City of Dragons (16 page)

“Says here—I always keep detailed records, Miss Corbie, only way to work, and the Pickwick appreciates it—why just last year the general manager of the whole line stayed with us for the Fair, you know, and he told me—”

“Evening, was it? After work hours?”

His mouth shut like a clam. “Why, yes. He checked in at five-thirty Thursday night.”

“You said the police dusted … did they look for hair samples, anything like that?”

“Can’t say. I was downstairs, most of the time, linin’ up the staff for interviews, and—”

“Did they find anything to suggest his death wasn’t from natural causes? The paper reported it as a heart attack.”

Finnigan shook his head doubtfully. “I—I don’t think so. They came by twice, first time with uniforms, second time plainclothes with one of the medical examiners from the coroner’s office. The plainclothesmen looked around, took a few things that belonged to Winters—mostly pocket change, I guess, I remember seeing a wallet and some change and matchbooks on the desk there, when I came in—but, like I said, they were tight-lipped, you know how coppers are. Always jealous of us ops, thinkin’ we get the cushy jobs. They got more interested when Estelle told ’em about the Chinese girl, though. Figured Winters had one on the side, and went back up to look around.”

“Had he stayed here before?”

His face brightened. “You know, I thought of that. I looked through the hotel registry myself, but I couldn’t find any record of him stayin’ here before. Don’t mean nothin’, though—he might’ve used another name.”

“You didn’t see anything suspicious? No sign of forced entry or violence—no one heard any noise?”

“It’s a funny thing,” he said slowly. “When I came up to see him, after Estelle fainted and all—I noticed the radio was on low, not enough to keep people awake. But it was some show I never figured Winters for—something for women, you know, cooking and recipes. Funny, what goes through your mind. I kept hearing this woman’s voice talking on and on about a Valentine’s cake, and then I went to shake Winters, thinking he’d passed out, you know, and Estelle was just excitable. Then he wouldn’t wake up, and I held my fingers to his mouth, and then I tried to find a pulse and then I—well, I ran out and called the cops.”

“What time did she find him?”

“I’d just got in—it was kind of late, you know, Estelle said she’d knocked earlier, but didn’t want to bother him, figuring maybe he wanted some privacy. It’s a hotel, we get all kinds, though the Pickwick is pretty clean, and mostly I just have to keep the parties in line when the conventioneers are in town—and sometimes watch for the bad checks, you know the type. What was I saying? Oh, yeah—it was about ten o’clock. Estelle didn’t get an answer again, and figured she’d just peek in the door. Once she’d seen the Chinese, you know, she probably got a little curious.”

“Did the cops give a time of death?”

“The M.E. said he’d kicked off in the middle of the night sometime, I guess after him and the Chinese got done doin’ what he was payin’ her for. Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Corbie.”

“Did anyone see the Chinese girl—or anyone else—go into Winters’s room on Thursday night?”

His head shake was definitive. “No, sirree. I asked everybody that question. Nobody remembered nothing about Mr. Winters.”

“Nobody took anything out of the room except the cops? No cigarettes or booze?”

Finnigan looked horrified. “Certainly not, Miss Corbie. I locked up the room until the cops arrived. I like a snort now and again—like everybody—but nobody would touch a thing. They couldn’t. I remember seeing some cigarettes—Lucky Strikes, I think—on the desk, and a quart of Four Roses, about half empty, with a glass. Don’t remember two, but then I was tryin’ to get Estelle calmed down. I’m sure they were still there when I brought the police back up.”

“All right. Thanks, Finnigan. I’d like to speak to Estelle, if she’s on duty.”

He checked his watch. “She gets off at three, so you’ve got time.”

They rode back down to the lobby, Finnigan filling the air with his reasons for believing Winters was murdered. They boiled down to Estelle’s Mexican superstition and the fact (well known, according to Finnigan) that poison was a Chinese weapon. Miranda opened a new pack of cigarettes.

Estelle was a thin woman with dark circles under her eyes. They darted over Finnigan’s office, over Miranda, looking for an escape, full of an exultant terror.

“Can you describe how she was dressed?”

“
Sí
. She wore a bright dress and fancy. Not a nice lady clothes. Red, very much money.”

“Did she wear a coat? Try to remember, Estelle, this is important.”

The maid coughed in excitement, her eyelids fluttering. “I—I am not sure.”

“Why don’t you lean back and close your eyes? And here—have a drink.”

Miranda pulled Finnigan’s drawer open. He wasn’t there to complain, and she’d given him five bucks already. She handed Estelle the nearly empty bottle. “Finish it.”

The maid eyed it greedily, and took her time with it. Then she rested her head on the seat back as Miranda suggested, shutting her eyes tight.

“Relax. Just think about Friday morning. You’d just come to work—”

“
Sí
,
sí
—”

“—and you were setting up on the floor, still sleepy, and then maybe heard a door open …”

“Yes! Then I see her. Red dress, no lady. Chinese. Pretty, I think, but no lady. I think must be
puta
. No hat. Coat over dress, but …
pequeño
. Too small.”

“You mean not for cold or fog?”

“
Sí
. Too small. Matching dress, like fancy lady.”

“Did she carry a purse on her arm? Can you remember?”

Estelle squinched her eyes tighter, and spoke slowly. “
Sí
… I think so.”

Miranda fished around on Finnigan’s desk, found a
San Francisco News
, and tore through it until she could find a suitable ad.

“You can open your eyes, Estelle. Was her dress like this, more or less?”

The maid tilted her head to one side in thought, then nodded slowly. “
Sí
. Except more Chinese. And
puta
.”

Finnigan knocked on his own door, then entered with a gangly young man about twenty-seven. “Burt just came on duty, so I brought him over, Miss Corbie. You done with Estelle?” He winked at the maid. “See, she don’t bite.”

“Yeah, thanks, Finnigan. And
gracias
, Estela.
Encantada
.” Miranda handed her two dollars.

“
Gracias
,
senorita
,
eres muy amable
.” The maid stood up, hovered with uncertainty, then pushed past Finnigan and Burt.

“Did she tell you about the stationery?” His face was eager.

Miranda shrugged. “She said they get ten sheets, and the maids are supposed to make sure they’re refilled, and give them more if requested. There were five in Winters’s desk. She swore she’d taken care of that room before he checked in, and there were the requisite number of sheets and envelopes. But that’s what I expected her to say. Maybe the cops took them, maybe she forgot to check. You’re Burt?”

She turned toward the young man with her hand out. He held it like it was made of glass. “Have a seat. Finnigan, can you line up that elevator operator for me? Cheval?”

“You mean the shine? Why do you want to talk to—”

“Just get him, Finnigan. Please.”

The house detective laughed, showing off a red throat lined with yellow, tobacco-stained teeth. “Never argue with a lady, says I, and you’d be smart to follow the same advice, Burt. If’n you ever want to get to be an op, that is, and Burt says he do.” He pulled the door shut with a self-important clatter.

Burt was eyeing Miranda’s wallet, which she had out on Finnigan’s desk. She came around to the front, pulled herself up so she could sit on top. Burt cleared his throat nervously, looking anywhere but at the wallet, the desk, or her legs.

Miranda lit a smoke, and stared at Burt. “Do you remember Mr. Winters checking in, Burt?”

He swallowed. “I do, Ma’am. I mean, Miss. He came in around five-thirty. Seemed preoccupied, I thought. A nice gentleman, nothing seedy about him. You can usually tell.”

She nodded. “That’s right. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. You develop an instinct for people. You have to—you need to know who might be trouble, who might try to skip. It’s like being a detective.”

Burt blushed up to his hairline, which was glistening with pomade and sweat. An odor of bay rum drifted from his collar. “That’s what I tell Finnigan, but he don’t believe me.”

“I do, Burt. So talk to me. What was he like?”

“The cops didn’t ask me nothing like this, Miss—they just wanted to know when he checked in.”

She blew a stream of smoke over toward the pin-up calendar of the girl bending over in a pair of silk stockings.

“They don’t have time. We do. Tell me what you thought.”

“Well, I figured he was a family man. Distinguished, you know, like—like William Powell. He seemed upset, maybe, sad and upset and … and a little angry.”

“At anyone in particular?”

“No—just impatient-like. He kept tapping his foot when I explained the hotel rules, signed the register in a real hurry.”

“Did he use his real name?”

Burt nodded. “I showed the police. You can make out the
L
and the
W
and not much else. You’re supposed to sign it so’s you can read it, but I didn’t want to make him do it over or nothing.”

“Did he have any luggage?”

“No luggage. I told the police the same thing. He had a briefcase, though. He kept hold of it the whole time, like he didn’t want to let go.”

She leaned forward. “What did it look like?”

Burt thought for a minute. “It was brown leather, kind of heavy-looking, bulged in the middle. Worn out, some.”

“Did he mention anything about why he was staying at the Pickwick?”

“He said something about business. I figured that’s what the case was for. He listed an address in Alameda, and I thought maybe he had to work late on something and couldn’t get a ferry back.”

“Good deduction.” He blushed again, and loosened his collar with a finger. “Did he request any type of room? You know, by price, or amenity, or location …”

Burt stared at her, forgetting about her legs in the camaraderie of detective work. “It’s funny you ask that, Miss Corbie—he said he wanted the cheapest room we had that was nearest to the stairs. That’s what made me think he was going to go back to work at night, maybe, after checking in.”

Miranda took a deep drag on her cigarette, not saying anything for a few seconds. “Thank you, Burt. Is there anything else you can remember, something you thought, maybe, while you were checking him in?”

He struggled for a moment, then gave up. “No, Miss, I think that’s all.”

She smiled, opened her wallet and handed him two dollars and her business card. “Thank you. You’ve been a big help. If you do remember anything, would you call my office?”

He turned as red as if she’d asked him to dance. “S-sure thing, Miss. Thank you.”

“ ’Bye, Burt.”

As soon as he opened the door, Finnigan stuck his foot inside. He was smoking a cigar. “All done with Burt, are you?”

“Where’s Cheval?”

“In the elevator. I’ll not have him in my office.”

Miranda slid off the top of the desk. “It stinks like sweat and cheap rye in here, Finnigan. And you should brush your goddamn teeth.”

He backed away from his office door in surprise. Miranda stuffed her wallet back into her purse along with the deck of Chesterfields, and slammed the door on her way out. The noise made Finnigan drop his cigar.

She cleared a break for Cheval with the manager, who was shaking with nerves, probably figuring he’d be out of a job by tomorrow. Her watch showed twenty to four. She’d been at the Pickwick for longer than the police.

He agreed to accompany her to the York Café, a place he suggested would serve them both. That meant it was a colored café; they usually didn’t have a problem serving whites.

It was about three blocks from the hotel, on Sixth, and on the way she stopped at a liquor store. He waited outside; they didn’t talk. Safer not to, especially for him. A drunk crawled out of one of the alleys, tried to spit but his throat was dry. Contented himself with “goddamn niggers” before diving for a cigarette butt in the gutter.

The place was quiet, a screen-door hash house with a tired, heavy colored man behind the yellow Formica counter, holding a swatter. A fly buzzed around the cash register.

“What’re you doin’ off work, Cheval? This ain’t your day off.”

He asked the question, but stared at Miranda. There were two other people in the place, sitting in separate booths along the left side, an old lady dressed like she’d just come from church, and another young man in railroad uniform. They all stared at Miranda.

Cheval took a seat at the counter, and Miranda sat next to him. “Gotta talk to this lady, Reece. Serve us up some of that gumbo you got back in the kitchen.”

“You know I been savin’ it for dinnertime. I got catfish and okra …”

“Gumbo, Reece. And hurry it up. I ain’t got all day.”

Reece grumbled his way back to the kitchen, looking back every few seconds at Cheval and Miranda.

She pulled out a pint of Old Sport Kentucky bourbon out of the paper bag, and set it on the counter.

“And bring us two glasses, Reece.”

Miranda said: “Three. There’s enough for all of us.”

When the cook glanced back and saw the whiskey, he waddled back with three glasses, wiping them first with the towel draped from his apron. Miranda poured a shot into each. They were waiting for her, so she drained it.

Reece followed, smacked his lips, went back to the kitchen for the gumbo. Cheval studied Miranda while she poured another. Fear creased his face.

“Miss, I appreciate what you doin’. But I need my job.”

The church lady was looking at them with all the disapproval she could muster. The railroad porter was just looking at the bourbon.