A Friendly Game of Murder (17 page)

Chapter 28

L
uigi flipped the switches one last time, but the hotel kitchen remained dark.

“Forget it!” he said, adding a curse or two in Italian.

Behind Luigi and Benchley, the stairway down to the basement opened like a darkened void. Ahead of them the kitchen was shrouded in shadow. Only indistinct shadows and outlines of cooking equipment broke the blackness.

Then, on the other side of the room, the kitchen doors suddenly swung open. Someone stepped into the room. Then the doors closed just as quickly.

“Who that there?” Luigi said in alarm; his grasp of English broke down along with his nerve. “Who is it?”

“Luigi?” the stranger said in a cool voice. “Dear me, is that you? What are you doing here in the dark? You gave me quite a start.”

“Mr. Case?” Luigi asked.

“Frank?” Benchley added.

“Ah, Mr. Benchley,” Case said with a chuckle. “Of course you’re here, too. So what are you two doing in my kitchen in the wee hours?”

“Quaking in our boots, that’s what,” Benchley said.

They heard Case move forward. “Mr. Woollcott already stole the secret stash of brandy, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“Certainly not,” Benchley said. “But perhaps you have an additional stash of something you might offer as a token of apology for that rude accusation?”

Case chuckled. “Unfortunately I don’t. But speaking of apologies, the phones went crazy and a fuse blew a few minutes ago. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Mr. Benchley?”

Benchley snorted. “Again you’ve offended me by your unfounded allegation!” Then his voice softened. “But I’m willing to bury the hatchet over a nice glass of secretly hidden scotch.”

Case sighed. “Oh, very well.”

They heard the clack of a cabinet door opening and closing, and the clank of a bottle on the enamel preparation table. Then there was the squeak of a cork, and a glug and a splash into a glass.

“Ah, music to my ears,” Benchley said, moving toward the sound. He smelled the sharp, smoky scent of good old scotch.

Case put a small, heavy glass into his hand. “Happy New Year, Mr. Benchley. One for you, Luigi?”

“Not while working, sir, thank you.”

“Nor I,” Case said. “Never touch the stuff.”

“My feelings exactly,” Benchley said, glad that they couldn’t see him lying to their faces. “But I hate to see it go to waste. So bottoms up!”

He took a healthy sip and felt that familiar, soothing warmth.

“Oh, Mr. Benchley, I nearly forgot,” Case said apologetically. “Mrs. Parker is looking for you. I just ran into her in the lobby.”

Benchley put the glass down half-finished. “Is she? Well, let’s go see what she wants.”

“This way,” Case said, turning away. “Follow my voice. I would know my way around this hotel blindfolded. You, too, Luigi?”

“Of course, sir,” the waiter said. But Benchley felt Luigi grasp his shirtsleeve.

Case led them forward. He pushed through the double swinging doors and into the service corridor. Light from the lobby filtered in, so Luigi let go of Benchley’s sleeve with an appreciative wink. Benchley nodded in return.

A moment later they were back in the low-lit lobby. But Dorothy was nowhere to be seen.

“Darn the luck!” Benchley said. “Where did she go? I really must speak with her.”

Case had already turned to go, undoubtedly on his way to replace the fuse. But he hesitated. “Something related to tonight’s mystery, I presume?”

“Very perceptive, Mr. Case,” Benchley said. “Lack of alcohol hasn’t dulled your wits one bit. Specifically, it’s something related to Dr. Hurst—and Mr. Jordan.”

Case was intrigued. Even Luigi listened closely.

“Mr. Benchley,” Case said after a moment’s pause, “you can’t just drop a hint like that and expect us to walk blithely away.”

“Walk however you please.” But Benchley considered this. “Can you keep a secret?”

They agreed that they could keep a secret.

Benchley whispered, “Dr. Hurst isn’t exactly all he’s cracked up to be. And, I suspect, neither is Mr. Jordan.”

* * *

Once inside the elevator, Dorothy and Jordan made a quick inspection of elderly Maurice, who still stood leaning in the corner like an old broom and snoring quietly.

Jordan closed the elevator door and reached for the controls. The elevator ascended smoothly. He turned to Dorothy and gave her a look so warm it would melt ice, she thought.

“Listen,” he said softly, “I want to apologize to you about how I acted earlier in Dr. Hurst’s room. I’m sorry I became so upset.”

“I-it’s all right,” she said, trying to be nonchalant. She had handsome, rugged men breaking down and apologizing to her in elevators all the time, right? Happened every day.

“It’s just—I take my job very seriously. But I failed twice tonight. Two tremendous failures. Dr. Hurst went into an apoplexy, and I wasn’t there to help. Then one of his prized possessions was stolen from my own protection.” He took a step closer to her. She could see the suntanned lines at the corners of his eyes and the five o’clock shadow of whiskers on his jaw. “You see, I’m afraid—afraid I might make another mistake.”

“You?” she asked. “You don’t look like you’d be afraid of anything.”

He smiled, moving closer now. “Usually I’m not.”

She gently put her hand on his chest. She didn’t want him any nearer—yet she didn’t want him to move away either. His chest felt hard, muscular.
Oh brother . . .
She should take her hand away, but she didn’t. She stared into his dark, confident, serene eyes.

“So,” he said, his voice in a whisper, “can I ask you something, Dorothy?”

“Of course,” she whispered back. “Anything.”

“The name that Dr. Hurst said. What was it again?”

The elevator jolted to a stop—and so did her interest in him. She was this close to him, and he wanted to know about some crazy thing his boss had said?

She dropped her hand from his chest and took a step back. She noticed that his hand was on the elevator controls. He had stopped the elevator. But he hadn’t yet opened the door.

“What was the name?” he asked, no longer whispering.

Should she tell him again? He’d heard it once already.

He smiled and gave her that direct look again. But while it had been entrancing and charming a moment ago, it now seemed artificial and contrived, she thought. Who was this guy?

“Ted Besh,” she said. “Dr. Hurst said Ted Besh.”

Jordan nodded and thought about this. “I don’t know any Ted Besh, and I’ve never heard Dr. Hurst mention him before. Who is he?”

How the hell should I know?

But she only shrugged. She wanted out of this elevator.

“Maybe he’s the one who ransacked Dr. Hurst’s room,” he said. “Maybe he stole the valuables. Maybe Dr. Hurst wasn’t asleep through it all. Maybe he saw who it was and was trying to tell us.”

Growing animated at this idea, Jordan took a step closer again. Dorothy couldn’t move away any farther. Her back was against the elevator wall.

“But,” she said, “Dr. Hurst said the name
before
his room was turned upside down, remember?”

Now Jordan was standing right over her. His eyes were no longer serene—they now seemed cunning and cruel. “Then perhaps Dr. Hurst said it as a warning. Perhaps he knew that this Ted Besh would attack. Perhaps the man is even closer than you think.”

She looked at him.
Is he trying to tell me
he’s
Ted Besh?

“Closer than I think?” she said, folding her arms over her chest. “Ha, I’m not thinking about that guy at all.”

* * *

Frank Case was skeptical. “Dr. Hurst is not who he’s cracked up to be?” He put his fists on his hips. “Then who is he?”

Benchley smiled. “He’s still himself. But he’s not. Not what you think.”

“Who is he, then?” Case asked impatiently.

“He’s a thief. He stole a very precious item in England and smuggled it here. The locket.”

“The locket that he asked me to put into the safe? The locket that wound up around Bibi’s neck? You’re saying that he stole it?”

“That’s the one!”

“Absurd,” Case said drolly. “Dr. Hurst is here for a medical conference. He’s a wealthy man who is widely published in the medical field and many others. Why would he steal a simple locket? It’s quite absurd.”

Benchley pursed his lips. He went to the elevator and pushed the call button. “Well, I didn’t say I could explain it. But that’s what the police told me. Dr. Hurst is a wanted man.”

Frank Case and Luigi stood a few paces behind him. Case was still skeptical. “And Mr. Jordan?”

Benchley’s eyes widened. “Guess what? He’s not a cripple.”

Case’s expression soured. “Oh, now, really, Mr. Benchley! Mr. Jordan has a clubfoot. You’ve seen it yourself.”

“But I also saw him run from one room to another, Frank. I was on the telephone with Captain Church when I realized that I’d seen Jordan run. Not hobble quickly—he ran! How do you explain that?”

“Perhaps you misremember.”

“No, no,” Benchley said. “I saw it. Mrs. Parker was with me. I must ask her if she remembers too.”

Case frowned and looked around. “I swear she was here a moment ago. . . .”

“Perhaps you misremember,” Benchley taunted. Then he punched the elevator button again. “And you know what else? There are robbers in the hotel. They have the locket. They’re taking it to a man in Brooklyn. I overhead it when I was on the switchboard.”

Case smiled slyly. “So it was you who caused the telephones to ring all over the hotel? And I gather you were also the one who caused the fuse to blow?”

Benchley froze a moment. Then he turned back to the elevator and pushed the call button again and again. “I’d love to stay and talk, but I really need to find Mrs. Parker! I must tell her about these things. Where is this blessed elevator?!”

Case softened. His voice lost its edge. “Dear old Maurice must be asleep. Come with me, Mr. Benchley. I’ll put you on the service elevator. It’s faster anyway.”

Benchley was reluctant to leave the passenger elevator. He felt that it might arrive at any moment, and Dorothy would step out. But then again, if Maurice was asleep and the passenger elevator was not running, Dorothy wouldn’t be on it. So he might as well use the service elevator. He followed after Case and Luigi toward the darkened kitchen.

Chapter 29

J
ordan finally opened the elevator door, and Dorothy gladly and hurriedly stepped out into the ninth-floor corridor. She led the way back to Dr. Hurst’s room. The door was halfway open. She pushed it open all the way and saw Doyle sitting in an armchair at Dr. Hurst’s bedside and reading a book. When Doyle saw them, he stood up and took off his half-moon reading glasses.

“I was wondering where you scampered off to,” he said.

Dorothy and Jordan spoke at the same time.

“I was looking for Mr. Benchley,” she said.

“I was looking for you,” Jordan said.

Doyle eyed them curiously. “Mr. Jordan, I was addressing Mrs. Parker. Are you wont to scamper?”

Dorothy looked down at Jordan’s clubfooted shoe and wondered,
Is he wont to scamper?

Jordan spoke quickly to Doyle like a schoolboy trying to explain to a stern teacher why he lost his homework. “I left Dr. Hurst by himself for only a few minutes while I went to look for you. Honestly, it was only a few minutes. I-I ran into Mrs. Parker—”

“Well, I daresay you’ve found me.” Doyle spoke softly, and his droopy eyes were gentle, but Dorothy could hear the challenge in his voice. “What is it you want of me?”

“The necklace,” Jordan stammered and glanced at Dorothy. He didn’t want to talk about this in front of her, she could tell. “It’s missing. That is—”

“I am well aware that the necklace is missing,” Doyle said. “But I don’t have it in my possession.”

“I know. That’s not why I was looking for you. I mean, that’s exactly why I was looking for you—”

“Make up your mind, young man.”

Jordan was getting more flustered. “No, you see, I found the necklace—”

“Oh, did you now? That’s wonderful news. But if you found it, then how can it be missing?”

“It was stolen!” Jordan said. “I was hoping you could use your . . . your abilities to help me recover it.”

Doyle’s face clouded over. “My abilities? What abilities?”

“Because . . .” Jordan stammered. “Because . . .”

“Because of Sherlock Holmes?” Doyle said wearily. “As I’ve said many a time before, the doll and its maker are never identical.”

Jordan floundered. “No, no, of course not. It’s just—”

Dorothy sat on the side of Dr. Hurst’s bed. “Before he solves your mystery for you, perhaps you could do something first?”

Jordan nodded enthusiastically. “Of course.”

“Go down to the kitchen and bring back a glass of milk.”

He was perplexed. “Milk? For you?”

Dorothy scoffed. “Not for me. For Artie here.”

Doyle raised his sagging eyes. “For me?”

She turned to him. “Your stomach is bothering you, isn’t it?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, it is,” he said in surprise. “Indigestion and dyspepsia, very likely from that rich lobster dinner earlier in the evening.”

“There you have it,” she said to Jordan. “Off you go. Fetch milk for the master.”

Slowly, still flustered and confused, Jordan backed out of the room.

She called after him. “And take the service elevator at the far end of the hall. It’s faster.”

Once he was gone, Doyle turned to Dorothy. “How did you know I was not feeling well?”

“Elementary!” She looked at him haughtily. “It’s obvious to a trained observer. The dust on the cuff of your sleeve and the smell of your cologne give you away, of course.”

“Oh, do they?”

She nodded. “The dust is clearly pollen from Ethiopian honeybees, which is a known irritant of the stomach lining. And that cologne you’re wearing smells of spearmint, which, as anyone knows, all British gentlemen use to mask the scent of bad breath, a common symptom of indigestion.”

His mustache drooped as he frowned. “Very interesting observations, Mrs. Parker. But entirely incorrect. For instance, how do you account for the facts that I do not have pollen on my sleeve, that there is no such thing as an Ethiopian honeybee, that I am not wearing cologne of any sort and, to the best of my knowledge, I am not emitting bad breath?”

She spoke airily as though teaching him a lesson. “When you have eliminated the digestible, whatever remains, however indigestible, must be the food.”

He smiled knowingly. “What Sherlock Holmes actually said was, ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ Now you tell the truth. How did you know my stomach was bothering me?”

She shrugged and winked. “I heard your stomach gurgling, and I took a wild guess.” She leaned closer. “And I just had to get rid of that Ben Jordan. He’s turning into a real creep.”

“Do you think Mr. Jordan was speaking the truth—that he found the locket and then it was stolen?”

She nodded. “The part about it being stolen, yes. Mr. Benchley and I were in his room over there when he discovered that it was missing. His surprise was as real as the cry of a baby. And he did have a big bump on the back of his head. I don’t think he did that to himself just for effect. Somebody clocked him one.”

Doyle considered this. “So how did he recover the locket in the first place?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps Jordan snatched it from Mary’s dresser.”

“I suppose it’s possible. Assuming that’s true, who took it from Mr. Jordan?”

She shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, Artie.”

He sat back down in the chair. He gazed at the unconscious face of Dr. Hurst. “Well, Dorothy, your suspicions were quite correct about Quentin’s questionable diagnosis. I went to see the family who seemingly caused this quarantine. Poor blighters. They were all still awake and all very miserable. Two despondent parents of approximately your age, with a rather unhappy four-year-old daughter and a very itchy two-year-old son. I could tell on first glance that they did not have smallpox. They had chicken pox. Not as devastating to one’s health but still very unpleasant. Especially when the whole family is stricken at the same time.”

“How can you tell one from the other?”

“Several ways. Smallpox develops from deep in the dermis and generally appears rather evenly scattered across the skin. Chicken pox appear more on the surface of the skin and often occur in clusters,” he said. “But the most telling thing in this case was that no one in the family reported illness, fever or vomiting a few days before the rash appeared. That’s a classic sign for smallpox. Chicken pox, on the other hand, usually has no preceding illness.”

“So Dr. Hurst was deliberately wrong. And there’s no point to this quarantine?”

“Apparently not. But, then again, it is keeping the murderer contained in the hotel with us.”

“You always see the sunny side, don’t you?”

Doyle stood up. “It’s unconscionable to let that family, and the other guests, go on thinking there must be a quarantine. We’ll have to open the doors by morning.”

“Since it’s the quarantine that’s keeping the murderer inside the hotel, we’ll have to have this mystery solved by morning?” she asked doubtfully.

Doyle didn’t answer her. He stared angrily at Dr. Hurst. “What would have made Quentin do such a thing? He’s an eminent physician. He certainly must have known that unfortunate family had chicken pox, not smallpox. What can explain his reason for instituting a quarantine?”

She picked up her purse, which she had put on the floor. “I have a telegram to Dr. Hurst that may explain exactly that. Remember he received one last night, just before announcing the quarantine?”

“You’re quite right, Mrs. Parker. He did. I had forgotten all about it. Come to think of it, he was rather secretive about the contents of that telegram.”

When she opened up her purse, she saw the chloroform.

“Oh, but first, take a gander at this.” She tossed the brown bottle to him. He caught it handily. “It’s that missing bottle of chloroform you were looking for.”

Doyle put back on his reading glasses and examined the label. “So it is.” He went to a corner and pulled out Dr. Hurst’s black leather medical bag. He placed the bottle into its appropriate niche in the bag. “Yes, this is most certainly it. Oh dear . . .”

He sank back into the chair.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

He shook his big head. “The bottle’s been opened. Some of it appears to be missing.” Once again he looked forlornly at Dr. Hurst. “Quentin, you old fool, what have you done?”

“I don’t think he did anything,” she said. “At least not with the chloroform. I found it in Lydia Trumbull’s room. Remember seeing her at the party? Jet-black hair, ice-blue eyes? Another Broadway actress, but not quite so young as Bibi?”

He nodded. “Not quite so young, eh?”

“Actresses and vintage wines have something in common,” she said. “A few years make all the difference.”

“So I gather that you think it was this Lydia, not Quentin, who used the chloroform on Miss Bibelot?” he asked.

“Lydia already told me as much. I heard it from her own lips not half an hour ago in Mrs. Volney’s room.”

“Who is Mrs.—?”

“She’s the bitter old biddy who was bothering you with medical questions at Fairbanks’ party. But never mind Mrs. Volney.” She waved her hand. “Apparently Lydia killed Bibi with the chloroform.”

“But did you not just say she’s an actress? How would she know anything about administering chloroform?”

“Women can do all sorts of things, Artie old boy. For example, Lydia was also a nurse during the war.”

“She was? How do you know that?”

“She told me—in between fainting spells. Aleck Woollcott was grilling her.”

“I see. So she picked up a trick or two as a nurse in a field hospital, eh? That’s quite possible. Nurses doing doctors’ duties and vice versa. I’ve seen with my own eyes that surgical protocol frequently falls by the wayside in the aftermath of battle.”

“And few battle more fiercely than actresses,” Dorothy said. “So when everyone went down to the lobby before midnight, Lydia must have given Bibi the chloroform, which killed her.”

He held the bottle up to the light. “Just one moment, Mrs. Parker. The dark glass obscured my observation. Examining it now, I see that there’s only a small amount missing—not even an ounce, I’ll wager. If administered correctly, that might be just enough to render a small or slender person unconscious—a woman of Miss Bibelot’s size and stature, for instance—but it’s hardly enough to cause cardiac arrest and death.”

“It’s not?”

“Not unless she drank it.”

She snapped her fingers. “That’s it. Lydia put it in Bibi’s drink!”

Doyle shook his head. “No. I didn’t mean to suggest that she actually drank it. I was being facetious.”

“Skip the facetious and get on with the factual.”

He smirked. “My suspicions were first aroused when I saw the reddish inflammation of the skin around Miss Bibelot’s mouth—those markings were perfectly characteristic of the old method of chloroform administration. The substance irritates the skin. The better, more modern method is to place a sort of breathing mask on the patient, and drip the liquid onto the mask. But in Miss Bibelot’s case, the chloroform was likely applied to a dry towel or washcloth, which was held over her mouth.”

“And the chloroform gave her skin a sort of burn. Okay, so she didn’t swallow it.”

“No. But if this Lydia—the former army nurse—had used less than an ounce of chloroform, it suggests the victim was merely anesthetized. I can’t fathom that she’d die from such a small amount.”

“Merely anesthetized? So my theory, and the murderer, went right out the window.” Dorothy slumped in her seat. “Ah, who was I trying to kid? Only myself, I guess. Nurse or not, I suppose Lydia would have fainted before she could bring herself to murder anyone. Even Bibi.”

“Don’t be discouraged,” Doyle said warmly. “Motives and murder aren’t as straightforward as they are in detective stories. Now, what about that telegram?”

“Right, I almost forgot.” She reached again for her purse and handed him the message. “Take a quick look before Jordan runs back up here with your milk.”

“Oh, I doubt that. With that clubfoot of his, the one thing Mr. Jordan cannot do is run.”

Suddenly remembering, she jumped to her feet. “Yes, he can! I just realized I’ve seen him do it—in this very room!”