Shamus in a Skirt

by M. Ruth Myers

  When I glanced in his direction, his cheek bones darkened.

  “Nice view from up here, isn’t there?” I said cheerfully.

  He sneered as he passed, and didn’t answer. Maybe he didn’t speak English. Maybe I didn’t merit an answer from someone who worked for a count.

  I turned and watched as he disappeared down the corridor toward his room. Then I took a final look down at the girl in the lobby. She’d given up chewing her nails. She was looking up now. When she realized I’d noticed her, she scowled.

  TWELVE

  I managed to survive my lack of popularity by taking a long bath and testing the bed. Then I drove to the Jenkinses’ apartment where we drank and talked and ate while Jenkins waited in vain for an opening that would let him work conversation around to guests at The Canterbury.

  “Oh, go ahead and put him out of his misery. He’s been a good boy,” Ione said when we’d adjourned to the living room.

  Jenkins’ wife was a good-looking ash blonde who caught your eye because of the intelligence crackling through her. She was on the couch with stocking feet tucked under her. Her hazel eyes shimmered with amusement.

  “Good? He fidgeted all through dinner,” I objected.

  “Yes, but he didn’t actually ask. I’d threatened him.”

  Jenkins, seated next to her, groaned.

  “Come on, Mags. You promised. And don’t think I’m not sore at that trick you pulled about the body they found in the alley.”

  “Oh, okay. But if you show your nose before I give you the go-ahead—”

  “I won’t.”

  “He won’t.” Ione nudged his thigh with her toes. “He doesn’t like losing privileges.”

  “Okay. I already told you Veronica Page was there.”

  “Yeah. Who else?”

  “A hotshot producer named Archie Clarke, along with his assistant and — are you ready for this? — a masseuse.”

  “Never heard of him.” Jenkins was leaning forward with his elbows steepled on his knees. “Who else?”

  “There’s also an actress named...” I paused to get his saliva flowing. “Mitzi Cassingham.”

  Both of them grew excited. Because Jenkins lived and breathed pictures in any form, they went to the movies a lot more than I did. It appeared that while Mitzi hadn’t gotten top billing in anything that they could remember, she was in plenty of films and becoming well known.

  “She’ll make a dandy story for you, too,” I said. “Nearly got stuck in Europe and had to take a boat to Cuba.”

  Letting him think she’d already arrived ensured he wouldn’t hang around the station when the train she was on was due.

  “So when do I get to kick it into the newsroom? And take pictures?” he asked bluntly.

  “A week or two.” I waved off the start of his squawk. “Meanwhile, I might be able to give you something even better.”

  Jenkins was barely managing to stay on the edge of the couch now. Ione had switched her legs from one side to the other. She looked nearly as interested.

  “Did you ever buy one of those home movie cameras like you were talking about?”

  “Yep, a Baby Pathé. Cost me every bonus I’ve had this year and then some. Why?” He was getting suspicious.

  “Has Ione ever used it?”

  “Ione? I showed her a thing or two when I first got it — but I’m not showing you, and you’re not borrowing it.”

  “You showed me more than a thing or two, you were so excited. And I might have tried it a time or two while you were at work,” she said sweetly.

  “Ione! Do you have any idea how much that film costs?” His voice went up half an octave.

  “Oh, simmer down, Sparky. I only ran it for a minute or two.”

  “I don’t want to use it. I don’t want to touch it,” I reassured.

  I’d had an idea which might help me figure out what was going on with the hotel safe and keep Jenkins eating out of my hand at the same time. The next part was tricky, though.

  “What I thought,” I continued, “was that in exchange for keeping your nose out until I give the go-ahead, you might like to have a home movie or two.”

  It took several seconds. Then his words raced to reach his already opening mouth.

  “You mean — inside the hotel? Of them? Mitzi? Veronica? You can pull that off?”

  “If you do as I say. Or rather if Ione does. She’ll be running the camera.”

  “Ione! Why not me? I’m the photographer.”

  “And they’d know within seconds that you were filming them. You’d be fiddling. Hunting a better angle. You wouldn’t be able to help yourself. Ione can make it look like all she’s interested in is how hotel employees do things. Like it’s part of my time-motion studies.”

  Ione clapped her hands together.

  “Oh boy! Ohboyohboyohboy!”

  * * *

  I returned to the hotel before eleven. The lobby was empty of guests. A kid who couldn’t be dry behind the ears occupied the bellman’s stand. The front desk looked unattended, but through the open door to the office behind it, I could see a night clerk. Since he was around all night, and his movements unlikely to draw attention, he’d be a prime candidate for checking.

  As I passed the lounge, I saw Veronica Page and a few other people I didn’t recognize laughing over drinks. The dining room was closed for the night. I eased open the door and peeked inside, but it was empty, and quiet as the moon.

  Everywhere I walked, thick carpeting soaked up all sound from my steps. If a thief exercised a smidgen of caution, he’d be able to move about undetected. When I reached the swinging door to the kitchen, I leaned an ear close and listened. Nothing. I nudged it open an inch. A glimpse of a waiter disappearing up the service stairs with a tray rewarded me.

  The vast space before me looked even larger empty of people and bustle. A couple of small lights were on, but the kitchen was full of shadows. The alley door was closed and presumably locked. I’d check from the outside tomorrow. Lots of people went out on a Saturday night, meaning streets and even alleys were busy. Sunday would be quieter, better for having a look at the rear of the hotel. Or for tinkering with a safe if someone meant to.

  I let the door swing closed and, after a bit more prowling, headed upstairs. The second floor was quiet. So was the third floor. On the fourth, I caught the faint sound of a radio, or maybe a phonograph, from one of the suites. I went back down to my own room, fitted the key in the lock, and flipped on the light.

  For several seconds after I’d closed the door, I stood frowning, trying to shake off the feeling someone had been there in my absence.

  The pretty bed looked just as I’d left it. On the bedside table, the lamp with the rose colored shade seemed undisturbed. Folded up in the purse on my arm were the floor plans from Frances, the only evidence that might cast doubt on the role I was playing. Still, something didn’t seem right.

  Opening the closet, I examined my clothes. Just in case whoever was up to no good had gotten curious about me, I’d pulled one small corner in the lining of a suit pocket inside-out. Any intruder worth a fig would turn the pockets out to search them. When they put things to rights to cover their tracks, they’d inadvertently push the lining back into proper alignment. The corner was still out of place.

  Only when I picked up the clipboard and pencil I’d left on the dresser was I sure I’d had a visitor. I sat down, uncertain whether to laugh or to be uneasy.

  Someone had been in my room all right. They’d helped themselves to two sheets of paper where, while strolling around with my folding ruler, I’d written random measurements and occasional notes which were absolutely meaningless.

  THIRTEEN

  Sunday morning the sparsely populated dining room made me think most guests at The Canterbury must opt for breakfast in bed, at least on weekends. I read the paper and when I came to the page with the railroad timetable, thought of Connelly in Chicago. Was the girl he’d gone to meet someone he’d known back in Ireland
? He spoke of his family often enough, but he’d never given any hint that he’d left a sweetheart behind. Was she pretty?

  I couldn’t bear to think about it anymore. I put the paper aside and finished some waffles with blueberries. Then I made a circuit through the ground floor to see how the hotel’s rhythm varied today, and who on the staff was where. I noticed Tucker was in his office and rapped on the open door.

  “Got a minute?”

  “Sure.” He capped his fountain pen and motioned for me to close the door behind me. “That was nice, what you did for Mrs. Avery yesterday, taking her somewhere.”

  “She’s not bad company.”

  I told him about the papers missing from my room.

  The little guy looked so miserable that I told him a woman I knew would pretend to take movies the following day to add to my time-motion studies charade. I might have given the impression there would be no film in the camera.

  “Now I have a question,” I said. “Frances gave me diagrams yesterday that showed who’s staying in each of the rooms. Any idea why the Averys don’t have a suite on the top floor like the other important movie people?”

  His impish grin limped back where it belonged.

  “Oh, sure. Lily — that’s Archie Clarke’s wife — doesn’t like Eulahbelle. Lily wants people to recognize she’s queen bee; bankrolls her husband’s pictures, can nix somebody for a part if she gets it into her head. Eulahbelle doesn’t kowtow. What Lily doesn’t know is, Eulahbelle won’t stay in a room higher than the second floor anyway. Got caught in a hotel fire when Loren was just a toddler.”

  The Averys’ location probably wasn’t important, but you never know.

  “I’ve known some unpleasant people in my life,” Tucker continued, “but Lily takes the cake. And talk about demanding!” He blew gustily. “She stayed behind in California for some charity bash. Arriving by plane this afternoon. I’ve put an extra room service man on just to take care of her.”

  I wasn’t sure if he was kidding or not.

  For the rest of the morning I crawled around and measured and listened at doors without hearing anything useful. I did satisfy myself that none of the maids could be a safecracker given the roughness of their hands from scrubbing toilets and changing linens.

  Shortly before noon I drove to my office and took some scrunched up clothes from the bottom drawer of my file cabinet. It would be late when I stopped by for them that night, and I wanted to make sure I had everything I needed.

  I thought better here, so I got out a tablet and pencil and noodled some. The people most likely to get into the hotel safe were those who were there at night. That narrowed it to employees who worked all night, or late, or came in early. And to guests.

  Kenny Stone, the man Tucker had fired, had worked late. He probably nursed a grudge against both of the Tuckers. That made him a good place to start. Since Sunday afternoon was a nice time to pay social calls, I put on my hat.

  * * *

  “Kenny’s not here,” said the woman with ragged brown curls who answered the door where he lived. It was a two-story place halfway through being repainted. It sat on a street of modest homes with tidy yards.

  “Oh, gee, I don’t guess you’d know where I could find him?”

  “Same place he always is when he lands in trouble, down at the church — for the third time today.” Irritation oozed out of her as she looked me over. “If he owes you money, forget it. The idiot lost his job. If he got you in a family way, you’re a worse fool than he is.”

  “Um no. Somebody left this lighter down at the bar Wednesday night. One of the men who works there said he thought it might be Kenny’s. I was coming this way, so I offered to stop off and ask.”

  There’s nothing like a thrift store lighter to help spin a tale. The woman sniffed.

  “Kenny wasn’t in any bars Wednesday. He was right here puking his guts out while I cleaned up after him. I just was getting him where he could keep down tea and crackers Friday when the cops came to talk to him, and there I go having to clean up again. Brother or not, he’s out the door this week. With or without a job.”

  She slammed the door.

  * * *

  There wasn’t anything else I could check on a Sunday, so I went back to the hotel. Smith, to my surprise, was in his bellman’s spot.

  “You don’t get a day off?”

  His leathery face smiled.

  “I’m filling in so the other man can go to some family party. I’ll get two days off next week or sometime I want ’em.”

  “Did Mr. Tucker tell you why I was here when he told you to help me out if I needed anything?”

  He shook his head. His eyes were bright with curiosity.

  “Doesn’t matter. I’d still be swabbing decks on a ship somewhere if Mr. Tucker hadn’t given me a chance to help with luggage in one of the shows he was with. I’d do anything he or the missus asked.”

  Nothing was going on in the lobby. It was a good time for talking.

  “The man who disappeared a few weeks back, did you have any dealings with him? What can you tell me about him?”

  Smith stood with hands clasped behind him, a navy pose that served him well as a bellman.

  “One thing strange like” he said. “When he tipped me for taking his luggage up, he shook my hand.”

  “Most guests don’t?”

  “No, ma’am, but that’s not the strange part. His fingers were callused. Hard callused. It could be ’cause he was one of those gents who dig up ruins in the desert or something like that, but he seemed... awkward, somehow. Like he wasn’t sure he was doing things right.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Nothing special. Nothing to make you recall him. Brownish hair, I think, and average build. Roger might remember more. He’s one of the waiters. Said the fellow ate like he was starving the first night he stayed here.”

  The desk clerk beckoned then, and Smith hurried off to find out where he was wanted. I made myself evident measuring and scribbling. Then I went to my room and sat on my bed with every fluffy pillow at my back and a book in my hand. Before I’d finished a single page, though, I found my thoughts drifting to Connelly again, and felt the wad of pain that had lodged inside me. I’d wanted him to abandon his determined pursuit of me, hadn’t I? Or had I misinterpreted things he’d said? Deluded myself?

  I shoved my thoughts back to the papers missing from my room.

  What would possess someone to steal pointless scribbles? The obvious answer was that whoever took them didn’t know they were pointless. Maybe they wanted the measurements I’d written. Only that made even less sense.

  Finally I put on my blue winter dress and headed for dinner. Maybe I’d finally get a chance to study some of the guests. As I left my room and started toward the nearby elevator, a man turned away from it, spreading his arms to block me. It was Bartoz.

  “Elevator not working?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  A thin red scar was visible above and below his eye patch.

  “Gee, I thought I heard it coming up.”

  Behind him, the elevator clicked to a stop. The operator opened its polished brass grill to reveal an empty car. Bartoz seemed unfazed. Farther down the hall a door closed. A soft buzz of voices floated toward us, ceasing as I looked around.

  A small entourage approached the elevator. Leading it was a thin man of medium height, his bearing so erect he might have swallowed a broom. Behind him, arm-in-arm, came two middle-aged women. Their clothes were expensive, and quietly stylish. One was dark and slender. The other was blonde and on the wrong side of plump. At the rear came the girl who had glowered at me in the lobby yesterday. A frown appeared to be her permanent expression.

  I had no doubt at all that this was Count Szarenski and his family. I hadn’t expected him to swagger around in a fancy uniform with a sash across it and a chest full of medals. Still, I’d hoped he’d at least wear the sash. To my disappointment he sported an ordinary tailor made suit. Re
mote of manner, he took no notice of me as he walked past into the elevator. The others followed.

  When they were all in, Bartoz stepped in too. He kept his back toward them. His arms remained spread.

  “Sorry, it appears there’s no room left,” he said, startling me with his smooth British enunciation.

  As the grill closed them in, his single eye met mine in challenge.

  FOURTEEN

  Being an American girl who understood democracy and sharing, I took the stairs. When I reached the short hall to the dining room, Bartoz lounged against the wall smoking. Did he serve as some kind of bodyguard, suitable to protect the count and his family, but not to join them for meals? I gave him a perky wave as I passed.

  A waiter had scarcely pulled out my chair when Eulahbelle hustled over.

  “It’s no fun eating alone, honey. Come join Loren and me.”

  She was too good an information source to offend. It soon became apparent, though, that her purpose wasn’t only hospitality, but matchmaking.

  “Has her own car, knows how to entertain herself — you don’t find many girls like that,” she bragged when her son thanked me for taking her to the museum.

  The choreographer looked uncomfortable. He was lean, with a startling amount of muscle. His face was too long to be handsome, but lines at his eyes and mouth suggested humor.

  “You have a boyfriend?” Eulahbelle asked with unvarnished directness.

  Her son sent me an apologetic look.

  “Uh, yes,” I lied as emptiness filled me.

  Time for me to take control.

  “I know you can’t tell me anything about the picture you’re working on, but I sure hope Miss Shields and that fellow she’s with aren’t supposed to be the lovebirds in it.” I nodded toward Lena and Nick at a cozy table for two. “They had such a row in the lobby Friday, I thought they were going to hit each other.”

  Loren Avery snorted softly. His mother gave her distinctive chuckle.

  “Neither of them has anything to do with Archie’s picture. Acting, either.”