Ring-A-Ding Dead!

by Claire Logan

  “With kindness, my dear. Beginnings are such delicate times. Be kind to yourself and to him both. Teach yourself to trust him. And if you feel more warmly towards him, act on it at once,” with this, she ground her fist into the palm of her hand, “crushing any harsh words before they emerge. It’s all a matter of self-control.”

  Mrs. Jackson began to weep. “Oh, my dear husband! He loved me so much. How I wish I’d been a better woman!” She lay her forehead on her crossed arms, pressing them to her knees as the tears flowed.

  She sobbed for a long time, feeling the dowager’s hand warm on her back. When the storm subsided, the old Duchess said, “Dear girl. We always wish we’d done better. But you can do better now, can you not? You have a second chance. Take it.”

  ***

  After his shave, Mr. Jackson headed to his suite. One of the bellboys stood waiting for the elevator. “I hope the funeral went well.”

  The young man nodded.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Mr. Jackson said.

  “Thank you,” the man said.

  They stood waiting in silence.

  “What sort of flowers did Mr. Stayman bring?”

  The young man blinked. “Bring? I have no idea.” Then he frowned. “I don’t actually recall seeing him there.”

  Odd. “I heard he planned to attend.”

  The bellboy shrugged. “I suppose. He did dote on Miss Agnes — had her do all his errands for him. Paid her well, too. She’d always pay for a round when we went down to the —” His face went pale, and he pressed his gloved hands to his mouth.

  Mr. Jackson smiled to himself. “No need to fret. We all deserve a night out once in a while.”

  The young man’s cheeks reddened. “Thank you, sir.”

  The elevators opened, and Mr. Jackson returned to his suite, where his wife handed him a message. “We’re invited for dinner again.”

  He chuckled. “I suppose we must have made a good enough impression.”

  “But we were just there last night! I wonder what he wants.”

  This seemed a fair question. “Perhaps he’s gotten some new information he wishes to share with us.”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Jackson said. “A package came for you as well. I had them put it in your room.”

  “Now what might that be?” On his dresser sat a large flat rectangular brown paper parcel an inch thick tied with twine. On opening it, he exclaimed, “Would you look at that!”

  Mrs. Jackson hurried in. “Are you well?”

  He opened the note inside:

  Contacted every library in the area. Schaumburg had it. —Nestor

  He held the book up. “It’s the one! The book I wanted.”

  Her face grew pale. “The one you went to see the librarian for?”

  “Why, yes.”

  His wife's face turned alarmed. “You must let no one know you have it. This is too much of a coincidence.”

  Could the librarian have been killed to stop him from reading a book about a tree? It seemed quite unlikely. “Then I shall read it at once.”

  And so he did. The book was old, with large print and margins. It went into great detail, mostly about the tree’s various medicinal and poisonous characteristics. He did, however, find a section on the tree itself. Much of it was how to grow the thing, but then he found an illustration!

  “This is it,” he murmured, feeling excited. This was the tree in the hotel’s garden! He turned the page, which had a drawing of a man’s hand holding one of the seeds. The seed was almost the size of a quarter, but thicker. Something about it seemed familiar.

  His wife walked in. “Find anything?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Is it the same tree as in the garden downstairs?”

  “Most definitely,” he said. “But there’s something else ... ”

  She sat beside him. “What?”

  “I don’t know.” He shook his head. “It’ll come to me.” He smiled at her, patted her knee. “It always does.” He put the book underneath the bed, up in the springs so no one might stumble across it. “Now, where would you like to go for tea?”

  ***

  As his wife needed her medication, they decided to stay in their rooms for tea, visiting Mr and Mrs. Carlo for dinner.

  After dinner, the couples moved to the parlor. Mr and Mrs. Carlo had alcohol, Mrs. Jackson had tea, and Mr. Jackson, coffee. For a few minutes they drank silently, then Mr. Carlo rose. “Might I have a word in private, sir?”

  Mr and Mrs. Jackson glanced at each other. “Very well,” Mr. Jackson said. He leaned over. “Let me see what this is about,” he whispered, then kissed her cheek and followed Mr. Carlo to his study.

  The room was paneled in oak, stained a dark golden brown. The fixtures, brass. The lampshades, white frosted glass. Mr. Carlo moved behind his desk, but didn’t sit. “How’s the investigation coming?”

  “Difficult to say. As yet we have much information, yet little idea as to how to proceed.”

  “We?”

  “Well, yes. My wife has been helpful, and I believe the sergeant on the case is becoming amenable to our help as well.”

  Mr. Carlo gave a tiny snort of amusement. “Then you perhaps may not want him to see this.” He pulled out a large sheet of white paper.

  Upon it sat the words “Wanted For Questioning.”

  It also had a photo of Mr. Jackson’s wife.

  20

  Mr. Jackson’s mind went utterly blank.

  Mr. Carlo said, “My people control Chicago Station. Nothing gets shipped in or out — at least not that way — without going through me. So imagine my surprise when sixty cases of this flier arrived today!”

  Mr. Jackson stared at Mr. Carlo in horror.

  “A woman wanted for questioning by the Feds in connection with several high-profile murders checks into my hotel, and people begin to die. A coincidence? I don’t believe in them.” He smiled, but it was unpleasant. “I don’t like my hotel being sullied in this manner. So you have a choice. You stop this madwoman — whoever she might be — or my sixty cases of fliers find their way to your sergeant’s desk.”

  Mr. Jackson peered at the man: a most dangerous snake indeed. “What’s to stop you from sending them to him anyway?”

  Mr. Carlo chuckled. “Nothing so crass. We’re gentlemen here!” His lip curled in disdain. “Prolonged blackmail is a most unpleasant business.”

  Yet short-term blackmail didn’t seem to be beneath the man. “You know, I’ve told the sergeant everything — except about the speakeasy beneath your soda bar.”

  Mr. Carlo’s eyes narrowed. Then burst into laughter. “You think I’m afraid of that? At most, we’d get a week’s shutdown and a bit of publicity. But all publicity is good, and that kind is even better!”

  For an instant, Mr. Jackson felt dismayed. Then it came to him: his wife had been right. He held out his hand. “You have a deal.” The two men shook hands. “And I’ll take that flier.”

  “What could you possibly want that for?”

  Mr. Jackson didn’t move or speak. Finally, Mr. Carlo handed it over.

  Mr. Jackson folded the flier into quarters. “What I want this for is my concern.” He slid the flier into his jacket pocket. “I’ll find your killer. But I’ll also do whatever it takes to protect my interests.”

  Mr. Carlo gave him an amused smile. “As I will to protect mine.”

  ***

  Mrs. Jackson and Maisy Carlo had spent the time Mr. Jackson was gone engaged in small talk. Mrs. Jackson heartily disliked small talk, so when Mr. Jackson returned from his meeting with Mr. Carlo, at first she was glad.

  But one look at him told a different story: Mr. Jackson seemed uneasy, quiet. As the couple got into Mr. Carlo’s car to return to the hotel, Mrs. Jackson asked, “What was all that about?”

  Mr. Jackson’s eyes flickered to the driver. “Perhaps we can discuss this another time?”

  She nodded. The driver surely reported what was said here to his employ
er. Yet what might Mr. Carlo have wanted to speak to Mr. Jackson which she couldn’t hear as well?

  When they got to their suite, Mr. Jackson immediately left for his room, leaving her to stand in the parlor. It sounded as if he was telephoning someone.

  The whole situation unnerved her, and the longer she stood there, the more uneasy she became. Whatever was going on?

  The door opened and Mr. Jackson emerged. “Come, sit.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Please, my dear, sit down.”

  So they sat at the big round table.

  Mr. Jackson said, “You asked about the meeting I had with Mr. Carlo.” He presented a “Wanted“ flier with her portrait on it.

  She stared at it in terror. “I knew it!” She rushed to her room.

  Mr. Jackson followed her. “What are you doing?”

  She began taking her clothes from the closet. “We have to get out of here!”

  “Nonsense. This is the least of our worries.”

  She tossed a dress on her bed. “I don’t understand. What are we going to do?”

  “I’ll take care of everything.” He rested his hands on her shoulders. “Tomorrow, I’ll visit the sergeant, and —”

  “And what?”

  “Show this to him.”

  He planned to betray her? She began to cry, throwing his hands off her. “What? No! I trusted you!”

  Mr. Jackson’s voice was filled with compassion. “Come here.”

  For an instant, she hesitated. Had her worst rival trapped her in this marriage only to betray her? But then, the dowager’s words came to her: he’s a good man ... teach yourself to trust him.

  With an effort, she let him take her into his arms, hold her. And her mind began to work once more.

  He wouldn’t betray her: he’d made his vow. He seemed to care about her.

  But she couldn’t stop crying. When they finally thought they were safe, everything was falling apart.

  And she had a sudden fear: had she doomed him as well?

  “Oh, my dear girl. I’m sorry to frighten you so,” he said, smoothing her hair. “But don’t you see? Of all the perils we face, Mr. Carlo is the most dangerous. If we don’t pull his fangs, he’ll hold that flier over us forever.”

  “But what if we’re arrested?”

  He kissed her forehead, then drew back, gazing at her, his hands holding her face. “My dear girl. No one’s going to arrest us.”

  “But why?”

  He grinned. “I know who the killer is.”

  Astonishment, and hope. “Oh ...”

  “They need us. All will be well, you’ll see.” He chuckled fondly, smoothed wet curls back from her face. “I will never let anyone harm you. You have my word. Here’s what we’ll do ...”

  21

  To Mr. Jackson’s delight, the newspaper headline read:

  LIBRARIAN MURDERED

  Poisoner Strikes Again

  He made a short phone call to an old friend, then headed on his way.

  When Mr. Jackson arrived at the police station, reporters had camped out in the parking lot. The station itself swarmed with people. He had to push through the crowd to get to the front desk, but was brought into the sergeant’s office at once.

  Sergeant Nestor put his newspaper down, and took his feet off his open lower desk drawer. “What can I do for you?”

  Mr. Jackson tossed his newspaper onto the sergeant’s desk.

  “Yeah,” the sergeant said. “I got a call at 6 A.M. from the Chief of Police.” He rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Whoever thought putting telephones in houses was a good idea —”

  “How’s the investigation going?”

  The sergeant shook his head. “I have no leads, and the situation is getting stickier by the minute.”

  Mr. Jackson leaned a hand on the sergeant’s desk. “Now would you like my help?”

  “That depends. What sort of help are we talking about?”

  “I know who the killer is.”

  Sergeant Nestor jumped to his feet. “Close the door.”

  When Mr. Jackson did so, the sergeant said, “How do you know?”

  “At this point I have no tangible proof.” Mr. Jackson shrugged. “Just a very good hunch. And my observations, of course.”

  The sergeant let out a breath. “So you don’t know.” He turned away, sat down. “Okay. Tell me about your hunch.”

  Mr. Jackson sat. “First, I need your help.”

  “Sure,” the sergeant said. “What’s wrong?”

  Mr. Jackson took out the flier.

  Sergeant Nestor’s eyes widened. He glanced up at Mr. Jackson. “Is this real? Is she involved in all this?”

  “This came to my attention last night. I thought bringing this to you would be the best course of action, since you wanted to know everything.”

  “This explains the evasions.” The sergeant put his elbows on his desk. “How exactly did this come to your attention?”

  That was an item Mr. Jackson hoped could be held back for later. He hesitated, wondering what to reveal.

  Sergeant Nestor peered at him. “You’re braver than I thought. Who’s blackmailing you?”

  So he saw right through it. “Carlo,” Mr. Jackson said. “He has sixty cases of them.” But they still had a play. “If you’ll help us, I’ll tell you everything.”

  Sergeant Nestor’s eyes narrowed, but his voice was surprisingly kind. “What’s going on, son?”

  Mr. Jackson took a deep breath, let it out. Perhaps this would work after all. “Neither of us ever wanted to be involved with the Mob,” he gestured at the flier, “back home. But we got caught up in it. We’re trying to get out. There was an ambush, and my wife was injured. She lost her husband and her son in one night. But she found a surgeon who would treat her. We met up at the station.” He smiled to himself. “Got married on the ship,” he glanced at the sergeant. “I wanted to make life easier for her.”

  Sergeant Nestor nodded.

  “But they have Feds on their payroll. Don’t you see? This,” he pointed at the flier, “they’re using them to find us.”

  “So you want protection.”

  “Yes.”

  “You want me to impede a Federal investigation.”

  “Well, if you put it that way, yes.”

  “And in return, you’ll help me with this investigation.”

  “Free of charge. Just keep us out of it.”

  Sergeant Nestor glanced aside, then back. “Why does this feel like you just played me?”

  Mr. Jackson made his face all innocence. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “If I turn you in and you’re telling the truth, you’ll be killed. I’d have that on my conscience forever. But even if this entire story is a fabrication — which I suspect it is — I can’t get your help if you’re shipped out of the city.” He glared at the flier. “The two of you will disappear into Federal custody. If there’s a plea agreement having anything to do with this matter, it’ll come weeks from now, if ever. Who knows how many will be poisoned in that time?”

  “Then it’s settled.” Mr. Jackson held out his hand. “I’ll take that back, if you please.”

  “Most certainly not!”

  “It’s not worth anything to you, and my wife would feel ever so much better if she knew I had it.”

  “Why would I ever give it back?”

  “Because if you don’t, I walk out of here.”

  “Not if I arrest you for obstruction.”

  “Sergeant Nestor, I’m not obstructing anything. I came here voluntarily, to help.” He shook his head mournfully, letting his shoulders droop. “Such a pity. You could have been a hero! But even though I came to you with the name of the killer, risking my life to do so, you turned me down. If you arrest me, my lawyers will stand up, right in the middle of the press conference your Chief of Police is planning out front, and share the entire sordid tale. Imagine his reaction to that! He’d have to at least censure you, from the embarrassment alone.” />
  The sergeant paled. “You wouldn’t dare!”

  Mr. Jackson chuckled. “I dare quite a lot these days. Makes life exhilarating.” He checked his watch.

  “My lawyers should be here by now. Should I send them off, or invite them in?”

  Sergeant Nestor’s eyes narrowed. “What’s the name?”

  “Name, sir?”

  “Of your lawyer?”

  “Whoever they sent from River, Heater, and Rock.”

  Sergeant Nestor pressed a button on his desk, and a blast of crowd noise came forth. “Allen?”

  Silence, then in the cacophony came: “Yes, sergeant?”

  “Is anyone out there from River, Heater, and Rock?”

  A silence, then, “Looks like all three of them, sir.”

  “What color are they?”

  “White, sir, all three.”

  Sergeant Nestor gave a weary sigh. He punched the button. “Send them home.”

  “Sir?”

  “Tell them Mr. Jackson won’t be needing their services today.” He let go of the button, handed over the flier. “One day, you’re going to tell me what that’s really about.”

  Mr. Jackson looked the man straight in the eye. “She didn’t kill anyone.”

  “So you say.”

  Mr. Jackson smiled. He had him.

  “Very well,” the sergeant finally said. “But if it gets out that I made this deal with you, the last thing I do before I’m sent to Federal prison is to drag you two there myself.”

  “I would expect nothing less,” Mr. Jackson said. “Now let’s discuss how to lure our culprit into the open.”

  22

  The next day, Mr. Montgomery Carlo, the prestigious owner of the recently beleaguered Myriad Hotel, made an announcement. Due to the recent troubles, he proposed “sweeping changes“ to the establishment. To prepare for this, he planned to take a tour of the Hotel the next day, examining every area of it to see what might be eliminated.

  The staff was abuzz with the news. What did it mean?

  Some hoped it meant their widely disliked manager would be fired. Others worried their own jobs were in danger.

  At dinner, Albert Stayman was furious. “Sweeping changes? What does the pompous fool mean by that?”