syrup’s flavor.
“That’s quite impressive.” He peered at the array. “How about lemon and ginger?”
“Right away, sir.”
Mr. Jackson sat on a bar stool, watching the boy work. “I don’t recall this place being here the last time I stayed.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Several years now.”
“Well, sir, they put this in before I come to work here.”
A large stuffed owl stood perched at the corner ceiling in an alcove above the many bottles. A rosewood door with a brass knob had been set diagonally into the corner directly underneath, which seemed an unusual arrangement for any building.
“That’s a fine specimen,” Mr. Jackson said, pointing at the owl.
The
boy smiled to himself, his cheeks coloring.
“Your work?”
The boy twitched, focusing on the counter. “No, sir. Been here as long as I remember.” He handed over a glass of soda. “Two bits.”
“Would you put it on my tab? Hector Jackson, 3205.”
“Of course, sir.”
The soda was quite good — not too sweet.
A light fell upon the owl, and its eyes began blinking. Mr. Jackson laughed, pointing at it. “Would you look at that!”
The boy glanced over his shoulder. “It does that sometimes.” His tone became falsely bright.
“Would you like anything else, sir?”
This was interesting. Out of curiosity, Mr. Jackson asked, “What else do you serve?”
The boy hesitated. “Ice cream sodas, with real imported vanilla. Best in town.”
Mr. Jackson leaned back, surveying the lad. “My wife might like that!” He extended a hand, which the boy shook. “A pleasure to meet you,” he peered at the boy’s name-tag, “Thomas. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again. Oh, and when you submit that, give yourself a nickel tip.”
The boy’s face brightened. “Yes, sir! Thank you, sir.”
Very interesting indeed.
Mr. Jackson walked a pace or two into the lobby then to his right, just out of the boy’s view. He surveyed the room, watching people go up and down the wide stair to the second floor. The lobby was just as full as it had been a few moments before. Yet at that moment, not one of any of the people in the huge room were workers.
He’d wondered more than once about the lack of staff when they’d arrived. Now he thought he’d stumbled upon the answer.
8
As he continued on past the crowd waiting for the elevators, Mr. Jackson considered the mystery of the owl. Its blinking clearly was a sign, but to whom?
He whirled, returning to the place he’d stood. The valet stand outside was clearly visible. An older, olive-skinned man now stood there, dressed in a valet’s uniform. The man returned his gaze with a set face and a slight nod.
A chill ran down his back.
Clearly something untoward went on here in the hotel. Would it be something worth killing for?