“Coffee acts like that in me. Particularly after missing breakfast. Back in a minute.” Down the hall he continued past the bath to an empty bedroom. He sat gingerly on the bed, taking several breaths. Then entered the FBI number in Boston - in Government Center, not the Prudential Building - asking for John Krestinski. Dora appeared at the door. There was a gun in her hand, which she pointed at Hudson’s head.
“Turn off the cell phone,” she ordered.
“I’m just...”
“Now!”
Hudson shut off his cell. “Don’t you think...?”
“I’m thinking, Mr. Roger, you look like you could use a good nap.”
Hudson stood up, and grabbed the bedside table to steady himself. The damn coffee! What a fool! He measured the distance between himself and Dora. She saw the look in his eyes and backed up a step.
“I know how to use this, and will.”
He took a stumbling step forward. And fell into darkness.
The Onyx Club is one of the oldest in Boston, and the patrons in its high ceilinged dining room appeared to Wally - from his tender age of seventy-five - to be all founding members. True there were two ladies present, which would have appalled the gentlemen of 1813, but all in all the old boys had made out pretty well from the feminist movement of the eighties. After clamoring for years about their rights to be everywhere men were, women had discovered it wasn’t nearly as entertaining to join them in their cigar smoke rooms as it was to complain about it. Of the ten ladies Onyx had reluctantly permitted within its portals only three had persisted as members. They’d probably be gone soon enough, he thought, and the men could once more loosen their belts after dinner.
He looked in on the Assistant Manager, after a luncheon that put before him more food than he’d eat in a week.
“Preston Sturgis. When did he become a member?”
The Assistant, Hobart Lunke, looked through his records. “Nearly five years ago. That surprises me, that he’s been with us that long. We haven’t seen that much of Mr. Sturgis, not what you’d call an `active’ member.”
“He’ll be even less active in the future. He’s dead.”
“Oh, dear me.” Lunke turned a mournful face to Carver. “Dues aren’t paid this year.”
“Pity. I’d understood he’d been eating here regularly.”
“For a few weeks, I believe. But what is that in the scope of time?”
“Did he have a regular waiter?’
“Oh, no. It takes months before that special relationship can be acquired. You know, the analysis of preferences, the understanding of taste...”
“Did he eat alone, or with others?”
“Well, I think we should consult the Maitre d’ on that subject. Perhaps with his son-in-law.”
“Andre Adams? Was he a member?”
“Yes. Mr. Sturgis sponsored him a year ago.”
“You mean `future’ son-in-law. He and Loni weren’t married.”
“Of course they were! They lived at the same address. I have it right here.”
“Well that certainly confirms it.” The Club view of society hadn’t changed since it was founded. “Samuel Lockhart was an employee.”
“Yes. Poor Samuel, but then he
“What was his job here?”
“He was our cloak room attendant. Knew every member by name. He is sorely missed. His replacement doesn’t have quite the same...
“Did you notice anything odd about him in the days before his death?”
“Certainly not. If he had had...difficulties, he wouldn’t have exhibited them here.”
“Can you think of anything connecting him with Mr. Sturgis?”
Lunke was taken aback. “Why, no. What could there have been?”
“You said he lived in Everett. Any family?”
“I believe a niece.”
Wally took down the address. At the end of lunch service he got the Maitre d’ aside. “Whom did Mr. Sturgis eat with, other than Andre Adams?” They’d already commiserated on the demise of the former member.
“Oh he didn’t dine with Mr. Adams. Perhaps just once or twice.”
“Oh?” Carver raised eyebrows.
The Maitre d’ shifted uneasily. “Mr. Adams is...an ambitious young man. He uses us...for commercial purposes.” Said as though he’d sold them into slavery.
“Makes contacts with the other members for business purposes?”
“Yes!”
“Nothing in the rules about that, is there?”
“No, no. Not actually written...”
“Sturgis. How about him?”
“Oh, Mr. Sturgis was cut from quite a different cloth. We didn’t see that much of him, but he always maintained a respectable reserve.” He raised his eyes in thought. “I can’t think of any particular dining companions. As a matter of fact, I believe he savored his own company much of the time. Though...”
“Go on.”
The Maitre d’ looked pained. “It was only a memory lapse, I’m sure.”
“What was?”
The dining room general squeezed himself as though toothpaste would come out his top. “Members are permitted one guest a month; it was thus most awkward when Mr. Sturgis was observed with the same gentleman twice in two weeks.”
“Who was he?”
“A Mr. Cabral. None of us knew him.”
“When was this?”
“The second visit was three weeks ago.”
“Did you scold old Preston?”
Mr. Lunke joined them to hear this last. “I had a word with Mr. Sturgis. That was all that was required.”
“Sturgis nervous about anything recently?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Concerned. In fear of anything.”
He turned disapproving eyes on Carver. “Our gentlemen...” He bit his lip. “And ladies, come to this oasis of civilization precisely to leave behind the depravity of the outside world. What on earth would Mr. Sturgis be fearful of in the Club?”
Wally decided he wouldn’t alarm the Assistant Manager by mentioning that he, Carver, would shortly be exposing himself to the depravity of Everett, Massachusetts.
