Everybody Wanted Room 623

by Cecil Murphey

  “Yes, that’s the way,” Burton said. He laid a hand on Ollie’s shoulder. It was obvious Burton had realized Jason wasn’t going to go any faster or give any more information than he chose. It was also obvious that Ollie’s irritation was nearing the explosion point.

  “That is also why I am here at the Cartledge Inn to work. Mr. Lauber became not only my friend, but my mentor as well. He has paid for me to stay here in this place for six months. I could have stayed near Emory and worked part-time, but he chose to help me. I think it will not take me much longer to finish my dissertation and then to defend it. Is that not so?”

  “Probably,” I said and intentionally veered from the subject of Stefan Lauber. “It took me about five months, and I did nothing else. I was exhausted when I finished mine.”

  “Can we get back on topic?” Ollie asked. It was obvious that he was working hard to control his voice.

  “Yes, and there is one thing more I can tell you,” Jason said. “Because you are an askari—pardon, I mean a policeman, I think this is what you must want to know. Mr. Lauber had in his possession a certain number of stolen diamonds.” He paused and stared at the detective. “You knew that much, did you not?”

  Four

  “You knew Stefan had the diamonds?” I asked Jason. “So he was involved in the theft.”

  He nodded. “And does not this policeman also know that fact?”

  As we sat outside the Cartledge Inn, Jason Omore’s words shocked us. Or maybe they shocked only me. Ollie jumped from the bench and took a step forward, almost as if he were intent on grabbing Jason’s T-shirt, but Burton’s arm on his shoulder pulled him back.

  “Easy, my friend,” Burton said softly.

  “But you know—you know for certain that he was in possession of the diamonds?” Ollie’s voice grew louder.

  “If your question is to ask if I saw the diamonds, the answer, of course, is that I did not see them.”

  “So you don’t know—”

  “But if you want to know what he told me—told me but did not show me—then, yes, I can tell you most assuredly that Mr. Lauber had the diamonds.”

  I liked Jason better all the time. He had that delightful sense of humor I love in people. He might be a foreigner, but he knew how to get to people like Ollie.

  “Of course that’s what I want to know.” Ollie sighed loudly. “Are you trying to play some kind of game with me?”

  “Would I do such a thing?” Jason asked.

  Ollie glared at him.

  “But, yes, to respond to your question, Stefan had possession of the diamonds. He also told me that he planned to return them. Did you not know that as well?”

  “How would I know?” Ollie said.

  “Is that not why you have come?”

  “I came to investigate his death,” Ollie said, and it was obvious from the tight-lipped way he spoke that he was nearing the explosion point. “A few people in law enforcement assumed Lauber had the stones, but we could never prove it. If we could have proven it, he would still be in prison.”

  “Did you believe he had them?” I asked.

  “I came to finish up the report on the death of a man in this hotel. Just that.”

  “Did you know he had the stolen diamonds?” Burton asked me. “I mean, when he met with you, did he admit that to you?”

  “He never said anything directly to me about them.” I thought about my last conversation with Stefan. “I wonder if that’s why he wanted me to meet him here . . . to talk about them.”

  “Yes, is that not so?” Jason said. “He told me that he was going to speak with you today because you are a person of good conscience.”

  “Good conscience?” I laughed. “What does that mean?”

  “Those were his true words. He also told me that he would compensate you well for your efforts. More than that, I cannot say. My rafiki—my friend—told me he trusted you. That is how much I know.”

  “That’s news to me,” I said, but I felt quite flattered.

  “Yes, it may be news to you,” Jason said, “but I know he trusted you and wanted you to be the one to return the diamonds.”

  “Me? Why would he ask me to—”

  “So where are the diamonds?” Ollie interrupted. “You said you haven’t seen them, but do you know where they are?”

  Jason shook his head. “No, it is true that I have not seen them, bwana—uh, sir. He said he had placed them in a safe place. ‘A very safe place’ were his exact words. He said he placed them there before he went into gaol—uh, prison. He told me that he also had funds—large sums of money—secreted in a total of twelve places, but I do not know where, so do not, please, to ask that question.”

  “I’m trying to get all the information I can,” Ollie said. He scribbled a few notes in his notebook. “And I think you have more to tell me, so how about if—” Ollie’s cell phone buzzed, and he excused himself and walked about ten feet away. He turned his back to us. We could hear nothing—and it wasn’t that I didn’t try to listen.

  As he stood there, I detected a slight tremor in his right hand. Nerves? I wondered.

  He closed his phone, turned toward us, and said, “I have to leave now.” His gaze shifted to the African. “I know where to reach you, Jason, so don’t leave here.” Before Jason could respond, he said to me, “And I have more questions for you to answer, so tell me where—”

  “Are you going to arrest me?” Even non-suspects said that on the TV cop shows.

  “Don’t act stupid,” he said. He handed me his business card. Burton stuck out his hand and took one as well.

  “In that case, take this.” I handed him my card. “If you want to call, try my cell first. That’s the easier way to get me.”

  He snatched my card and hurried away from us. I thought the action was abrupt, but the phone call may have been the reason. Or maybe that’s who Ollie Viktor was and the way he always behaved.

  “I must also leave you,” Jason said. “I am here in room 300. I take only two breaks during the day. This is my first one, such as I am doing at this moment. I go outside on these grounds so that I may stretch the legs, as you call it.” He grinned before he added, “Do I not?”

  Burton patted him on the back. “I love your humor.”

  “And so do I,” I said.

  “Yes, is it not wonderful to be able to laugh?” Jason shook our hands and hurried away from us past the magnolia tree.

  As he left us, I looked at my watch. It was only 11:20. “I know you came here for some kind of spiritual retreat,” I said. “But you probably eat lunch. Unless you’re here on some kind of fast. Even though it’s a little early, would you—”

  “Good idea, and you’ll be my guest.”

  “And, Mr. Burton,” I said, “I was taught that the person who invites, pays. Or are you going to be one of those old-fashioned macho types who insist—”

  “But you didn’t ask.”

  “Was that not implied in my question?” I tried to do my best to imitate Jason Omore’s accent and cadence.

  He held up both hands. “Surrender. You win. Why don’t you buy me lunch?”

  He and I turned and started back toward the hotel. His eyes focused on the building, and he obviously counted to the sixth floor. He had been there before, so I assumed he knew where 623 would be.

  “Look! Someone’s in that room! In 623!”

  I followed the direction of his pointing fingers. A woman moved quickly past the window. I recognized her. “It’s the widow,” I said.

  “The who?”

  “You met her. The woman with those hideous orange-colored nails?”

  He stared at me, frowning.

  “Never mind.” I grabbed his arm. “Let’s go. I don’t know how fast I can travel in these heels, so I’m hanging on.” Of course, I had another reason to hang on, but that excuse worked.

  Burton led me to the elevators, and one of them was open. In less than three minutes, we were outside room 623. The police had not put u
p one of those yellow ribbons, which I thought was good. Or maybe they only put up yellow crime-scene tape on TV.

  I released Burton’s arm and rushed ahead. I knocked loudly on the door. “Maid service!”

  There was no answer, so I yelled again and tried the knob. “Maid service!”

  “Can you come back?” a woman’s voice answered.

  “Gotta come in now,” I said. “No come later.” That was my attempt at Hispanic-style English.

  A few seconds passed before she opened the door. She glared at me. “You’re not the maid!”

  “You’re not the sentimental widow either!” I said and pushed the door open. Burton and I both stepped inside. “This is the one,” I said to Burton. “She claims to be a widow who wanted to visit this room because it was her anniversary. She didn’t say she wanted to ransack the room.”

  “I know this must look bad,” she said. “I can explain.”

  I learned early in my training that silence is a powerful tool. If I waited long enough and said nothing, she would feel obligated to explain. Burton didn’t say a word.

  “I lied,” she said. “I’m a writer. I’m with Atlanta magazine. I came here to do a story on Mr. Lauber.”

  “Mr. Lauber is dead,” I said, “so he can’t give you any good quotes.”

  “I wanted information . . . something—something I can use for my article. I’m, uh, going to do a story about his adjustment after prison . . . and, uh, I thought that if I looked in his room . . .” Her cadence had slowed to a complete stop. She must have recognized how implausible her story sounded.

  “Hmm,” I said. “That story was a pretty good recover, wasn’t it?” I asked Burton.

  “Not bad for someone who gets no warning. Want to tell us the truth?” Burton asked softly.

  “I think I want to get out of here.” She clutched her shoulder bag and turned toward the door. At the first chance, I knew she would rush out of the room. We weren’t the police, so we couldn’t stop her. Or maybe she thought we were the police.

  For the first time, I realized how badly the room had been torn apart. “Did you do all of this?” I tried to sound like someone with authority. “Did your search reveal whatever you wanted?”

  “It was already like this when I came. That’s the truth.” She tried to brush past us, but Burton pulled the door closed behind him.

  “Let me go,” she said. “Who are you anyway?”

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “I told you . . . I—I—”

  “You don’t work for Atlanta magazine,” I said. It was one of those intuitive statements that just came out. I have no idea how I knew, but I did.

  “I write for them,” she said. “I do.”

  “Do you really?” I asked and refused to look away.

  “Okay, twice,” she said. “I’ve sold them two articles.”

  “So who are you?” Burton asked.

  “That’s not important.”

  “You want the diamonds,” I said, again an intuitive statement.

  “Okay, I want them. Who doesn’t? We all knew Stefan had them.”

  “Who is we?” Burton asked.

  Instead of answering, she grabbed the door handle and pulled the door open. She raced out of the room. The quick tapping of her feet retreated down the hallway.

  “What was that all about?” Burton asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but let’s go to lunch and talk about it.”

  “How did she get into the room?” he asked. “You tried the door and it was locked.” I had wondered as well. “That means she probably had a key and still has it with her.” I looked around.

  “I don’t believe she would have put it down in all this mess.”

  “I think I know how she got it,” I said. “Let’s go back to the front desk.”

  Burton snapped his fingers. “Of course!”

  That man is quick and bright. In fact, I’m surprised he didn’t think of it before I did.

  As soon as we got off the elevator, we walked to the front desk. I gave Craig my best smile and said softly, “How much did she pay you for the key to 623?”

  He blinked several times. I could all but see the wheels scurrying around in his brain as he wondered whether he should deny or admit the bribe. “Uh.”

  “Never mind,” Burton said. “You’ve answered the question. We wanted to know how she got access to the room. You’ve just told us.”

  “Please don’t report me,” he said. “She came back right after you walked away with the detective. She begged me.”

  And I suppose fifty dollars helped,” I said.

  “It was only forty. I don’t care what she said. That’s all she gave me.”

  “I won’t tell,” I said. I took Burton’s arm, and we moved away and toward the hallway leading to the dining room.

  We walked into the elegant dining room, its walls papered with a soft gold and brown pattern. The ornate tables and chairs looked like something stolen from a Masterpiece Theatre set.

  “I am sorry, but you are too early for lunch,” the maître d’ said with a slight Hispanic accent. “But if you can be accommodated with tea, I could serve you while you wait, or you might choose to return in twenty minutes.”

  “Tea is fine,” Burton said, and we followed the maître d’ to a table by the window. It faced the east, and I could see wisteria vines that had been snaking their way up the side of the building for the past three or four decades. I don’t like their fragrance, but I love the soft, purplish flowers.

  A matronly waitress in a black dress and white apron brought in two bone china cups and saucers and a tall delft teapot on a tray. Without being asked, Burton slipped into the role of host for the tea ceremony. He checked the pot for “nose,” and with tiny silver tongs, he placed thinly sliced lemon in both cups before he poured in the pale golden liquid. He held up the milk, and I shook my head. He looked up and smiled. “I lived in England for a year,” he said.

  “Very nice.” I wanted him to feel I didn’t know anything, although I had lived with an aristocratic British family for nearly two years. I had been a nanny to their sweet-tempered boy. And he truly was easy to take care of. If he hadn’t been, I probably wouldn’t have lasted the two years while I did my graduate studies.

  Burton reviewed what little we knew about the late Stefan Lauber, which wasn’t much. Both of us seemed surprised that he wanted me to be the courier to return the diamonds.

  “Why me?” I asked for at least the fifth time. “I hardly knew him.”

  “He trusted you. That’s what Jason Omore said.” Burton took a long sip of his tea. “Don’t give me one of your smart responses.” He smiled. “Stefan Lauber obviously grasped what a fine and trustworthy person you are.”

  I stared at Burton for several seconds. “That’s probably one of the nicest things you’ve ever said to me.” I wanted to hug him and let him hold me in his arms, but that wasn’t appropriate considering the place and the status of our relationship. But a woman can daydream, can’t she?

  We finished tea, and I tried to think of what to say next to keep him around.

  “This time I do need to leave you,” Burton said before I could think of something clever, “but it’s nice to see you again.” Like the gentleman he was, Burton waited for me to move first before he got out of his chair and slipped behind to assist me. I left enough cash on the table for the tea and a generous tip.

  We reached the front desk just as the phone rang. Craig cried out, “Okay, okay. Be calm.” But his voice was anything but calm.

  “We’ll call 911. Right now!” He opened the door to the inner office and yelled to some unseen person, “Cover for me. It’s room 623. Again!”

  He pulled out his cell phone and was so focused on the emergency that when he rushed around the counter, he collided with Burton. “Sorry. It’s that room again—that 623!” He began to run. On the cell we heard him say, “This is the Cartledge Inn. It’s room 623 again.” He said something
else, but he was too far ahead of us for me to understand the words.

  This time Burton grabbed my arm and propelled me toward the elevator. We moved faster than the clerk, passed him, and reached the elevator before he did. I pressed the button. In the seconds before the elevator arrived, the harried clerk shook his head and said, “Murder. It’s another murder.”

  “What?” I said.

  “That’s what the maid just said. She’s up there yelling and crying.”

  The elevator arrived, and Burton punched the button for the sixth floor. When we got off, we hurried down to the room. A Hispanic maid stood outside the door. Her body shook, and she cried loudly, mixing her Spanish and her English. “Dead! Ella está muerta! Murdered. Matado! On the floor!”

  A second maid, an Asian, stood calmly on the other side of her cart. “There. In that way. The door was open—very wide open—and both of us saw her.”

  The clerk started to rush inside, but Burton held him back. “Don’t take a single step into the room.” He unclipped his cell and pulled Ollie’s card out of his pocket. He dialed the detective. “Get back to the hotel. There’s a dead woman in room 623.”

  While Burton talked to the detective, I moved to the door and surveyed the room. I saw the body—I couldn’t miss it. It was the woman we had seen in the room before, the one with those outrageous burnt orange nails. I wasn’t ready to look closely at her, so I scanned the room. It was even more torn apart than it had been when Burton and I had been there less than an hour earlier. The air vent near the ceiling had been pulled out and tossed carelessly on top of the torn-up bed. The wooden headboard for the bed had been ripped from the wall. The mattress was flipped over. I was surprised it wasn’t cut open—they do that in the movies, which always seemed silly to me. The three drawers of the bedside stand had been thrown across the room. The intruder had pulled out the clothes that had once hung inside an old-fashioned armoire made of real oak. One of the doors was ripped off its hinges. Everything indicated that the search had been done in a fit of rage.

  Finally it was time to look at the body. I stared, mute. She lay on her back. Another shooting. I’m no expert, but it looked as if she had been shot in the chest and the bullet went through her. Most of the blood seeped from beneath her.