The Double Vice: The 1st Hidden Gotham Novel by Chris Holcombe (ebook reader for laptop .TXT) 📗

All three men nodded.

“Alright, gents. Let’s get some answers.”

It felt good to have a plan, to take action.

Now he and Joe walked towards the Shelton’s limestone entrance, which was two stories tall, with five archways upheld by five columns. Intimidating stone griffins perched overhead, their talons gripping the busts, their beaks sharp, their sightless eyes staring at all who entered. From the front, they looked like militant eagles, reminiscent of the war propaganda posters from a few years back—when the newshawks wrote of earth-shattering shells and the massacred fields of “no man’s land.” An involuntary shiver danced up Dash’s spine to his shoulders.

Past the columns and their griffins were intricate brass sconces hanging above the three main doorways. Joe said, “After you, lassie,” and Dash, with his friend behind him, entered the Shelton.

The lobby murmured with usual hotel energy. The excitement of new guests seeing the metropolis of New York for the first time. The nervousness of exiting guests worried they’d miss their trains. The hustle and bustle of bell hops as they wheeled brass-pole carts stacked with luggage to and from elevators. Rolling, clicking, and shuffling sounds echoed off the shiny tiled floor, itself a pattern of gold and sienna blue. The corners of the ceiling as well as the room itself were curved, making the entire room an oblong oval. In the center of the room stood a brass clock on a square-shaped granite base. The clock’s face indicated it was 11:15.

Dash and Joe looked around and saw the front desk was tucked off to the side in an adjacent hallway. They waited in line as two other men, one short and thin, the other tall and stocky, checked in. Once they concluded their business, the concierge gestured for them to step forward.

“Good morning, gentlemen.” The concierge had a slight flash in the eyes. “Do you have a reservation?” his voice taking on notes of suspicion.

At first, Dash didn’t understand the man’s haughtiness. Both he and Joe wore freshly spot-cleaned and pressed suits, a light tan with a blue-striped tie for Dash and a checked brown with a green-striped tie for Joe. They had even paused for a shoeshine, despite Joe saying it was a waste of time and money.

It’s the bruise on my face.

Dash looked back at the concierge and replied in an even tone, “We don’t have one, I’m afraid.”

The concierge frowned, delighted to deliver his bad news to a pair of men he didn’t believe belonged in his lobby. “I’m terribly sorry, sirs, but we are completely full—”

“That’s all right, my good man, we are actually meeting a friend of ours. Mr. Tyler Smith.”

Suspicion was replaced by skepticism. “I’ll have to check my records.”

Joe replied, “Ya do that.”

The concierge gave him a withering look, then went through the logbook. He must’ve found the listing, for he frowned and said, “And what names shall I give?”

Dash gave the one name he thought would most convince Mr. Smith to let them up to his room. “Karl Müller.”

The concierge looked to Joe. “And you?”

“Mr. Johnson,” Dash answered for him. Instinct told him not to give their real names.

More skepticism from the concierge. “I’ll just go in the back and—”

“Oh for bloody sakes,” cursed Joe. “Ya got a telephone right there. Call him up now and let’s get on with it.”

For once, Dash didn’t mind Joe’s bluntness. The concierge was making a show out of something so simple, and all because they didn’t have the appearance of the right class.

Did I do that when I was younger?

Most assuredly. It was how he was raised. Those with dirt under their nails and bags under their eyes were just spokes in the wheel that turned the rich’s fortunes. A flash of shame blushed Dash’s cheeks.

May I never think that way again.

“Alright,” slowly replied the concierge.

He picked up the receiver of the telephone and flipped a switch on the switchboard. He kept his eyes on Dash and Joe while he waited for Tyler Smith to answer.

“Mr. Smith? There are two gentlemen here to see you. Yes, two. Their names? One is a Mr. Karl Müller and the other one is—” A look of surprise painted his face. “I understand. I will . . . send them up right away.”

The concierge’s earlier haughtiness had been replaced by a puzzled defeat. “Gentlemen, his room is 2119. The elevators are through the lobby and across the corridor.”

Joe leaned forward. “We thank you, ya condescending ass.”

Dash tugged at his arm. “Let’s go, Joe.”

They followed the concierge’s instructions and soon they were in a small box climbing high above Manhattan. Stepping off into the quiet corridor of the 21st floor, they walked until they found Tyler Smith’s room number. It was a corner suite.

Joe said, “What do we do now?”

“Simple,” replied Dash. “We knock.”

Once he did, a masculine voice said from the other side of the door, “Come in. It’s unlocked.”

Joe’s brow creased. “That’s odd.”

Dash shrugged and turned the knob. The two men entered a short hallway before coming upon as ornate a room as they’d ever seen, all done up in the modern style taking over the city. Glass coffee table with a plumage of white feathers stuck in a cream-colored vase. A beckoning velvety blue sofa with gold and champagne-colored pillows. Two rounded chairs done up with ivory-colored fabric. Three-piece nesting accent tables, their gold legs able to fit inside one other like a Russian doll. And a silver bar cart glittering with bottles and glasses.

Two sets of corner windows overlooked the city, one set facing northward towards Central Park and the other westward towards New Jersey. The sky was clear, blue, and vast, making an already stunning room even more so.

Except it was missing Tyler Smith. The two men exchanged another look.

Joe said, “We did just hear him say to come in, didn’t we?”

Dash nodded. This was very odd.

They ventured further into the room. A closed door was to their left, which Dash supposed led to the bedroom. Was the mysterious Mr. Smith dressing