A Question of Murder Page 16

  I looked at the other keys on the ring. Mark had said that the ring held keys to every room in the hotel. Curiosity can be a powerful compulsion, rivaling smoking, drinking, gambling, and other addictions. Was the answer to Paul Brody’s murder contained in one of the suites? Probably not, but I’ve always operated under the leave-no-stone-unturned theory. A closed door, including that fourth one, never fails to pique my curiosity.

  As I started toward it, the door to the middle suite opened. “Mrs. Fletcher,” Sydney Pomerantz said. His wife came to his side. They’d changed into matching red vests with gold buttons over white turtlenecks.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Looking for someone?” he asked, eyeing my fistful of keys.

  “No, not exactly,” I said, hoping they were on their way out.

  “That’s quite a lot of keys you have,” he said, the space between keys and you filled by a glunk from his throat.

  “Yes, it is,” I said, hoping they wouldn’t ask more questions. “Are you enjoying yourselves this weekend?”

  “Very much,” said Mrs. Pomerantz, who had blue-white hair and a pink face remarkably unlined considering her age. “It was quite a shock to hear Mr. Chasseur say that precious young actor was brutally murdered.” She shuddered. “Gives me the chills.”

  “Fortunately,” I said, trying to stuff the large key ring in my small pocket, “the police have the situation well in hand.”

  “Oh, don’t count on that,” Mr. Pomerantz said. “I’ve lived here for many years and know firsthand how inept they are. Take it from me. I have experience.”

  I didn’t acknowledge that I knew what he was talking about.

  “Well, nice seeing you again,” I said. It seemed to me that they weren’t about to move. But they did, closing the door behind them and starting down the hall.

  “Oh, by the way,” I said. They stopped and turned. “Do you know Ms. Carlisle, the woman who has the suite next to you?”

  They looked at each other, their expressions clearly saying that they weren’t fond of their neighbor.

  “Do you know anything about her?” I asked.

  “Just that she’s a very rude lady,” Mrs. Pomerantz said. “Doesn’t even say good morning to me.”

  “I think she’s part of the play,” Mr. Pomerantz said.

  “Yes, I’ve heard that, too,” I said. “Have you seen a young man in this hallway who might look like the actor who was killed?”

  Another look at each other before he said, “Can’t say that we have, but we’ve heard noises out here in the hall in the middle of the night.”

  “What sort of noises?”

  “Enough to wake us,” said the wife.

  “Heard people arguing,” he said.

  “A man?”

  “Man and a woman. You know, Mrs. Fletcher, you might want to find some time to meet with me. I have a lot of experience with forensic science and police procedures. I’d be happy to share what I know with you for one of your books.”

  “That’s kind of you,” I said.

  “Just name the time (glunk) and place. By the way, I’ve been doing some investigating of my own since the actor was killed.”

  “Oh?”

  “That’s right. The way I see it, the murderer is a member of the hotel staff, possibly a kitchen worker with access to weapons, knives, cleavers, that sort of thing.”

  “Interesting conclusion,” I said.

  They walked away, and I decided I’d better stop standing around in the hall. I went to the door and inserted the key Mark Egmon had identified for me. It turned easily. I pushed the door open and stepped inside. Were it not for the dim light coming from what appeared to be a window at the distant end of a corridor, it would have been pitch-black. The ceiling was low, necessitating my crouching to avoid hitting my head. Was this passageway used by the earl’s servants? It was customary in years gone by for household help to remain out of sight as much as possible, and I knew that houses of this vintage often provided ways for the staff to move throughout them without encountering the owners and their guests. Servants were shorter in those days, I thought.

  I gently closed the door, careful not to allow the latch to engage fully and lock behind me.

  A flashlight would have come in handy, but mine was in my shoulder bag, hanging in the closet of my room. Its lack, however, wasn’t cause to abandon my plan. I briefly considered getting down on my hands and knees to avoid straining my back, but I didn’t want to ruin my hose. Instead, I hunched over and started toward the window, which I judged was forty or fifty feet away. It was slow going, and dirty. Years of dust and dirt adhered to the walls and covered the floor, my footsteps kicking it up and fouling the air. My short journey seemed to take forever, and I was happy to reach the window, as the ceiling was higher there, allowing me to straighten a bit and ease the kinks in my back and shoulders. I couldn’t tell what the window overlooked because its panes were covered with decades of thick grime.

  The low, narrow corridor took a left turn at the window and continued toward what appeared to be another window. I considered going back. I had no idea what I was looking for. But something told me that Paul Brody’s killer might have discovered these passageways and used one to flee the murder scene and blend back in with the hotel’s paying guests, the theatrical troupe, and the staff.

  I set off on the next leg and reached that second window. There was yet another length of corridor, this one with light at the far end that didn’t seem to emanate from a window. It was brighter than that—an artificial light. Grimacing against the strain in my back and shoulders, I forged ahead until I emerged in a wide room with a ceiling almost as low as the paths leading to it, although I was able to stand, the hair on the top of my head brushing the ceiling. Squares of opaque glass, illuminated from below, were inserted in the wooden floor, which was littered with coiled wires and disks of tinted acetate, red, green, yellow, and blue. The windowless room was stuffy and warm, as if no air from outside ever reached it.

  As I adjusted to my new surroundings, I heard voices and tried to ascertain where they were coming from. They were below me, I decided.

  “Really, Victoria. I can’t believe you knew the young man’s father,” a muffled voice said.

  The play! I was hearing the rehearsal of the next scene of Larry and Melinda’s production, which meant I was standing in a space above the auditorium. The wires and filters must have been for the stage lighting at some point. But what had this room been used for in bygone days? Was it still used now? Given the layers of dust, I doubted it. It must have been abandoned as too difficult to reach.

  I looked for another access. There must be one different from the route I took, I thought, picking my way across the room carefully, avoiding the glass panels, fearing to tread on any rotten boards, and conscious that I’d just as soon the actors on the stage below me not become aware of anyone creeping around over their heads. As I progressed along the length of the room, the voices from below became louder. I paused a few times to take in what they were saying and could clearly hear the actors and actresses reciting their lines. At the far end of the room, their voices grew inaudible again—I must be over the backstage area now, I thought—and there was a door. I went to it and turned the knob. It opened and I stepped into yet another passageway, this one with a ceiling that accommodated my full height. I saw a light switch and flipped it up. A few wall sconces came to life. Splendid! I could stand up straight, and see, too.

  The hallway ended abruptly, with no apparent exit, but when I looked down, I saw what appeared to be a trapdoor in the floor. I crouched and pushed on it. A hinge with a spring made moving the trapdoor difficult, but I managed to crack it open enough to see what was below. It was that same area Larry and I had discovered after going through the door in the wardrobe room, the place where my pushing on the bar of a door leading to a small terrace had summoned hotel security guards.

  I now knew that the area of the third floor in which the three VI
P suites were located was connected with the spot on which I currently stood, making it possible that whoever stabbed Paul Brody could have made his, or her, escape through the passageways I’d just traveled. Not that there was anything concrete to prove that it had happened that way. But at least I now knew it was physically possible.

  I released the trapdoor, stood up again, and became aware of an odor I hadn’t detected before. It was the acrid smell of smoke, cigarette smoke. Had it been there before? Was I so absorbed in my investigation of the secret passages in the hotel that my other senses had ceased to be perceptive? My eyesight isn’t what it was in my youth but my sense of smell has always been acute. I’m often aware of an aroma before others become conscious of it.

  Could someone backstage be smoking? It was unlikely. I’d heard Larry and Melinda warn the cast and crew about the hotel’s no-smoking policy. I inhaled three or four times, turning my head as I did to determine where the smoke originated. Since I was at a dead end, unless one went down through the trapdoor, whoever was smoking had to be behind me, and the only thing behind me was the room over the stage and auditorium. Although it was uncomfortably warm where I stood, I felt a sudden chill. It wasn’t caused by someone smoking a cigarette where he or she shouldn’t have been. It was caused by my suspicion that someone had followed me on my doubled-over journey through the passageways.

  I turned around in the short hallway, searching the immediate vicinity for something to use in the event I needed protection, but came up empty-handed. I strained to hear better, but only an eerie silence reached my ears. I knew I couldn’t simply continue to stand there. Was the trapdoor an option? I thought not. Even if I could manage to hold it fully open and squeeze through at the same time, I didn’t relish falling to the floor underneath it.

  Drawing a few deep breaths for fortitude, I began my return journey, ever alert for a sound or other sign of an unwanted presence. I reached the opening to the large room and paused there. The smell of a burning cigarette was more pronounced now. With one final deep breath, which I held, I stepped into the room, my eyes scanning the space in a wide arc. I exhaled noisily. I was alone. Whoever had been there was gone.

  I contemplated seeing if I could catch up with my pursuer, but decided against it. By the time I reached the fourth door on the third floor, he or she would have had ample time to disappear from sight, either into one of the VIP suites or down a stairwell to another floor.

  I stood silently, listening to the rehearsal in progress below. The actors were running through a scene in which Catarina, the maid, admitted that she’d had an affair with Paul in New York, and had come to the Whittaker home to sabotage his new romance with Cynthia—just as Larry said it was written in the script. But he’d also said the script mirrored reality; the actress had been dumped unceremoniously by Paul in real life. Had Larry passed that same information along to Detective Ladd? I made a mental note to ask.

  Catarina had been speaking. Now, suddenly, I heard Larry’s loud voice: “Stop! Enough! Really, Catarina, can you please bring your voice down an octave?” He mimicked her high-pitched way of speaking, using a falsetto voice of his own. I had to smile. His impression of Catarina was excellent; he sounded just like her.

  The actors began rehearsing the scene once more, and I prepared to retrace my steps back to the VIP suites. Looking down as I traversed the cluttered floor, I spotted a partially consumed cigarette on the dusty boards. I picked it up and examined it closely. It had been crushed out, but it didn’t look like this butt had been discarded years ago. The paper was still supple and the shreds of tobacco that clung to it were fresh. I turned it over. It was the same brand as one of the cigarettes I’d found in the vestibule where I’d first encountered Paul Brody, and the same brand that had been on my balcony the night I got locked out of the room. I wrapped it in a tissue and braced for the painful trip through the low-ceilinged passageways. But I hadn’t gone more than a few feet when something else caught my eye. I stared down at it. On the floor was a tool of some sort, with a wooden handle and a long, round, slender blade about five inches long. I took an even closer look. No doubt about it; that was blood on the blade.

  I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and used it to gingerly pick up the blade. I remembered the stagehand, Jeremy, asking whether anyone had seen his pick. Was this the pick to which he was referring? “Pick” seemed an appropriate word to describe it.

  Holding the pick in one hand, I bent over and eventually made my way back to door leading to the third-floor VIP suites. As I reached for the knob, I realized the door was now fully closed. I’d left it ajar. Not again! I thought as I turned the knob. Much to my relief, the door opened and I was alone in the hallway.

  The door to the Pomerantz suite was closed, as were the others. I stepped close to the suite occupied by Ms. Carlisle and pressed my ear against its door. There was no sound on the other side. I impetuously wrapped my free hand around the knob and turned. It opened.

  “Hello,” I said softly. I wrinkled my nose. The heavy, unpleasant odor of cigarette smoke assaulted my nostrils. Evidently, Ms. Carlisle wasn’t someone who followed no-smoking rules. It smelled as though she’d smoked heavily, the smoke permeating everything in the room, couches and chairs, drapes and carpeting.

  The noise of the elevator doors opening came from down the hall. I quickly closed the door and assumed a nonchalant posture. Coming toward me was Ms. Carlisle. “Good afternoon,” I said pleasantly, holding my handkerchief containing the pick behind my thigh.

  “Good afternoon to you, dearie,” she said, passing me. I watched her reach the door to her suite, open it, and disappear inside, the door slamming behind her.

  I was about to leave the area when the door to the third suite opened, the one not occupied by Ms. Carlisle or Mr. and Mrs. Pomerantz. Jeremy, the lead stagehand, stepped into the hall.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Hi,” he muttered, and walked quickly away, overtly uneasy for some reason. As he moved down the hall almost at a trot, it occurred to me that he could easily be mistaken for the deceased Paul Brody, particularly in a low-light, fleeting situation. Jeremy was about the same height as Paul, although he was more muscular. Was he staying in that third suite? It seemed unlikely that a stagehand would be given one of the best rooms in the hotel while the Savoys were in a lesser room. Had Georgie Wick and Harold Boynton seen Jeremy and thought he was Paul? It certainly was a possibility. I looked at the bloody weapon secured in my handkerchief. I could have asked Jeremy whether it was what he’d been looking for, but was glad I hadn’t. I would turn it over directly to Detective Ladd.

  I came downstairs to where the older gentleman at the desk was reading a magazine. He looked up and greeted me.

  “What’s new with the storm?” I asked.

  He mentioned the downed trees.

  “Yes,” I said, “Mark Egmon told me about it.”

  I went to the main entrance and took a look outside. The snow had stopped, but the huge drifts that had been blown against the building were still there. Two cops in uniform leaned against the wall, appearing to be on the verge of falling asleep standing up.

  “Shouldn’t be long,” I said.

  “Better not be,” one replied.

  I found Ladd in the room Mark Egmon had provided him for his investigation and handed him the pick.

  “Where’d you get this?” he asked.

  I explained.

  “Has to be the murder weapon,” he said.

  “I’d say that’s a safe assumption.”

  “Let’s keep this between us,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I said.

  I went to my room, added my most recent cigarette butt to the others I’d amassed, pulled out Paul Brody’s bio, and started to read. His list of acting credits was long, segregated into parts he’d played in theater, on television, and in feature films. I remembered what Larry had said, that actors sometimes embellish their résumés. Was that the case h
ere? Nothing on the page made me sit up and take notice, so I tossed the bio on the desk, went to the French doors, and looked outside. The sky had lightened a bit, although some lingering flakes still fell.

  I grabbed my room key from where I’d laid it on the desk and left. But I’d taken only a few steps toward the staircase when it hit me. I returned to the room and looked at Paul Brody’s bio again. One of the films he’d listed as having appeared in was Murder by Special Delivery, the film Claudette Chasseur said she’d acted in, the one coproduced by her husband, John.

  Chapter Twenty

  What was Ed McBain’s real name?

  I ran the ring of keys back to Mark Egmon’s office—I was told by a secretary that he was at another meeting—and returned to my room.

  I’m an inveterate note-maker, sometimes to the amusement of my friends back home. I always justify it by pointing to airline pilots as an example. No matter how many thousands of flying hours a commercial pilot might have, he or she wouldn’t dream of taking off without first going through an elaborate checklist. My friends usually retort that I’m not an airline pilot. But that isn’t the point. It’s too easy to forget important things in a busy life, and my notes make that less of a possibility.

  But there’s more behind my penchant for making notes than not wanting to miss an appointment or forget an item in the supermarket. Writing things down helps organize thoughts. I’ve always been a firm believer in that, and stressed it back when I was an English teacher. Ideas, questions, conceptions, and answers float around in our brains, sometimes colliding, too often becoming lost. By committing them to paper, we can create a structure that helps prevent this from happening. Maybe I need written notes because I’m internally disorganized. Maybe others are internally organized to the extent that they don’t need written reminders of what they’re thinking. No matter. I’m a note-maker.

  It was evident to me that Paul Brody’s murderer came from one of three groups at Mohawk House that weekend.