Seeing how many demands were made on Tucker’s time was an eye-opener. Assuring him I could find a room one floor up on my own, I picked up my key. Tucker handed me another of his cards. This one had a number written on the back.
“That’s our private number. Nobody has it but William. It rings day or night.”
There wasn’t anything to notice inside an elevator. Besides, Tucker had told me it was locked every night at half-past twelve and out of operation until six the next morning. I climbed the stairs to the second floor. The room I was to occupy was immediately across from me, next to the elevator. As I fitted my key in the lock, I heard another door open softly. Before I could determine where it was, it clicked shut.
The room I let myself into was a far cry from Mrs. Z’s, or anywhere else I’d ever spent the night. My feet left indentations in the thick carpet. Floating on one edge of it was a double bed with a padded headboard covered in cream colored satin. Embroidered garlands of pink flowers embellished the satin. A single small window looked out on the building next door. The window’s pale green draperies matched the bedspread. A nightstand held a telephone and a lamp with a rose colored shade. I was glad no one had accompanied me, leaving me free to gawk.
The biggest luxury was the bathroom I’d have entirely to myself. At Mrs. Z’s, a dozen of us shared. A tiled ledge surrounding the tub on three sides held soaps and bottles of bath oil.
Smith had left my suitcase on a folding luggage rack. I shook out my one-and-only other suit and opened the closet to hang it. Someone tapped on the door.
“Miss Sullivan? It’s Frances Tucker.”
She hugged a manila envelope to her chest as she entered.
“I thought I’d be formal in case anyone overheard,” she said when the door had closed. “Smith told me he’d just seen you head up. I hope you don’t mind the small room—”
“It’s wonderful. Thanks.”
“Here’s a list of our employees, and one of who was here when the man went missing, and some other things you may find useful. She gestured toward a slipper chair. “May I?”
She pulled it up and perched on the edge. Taking several sheets of paper from the envelope, she spread them on the bed, pointing as she talked.
“I’ve made some rough floor plans so you can get an idea of rooms and where people are. This is your floor, for example. Count Szarenski and his family are here, in a suite that’s far too small for four people, really. They’ve put their daughter in what’s intended as the maid or valet’s room, poor thing. Loren Avery and his mother are here, across from them.”
The perky old lady in the Chinese get-up had been named Avery, I recalled.
“Next to the Averys we have Lena Shields, in our smallest suite,” Frances was saying, “with her boyfriend — his name’s Nick — conveniently next door in a room much like yours. They’re the pair who were having the blowup yesterday.”
She hesitated.
“Be wary of Nick. I overheard two women who stayed here last week gossiping about him. They’d seen him at some resort when he was with a different rich girl. They seemed to think he’s a fortune hunter.”
“That should eliminate me.”
She laughed. “He might be a womanizer as well. And he can turn on the charm when he wants. I’ve seen him in action with some of the guests.”
Legs tucked under me, I sat on the bed and watched as her finger moved over the rest of the drawings. The names of each room’s current occupants had been written in. That was handy. I started to think Frances had a better grasp than her husband of what information might be useful to me.
“Who’s Bartoz?” I asked, reading the name directly across from Lena Shields.
“He’s with the Szarenskis. He’s the count’s, um, aide de camp, I guess you’d say. He was with the count in the army.” Frances made a small face. “I’m afraid I don’t really like him. He stands around and watches people.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“No, I don’t think so. And maybe he’s not actually looking at anything. It may just seem that way because, well, he has only one eye. And he seems rather cold.”
The man whose face had unnerved me, I thought. He must wear some sort of mask or flesh colored eye patch.
“Are some of the names on these floor plans people from Hollywood?”
“Yes, the Clarkes and Ronnie — Veronica Page — and a few others. I’m not sure what they’re doing in Dayton. It’s all quite hush-hush. Why?”
“I just seemed to recall your husband mentioning something about it the day he came to see me. I wanted to be prepared and not jump to conclusions if someone acts screwy.”
She laughed again and checked her dainty gold wristwatch.
“I must get back downstairs and do what I can to help Joshua. Miss Gumm keeps going on about being one person short as if it’s the only concern in the whole place.”
* * *
The other pages from Frances’ envelope helped me piece together the rest of the hotel’s layout. The second floor, where I was, had more rooms than suites. On the floor above, there were slightly larger suites but only two rooms. The top floor had just four large suites, plus the double one the Tuckers occupied.
The rear of the hotel, where the count’s suite and the Averys’ suites were located, overlooked the alley. Those two suites were closest to the fire escape, which had a window opening out to it. They were also closest to the service stairs. Lena Shields and boyfriend Nick weren’t much farther away, however. The metal fire escape stairs probably went all the way up to the Tuckers’, but the back stairs used by the hotel staff must end on the floor above me and pick up in a new location to reach the top.
When I could, I’d take a stroll through the floors above me. For now, I looked at who was staying where. Except for Mrs. Avery, only two names were familiar. Archie Clarke, the guy who’d pushed in yelling about a telegram, was on the top floor. So was Veronica Page, the actress whose name had nearly caused Jenkins to turn cartwheels.
I put the floor plans back in their envelope and stowed them with a library book and my folding ruler. I didn’t think that accessory for my little charade was necessary when I went down to lunch. The dining room, I figured, was the ideal place to get a look at some of the people staying here. Resisting the urge to try the inviting bed with its pile of pillows, lest I inadvertently close my eyes, I headed down.
The staircase to the lobby had the added advantage of giving a view of everyone milling about below. As I neared the bottom, I saw the old lady in the red Chinese jacket coming out of the lounge. Her arm was linked with that of a man half her age. His head bent solicitously as he talked. She brushed a hand at him in dismissal.
“Go hold Archie’s hand,” she told him as I turned toward the dining room. “You know I’ll be fine on my own. We can knock around some other time.”
Catching sight of me, the old woman came to a halt. Her gaze sharpened.
“You,” she boomed, pointing at me with a finger whose nail was as red as her jacket. “Get over here.”