Ring-A-Ding Dead! Read online

  Mr. Jackson moved back towards the elevators. Whatever was going on, they certainly wouldn’t tell him of it.

  Past the elevators, he came upon the striped pole of a barbershop. The barber swept the floor, glancing up as Mr. Jackson arrived. “Can I help you, sir?”

  Mr. Jackson had his personal manservant Mr. Vienna, who normally took care of such things. Yet he felt he might learn more were he to visit here. “Just taking a look-round, but now I know you’re here, I’ll return.”

  The man smiled. “Very good, sir.”

  The man hadn’t been downstairs with the others. “Are you employed here, or do you rent the booth?”

  “Oh, I rent. Not interested in being employed by others, sir. Keeps my options open.”

  Mr. Jackson smiled. “Good man. That’s the spirit.”

  “Let me know if you’d care for a freshening up before dinner,” the barber said. “I get several in starting a bit after tea.”

  “You know,” Mr. Jackson said, “I may just take you up on that.” His manservant had been hired for breakfast and dinner, but he wouldn’t be round until seven. And if many men would be here, this might be a perfect opportunity to learn more.

  “Very good, sir. I look forward to seeing you.”

  A ladies’ hairdresser appeared next, a glassed-in affair with a fine beveled-glass door. Past that, a wide hall went to his right, marked with a sign:

  Dog Grooming & Veterinary Services

  A smartly dressed woman with golden blonde hair said, “Excuse me.”

  He moved aside while she and three dogs with hair matching hers pranced past and down the side hall to another beveled-glass door.

  “Astonishing,” Mr. Jackson murmured.

  Through windows to his left, a courtyard appeared, with an extensive, luxurious garden. He glimpsed moving water past foliage. A conservatory? Perhaps his wife might like to visit there.

  When he reached the end of the hall, a small tree at the back corner caught his eye: glossy green leaves of a sort he’d never seen before. Instead of one vein down its center, these leaves had three, equally spaced.

  “Extraordinary,” Mr. Jackson said to himself.

  The main hall went to the left, and so did he, the view of the courtyard soon lost. To his right, he passed three offices, then a wide hall transected his. The sign on the left pointed to the kitchens; to the right, the hall ended at an open door.

  A brown-haired man dressed in brown khaki work clothes stood past the door on a metal balcony. He turned as Mr. Jackson approached, taking a lit cigarette from his mouth as he leaned on the black metal railing. His name-tag said: Eugene. “Need help, sir?”

  “Just taking a stroll. I was curious as to what was out here.”

  Eugene smiled to himself, taking another drag from his cigarette.

  Stairs led down both sides to a ramp wide enough to hold several trucks. A few parked there, while a rather large truck backed in, guided by a man wearing blue denim overalls. On the side, it said:

  Carlo Brothers Imported Olive Oil

  The Best of Italy

  “What do you do here?”

  Eugene shrugged. “Me? Maintenance.”

  “I thought they had maids for that.”

  Eugene snorted in derision. “I don’t scrub floors. I fix what needs fixing.”

  “Ah, forgive me. I see. Like the trucks?”

  “More like the drains.” He sucked at his cigarette, blew out smoke. “It varies. Yesterday I fixed a hand rail. Sometimes I go round to check for rats.”

  “Do you get many here?”

  “Rats?” He let out a short laugh. “Not if I can help it. Wouldn’t be in business too long if it got out we had rats, now would we?”

  Mr. Jackson chuckled at that. “What all do you use for them? Traps?”

  “Naw,” Eugene said. “Manager doesn’t like that. He’s got me setting out poison.” He shook his head with a slight frown. “Just makes my job harder.”

  “In what way?”

  “That stuff’s dangerous. A dog or cat gets hold of it — it’s not pretty.” He shrugged. “Means I have to put the bait back where the bigger animals can’t find it.”

  “Does seem like more trouble than it’s worth.”

  The truck had disappeared, and the sounds of men unloading came from below.

  “I know you,” Eugene said. “You found the body. You were in the lunch room, too.”

  “I was indeed,” Mr. Jackson said. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  Eugene shrugged. “Everyone thought the new guy was stealing lunches. But Agnes? A sweet little tomato, that. Don’t know why anyone’d bother hurting her.”

  “Not too bright, then, I take it?”

  He chuckled. “A few cards shy of a deck, if you get my meaning. She’d do whatever you asked, but you had to tell her exactly what.” A hard look crossed his face for an instant. “That fellow that got killed — not even here a week, and he had her pinned in a corner.” He shook his head grimly. “I set him straight, all right.”

  “How chivalrous of you.”

  Eugene gave Mr. Jackson a startled glance. “I didn’t kill the man. Just pulled him off her. Poor little gal had the shakes after.” He let out a breath. “If he hadn’t got killed first, I’d have put it on him.”

  Interesting. Mr. Jackson leaned a hand on the railing. “Did they know each other? Before that?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “How was she after that? Before she died, of course.”

  Eugene shrugged. “She seemed fine. Always smiling. Always with a good word for others.” He lapsed into a morose silence, staring out over the loading area.

  “It’s strange,” Mr. Jackson said after a bit. “The manager said someone was at his lunch today.”

  Eugene’s eyebrows raised. “Well, now that makes me glad they put a guard on them. If you can’t eat in peace, what else is there?”

  Mr. Jackson turned at a clanking noise. The doors to a large elevator opened. A maid rolled a covered cart out and towards the kitchen.

  “I’ll leave you to your smoke,” Mr. Jackson said. “A pleasure meeting you.”

  Eugene nodded. “Likewise.”

  Mr. Jackson went to the main hallway and stood listening to the noises of the kitchen.

  Was it just a coincidence that the major component of rat poison here was strychnine?

  He shook his head, unsure what to make of it, before continuing to the right. More offices appeared, and in the corner, another wide hallway went to the right, this time marked “Laundry.”

  He turned left to follow the main hall once more, which was marked:

  Ladies’ Spa

  Indoor Pool

  Gentlemen’s Sauna and Baths

  Lobby

  All was as marked, and he came back round to the lobby once more.

  “May I help you, sir?” The blond young man still stood behind the front desk.

  Perhaps this was his chance to learn something. “How are you faring?”

  “Sir?”

  “Everything that's happened must be terrifying.”

  The man hesitated.

  “I know, you aren’t supposed to speak of it. But my wife and I found your coworker. The man who was here. We know everything that’s happened — well, I suppose as much as anyone else does.” He held out his hand. “Hector Jackson.”

  The clerk shook his hand. “Lee Francis.”

  Mr. Jackson grinned. “Used to be an investigator, once upon a time.” At that, he shrugged. “Just offering an ear. Your manager seemed to think it would help.” He glanced around; no one stood waiting. “I won’t bother you any —”

  “Not at all, sir,” Lee said. “It would help, sir. To talk. I didn’t know the other clerk; he’d just been hired. But I did know Miss Agnes.” His face fell. “It’s been hard.”

  Mr. Jackson nodded. “To stand at your post even so ... that’s bravery.”

  Lee straightened. “I don’t feel brave, si
r. I don’t want to be fired. Lots are talking about getting other jobs. But there aren’t many these days. And if they hear you’re looking, they cut your hours to nothing and hire someone else.” This seemed to dishearten him. “My wife’s just come with child. We need the money.”

  “Why would someone do such a thing?”

  The young man rested his hand on the edge of the counter. “That’s what I’ve been trying to understand. I don’t know anyone’d want to hurt either of them.”

  “Has Agnes had trouble with anyone here?”

  Lee shook his head. “If she had, I’d not have known it, sir. One of the maids might’ve; she was friendly with them all.” Suddenly his face changed. “Jackson, right? I almost forgot; you have a message.” He handed over a folded slip of paper.

  Mr. Jackson took it and nodded: the surgeon would be by to see his wife later today. “Thanks. Never you fret: I’m sure the police’ll have it sorted soon.” Mr. Jackson glanced around; a woman waited with a pile of luggage. “I should let you return to your work. But any time you want to talk, just look me up.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Mr. Jackson went to the dining room and took a seat at an empty table. People had been asking questions of him since he’d arrived; perhaps if he sat here long enough, someone would answer a few of his own.

  9

  Instead of making assumptions or forming suspicions, Hector Jackson preferred to approach things — as much as a grown man might — with the open mind of a child. What had he observed? What did he observe now?

  George, the young waiter from breakfast the other day, came to his table. “How may I help, sir?”

  “Coffee, heavy cream, no sugar,” Mr. Jackson said. “And the paper, if you please.” George had been in the sun recently. Too much sun, if the skin behind his neck spoke true.

  The staff in the dining room moved like people free from care and worry. Their voices were cheery and warm.

  Yet the occasional flinch, the sideways glance when passing, all spoke volumes: is this the one who may murder me next?

  Not the most comfortable of working environments.

  And not the most congenial place to stay, either. They had a week’s credit here at the hotel. But should he move his wife somewhere else? Or would it put too much strain upon her?

  “Your coffee and paper, sir.” The waiter’s left sleeve rose, revealing a recent rope burn.

  “A boating man, I see,” Mr. Jackson said.

  George appeared astonished. “However did you know?”

  Mr. Jackson smiled up at him. It seemed obvious. But he liked this fellow, so he said, “You’ve been in the sun recently. The sun at your back, I’d say. Many prefer to sail so, and it looks as if the wind kicked up.” He pointed to the man’s arm. “I’ve had many such in my day.”

  George stood speechless.

  “What size is your boat?” And how a waiter afforded one was a question Mr. Jackson wished to ask, yet refrained, feeling it perhaps too intrusive.

  At that, George relaxed. “It’s my pa’s, sir. We went out for the week end. Well, rightly, it’s my grandpa’s, but he rarely sails anymore.”

  A matron across the room had a hand raised, trying to get George’s attention. Mr. Jackson gestured towards the woman with his chin. “I’ll let you attend to your work. But I’d love to talk boats, any time.”

  George beamed. “Right, sir. Any time!” He gave a small bow and hurried off.

  Mr. Jackson didn’t feel any more enlightened than he had, but he’d made a friend. Perhaps one who might know more of the place than he. With a close family and an elderly yet well-to-do grandfather.

  Who worked as a waiter?

  The news had nothing as yet about the most recent death, which didn’t surprise him — the afternoon paper wouldn’t be out for another few hours. But he was surprised to see nothing more about the first one. A man dying at a place like this drew reporters like flies to honey.

  Which made him consider: who would be harmed by such unwanted attention?

  The manager and staff first came to mind. Then he recalled the owner, the “man you wouldn’t want to make angry“.

  Were these deaths part of a feud among the staff, with these two caught in the middle? Or could these deaths be a strike against the hotel? A way to “encourage“ the customers and staff to abandon it, perhaps instigated by some rival chain?

  Chicago was a city known for its rivalries. Low-class gangsters and uncouth men of all sorts struggled for power here, only partially kept in check by the cops. Was the Myriad Hotel’s esteemed owner one of them? Or had he gotten himself on the wrong side of their battles?

  He sipped his coffee, which was excellent.

  “Might we join you?”

  Mr. Jackson looked up from the news. The old couple from breakfast the day before stood there. He rose to greet them. “Please. I insist.”

  The three sat.

  The dowager Duchess glanced at the paper. “What news?”

  Mr. Jackson folded the paper and passed it to her.

  “Cordelia,” her husband Albert said, “where are your manners?” Then to Mr. Jackson, he said, “Forgive her, sir. She’s been too long among the common folk.”

  Mr. Jackson smiled to reassure them. “Not at all, sir: I had finished with it. I hope you both are well?”

  “Quite well,” she said, her lined cheeks coloring, “and yourself?”

  “Splendid.”

  “And your wife?”

  Now that was amusing. “She’s resting at present. But much improved.”

  “Ah, yes,” the old man said, “her injury. Very good.”

  It was obvious they wished to ask all the juicy details. So he said, “You mentioned the last time we met that you stay here at the hotel.”

  “Oh, yes,” the dowager Duchess said. “Three years now. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “So you must know the staff quite well.”

  “Most,” Albert said. “The young man who died —” at this, he seemed genuinely sorrowful, “no, he’d just been hired. Most distressing.”

  “And all the hotel’s various amusements as well.”

  “Ah,” he said, as if he’d finally understood something.

  George came up then, speaking to Albert. “Would you like to order anything, sir?”

  Albert glanced at his wife. “Tea for us both, with lemon. Steep it well.” Then he turned to Mr. Jackson. “Yes, this place is a marvel! Did you know that there’s a glassed-over courtyard with a simply wonderful garden? They let you help tend it.”

  That must have been what he saw earlier. “Is that so?”

  “Yes! I so love trimming the flower bushes. That’s the one thing I missed from the estate, tending the garden.”

  Mr. Jackson said, “What made you decide to move here? If it’s not too intimate a question.”

  “Oh, no, not at all,” Albert said. “I —”

  “Well, Bertie —” the dowager said, clearly uncomfortable.

  “Now, Cordelia, never you fret,” her husband said. “I was only going to tell Mr. Jackson that the estate was yours,” he turned to Mr. Jackson, “you see, we married late in life, after the death of her husband. Old money, that. But times are changing. No children to inherit, and the house just got too big for us.” He patted his wife’s hand. “We’re much happier here.”

  It could have been the lighting, or perhaps Mr. Jackson’s imagination, but the dowager Duchess didn’t look quite so pleased to be here as her husband seemed. “Do you also like tending the garden?”

  She gave a one-shoulder shrug. “I’m content to watch him work, although I am very fond of flowers.”

  Albert beamed at her. “I make sure she’s well-supplied.”

  Mr. Jackson couldn’t say why, but he felt something more was at work here. “What other amusements catch your fancy, my Lady?”

  Her face brightened. “I do so love reading. The library here is a delight! And if there is some item no
t in stock, why, the Main Library is just a short trip away.”

  “What sorts of books do you favor?”

  “Oh, she loves any sort of book imaginable,” Albert said. “She was ever so bright as a child. Much more so than I.”

  “My word,” Mr. Jackson said. “So you’ve known each other quite some time.”

  “Indeed we have.” The old man glanced at his wife fondly, his cheeks coloring. “Indeed we have.”

  “Perhaps one day you might show my wife and I around,” Mr. Jackson said.

  “I would love to.”

  Cordelia leaned forward. “How is your wife, really?”

  Mr. Jackson shrugged, not sure how much to reveal. “Rest is what she needs right now. Her medicine makes her sleep, which is for the best.”

  “Poor dear,” Cordelia said. “Well, you be sure to give her my regards.”

  ***

  No one else approached, and to his dismay, the dowager and her husband never left. After his coffee, Mr. Jackson returned to his suite, leaving the old couple chattering about a book on flowers.

  His wife stood on the balcony, a lovely picture in shadow framed by the sunny lake beyond. The breeze fluttered her gown and hair.

  He put his hands beside hers on the wrought-iron railing. “How do you feel?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not sure how to feel, to be honest.” She smiled to herself. “What did you discover?

  He hesitated, taking a deep breath. “They’re hiding something. An underground speakeasy, I’ll wager.”

  “Oh?”

  No restaurant, no matter how grand, needed that much olive oil. “And I wonder: were these killings meant to discredit the hotel? If so, then the real question is why?”

  Mrs. Jackson considered this. “Are the deaths related?”

  He shrugged. “Our young clerk was no paragon of virtue. A dockworker told me the man tried to force himself upon the young lady who next perished.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes. The whole matter angered him greatly.”

  “Do you suspect him?”

  “I suspect everyone. And the staff is afraid. There’s talk of leaving.”

  She nodded soberly. “So if we are to help our host, it would be best done quickly.”

  He let out a laugh. “You are relentless! I’m glad to have you on my side this time.” He surveyed her archly. “Quite formidable.”