Amos Winkler, a private investigator, is weary from a long trip when a beautiful woman seeks his help opening her hotel room door. When Amos opens the door, he discovers a man’s body has been blocking it.
Room 721
The early March sun had enough of this day—so did I—and it had slipped below the horizon when I exited the taxi at the New Yorker Hotel, Eight Avenue, New York City. The softness of a bed called to my weary bones following a twenty-hour marathon trip to Chicago. After registering and arranging for my luggage to be delivered to my room, I picked up a copy of the evening edition of the Times and stopped at the bar for a nightcap. I nursed my whiskey and soda and glanced at the newspaper’s headlines, “Lindbergh Baby Search Intensifies.”
“Ain’t it a shame?” The bartender leaned toward Amos.
I looked up from my paper. “How’s that?”
“It’s 1932, for God’s sake. You’d think with all their scientific advances, the police’d find the kid by now.”
“So, you’re a student of the police sciences?”
“Naw. Just a hobby of mine.” The bartender picked up a glass and wiped it clean. “I read whatever I can.”
“You have a theory, then?”
The bartender leaned closer and spoke quietly. “Foreign agents. That’s my theory.”
“How’d you come to that conclusion?” I folded my newspaper and put it on the bar. Experience had taught me when bartenders wanted to talk, their stories were going to be long and convoluted.
“Well, it’s as plain as the nose on your face.” The bartender held up his index finger. “First—”
A man stepped to the far end of the bar. “Bartender! Some service over here.”
“Hold that thought... I’ll be right back.” The bartender scurried to help the customer.
I quickly knocked down my drink and left before the bartender returned. My body was too dog-tired, and I wasn’t up to any wild speculations from amateur sleuths.
When the seventh-floor elevator doors closed behind me, an attractive, tall, thin, bottle-blonde woman in her mid-thirties, bedecked in costume jewelry and an imitation fur wrap, approached.
“I beg your pardon.” She smiled her plush red lips and fluttered her glue-on eyelashes. “Could you help me?”
“At your service.” I tipped my hat.
“I can’t get into my room.” The woman glanced toward her room.
“If your key doesn’t work, the front desk would be the better choice.”
“My door isn’t locked.” She shook her head. “I can’t push it open; something’s leaning against it.”
“Maybe it’s just stuck.” I held out my hand, offering assistance.
The woman started toward her room. “It’s just a few doors down the hall, Room 721.”
“Lead the way, madam.”
The woman stopped and turned to me. “It’s miss. I’ve never married.”
“So sorry.” I grinned sheepishly. “I assumed that—”
“I’ve chosen to remain unmarried.” The woman turned on her heel and proceeded toward her room.
I followed close behind, not adding to the conversation, for I felt like I was walking on eggshells with her.
She stopped and cocked her head. “Here’s my room.”
“Let’s give it a go.” I leaned a shoulder against the door and pushed, but it only opened about an inch or so and stopped. “That’s odd.”
The woman looked puzzled. “What’s odd?”
“Like you said, something’s propped against it.” I pushed again, but the door didn’t budge. “When’d you leave your room?”
“I left for dinner around six.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “Yes, it must have been about six.”
I twisted the door knob. “Was the door locked when you returned?”
“Actually,” The woman shook her head. “It wasn’t.”
“You should’ve called the hotel detective.”
“I wasn’t thinking.”
I put my full weight on the door and shoved again. It opened wide enough for me to reach in and flip on the lights. I put my shoulder against the door and heaved. This time, it opened enough for me to slip inside.
The woman looked through the partially opened door. “What’s blocking it?”
“Don’t come in.”
But the woman ignored me and squeezed her way inside. She saw the body of a man sprawled on the floor, stepped past him, and continued into the room. “Who is he?”
The man was fortyish, stout, dark-haired with a matching mustache, and wearing a two-piece suit. His shirt had a small hole and a large bloodstain over his solar plexus.
“I was hoping you could tell me.” I picked up the telephone and began to dial. “Ever see… Front desk? Amos Winkler here. I’m in room—”
The woman looked toward me. “Seven, two, one.”
“Seven twenty-one. Send the house detective right away... That’s right, the house detective, and connect me to the police... Yes, I said the police and hurry.”
The woman knelt next to the body.
I cupped my hand over the receiver. “Don’t touch the body. Leave everything as we found it.”
She stood and backed away.
I uncupped my hand. “Police? Connect me with Inspector O’Malley... Andy, this is Amos... Yes, Amos Winkler. Just got back in town... Yes, from Chicago... Listen, Andy, I’m at the New Yorker, room seven twenty-one, with a beautiful woman... Don’t interrupt... And a body... Yes, the body of a man... Of course, we’ll be waiting... No, we won’t touch anything.”
A knock on the door caught them off guard. A man stuck his head in the room. “Who called for a detective?”
I motioned for the detective to come in and pointed to the body.
“How long before you arrive...? Fifteen minutes? Taking the scenic route, are you...? Okay, Andy. Okay, we’ll stay put.”
I hung up the phone.
The house detective stood, looking at the corpse. “Is he dead?”
“Last time I checked, he was.”
“Hey, wiseguy... Enough with the wisecracks. Who’s the body?”
“Don’t know.” I wagged my head. “Police’ll be here in fifteen minutes if they don’t get lost.”
The detective looked at the woman and then at me. “Sure, you don’t know who it is?”
“No.” The woman wrung her hands and rapidly shook her head. “Neither of us knows him.”
“How long the two of you been...” The detective grinned. “Occupying this room?”
“This isn’t my room.” I gestured toward the woman. “It’s her room.”
The detective raised an eyebrow. “Then what ya doing here?”
“She needed help opening the door. That’s when we discovered the body.”
“Who are you?”
“Amos Wringer. Room seven thirty-two.”
“And you, miss? Who are you?”
“Uh… Samantha Phillips. Sam for short.”
“Well, Sam and Amos, we’ll all sit tight until the cops arrive.” The detective pointed to chairs. “Make yourselves comfortable.”
Sam dropped her purse and crouched down to pick it up. I offered my hand to help her up, and we sat at the far end of the room while the detective nosed around the body.
“Don’t you think he’s rather impertinent?”
“What you mean?”
“Calling us by our first names. That’s quite impolite, don’t you agree?”
“You opened the door, sister when you called yourself Sam. Besides, hotel dicks never impressed me much… Anyway, where’d you go for dinner? I’m always looking for new places.”
“Little place, not far from here.” Sam glanced out the window. “A place called La Scarola.”
“I know it. Good food. What’d you have?”
Sam’s face lit up. “Vitello di Franco.”
“Never had that one. Steak Vesuvio’s my favorite. And wine?”
“I let the waiter choose for me. House Merlot, I believe.”
“I prefer a good Cabernet Sauvignon with steak.”
“So tell me...” I watched Sam’s facial expression. “Why weren’t you all that startled when you saw the body?”
“But...” Sam blinked twice and glanced at the body. “I was startled.”
“You expected a body to be there, didn’t you?”
“For one thing, I’m not the excitable type, and for another, I’m not going to discuss this matter with a perfect stranger. Who are you?”
I handed her my card.
“Amos Winkler. Private Investigator. No wonder you seem to know your way around these things. For how long?”
“Ten years.”
“Before then?”
“Police detective. Twenty years.” I grinned, but not too much. “So I do know my ‘way around these things,’ and I—”
A knock at the door disrupted our conversation. “Police. Amos? You in there, Amos?”
“Come right in, Andy... And watch your step.”
Andy looked at the house detective. “And who are you?”
“William Grant, house detective.”
“You can leave. We got this.”
The detective protested. “But the hotel—”
“We’ll follow up with the hotel. For now, one less person getting in my way.”
The detective grumbled as he left the room.
“What ya know about this, Amos?”
“I’m working an angle. Sam asked me to help open her door, and we found this body blocking it. Neither know him or why he’s here.”
“Sam, is it?” Andy mosied over to where Sam sat. “Full name, please…”
“Samantha Phillips. Miss Samantha Phillips.”
“Residence?”
“Why, I live here, detective.”
“In this hotel?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s your permanent residence?”
“I don’t have any?”
“What you mean you don’t have any?”
“Just what I said: I don’t stay anywhere long enough to call it my home.”
“How long you been staying here?”
“Just arrived two days ago.”
“From?”
“Miami. Was there for six, no, eight months.”
“Why do you move around so much?”
“I plan to visit all the cities before I die.”
“Before you die?”
“Yes.” Sam chuckled. “We’ll all die someday. I’m hoping I live long enough to see all the great and small cities this country has to offer.”
“Miss Phillips, you’re giving me a headache. So you didn’t know the deceased, did you?”
“No, Captain O’Malley. I never saw him before.”
“It’s Inspector O’Malley. Have you any idea why someone would break into your room? Valuables, maybe?”
“No, I don’t, Inspector. Besides, I have nothing of real value. My jewelry is fake, and my furs are imitations. I have no idea why someone would want to gain entry to my room, let alone kill anyone in the process.”
“Got any thoughts on this, Amos?”
“A few, Andy. For starters, you can arrest Miss Phillips—or should I say, Mrs. Philips—for the murder of her husband.”
“What?” Andy looked puzzled.
“This is outrageous! How dare you accuse me. I don’t know this man.”
“I believe you do, Sam.”
“And how’d he block my door if I shot him?”
“I’ll get to that. First, you never ate the Vitello di Franco. You’d reek of garlic, and you don’t. Second, La Scarola would never serve Merlot with veal. Third, the impression of a ring is still on your wedding finger, and the dead man is wearing one as well. Fourth, there are scuff marks on the window sill where you climbed out onto the fire escape. Your shoes are scuffed with white paint, and I’ll bet it matches the sill. Fifth, you knew a body was blocking your door when you said, ‘Something’s leaning against my door.’ How did you know unless you were inside? Sixth—”
“All right. All right. Stop. You got me. I killed the slob.”
“But why?” Andy was still puzzled.
“I divorced him almost two years ago, but he wouldn’t let me go. He hounded me. I moved from city to city until he always hunted me down and found me. I couldn’t take it anymore.”
Andy took hold of Sam’s arm. “Where’s the gun?”
“Took a cab and ditched it in the river off west thirty-fourth.”
“Owe you one, Amos.”
“Think nothing of it, Andy. If you don’t need me, I’m going to hit the hay.”
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