The Case of the Missing Corpse

by Joan Sanger

  “Next week?” we exploded in unison.

  Señor Fiordo’s smile was ingratiating. “Please understand. From the records I observe Mr. Wyndham and his friend occupied Rooms 208, 209 and 210. You would like to see all three rooms, would you not?”

  “Of course!”

  “But just now two American ladies are occupying Room 210. We cannot well disturb them, can we?”

  In desperation we compromised our original demand and a few minutes later, found ourselves in a vast grill enclosed elevator ascending to the second floor, and briskly following one of Mr. Fiordo’s young assistants down a long, cool marble lined corridor.

  As the young man threw open the door of Room 208, I followed Alcott in, suddenly sobered, subdued, aware I was no longer spinning abstract theories but walking with living purpose over the footprints of another man’s doom.

  At the touch of the electric light, I knew at once Room 208 represented one of the choicest locations of the Sevilla Biltmore, an assumption in which the young night clerk promptly confirmed me. It was a large, almost baronial chamber, some twenty odd feet by about eighteen, coolly tiled in chaste white marble, with two windows long and wide, to catch any chance breeze and dark Venetian blinds to keep off the too impertinent glare of a tropical sun. A large four poster bed, covered in damask, stood against the right wall. At the side of the bed, was a night table and lamp.

  The other furniture of the room consisted of a marble topped writing desk, a low, wide bureau over which hung a massive carved mirror, a commodious chest of drawers, two large, comfortable chairs and one straight one. A clothes cupboard opened into the left hand corner of the room which proved quite ordinary in all respects. Also, off to the left, a short passageway some eight feet by six, led past a bright, airy bath into the much heralded sitting room.

  “I should really have brought you into this room first,” the young clerk said in flawless English, “instead of shoving the cart before the horse. But you gentlemen seemed—ah——so impatient.”

  “Not just impatient! Positively panting, young man! So much so, we’d part with a good deal just now for a look into this next room, er—210....” Alcott’s hand strayed carelessly toward his pocket. “Those American ladies couldn’t possibly stay in their room on so lovely an evening. And regardless of how we look, we’re perfectly respectable. Honestly.”

  Alcott in this mood was hard to gainsay. The young clerk beamed sympathetically upon us and drifted out to see what could be done.

  While he was gone, I crossed over to the single window of the sitting room and peered over the shallow railed balcony, down some forty feet or so to the quiet street that lay beneath us.

  “Don’t worry, Ellis, that window was never used.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Both our witnesses have maintained that the room was in absolute darkness. If anyone had tried to window, there, what do you think were his chances of remaining unseen?”

  In a jiffy Alcott let down the Venetian blind full length and fastened it. Then closing both doors, he hastily snapped off the light. Instantly, the darkness pressed in about us like a black wool. Only a thin line of light shone from under and above the closed doors.

  “And remember there was no light in any part of the corridor on the big night of February thirteenth.”

  I heard Alcott groping toward the Venetian blind. In another instant he had loosened it enough to allow him to mount upon the window sill.

  “You win,” I said laughingly, as in the faint glow reflected from the street lights outside, I caught the distinct outline of his figure.

  “No one could possibly have come in or gone out that window with the old poker gang looking on.”

  “No.”

  Just then there was a sound behind me. I turned to see the hall door had opened quietly and there, silhouetted against the light of the corridor loomed the bulk of a short heavy set man.

  “What do you want?” I said in annoyance. But with a murmer of quick apology the door once more closed and we were left to ourselves.

  “That’s a funny one!” I burst out to Alcott, but he only shrugged.

  “I’ve a hunch that may have been the floor man a trifle over-curious about our movements.”

  We turned back to our task of examining the premises.

  “H’m. What of those windows in the bedroom?” I asked.

  Alcott laughed. “No! As a visiting Englishman once remarked about our electric signs on Broadway—‘they’re all so deucedly conspicuous, don’t y’know?’ ”

  I glanced down at the street with its idly sauntering crowd. “Mebbe you’re right.”

  Once more we turned on the lights and looked carefully around, knowing beyond doubt, that somehow, someway that quite innocent little sitting room with its adjacent quarters had played a strange and vital part in the puzzling mystery of Wyndham’s end.

  The room we surveyed was not quite so large as the bedroom we had just left, but like the former, it was attractively furnished. Wicker chairs, table, settee, everything that could make for complete tropical comfort! I had an idea it was one of those prestidigitating rooms which could be outfitted by the management as a bedroom or a sitting room as the occasion demanded. But since during Wyndham’s occupancy, it had flourished as a sitting room, as such we mentally registered it.

  Just here at the risk of being repetitious I again append the diagram of this suite; this time, no free hand drawing of an excited young missionary, but an exact reproduction of the hotel floor plan. To be sure the two plans correspond in most respects, and yet I feel convinced had I fixed their seemingly conventional arrangement more carefully in mind an endless waste of time might have been avoided, and what was more, a rendezvous with terror that was to last for ten seemingly eternal seconds in time.

  The sitting room opened onto the public corridor and likewise by short passageways it connected with both room 208 and 210. To my cursory survey, the outer corridor presented an almost uniform pattern of doorways and lights. Only the cage-like shaft of the main elevator, some fifty feet away and the occasional stairways, Guest, Emergency or Service, broke its ordered regularity. One of these service stairways was located just opposite Room 210. Likewise, a large storeroom which we found upon investigation was used for linens.

  I found Alcott emerging from an inspection of the shallow closet in the corner of the sitting room.

  “X marks the spot where his sporting young Highness used to lock the sacred rods and racquets.”

  “H’m.”.

  “Not room for much more in there, that’s sure.”

  “Nope!”

  At that moment the night clerk bustled back, rubbing his hands and announcing with satisfaction, “After looking over the whole floor for Miguel I find him in the store room just opposite. He bring the pass key for Room 210 right away.” Then quite low, “Oh, that is unnecessary Señor. . . . Ah, muchas gracias! You understand, Miguel is our regular night man on this section.”

  Miguel was not long in putting in his appearance. True to Alcott’s prediction, he was a short, rotund fellow who, decked out in his white duck uniform, resembled nothing so much as the proverbial snowball in July. He regarded us with large, solemn eyes and convinced that there were matters of grave moment, hanging upon our shoulders, he gave a loud, precautionary knock on door 210 and then opened it.

  The room we surveyed was much like number 208. Only not quite as large. Also, just now it fairly reeked with the atmosphere of usage. A pair of sport sandals and some soft pink silk things were lying peacefully under the big armchair. A trail of talcum powder led cheerily off to the bath. Two half-finished lemonades were on the table. But with mental effort, I cleared the room of all vestiges of its late occupants and gave my full attention to its more fixed, less transient aspects.

  “Ford didn’t do so badly by himself when he stayed here.”

  “No.”

  Miguel glanced furtively at us, then two seconds later he seemed entirely preocc
upied in straightening up the bed.

  One window in this room instead of two! The same arrangement of passageway, bath and clothes cupboard! Door opening to outer hall! All the while Alcott coolly pacing up and down, craning his neck, examining the walls, the ceilings, the floor space.

  Feeling ridiculously like the hero of a ten cent thriller, I fell to work on the short passageway that led to the sitting room, tapping the walls to eliminate all idea of secret panels and that sort of thing. But the solid substantial structure, above, beneath and about us, gave back no suggestive lead. I hadn’t really thought it would.

  Miguel smiled at me. “You, friend Señor Ford?”

  “Yes, why do you ask?”

  “Nothing. I remember him and Meestair Wyndham when they stay with us last year. Meestair Wyndham, very fine, Señor!”

  I would have translated this simply to mean that Wyndham had tipped very lavishly, but suddenly I remembered Miguel’s unsolicited appearance at the other door, and wondered.

  “Miguel, you didn’t happen to be anywhere around on the night last February when Mr. Wyndham was supposed to have disappeared?”

  Blankness, complete and impenetrable! Miguel concentrated his gaze on Alcott’s movements. The night clerk came to my rescue, repeating my words slowly and clearly for him. Still Miguel’s reaction was difficult to gauge, solely because there was no reaction.

  My patience began to ebb like the value of stocks on an off-day. Then Alcott entered the picture.

  “Miguel, my boy. One night last year your electric lights all went out in the corridor. Everything dark. See! We want to know, were you here that night?”

  And still Miguel only regarded us suspiciously.

  “H’m. Guess they had to burn down the school house to get him out of the third grade! What’s this over here?”

  In two long strides Alcott had crossed the floor and stood pointing at the electric light switch on the side wall. There, spreading out from the plate, for an uneven inch or so, was a dull, scorched looking patch.

  “What do you think that might be?”

  I contemplated the mark a moment or so in silence.

  “Damned if I know. It looks like an ordinary enough scorch.”

  “That all”

  “What do you make of it?”

  “Very little and then again a devilish lot!” Alcott shook his head and absently rumpled his naturally recalcitrant mustache. “The trouble is it might date back three days, or three years.”

  Suddenly, inexplicably Miguel was at our side, glowering. From his pocket he took a rag and made a few brisk but ineffective passes at the discolored section.

  “Some people make me seeck,” he mumbled for our benefit. “All they see is one bad little spot. They no notice all the nice clean walls, floors and hallways. They no hear how everyone say there’s no place in all Havana more nice, more clean than here. No! All they see is one ugly little spot. Well, soon we paint this room pretty like all the others. Very soon now.”

  “You can’t do it soon enough,” Alcott said in a tone of mock severity. “I’m surprised that the management of a first class hotel like this would permit its walls to remain so defaced for years.”

  Miguel choked in his indignation. “That mark not here for years. Not here one year.” He looked at us darkly. “That mark I See first on evening after night you spoke of when all lights go bad. Yes, then I see that little place for first time!”

  “Miguel. Are you sure of what you’re saying.”

  “Si! Si! Course Miguel sure of everything what happen like that! What you think I here for?”

  “Can you tell us anything more about that night when your lights went bad?”

  But Miguel was now completely absorbed in brushing up the talcum from the floor, so absorbed indeed that he failed to hear Alcott’s low chuckle and until I called his attention, he even failed to see the greenback we extended toward him. When he did see it, his eyes lit up with pleasure.

  “That, my boy, that’s for keeping your heart so loyally in your vacuum cleaner and scrub brush!”

  But personally I wasn’t too sure.

  Nonetheless, in the corridor outside, softly, unaccountably I began whistling my favorite old tune.

  “I’ve taken my fun where I’ve found it;

  I’ve rogued an’ I’ve ranged in my time.”

  But Alcott cut in. “You’re whistling in the dark. Johnny. This puzzle grows worse and worse!”

  Chapter XII MIGUEL DOES SOME TALKING

  WHILE we were waiting for the elevator, Miguel approached us hesitantly.

  “Pardon, Señores. I no understand at first what you mean about those lights. Si. Si. Miguel here that night. But lights not my fault. No!”

  I tried to keep the corners of my mouth from twitching. “That’s a great weight off our minds, Miguel. Thanks for your help.”

  Miguel nodded and moved slowly down the wide, cool hall, retarded not so much by his bulk as by the burden of a very visible indecision.

  As the elevator was descending Alcott turned quietly to the night clerk.

  “Would you have any objections if we talked a bit further with that paragon of the scrub brush? I’ve a kind of hunch the fellow’s got something on his mind.”

  The night clerk veiled his mild surprise. “Just as you say." In a low tone he called down the corridor after Miguel, then turned hesitantly back to us.

  “I wonder if you would be so good as to pardon me. Señor Fiordo will be thinking I am lost. I will come back to you almost immediately. It is all right. Yes?”

  His manner was all civility.

  “We’ll manage all right. You’ve been no end of a help.”

  “‘Magnifico,’ as they say in Barcelona, only don’t bother to come back. We’ll stop by the desk when we’re leaving.”

  Two seconds later Miguel was at our side, regarding us shyly from out his large molasses like eyes. Alcott did the talking. I was glad of it, for I still felt uncertain about the fellow.

  “Miguel, I’d like you to get one thing in your head. This gentleman and I aren’t going to hurt you. No. Really.” Alcott shook his head and smiled benignly. “We can see you are very happy in your work here. Fact is, except for a few of our fellow newspapermen, we’ve never yet seen anyone, anywhere, more positively joyous in getting after the dirt. I intend to tell Senor Fiordo when I leave here tonight that you’re the most conscientious night attendant I’ve ever seen!”

  Miguel did not quite understand all that was said but he grasped the main point. His eyes glowed in pleasure. His smile gleamed all red and gold, like the trappings of the most expensive night club. He grew positively garrulous.

  “I glad. I—wife and four small ones. I want stay here. Before, when you ask me about lights I think you mean bad. Last year when that happen everyone start at me. ‘Miguel what you do to the lights to make go out?’ Truth, Miguel busy that night as usual with his work. Miguel do nothing.”

  “We believe that, Miguel. But that’s not the point. Something did happen that night while the lights were out. Something very bad....”

  Miguel looked at us a little uncertainly. I made a guzzling noise and pointed to my throat. I closed my eyes and threw back my head to imitate the stark rigidity of death. Something of the pantomime registered for Miguel began bobbing his round hand in acquiescence.

  “Si. Si. The nice Senor Wyndham!” He glanced furtively up and down the corridor as though vaguely apprehensive, and moving impulsively off he beckoned us to follow him.

  Safely within one of the hall storage closets with the door discreetly shut, Miguel faced us resolutely.

  “Something about that night, Miguel know. But Miguel want no trouble, see?” There was a very evident sincerity about the fellow.

  “You’ll have no trouble if you help us. We only mean to make it hot for those who don’t.” This last with a grand flourish of omnipotence.

  Miguel nodded. “Si, si. Miguel want to help!” Yet somehow under the strain of try
ing, the fellow broke out into great beads of perspiration. The heat in the small closet was oppressive, but I didn’t believe it was only due to that.

  “That night, when lights go bad, I very busy, like always, on corridor. Bells ring, here, there! Miguel go everyplace. Sometime later that night when I pass room number 209 I see woman standing there close listening. I notice this woman because she crush out cigarette on my nice floor, then light another one, quick, take a puff, then crush it out. When I pass back next time, she still stand with her head close to Senor Wyndham’s door, listening, while she drop the cigarettes and ashes all over my clean place. I think to myself. ’That a fine lady? No! Throw those cigarettes and ashes all over the floor!’ I don’t care what nice jewelry she have on her or what fine silk shawl, she twist so grand about her! I think to myself, ‘She funny lady anyhow stand listening at the door like that.’ I very angry. I look hard at her. Then quick Miguel recognize her! Yes!”

  For an instant nothing moved in that stifling little store room but the lightning of thought. Then Miguel glanced around again to be sure the door was closed, and in his own good time he whispered:

  “Upstairs on roof we have a big dance floor here. Very pretty place. Palms and nice music. The person who listen at door that night, she is girl that hotel pay to dance up on roof garden for guests. Very pretty dancer. I have seen her many times last year.”

  “Oh, yes!” Alcott said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Lolita Caros?”

  Miguel nodded with excitement. “That right. How you know it was la Señorita Caros?”

  Alcott remained matter-of-fact. “After all it’s our business to know as much of this as possible. Just how does it happen you didn’t mention all this before?”

  Miguel looked at us like a big, helpless collie dog. “If Miguel was smart, he keep his mouth tight, now. What Miguel see, no one else knows.”

  We could not honestly argue that point. So Miguel proceeded.

  “Not long ago, boy here tell me that something very funny have happen to nice Señor Wyndham on the night all my lights go bad. Then suddenly I think ‘Yes! Yes! That surely it.’”