The Hotel Detective (24 page)

“You don’t sound happy with his decision.”

“I’m not. The wine and cheese should have been held at the desk just like anything else directed to Mr. Stern. Unless otherwise
instructed, he shouldn’t have been disturbed. Even his message light shouldn’t have been activated.”

“Is that common? Guests asking for complete privacy?”

“It happens. And it’s not always because some hanky-panky is going on. Sometimes there’s sensitive business. Sometimes it’s
on doctor’s orders. Sometimes it’s a VIP who needs to find herself and not her press clippings.”

“But this wasn’t one of those instances, was it?”

Am shrugged.

“And neither one of us thinks this was a case of a burglary gone bad. Which means what?”

His suppositions, if any, were interrupted by yet another visitor, who stuck his head into Am’s office. “Morning, Am.”

Am introduced Ward Ankeney to Sharon. Ward was an avuncular sort who often pointed to his thinning hair as proof positive
that he had been keeping the Hotel’s books for the last dozen years. His title was controller, but anyone who asked what he
did invariably heard him reply, “Bean counter.” Ward never looked comfortable unless both of his hands were occupied. He always
had a pipe in one hand, usually unlit, and with the other he was invariably punching away at a computer, or calculator, or
a ten-key. This time he had his usual pipe in the one hand, and in the other were some papers. Reluctantly he gave up the
papers to Am, leaving his right hand without a task.

“Copies of six oh five’s charges,” Ward said, his free hand coming to life with operatic gestures and then waving goodbye.

Am had forgotten that he had asked for the room charges. Perhaps subconsciously he was trying to black out as much as possible
from the day before. Convenient amnesia. As if attempting a jigsaw puzzle, he laid the charges on his desk and bent over them.
Sharon came around behind him and joined in the scrutinizing.

“They sure ate well,” she said.

Am didn’t comment. He picked up one of the pages, punched it slightly, and said, “That explains it.”

“What?”

Without answering, he punched into his computer, called up 605’s charges, and handed Sharon a printout. “Last night,” he said,
“I called up this account. And that’s when a room service charge caught my attention. This one.”

Am passed Sharon the copy. “I thought it must have been a large order, but it wasn’t. Just a solitary bottle. I was curious
because of the time of delivery. Death arrived shortly after room service. It must have been some party up there, fine wine,
cheese, and, to top it off, Dom Pérignon. Then a double murder. With our staff going in and out of the room, I figure there’s
a good chance either the bellman or room service waiter saw something.”

“Maybe,” said Sharon, her excitement ill suppressed.

Her tone made Am turn around. Sharon’s face was flushed. “Notice the signatures,” she said.

He was prepared to tell her that an individual’s signature could vary greatly, the result of everything from a guest’s being
drunk to their using any handy surface (a server's back was quite often the object of choice) to sign a check. But the David
Stern who had signed three other room service checks was clearly not the same David Stern who had signed for the last bottle
of bubbly. There had to be a logical answer.

Almost triumphantly, Am announced, “The woman signed for it.”

Sharon stared at the writing. “That doesn't look like a woman's signature.”

It was Am's turn to scrutinize the scrawl once more. The handwriting did look masculine. “Lots of women have a blocky signature.”

Sharon didn't appear to be listening. She handed Am a copy of another charge. “Did she sign for the dry cleaning, too?”

Am looked at the invoice. A man's suit had been drycleaned—no, express-cleaned, the one-hour service. The same hand that had
signed for the cleaning had signed for the champagne.

“Apparently so,” he said.

“That's funny,” said Sharon. “According to the time and date when this was signed, she should have been dead for at least
twelve hours.”

Am wondered how it was that the dead kept managing to accumulate hotel charges. When he had perused room 605's account the
night before, he had assumed the laundry charge had just been a late posting, but that hadn't even proved to be the last of
the charges. The updated printout showed that the honor bar had been used. Housekeeping, which only that morning had been
given permission by the investigative team to clean the room, had inventoried the portable bar and found that virtually all
the food had been emptied out of it. Am supposed it was possible that the investigating team had done the eating, but he didn't
think so.

“It's so—grisly,” said Sharon. “Can you imagine murdering someone, then hanging around the room? And how could he have ordered
champagne afterward? Have you ever heard of anything so sick?”

Am nodded his head, then shook it, both agreeing and disagreeing. “Sick, yes. But the room service waiter said the man hardly
looked like he was in the partying mood. Usually when someone orders a pricey bottle of bubbly they're ebullient. Augustin
said this man was so subdued as to stand out.”

“Explain the champagne, then.”

“I can’t.”

Am and Sharon had compiled a list of everyone they believed had come into contact with the suspected murderer. Everyone agreed
he was of average height or less, had thinning red hair, and was on the heavy side. His age was gauged from thirty-five to
fifty-five.

Teresa Fuentes had tried to do turndown service in room 605 and had talked with him. Henry Polk, the sixth-floor butler, had
picked up the man’s suit for cleaning and brought it back. And bellman Albert Slocum had delivered the wine and cheese and
had happened to ride up the service elevator with a man fitting that same description. All the employees described him as
soft-spoken and polite and agreed that he was withdrawn, perhaps even confused. By description, he hardly seemed to match
the profile of a coldblooded murderer.

“So,” said Sharon, “I guess we should call the police?” Her words were more a question than a statement.

This time they had more than a missing rubber. They had witnesses, charges, and signatures that didn’t match. They even had
descriptions that were in general agreement. This time, she knew, they wouldn’t be laughed at.

“They’ll probably get one of those police artists,” said Am. “They’ll put together a sketch. It will be on the evening news,
and someone steaming carrots in some town will say, ‘I know that man.’ ” He sounded envious.

“I suppose it’s the right thing to do,” Sharon said, but not very convincingly.

“A police artist, to go along with the police photographer who’s already been here, and the forensic scientists, and the trace
evidence people, and the detectives, and McHugh.” The last name didn’t settle well with Am.

“We don’t have their…” Sharon was going to say expertise but thought better of it. “Personnel.”

“I know an artist,” said Am, brightening suddenly.

“But what good would a picture…?”

“He’s fast.”

“Without a name—”

“I’ve seen him do sketches in a minute.”

“But I still don’t see how that could—”

“He’s a Hotel guest. The Hotel guest. Wallace Talbot.”

Sharon remembered the name. He was the guest who had come to stay. The tour guide had pointed out his artwork around the Hotel
and said that he had been a resident for more than fifty years. In her silence, she assented.

“Holden,” he said, stretching forth his hand to grasp Am’s. “Friends. Come in! Come in!”

Wallace Talbot had checked into the Hotel California for a week’s stay in 1942; so far, his reservation had been extended
for more than half a century. There was a second greeter at the door, but this one had four legs. Cinder, Wallace’s black
cocker spaniel, tried to give everyone a kiss. Cinder was happiest when there was a party, and she was convinced the appearance
of seven people in her doorway could mean only that.

It had taken arm twisting, juggling of schedules, and pulling employees from the floor to assemble everyone who might have
encountered the potential murderer. Am hadn’t explained the necessity for the meeting, had just termed it important and made
it mandatory. He had advised Wallace of the need for his artistry but hadn’t given him any more details than that.

“Coffee, tea, or sodas, anyone?” asked Wallace. He was genuinely delighted to have all the visitors. In any other room, and
with any other guest, the staff might not have felt at ease, but everyone knew and liked Wallace. He bore a resemblance to
Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., was tall, thin, and urbane, and like the movie actor seemed to manage everything effortlessly and
with much savoir-faire. Wallace was one for flourishes, from hand gestures, to opening a door. He never forgot staff birthdays:
flowers for the ladies, cigars for the men. Some employees called him “Peppermint” because of his daily promenades around
the Hotel, where he handed out peppermint sticks to all, especially small children. Am had never had the heart to tell him
he couldn’t stomach peppermint.

“If it’s all right with you, Wallace,” said Am, “I’ll take care of the refreshments in a few minutes. But for now, I’d like
the rest of you to get to work.”

Am took a few minutes to explain why they were gathered and said he hoped a sketch of this mystery man, and perhaps murderer,
might help in their investigation. He swore everyone to secrecy. He didn’t want rumors and didn’t want to involve the police
prematurely. Most of all, Am said, he didn’t want the Bob Johnsons on the case.

The mood of the room changed. With the purpose of their gathering revealed, an excitement built, ancient hunting instincts
brought to the fore.

Wallace seated everyone in front of his easel and brought out a sketch pad and pencils. He usually worked in oils, could often
be seen painting from the wraparound balcony of his fourth-floor room. There, he had a panoramic expanse of the Pacific as
well as a sweeping view of the Hotel gardens. Fully half of his paintings were seascapes. He truly knew all the moods of the
La Jolla Strand and loved to capture the human element at play on the beach, the children at their sand castles, the adults
with their pants legs rolled up, walking along the surf. He was a popular artist who commanded high prices for his works,
but at the same time he was a very skilled painter, a combination that often doesn’t go together.

To many, San Diego is still regarded as a navy town, but that’s a designation that is at least a generation removed. It was
accurate enough, though, when Wallace arrived in San Diego, maybe even doubly so because there was a war going on. A bad knee
had made him ineligible for the service, but his talents as an illustrator were put to use by the defense industry. In 1942
housing was at a premium in San Diego. Wallace was supposed to stay in the Hotel for only a week, but he said that from the
moment he checked in it felt like home to him. Rather than move into an apartment, Wallace remained. He could afford to, being
the only child of wealthy parents who were long deceased. His ultimate artistic success supplemented his inheritance and deferred
the necessity of his ever having to check out. Wallace had never expected to live out his life at the Hotel, but whenever
he thought about leaving, thought he should get a home and have all the normal trappings, he always asked himself, “Why? Why
leave what I love?”

A local paper had recently interviewed Wallace. He had said, “Most of my money has gone to the Hotel California. It’s an investment
I’ve never regretted.” In many ways Wallace paid rent to be a resident manager. He made rounds every day, walked all over
the Hotel grounds, and saw that everything was as it should be. He took it upon himself to help guests and act as a goodwill
ambassador. Many children had grown up on his peppermint sticks and came to him now as adults with open hands and big smiles.
To date, he had never run out of either peppermint sticks or good cheer. This morning he needed the latter.

The seven blind men describing the elephant were more in accord than the four witnesses (the fifth witness, T.K., was early
on convinced that the deliveryman could not have been the mystery man) describing whom they had seen. Though everyone agreed
to the same general description, finding the common ground of a face proved tough work.

How do you describe a nose? How do you remember the direction of the part of the hair? Were the eyes close set or far apart?
And how chubby were those cheeks? Was it really a double chin, or was the chin just not very well defined? Did he wear glasses
or not?

A room attendant, a butler, a room service waiter, and a bellman opined, argued, confessed to ignorance, and called each other
blind. In between the collaborating and the bickering, a desk clerk inserted attempted comedy sketches and an artist tried
to work. Am thought the cast of
Clue
had nothing on these characters. He tried to organize what Wallace wearily called “the artistic charades.” Only Cinder seemed
totally happy with the situation. She went from lap to lap. In the early 1960s, some twenty years into Wallace’s stay, the
owners had instituted a “no pets” rule, but they had grandfathered Wallace’s black cocker spaniel. How had Cinder managed
to live so long? The dog that was happily trading up laps, and lapping up faces, was really Cinder IV. Other GMs had turned
a blind eye to the situation, but not Kendrick. He had vowed this would be Cinder the last.

“Holden,” said Wallace, “would you mind getting that other pencil? Thank you.”

Wallace called Am “Holden,” after Holden Caulfield in
The Catcher in the Rye.
He insinuated that Am was the incarnation of Holden, now grown up and gone west. The confusion of youth, Wallace had noted
more than once, was translating nicely into Am’s midlife crisis. Wallace insisted that Am was the Hotel’s catcher in the rye.
“You are he,” said Wallace, “whose job it is to wait for the innocents to fall off the cliff and be there to catch them.”
Am had always liked that job description better than assistant general manager.