Barton arrived at Wolfe’s Hotel just after five o’clock. Or, rather, at what was left of Wolfe’s Hotel, which wasn’t much. Others were there already, a small crowd. Barton wondered if they’d been there all day. A vigil for the lost brothel? Or was it merely curiosity? People were eager to see where the fire had started, as if the site itself might hold some answers. They stood in twos and threes, whispering. Barton approached some of the blackened debris and toed it with his shoe. Had he visited just a couple of hours later the day before, he could have been present for the inferno.
“Someone died in there,” Barton overheard a woman standing behind him say.
He wondered if it was Roslyn. Was it possible she had slept through the alarm bells, and also the sounds and smells of her apartment burning up around her? Barton thought it might be.
“Who died?” he asked, turning to the woman who’d spoken. “Do you know who it was?”
She shook her head. “But I heard a baby was born last night too. So it all evens out in the end, doesn’t it?”
Barton said he supposed it did.
He stood among the crowd and listened to what others said. A man to his left was telling another that the fire had started in the lunchroom’s kitchen—that it was an explosion of some sort, an act of deliberate malice, maybe even a bomb. The other man said he’d heard it was nothing so thrilling. Just a spark from a passing train that had landed in the wrong spot. No, a third said, the fire must have started on the top floor, fueled by fresh air from so many open windows. Perhaps a candle tipped over, or a cigarette was carelessly tossed.
Barton remembered his own cigarette-tossing from the day before—the moody satisfaction of dropping the butts out Roslyn’s window.
All around him, people were gossiping, chattering, speculating wildly. Somewhere in the crowd, out of his sight, Barton picked out another conversation. “It’s that fuckhead banker,” a voice said. Then another voice said, “Where?” Then the first voice said, “Over there,” and Barton felt himself being pointed at.
“Figures,” the second voice said. “Vultures always come out at times like this.”
A policeman in uniform appeared at the edge of the crowd. Barton watched as the officer struggled to part the sea of people gathered around the ruined hotel. He was gratified to see there was someone else in town who received as little respect as he did, if not less. When the policeman finally made it to the center of the crowd, he raised his hands and shouted for silence, which was not quickly granted.
“I know everyone is very upset about last night’s fire, and about the loss of life at this particular location,” the policeman said. “Let me assure you that myself, the fire department, and the water department are working to restore order and find out the cause of this great tragedy.”
Barton wondered if he himself might be blamed for the fire, he and his damn cigarettes.
There was more murmuring in the crowd. They sounded angry to Barton, maybe even riotous. Was their anger for the police officer and his talk of law and order? Or for the loss of the hotel? He was certain he heard the word banker again. He wanted a cigarette to calm his nerves but didn’t want to be seen holding a match.
The policeman resumed speaking, saying an investigation was under way to determine if the fire had been set deliberately or by accident, and that anyone who had lost their home could go to some address or another for help. “To prevent further looting and other improper behavior, we ask those without business in the downtown area to limit your activities there. And please obey the nighttime curfew,” he continued. There was more, but Barton had stopped listening.
Barton knew he hadn’t been the one to start the fire. He’d left the hotel in the early afternoon; the fire hadn’t begun until hours later.
Still, the police would need to talk to anyone who had been at Wolfe’s that day, wouldn’t they? Police scrutiny, for any reason, was not something Barton wanted. He had imagined, the night before, that he was free to do what he liked at the bank precisely because in the chaos of disaster, no one would be looking at him. He warranted no attention, never had.
But oh, wouldn’t the people of Spokane Falls like to see him charged with arson, maybe even murder? Not to mention fraud. A most satisfying conviction. Good, hang the fuckhead banker, people would say.
Just as quickly as he sank into his anxiety, he pulled himself out of it. This was only idle fear-making, he scolded himself. No one even knew he’d been to Wolfe’s Hotel that day except Roslyn. And now here she was, likely dead.
Didn’t he have better ways to occupy his mind? The answer was yes. He had his big plans, which were only half-laid.