“He’s dead!” she exclaimed in her cutie-pie voice, her eyes wide in mock surprise. “Oh, my!” she added. I stepped past her into the room, the other guests crowding behind. In the center of a beautifully-colored wall-to-wall carpet sprawled the body of the late Mr. Edminson – a wealthy old codger who tended to spend most of his time in seclusion in this very room, his study. The knife in the back, and the blood on the carpet, left no doubt in my mind that he was dead, but I checked anyway.
Edminson was the owner of the magnificent hotel in which we were all borders. He was well liked by most – but obviously not by all. Не had no heirs, and had hinted that he had left his phenomenal fortune to one of the guests, not disclosing which one.
I looked about the room at the six guests other than myself.
There was Melissa Maypole, the buxomy little blonde who had first discovered the body. She was some little sexpot. Edminson and she were seldom seen together – at least not in public.
To her left was Andria Blarney – a plain, tragic wisp of a girl. Shy as a lamb, she seldom saw the sun, and was hopelessly in love with – Brad Baxter.
Baxter was the kind man you can’t help but hate. He was incredibly handsome, and incredibly conceited. He had no concern for others’ feelings, and would as easily crush a friend (if he had any friends) as he would an insect. He would lie, cheat, steal, and possibly kill – to achieve his way to the top. Не knew of Andria’s feelings, but callously hounded after Genneatte Margoli, the Italian goddess who graced our presence.
Genneatte was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. She grew up in a small town near Florence, and at the ripe age of 17, made her way to America and California – where she had hoped to get into pictures. But here she was at the Hotel Blofaunte – doing apparently nothing for a living, and doing that extremely well. She was very cold toward men, but occasionally a bit of warmth showed through – like the last flames of a dying fire. I sometimes doubted whether there was a woman more beautiful in all of San Francisco.
B. Asgard Hopkins was perhaps the only close friend of Edminson among the quests. Edminson and he were approximately the same age, but Hopkins had never made his fortune like Edminson. Perhaps he was living off his friend’s charity. They played checkers and gin rummy together on Sunday afternoons, and sometimes could be found on the veranda in the early evenings sipping sherry and reminiscing about the good old days.
Also there was Christian Miller, a wholesome young lad just back from the war – trying to work his way through night school. Christian and I got along well, as we shared several hobbies in common: riflery and boating to name a few. He was the kind of man to whom Andria should turn her attention.
As a former police inspector, I naturally took charge. “Who was the last to see Mr. Edminson alive?”
A few murmurs, then Hopkins said, “Perhaps Mrs. Butler.”
Ah, Mrs. Butler! I had nearly forgotten about her. She was the live-in maid, nurse – and who knows what else – to Mr. Edminson. She prepared the meals for all of us as well as kept the hotel in working order. She was rather unobtrusive, and it was difficult sometimes to remember if one had seen her that day. I walked to the door, leaned out, and called up the stairs.
“Mrs. Burler!”
She appeared at the top of the stairs clutching handkerchief, her face blotched red from crying. She was already dressed in black (or did she always wear black?) and looked to be a serious woman in her late forties (about my own age). She was stout, though not heavy, and had gray hair streaked with silver. She started down the stairs.
I stepped back into the room, noticing that the group had broken up into pairs. Baxter was saying something to Geanette, who was looking my way. Hopkins and Melissa Maypole were talking of the murder, with Hopkins gesturing every now and then toward the body. Christian was trying to draw Andria into a conversation, but she was staring fixedly at a point somewhere above my head.
I looked again at the body in the still, red puddle of blood – with an ornately-carved knife protruding its back.
Mrs. Butter entered behind me, her eyes desperately trying to avoid the body.
“Mrs. Butler,” I asked softly, “when was the last time you saw Mr. Edminson alive?”
The flow of tears started anew, but the voice was steady, with a hint of Irish brogue in it. “At tea time today, sir,” she replied.
“Thank you.” I turned to address Melissa Maypole (what an odd name). “Miss Maypole, how did you happen to enter Mr. Edminson’s study at this hour?” It was quarter after five, dinner was not until seven.
“I was going to ask him if he would take on another border,” she replied, “a girlfriend of mine desperately needs a place to stay.” She said it, with a special emphasis on ‘desperately’, as though she was trying to convince me to accept.
“And you found him dead, and immediately came to get the other guests without entering the study?”
“That’s right. I thought with you being a former inspector, and all…” she sounded almost apologetic.
“You did the right thing,” I assured her. Thinking aloud, I went on, “So we know that Mr. Edminson died somewhere between tea-time, 4:00, and when Miss Maypole found him dead, call it 5:00,” I smited wryly, “and I believe that we can rule out suicide.”
“I would like you all to go to your rooms now, and I will question each of you individually. Compose your thoughts – because you must have a verifiable alibi before you are removed from suspicion.”
I gave them all time to return to their rooms, while I composed my own thoughts.
No one is above suspicion. Mr. Edminson was murdered between four and five o’clock. The murder weapon is a knife with a carved handle, reminiscent of southwestern Europe, Italy perhaps. Would Geanette be so foolish, or is someone trying to frame her, some jealous party such as Andria? Or…
This speculation is getting me nowhere; as would, I believe, checking for alibis. I myself have no alibi, and most of the guests were in their rooms alone. Maybe if I call them all together, I can frighten the murderer into giving him (or her) self away. Calling the police now will bring them here in a quarter of an hour. If I can’t find the murderer in that time, I doubt that I could in any length of time.
I stepped out of the study, and used the telephone at the foot of the stairs to call the police. After I explained who I was, they agreed to my request to use their sirens when they arrived. I hoped this would incite the murderer into flight – if my other tactics failed.
I climbed the stairs, and knocked on Mrs. Butler’s door – the only door to my left. All the other guests’ rooms, including my own, were to the right of the stairs. The door must have been unlatched, for it swung open part way and I poked my head in – only to see a glint of a flying object, and heard Mrs. Butler shriek, “No!”
I jerked my head back out of the way of the flying knife, but still felt it deflect off my scalp. I heard the knife embed itself into the wall as I slammed closed the door. Blood was welling down into my left eye, and down my face.
I searched for a weapon, and snatched up a silver tray that was lying upon the table in the hall. This should serve as a temporary shield, I thought.
With I running start, I burst into the room and, holding the tray in front of me, ran blindly at the spot I had last seen Mrs. Butler – but she was not there. I caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye, drawing her arm back for another throw. Fortunately, I was headed toward a large sofa – so I continued, and dove behind it – only to receive a knife in my left thigh.
I looked down at it, as I lay panting behind the sofa. The handle matched the one in the back of Mr. Edminson downstairs. Almost screaming in pain, I drew it out slowly – and prepared to use it against Mrs. Butler. I was not unfamiliar with knives, but took little time to examine it, and I threw it with all my might – which, by that time with loss of blood, was not what it could have been.
I had thrown it wide of the mark, and it would have missed her – had she not stepped into its path while preparing to face the figure now entering the door. It struck her under the left shoulder blade and, by the angle at which I threw it, I could tell that it had reached her heart.
She made gurgling sounds in her throat, and fell to the floor – blood slowly oozing from her mouth.
I collapsed at almost the same instant – and through the engulfing blackness, I could see Christian’s face leaning over me while, in the distance, the dim sound of sirens pierced the evening air.
Written before I moved to California. It’s funny to me that one of the characters targeted the film industry (“hoped to get into pictures”) but she’s living in San Francisco — which is nowhere near Hollywood.
