Tom Hoke - Murder in the Grand Manor

"You don't say!" Now here was an understatement if he had ever heard one.

They both nodded solemnly. Aunt Annie went back to twisting her pince-nez glasses on the purple velvet cord. Lena, Lady Mantel, adjusted her hats and stared at him with black, opaque eyes. Aunt Annie leaned over the table and hissed, "There's something going on right here in this room, as a matter of fact. George has a gun on you, Charlie!"

With magnificent control, he glanced around the room. The skinny beer drinker was mumbling over his beer can. And Aunt Annie was absolutely right! George was glaring in his direction, and on the bar, almost covered by a newspaper, the business end of a thirty-eight was aimed, not at all casually, at him.

Just to set the record straight, Jim wouldn't have picked the southern part of Mississippi for a jaunt in the middle of summer. He was geographically and historically ignorant about this part of the South, not to mention the mores of the people. But, while he loved to paint and would like to spend most of his hours painting portraits, there was always the matter of MONEY. This he had decided a long time ago, when he first thrust upon the world his virile portraits, and found he could only eat every other day on their proceeds. So, through trial and error, he became a detective. A painter gets to know faces and the things going on behind them. What's wrong with this for a detective?

He was about a thousand miles due south of Chicago, and less than half a block from getting wet in a bay emptying directly into the Gulf of Mexico, because minding somebody else's business was his business. Maybe he should have remained a portrait artist. If he had been inclined toward clairvoyance, he might have.

A dame had walked into his Chicago office, presented him with a good solid Chicago name he recognized, dropped five one hundred dollar bills and an airline ticket on his desk and announced: "I want my husband back!" Just like that.

He reacted as a good detective should. "And where is your husband, Madame?" You never asked why they left, so as usual he asked where the guy had gone. It sometimes helped, although the wife usually didn't know.

This babe was brassy, shrill, expensively dressed, and premeditated in her actions. She narrowed her eyes, chewed on her left thumb nail, and instead of saying, "I don't know," she said precisely: "My husband is at the Lost Horizon Motel in San Antonio, Texas."

"Now that's appropriate," Jim thought to himself, "but why didn't she go get him?"

She told him quite firmly, "You will find him in Room 118. Tell him I'll make a stink in all the papers if he doesn't get his butt back here without his lady friend."

He guessed she had been reading too many spy thrillers, or she thought Jim would sell out to her husband. She was on the plane behind him as he bore down on Room 118. He hardly got a look at the guy when he opened the door, but he felt sorry for him immediately because apparently the only thing the wife wanted Jim to do was run cover for her. From what he could see as she burst into the room was three naked guys wearing bunny ears sprawled in various indiscreet but compromising poses.

With his detective work finished, Jim had an open return ticket to Chicago and a pocket full of money, so he decided to stay a day or so and look around San Antonio. He had never seen this part of Texas before, and now was as good a time as any. He wandered through The Alamo, ate some enchiladas in the shade of a large tree along the Riverwalk, and then, as the Texas sun rose higher, he spent several hours in a large mall along the river. Apparently he was easy to spot as a tourist, and a passerby suggested he tour the zoo in Breckenridge Park. He came away from the zoo liking the lady hyena far better than his recent employer.

Jim always thought San Antonio would be unique, and it certainly was an odd mixture of two civilizations. Row upon row of smooth manicured yards with houses to match, and yet, the Spanish flavor constantly added touches of bright colors and a sense of excitement to everything. In the evening, as he wandered in the downtown area, the shadows grew longer and he found himself still trying to escape the memory of the unpleasant female with her good solid Chicago name.

According to the movies, he should have been out looking for a fight. He didn't look for it, but he found it. In a questionable part of downtown, he turned a corner into a cul-de-sac. The dim light showed from the doorway to his left. A tall man stood against a two story whitewashed wall. His hands were outstretched in a protective stance, and his head was back. His attitude showed amazement rather than surprise. Three unsavory characters were advancing on him, and the leader of the trio had a wicked looking knife.

The scene was so obviously one-sided it got Jims back up. He liked a good fight, but this one was going to be over shortly unless he got into the act. They didn't know Jim was behind them as they approached their intended victim.

Jim put his lips together and gave them a very loud: " Psssst!" All three turned as one in his direction. The 38 special in his right hand convinced them tonight was not their night.

They took off past him in a dead heat with a single carajo vibrating in the damp night air.

This left Jim with Beau Mitchell. That's what his card later indicated his name was. Maybe Jim should have walked out on this particular episode and let the muggers have him, but that's hindsight.

The guy had on a drab shirt and sweaty, rumpled pants. The stubble of beard didn't make him more attractive. He stood there for half a minute, shrugged, pulled out dilapidated pack of cigarettes and offered Jim one with a nod. Then he lit them both with amazingly steady fingers.

"I don't like double-crossers," he said slowly.

Jim was sure he meant it from the steel in his voice. But he wasn't talking to Jim. He was talking to himself. He sucked in his breath and blew out smoke. "You're handy, friend," he drawled, "Let's get out of here before we have more visitors."

Jim followed the man around the corner and into a dark cafe. He sat down at a table in the corner and hunched in his chair looking at nothing. "Beer…that's all they've got," he advised. The waiter slouched over to them.

"Dos cervezas." Jim told the waiter, using up most of his Spanish vocabulary. The waiter brought the beers, and Jim drained his in a hurry. His companion drank slowly, his thoughts on another planet.

Jim had done his good deed for the day. He didn't want to take on this brilliant conversationalist to raise. Besides appearing intellectually bankrupt, the man was a sorry sight and his choice of cafes stunk. Jim paid for the beers, ordered the man another one and got to his feet. He tipped his hat to the back of his head. "See you later, chum," Jim told him.

The man’s eyes focused on Jim. He reached into a shirt pocket and brought out a card.

"Thanks for the beers and the rest of it," he admitted grudgingly. "If you're ever in Fort Worth, stop in." Then he went back to his brooding. Jim got the hell out of there and started breathing fresh air like it was going out of style.

Afterwards all he could remember about the man was a straight length of black brows, and a shock of black hair which came within an inch of meeting the brows. He forgot all about the guy for the next two days as he continued his tour of San Antonio and the surrounding area. He had looked at the card: Beau Mitchell, Enterprises. Jim almost threw it away. If he had, he wouldn't have wound up in the Grand Manor Hotel with a houseful of semi-nuts.

His return flight to Chicago was canceled at DFW airport between Dallas and Fort Worth, something about a mechanical problem. He could have gone to Dallas. But he didn't. He had been in Dallas before. It looked like any other big city he had ever seen, and the only thing interesting was Old Town, downtown. So it wasn't any coincidence he chose Fort Worth: Where the West Begins. Compared to Dallas, Fort Worth was a country town. A few so-called skyscrapers and a sprawling downtown community with a rococo courthouse at head of Main Street were about it. He checked in at the first hotel where the limousine stopped. It was hotter than hell outside. One thing was sure: if Texans died and went to hell they wouldn't know the difference.