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

to make sure Zora Mae wasn’t playing with him about Tyler Smith. And Emmett’s memory of news stories, as the bass voice attested, was usually faultless.

Emmett squinted as he thought. Then he nodded. “Yep. One of the tenants. Big scandal they tried to bury on page twenty. Nobody wants to check into a hotel to be murdered.”

How could the concierge have not known about the story? If one’s business was in the news for something awful like murder, wouldn’t everyone you work with be a-buzz?

“It does ruin one’s plans,” Dash said. “When did the story hit the papers?”

“First story hit the papers Tuesday, the morning editions, though the body hadn’t been identified. He was found by the trash cans in the back alley Monday night. No papers or anything like that on him. The papers didn’t list his name until the Wednesday evening editions.”

Emmett poured coffee into a mug and passed it over to Dash.

“That’s why the concierge didn’t know,” Dash muttered to himself.

The name wasn’t announced until the day after he and Joe visited the Shelton.

He took a sip of coffee and asked Emmett, “How did they find out who he was?”

“They took a photograph of his corpse and sent it around to the buildings in the area, the hotel included. The night staff identified him. Apparently, he was a night owl, and the day staff never saw him before.”

“Did they say anything else about him?”

“Yeah. The fella was a high roller. Paid in cash for his room. Kept to himself largely, which hinders the police finding suspects—or at least finding innocent people to blame. Why do you ask?”

Dash shook his head. “Too long of a story. When I have more time, I’ll tell it to you.” Another sip of coffee. “Did the papers mention anything about what he did?”

Emmett shrugged. “All they said was bachelor, rich with family money, though they’re estranged, and a New York native. Front desk said he spent nearly every night out, usually came back half-seas over. He was harmless and he was rich, so they looked the other way.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. One strange bit: He was leaving the Shelton for good. Gave his notice. He’d be moving out the end of this month. The staff said they were sad to see him go.”

Dash perked up at that. One of the many messages Tyler Smith hadn’t picked up was a travel agency confirming his tickets across the Atlantic. Two tickets. Dash once again wondered who was going with Tyler.

He asked, “What was the reason for leaving?”

“Didn’t say. Decision was sudden though, according to the staff.” Emmett leaned on the bar, his weathered eyes flashing with cunning. “I bet he was running away, but somebody didn’t want him to leave.”

“You should work for the NYPD, Emmett.”

The old man smiled. “I can’t. I actually have a conscience.”

After he finished eating, Dash left the Inn to open Hartford & Sons for the day. Standing there waiting for him was Prudence Meyers. She had donned a brown suit, her jacket open to expose a vest and white shirt with a high collar, topped with a bow tie. The gold link of a chained pocket watch scooped from the lower part of the vest to an interior pocket. A dark brown bowler perched on her head.

She smiled as he approached. “Mr. Parker.”

“Miss Meyers. What brings you here? A suit, perhaps?”

She shook her head. “Can we talk?”

20

Inside the shop, the air was thick and musty, yet still degrees cooler than being on the street. Dash left the closed sign in the windowsill to keep the two of them from being interrupted. He took off his jacket and laid it across the writing desk. Next was his usual routine of opening the windows. Pru took off her hat and did a short walkabout, taking in all the decorations and accoutrements of the tailor shop.

“This is cozy,” she said once she finished her visual inspection. “One would never know a most exquisite speak is in the back.”

“I wouldn’t call our place exquisite.”

“Come, come now. Don’t be so modest. Your band is entirely unique for the Village.”

Dash was suddenly wary. “What brings you down here, Miss Meyers? I pictured you as more of an uptown girl.”

Pru went to inspect the hats on top of the wardrobe. “I’m an all-town girl, if I do say so myself.” She selected a fedora and examined it. “I’m here to first apologize. Normally I don’t turn away clients, but extenuating circumstances being what they are . . .”

“And what are those circumstances?”—Dash held up a hand—“I know, privileged. Alright, let me fill in some of the blanks and you tell me if they’re the right answers. You’ve been seen around town with Karl Müller, Tyler Smith, and a man named Paul Avery, who may or may not go as Miss Avery when the sun goes down.”

She went perfectly still. “Where did you get those names?”

“I’ve been keeping myself busy, Miss Meyers.”

“I see. And we were seen by whom?”

“A woman named Zora Mae. Up in Harlem. The ‘Baroness of Business’? I said yesterday I was going to see her, and the conversation proved to be quite interesting. It seems the four of you would go up to the Hot Cha and have earnest conversations. Miss Mae noticed you in particular were trying to get this Tyler Smith to do something for you. I don’t know what, and she didn’t say. Now Tyler Smith has been murdered, assailant unknown . . .”

Dash paused to see if, unlike with Karl, Pru had heard that bit of news.

She nodded once, sadness dulling her normally vibrant self. “Yes, a great tragedy.”

Dash nodded as well. “And this Paul Avery fellow was impersonating him as of this past Tuesday morning.”

She turned around, her brow furrowed. “Excuse me. Impersonating?”

“As in, he introduced himself to me as Tyler Smith. In Tyler Smith’s hotel room. Tried to pretend he didn’t know you, Karl, or Zora Mae, which—let’s save the denials, shall we?—we both know are