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

Tyler paused. “Perhaps that’s why he was in the Park when he died. Trying to cure his loneliness.”

“That’s not so,” Dash said. “I hid him with a friend in Harlem. He was overheard arguing with a telephone operator. The person he was trying to reach wasn’t available and it greatly upset him. He said it was urgent.”

Tyler’s eyes flashed with intensity. “My, my, you have eyes and ears all around this city, don’t you?”

“I think he left the hiding place to warn somebody.”

“Warn them of what?”

Dash held out his hands. “I don’t know. Perhaps of Walter? You said yourself he’s a dangerous man.”

“Well, he didn’t call here. I was out the entire evening, and when I returned, I had no messages waiting for me at the front desk.”

Joe asked, “Where were you that night?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I was at Mother Child’s kicking it up for the jam. They do love to come and gawk at the pansies, bulldaggers, and the rest of us.” He saw their empty glasses. “Now that you’ve finished your drinks, will there be anything else?”

Dash looked to Joe and back again to Tyler. “I don’t believe so.”

He stood up. Joe followed suit.

“Thank you for the drink, Mr. Smith,” Dash said. “Apologies again for bringing you such horrible news.”

Tyler stood up as well and walked them to the door. “I apologize I couldn’t be more helpful.”

“Oh, but you have been,” Dash said, noting with satisfaction the slight blanching of Tyler’s cheeks. “I’d be cautious answering the door. Once we tell Walter we didn’t learn much from you, he might come up here himself and ask his own questions.”

Joe said, his voice grave, “And he won’t be as polite as us, I can promise you that.”

Tyler’s face hardened. “Is that a threat?”

“No,” Dash replied quickly. “No, I just . . .” The guilt he felt over Karl was rising up again, like bile, hot and bitter. “I just don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

Tyler watched him for a moment, then gave a short nod. He looked over his shoulder at the gun still sitting on the side accent table. “Perhaps I should learn how to properly use that, then.”

Walking through the hotel’s lobby with Joe on his heels, Dash saw the time on the brass clock and abruptly stopped, causing Joe to almost run into him.

“What’s the matter, lassie?”

The clock announced it was five minutes past twelve. “One quick thing before we go.”

Dash veered off to the front desk again. Joe stayed put, watching after Dash with an expression of irritation mixed with concern. Dash ignored him. If he was right, then there should’ve been a shift change at the front desk. In the adjacent room, he was relieved to see their haughty concierge had been replaced by a much friendlier-looking fellow. Much younger too. When it was his turn to step up to the counter, Dash put on his best smile, hoping to override the garish purple of his bruise.

“Hello there,” he said, “my name is Tyler Smith in room 2119. I was wondering if you had any messages for me.”

The young man’s face flashed dimples as he smiled. “I’ll check for you. One moment, please.”

He turned and went to the back wall behind the desk, which was a honeycomb of small cubicles holding tenant’s messages and mail. His fingers counted until they reached 2119 and he pulled out several pieces of small paper. He faced Dash again and placed them on the counter.

“Looks like you have several, Mr. Smith.”

Dash slid the papers into his palm. “Thank you so much. Good day!”

He turned to the lobby where Joe hissed, “What are you doing, lassie?”

“Detecting.” Dash held up the pieces of paper. “Looks like several people were trying to reach our Mr. Smith.”

“So the lad lied.”

“I suspect he was lying about a lot of things.” Dash flipped through the messages. “How interesting.” He pointed to the stack of papers. “These first five are from Sunday night. Three are from Karl and two are from Pru.”

“Lying little minx. Any of these messages have telephone numbers or addresses?”

Dash looked through the papers again. “Sadly not. Let’s see here, two more from Pru dated yesterday. And this morning, a message from Atlas Travel Agency confirming two tickets aboard the Red Star Line for Boulogne-sur-Mer on August 27.” Dash looked up at Joe. “Looks like Mr. Smith is leaving the country.”

“Aye, makes ya wonder why.”

“And makes you wonder who was going with him.”

Joe tapped the messages in Dash’s hand. “Lassie, why didn’t Tyler pick up his messages? He’s got three days’ worth here.”

Dash shook his head. “I honestly don’t know.”

13

Trying not to blow the week’s remaining cash on cabs, Dash and Joe took the rattling, squealing elevated train uptown to Walter Müller’s neighborhood. The address he gave Dash last night was on the corner of 86th and Avenue A in the Upper East Side neighborhood of Yorkville. Not surprising, since many of the city’s Germans took up residency there after they left the Lower East Side at the turn of the century, so much so that New Yorkers started calling 86th Street “Sauerkraut Boulevard.”

Walter’s building wasn’t the Wagner-glory of the Yorkville Casino and others surrounding the main drag near the station. Closer to the river, the neighborhood was a bit more modest and plain: three stories of square and brick with rectangular windows, elevated stoops, and flat roofs. The first floor of Walter’s building, like all the others, was occupied by a business. This building hosted a spiritualist, someone who claimed to speak with the dead. Dash chuckled to himself. All-Holy Mother and Holier-Than-Thou Walter Müller lived above a charlatan. There was an anecdote in there somewhere, he was sure.

He and Joe walked up the stoop stairs, found the Müllers’ apartment (Apartment 3B), and rang the buzzer.

Joe murmured in Dash’s ear, “What are we gonna tell him?”

“I don’t know.”

“That Tyler Smith was lying through his teeth. He knew where to find the pansy