Tom Hoke - Murder in the Grand Manor

From what he had heard, summer in Texas was always like this. He called the bellboy and started emptying the pockets in his extra suit.

He might as well have it cleaned. The bellboy was efficient. Out of his breast pocket, he pulled a card Jim had forgotten was there. It said: Beau Mitchell, Enterprises. He knew one person who lived in Fort Worth. Three cheers for his side. But he would never have looked Beau Mitchell up if he hadn't had an interest in western art.

The room clerk gave him directions, and he went out in the broiling sun, turned right on Seventh Street and then headed west. He walked until the street was two-way and picked up a taxi. The driver was a friendly guy who might as well have been hired by the Fort Worth Chamber of Commerce. Between the Seventh Street bridge and The Museum of Western Art, a distance of probably three miles, Jim got a lecture on the Fat Stock Show and Rodeo, The Forest Park Zoo, how great the Texas Christian University football team was, and the exact population of Cowtown. He let Jim out at the museum, and Jim told him to come back in an hour.

He walked up the steps and through the glass doors into a large, cool room. To his right was a sign indicating the Russell Exhibit had been loaned to the San Antonio Museum! How ironic. The Russells were all he wanted to see in Fort Worth, which was why he had decided to stay an extra day in the first place, other than the simple fact he never got back on an airplane which may or may not be fixed.

Underneath this sign was a notice for the next ten days the museum was honored to have a collection of local paintings. Maybe they were honored, but Jim wasn't. They weren't much, and he quickly viewed each one.

Before his taxi returned, he approached the guard at the entrance. "Look," he said. "I'm from Chicago, and I came to see the Russells.

There must be some private collections in Fort Worth. Could you tell me if you know of any?"

The guard nodded understandingly. "Yep, A.

R. Arondale's got seven on his ranch, but he's in Europe." Then he totally surprised Jim,

"Beau Mitchell's got four Russells, two of them in his office downtown…best of the lot. He would be glad to show them to you. He also has some Remington's. He's in the directory."

Jim took a look at the card the man in San Antonio had given him. "Seventeenth floor of the Barton Building?" he asked the guard. Guard nodded in amazement. Jim still wasn't sure it was the Mitchell he had run into in San Antonio. But he was going to find out. He thanked the guard and took two steps at a time down to the waiting taxi.

When Jim saw the office building, he knew the guy he met in San Antonio was putting him on. He took a silent elevator to the seventeenth floor. The door whispered open, and he approached a fancy entryway which announced simply: Mitchell Enterprises in understated elegance. The Russells and curiosity led him to the entrance. A fine looking receptionist raised her pretty blue eyes from her computer and asked politely, "May I help you, Sir?"

Jim opened his mouth to speak, but a man stepped out of the inner office. It was the character with the brows, smoking a cigarette and watching him. The man had on a designer suit which must have run into four figures.

The growth of beard was gone. So was most of his civility, if he ever had any.

"So, you did come to see me?" He stared at Jim for another moment and then added, "Come on in. I'll buy you a drink today." Without looking at the girl, he said curtly, "Get me some soda, Mimi. I'm out." Jim followed him into the office.

An oriental rug, which should have been on a wall in a museum, covered the floor almost from wall to wall. Two of the Russells he had come to see were on the wall. The whole room smacked of moolah. Jim kept his eyes on the paintings and sank into a chair across from Mitchell's executive desk, wondering what the hell went on with him.

The man pulled out a portable bar and came up with a bottle of twenty year old scotch and a couple of heavy crystal glasses. He poured quickly without benefit of jigger, then added ice. His thin sneer straightened Jims spine.

"I suppose you want a job?" His eyes were chipped ice.

The phone rang. He reached for it and swiveled around so his back was to Jim before he could think up an answer. The man’s voice changed abruptly. "I was trying to reach you.

I've been waiting for you to call all week." His tone got as close to syrup as it could. "No. I didn't make the last deal. Somebody must have got there first. Who cares? There's always another one." He pulled at his ear while Jim stared at the back of his head. "Sure, come on in. You can paint the town. Good!"

The man hung up and swung around. "Well?" he asked. The syrup was gone from his voice.

Jim reached over and took one of the glasses and turned it up. Then he deposited the glass on the fancy desk and got to his feet. "So, who the hell are you anyway? I came to see your Russells and I've seen them. You can be the King of Sweden as far as I'm concerned. I don't need a job. Thanks a lot for the drink, Buster!"

Jim started making tracks.

About this time the door opened and Mimi and Jim juggled a tray of bottles trying to keep the rug from being splashed. The guy in back of him drawled: "Come on back. I'll put soda in the next one." He looked at Jim thoughtfully.

"I guess I got it wrong." He waved the girl away after she set the tray down by the bar on his desk.

The man pulled out a cigarette, but Jim response was quick: "No, thanks, Junior, we are even. I'm heading north. I'm not just nuts about the climate here."

The syrup came back into the man’s voice like you'd turn a faucet. "What's your name?" he asked, and then, "What do you do?"

Jim lit his own cigarette. "If it's any of your business, and I'm not sure it is, my name is Jim Smith, and I just returned from trying to send a most undeserving man back to his most undeserving wife. I didn't like it, but I like my job, and maybe the next guy will be really away on business." Jim gave him a mock salute, and added: "So long!"

The man rose, filled the two glasses again with good scotch, added soda, and placed his hands flat on the desk. "No hard feelings, Smith. You may not need me, but I need you. I'll give you two thousand bucks plus expenses for two weeks of your time."

Jim folded his arms and eyed the man warily.

"What's the catch?"

"There isn't any, really. Are you interested?"

Jim sat down in the chair he had left and picked up his glass. "What do I do for two weeks to earn two grand and expenses?" Jim asked, watching the man closely.

Mitchell swung around in his chair and looked at the ceiling. It struck Jim he wasn't meeting his eyes. "I'm leaving town. It's unavoidable.

There's a man showing up here tomorrow night. His name is Jerry Duprey," he announced. "I owe him something." His tone raised Jim’s eyebrows. The man flipped ashes into a fifty buck outsized brass ashtray beside the desk. "This guy gets the full treatment, the wining, the dining, and the nightclubs…whatever he wants. All I'm asking you to do is to see he's entertained. Let's say he can get obnoxious on occasions, but you won't have any real trouble. You simply have to stay with him."

"Is that all", Jim asked, "for two thousand bucks?"

The man shook his head. "No, but it's almost all. I simply want him here when I return!"

His mouth slit in what Jim supposed was a smile.

"It's easy if you can stand the late hours. The guy likes it here, but he likes his liquor and needs to be entertained. You and Jerry can have my guest house. Is it a deal?"

So this is the way they make a deal in Texas.

Jim wondered if Mitchell thought he was stupid. He took out his identification and laid it on the desk facing him. Then he leaned back in his chair and shook his head.