Cupboards All Bared, page 19
“So do you have someone’s word outside your...cook’s?” He snarled the word.
“Signora Magro had no reason to lie, Mr. Black,” said Thomas, and immediately regretted it when the chairman whirled on him, his eyes blazing.
“Who are you?” he yelled.
Bernard stood. “This is my brother, Officer Carew, who is assisting me on this case. He was the one who took down the good lady’s statement.”
Thomas’s stomach tightened as he realized he hadn’t been taking notes during her spouting of information, but he wasn’t about to admit that now.
“And what makes you think she’s to be trusted against a man of Mr. Pavoni’s standing?” Mr. Black asked, his eyes squintingly taking in Thomas from head to foot.
“Again, I do not see why she’d have reason to lie about such things,” said Thomas. “She might just as easily have kept her mouth shut in order to keep her job. Instead, she took a chance and told us the truth.”
Mr. Black whirled back to Bernard. “I don’t want to hear anymore about this until you have absolute proof, Detective Carew. Hard evidence. I will not have the presidential reception committee dragged through the mud with implications that anarchists were involved. People are frightened enough of them without worrying that President McKinley might have been assassinated on our watch.”
“You won’t hear a thing until we’ve got this nailed down, Mr. Black,” Bernard said firmly.
“Good, because if I do, I’ll be speaking to Chief Witherspoon about ending your time on this police force.”
BERNARD SANK BACK INTO his desk chair slowly. He closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath before opening them again.
“So, what’d I miss?” Thomas asked jovially, taking a seat and sipping the tea he’d made for the chairman.
Bernard massaged his temples. He was getting a headache. “Not much. The chairman didn’t know where Pavoni had gone and was obviously quite threatened by the thought that the man might be an anarchist.”
“I don’t blame him, though he might have been more polite about it.”
Bernard stared at the papers before him, picking up the pocket watch he’d been holding earlier.
“I’ve been thinking,” he started. “There’s a couple things that don’t add up for me.”
“Only a couple?” Thomas asked.
Bernard looked up at him. “This is no time for joking, Thomas. Our jobs are at stake.”
“Aren’t they always?”
Bernard grimaced. “Perhaps. But accusations like this one need careful thought and attention to detail.”
“I was wondering when he would come along.”
Bernard raised an eyebrow in question.
“Sherlock. He’s always hiding just behind your next line.” Thomas waved the teacup toward him as he spoke. “And as you’ve got your Watson back, it was only a matter of time before he’d reappear.”
Bernard grunted. “Well, what’s Watson without Sherlock?”
“I think you mean what’s Sherlock without Watson, but let’s not digress. This is a bigger issue than us.”
Boy, did he have that right.
“Now, what were you saying about thinking?”
Bernard collected his thoughts, still turning the pocket watch over in his hand. “If the worst is true, and Pavoni is an anarchist and he and London were in cahoots together, why would Pavoni kill London?”
“It is possible Pavoni didn’t kill London and has simply skipped town for other reasons,” pointed out Thomas.
“I suppose that’s valid, but it seems too coincidental to have a dead man and a missing man and not require some link between the two.”
“You forget, Jennings the butler went missing for reasons other than his being a murderer.”
Bernard nodded. “Again, true. And another missing man ended up being a murder victim himself. So does missing equal murdered in Pavoni’s case?”
“Then the question becomes two-fold: Why kill Pavoni? And where is his body?”
Bernard nodded again and scratched his mustache. “We should check out Pavoni’s hotel room. There may be something there for us.”
“Where you go I will follow,” said Thomas, standing and placing his empty cup and saucer on the table.
Bernard placed the pocket watch in his jacket pocket alongside the other things he and the coroner had collected from around the body.
As the brothers made their way toward the Montvale Block, they swapped further details from each of their investigations. By the time the building was in their sights down Monroe, Bernard heaved a sigh, relieved that he and Thomas knew the same things at last, from pocket watches to cigarette stubs.
“Interesting that Mr. Pavoni was staying here,” Thomas said before they crossed First Avenue.
“What makes you say that?”
“I’m wondering why he didn’t stay with someone like the Campbells or Chairman Black while he was in town. Why pay for a hotel room?”
Bernard shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t know anyone well enough to be invited?”
“Perhaps, though I personally think it’s more likely Pavoni stayed here from a political mindset of wanting to appear in step with the ‘common working man.’”
Bernard shook his head. “He is the State Labor Commissioner, after all.”
It wasn’t like the Montvale was a bad place to stay in town. It was a newer endeavor on the part of Probate Judge John Binkley, built two years ago. He’d had an idea of helping the traveling working-class men and women who came to Spokane by providing a Single Room Occupancy hotel, with rent as low as a dollar a week.
Bernard and Roslyn asked more for staying at their house, but then, they provided both room and board, not to mention the friendly, homely atmosphere.
Bernard took a step back to get a view of the building, noting the sign that read “MONTVALE HOTEL-APTS” and another that read “HOUSEKEEPING” in big, bold print. The Montvale Block was a beautiful three-story building of red brick on the corner of First and Monroe, the hotel apartments being on the second and third floors, while the first floor boasted five commercial spaces.
The brothers entered via the impressive brick archway off Monroe Street, with “Montvale” lettered above the double doors. They entered the building from this east side and went up a flight of grand stairs to the main lobby. Bright, natural light spilled upon them from a magnificent skylight above.
At the front desk, the manager who’d spoken to Bernard was retrieved. Mr. Myers agreed to allow them into Mr. Pavoni’s room, grabbing a room key from under the counter before leading them across the atrium lobby toward a second-floor corner room. Doors to rooms circled the central area. The staircase in the corner led up to a third floor with an overlook balcony so they could see the door of every room in the place by simply standing in the middle of the high-roofed atrium.
“The only way to access the residential second and third floors is the way you came in. It’d be difficult for someone to enter the hotel without the front desk’s notice,” Mr. Myers pointed out as they walked.
“Or vice versa, I would assume?” Bernard said.
Mr. Myers nodded. “That’s why I’m certain no one at the Montvale has seen Mr. Pavoni since Thursday. I asked the entire staff, just to be sure, after meeting with you.”
“Is there a doorman?” Bernard asked.
The manager shook his head. “No, but the front desk is always manned.”
“What if the clerk is called out on important business? Like a bathroom break?” Thomas asked, ever the realist.
Mr. Myers grimaced, either at the improper question or the suggestion that there was indeed a time someone could go in or out without notice, Bernard couldn’t tell.
“No,” Mr. Myers said adamantly. “If the desk is ever left unattended, the front door is locked from the inside. Only the staff have a key to that entrance.” He shook his own collection of keys to illustrate his point.
A thief might still get in that way, thought Bernard. But they weren’t looking for a thief this time. They were looking for a missing political figure.
“Could a guest with a secret visitor simply open the door and allow them in?” Thomas asked.
Mr. Myers grimaced again. “Yes, I suppose so, but I cannot be held responsible for the actions of all our guests.”
So really, anyone could get in or out of this place quite easily, Bernard thought. But then, what did he expect? It was just a hotel.
“Downstairs is commercial only?” Bernard asked.
“Yes,” Mr. Myers answered easily, obviously eager to move off the lack of security in his hotel.
“And there’s two floors of rooms?”
“Yes. Sixty total, with thirty on this floor and thirty on the third floor.”
The manager knocked before unlocking number 206 and opening the door onto a small, simply furnished corner room. There was a bed and not much else, unless one counted the dresser with a mirror next to one of the windows, and an armless chair with a suitcase set atop the seat. The two windows looked out across First and Monroe, the Review Building just visible a couple blocks north.
“Shared washrooms?” Thomas asked.
“Common ones, yes, one for women and one for men on each floor. Each has two toilets and one bathtub, with hot and cold water provided at all times.” Mr. Myers seemed proud of this, and rightly so.
“Thank you,” said Bernard, leading the way in. “We won’t be but a moment.”
The manager took his cue, asked that they’d let him know should they find anything, and closed the door as he left.
Thomas went straight for the bed while Bernard searched the dresser.
On top lay the normal accoutrements of the traveling man: collar stays, a comb, a couple handkerchiefs. In the drawers were plenty of choices of shirt fronts, pants, socks, suspenders, and underthings.
“Nothing here,” said Thomas from the bed after a few minutes, then went to check the suitcase. “Empty,” he called out.
“Well, he hasn’t left town,” Bernard said, lifting one of the handkerchiefs off the top of the dresser to show Thomas.
“Ew, I wouldn’t touch that if I were you,” said Thomas. He wrinkled his nose and came to join him at the dresser.
Bernard ignored him, examining the starched, clean handkerchief closely. In the corner were embroidered two entwined letters.
“A.P.,” Bernard read aloud.
“Yeah: Antonio Pavoni,” said Thomas.
Bernard reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the pocket watch, cigarette holder, matchbook, key, spectacles, and handkerchief, spreading them out beneath the mirror so Thomas could see them clearly.
Thomas pointed to the corner of the handkerchief Bernard had just pulled out. “Same initials. Where did you find that again?”
“I didn’t. The coroner found it in London’s pockets.”
“Why would London have Pavoni’s handkerchief in his pocket?”
“As well as a watch serviced to a ‘tall, dark Italian,’” murmured Bernard, recalling Prescot’s odd report. “The body was wearing Italian clothes, too, and didn’t have spectacle marks around the nose, even though I found those smashed spectacles beneath the body.” He pointed at the ones that now lay atop the dresser.
“How did you identify the body as London’s?” Thomas asked.
“His calling cards,” said Bernard slowly, following the same line of thought as Thomas.
“I wonder if this key...” Thomas picked it up and walked to the door of the hotel room.
The key slipped in with a click.
Thomas whistled. “There’s only one way this all makes sense.”
“I agree,” said Bernard. “We’re not looking for the murderer of James London. We’re looking for the murderer of Tony Pavoni.”
Sunday, May 19, 1901 — Spokane, Washington
Sunday was the Lord’s day as far as Roslyn was concerned, and to profane it with things like work before church was not to be borne. She realized they were in the middle of a case and Bernard had told her of their revelation concerning the body after their late return the night before. Still, she insisted they at least not read the newspaper until after attending Sunday school at ten and the service at eleven at the First Swedish Baptist Church.
However, that didn’t stop them from discussing the case during the several-block walk to and from church. Although Roslyn did not take part, she listened with eager attention as Thomas told Marian what they’d uncovered, their voices carrying past Bernard as he pushed her in her wheelchair down the sidewalk back toward home.
“So the body isn’t London?” Marian repeated.
Roslyn could hear the awe in her voice.
“It must not be,” said Thomas, obviously enjoying her interest. “There are too many indications that it’s not.”
“I suppose Nain was right and you should ‘believe nothing of what you hear, and only half of what you see.’”
A good motto for a detective, Roslyn thought.
“But what about the spectacles?” Marian asked. “Why were they under the body?”
“London must have placed them there, to mislead us, just as he must have replaced Pavoni’s calling cards with his own in the jacket pocket. Other than those two items, everything else seems to be Pavoni’s.”
“But then why bother?” Marian asked, Roslyn wondering the same thing. “Surely he knew you’d figure it out eventually.”
“Must’ve wanted enough time to skip town.”
Roslyn glanced back at the pair of them, walking arm-in-arm comfortably, their heads tilted close to each other in an attempt to speak quietly, as though afraid she would condemn them for breaking her rule. She didn’t tell them not to—the sharing of secrets in such an intimate manner could only encourage her notion that Marian would be a wonderful addition to the family.
She returned her gaze to the sidewalk in front of her.
“I am sorry our new boarder could not join us this morning,” said Roslyn, speaking to Bernard in an attempt to give Thomas and Marian the idea that their conversation was not being overheard.
“It’s my opinion Mr. Bach’s left for good,” Bernard rumbled behind her. “His room was empty of all his belongings.”
“Did you argue yesterday?”
“Not that I’m aware of. He somehow managed to weasel an invite up to Miss Mitchell’s house, but he didn’t stay long. I made sure of that.”
“Oh? I hope you weren’t too rude.”
“I was firm, was all. But it may be he realized he’d overstayed his welcome.”
Roslyn could well imagine Bernard’s response when the reporter turned up at the House. “I did wonder at Mr. Prescot’s inviting him.”
“I still wonder. What’s with everyone inviting outsiders into our investigations?”
“Well...”
Bernard waited for her to continue.
“I mean,” she hesitated, “you’re the one who invited Mr. Bach to stay with us in the first place.”
Bernard grunted, then sighed. “I admit, I don’t know what I was thinking with that.”
“You’re a good man, Bernard. That’s all. You trust people. Even reporters.”
“Thank you, my rose,” he said, giving her a kiss on the top of her head.
Roslyn had to admit, she was glad to be rid of the reporter. It’d made her distinctly uncomfortable knowing he was staying under her roof. She’d be more particular when choosing their next boarder. She was starting to realize just how lucky they’d been with Mr. Prescot.
As they neared the house, Bernard began to slow. “I think I’ll run and catch the next streetcar down to City Hall. Get right to work.”
“Don’t you want to stay for lunch? I gave Signora Magro the day off, but she said she left us a meat pie for luncheon, in addition to the delicacies we haven’t yet finished from Mrs. Curry.”
“Did I hear you say you’re skipping lunch, Bernard?” Thomas asked, leading Marian up to them.
Bernard pulled to a stop at the bottom of the ramp that led up to their front door and came around so he could see Roslyn’s face. “I’d rather get back to work so I can catch people while they’re home this afternoon.”
“It’s Sunday, Bernard,” she reminded him with a small frown. “Surely you don’t intend to bother people with a murder on a Sunday.”
“Crime doesn’t close on Sundays, Roslyn,” he said. “I’ve got to close this case as quickly as possible, before someone picks up one of the loose ends and draws the wrong conclusions—ones that lead to Thomas and me both being out of a job.”
Roslyn nodded. She understood, even if she didn’t like it.
“I’ll catch up with you later,” said Thomas. “I work better on a full stomach.” He grinned that boyish grin that was sure to melt Marian’s heart, and led the young lady up the front steps and inside.
Bernard leaned in to give Roslyn a quick kiss farewell. “I’m sorry, my rose,” he said, close to her face, not caring that they were still outside for all to see. “I’ll be home as soon as I’m able.”
“You’ll be home for dinner?”
“I’m sure Thomas will make certain we are.” He grinned from beneath his mustache in that way that told her he loved her. Then he leaned in and gave her a full, purposeful kiss.
She knew he’d be home every moment of the day with her if he could. But there was work to be done. Murders to solve and cases to close.
She sighed as he left with a wave. Thomas returned to push her up the ramp and inside; she was grateful he’d allowed them that moment alone. Perhaps next Sunday they’d be able to enjoy the entire day together without interruption.
After a delectable lunch, which only reaffirmed Roslyn’s decision to hire Signora Magro, Marian offered to take some of the extra food from Mrs. Curry to the shelter around the corner. Thomas offered to join her, but she insisted she’d like to make this delivery herself.
Roslyn and Thomas adjourned to the front parlor. Thomas picked up The Spokesman-Review, no doubt glad Roslyn’s mandate of “church first” had been fulfilled, but after all, it was Sun—
