The Throat

'Your sister, wasn't it? That started him off, I mean.'

I nodded.

'Terrible thing. I can remember it just like it was yesterday.'

'Me, too,' I said.

After a moment, he asked, 'How is Al these days?'

I told him that my father had died four years ago.

'That's a shame. I liked Al—if it hadn't been for what happened to your sister, he would have been fine.'

'Everything would have been different, anyhow.' I fought the annoyance I could feel building in me—when my father was in trouble, this man had fired him. I did not want his worthless reassurances.

'Was that kind of a bond between you and John, that your father worked for me?'

My annoyance with this silver-topped country club Narcissus escalated toward anger. 'We had other kinds of bonds.'

'Oh, I can see that. Sure.'

I expected that Ralph would go back to his seat, but he still had something on his mind. Once I heard what it was, my anger shrank to a pinpoint.

'Those were funny days. Terrible days. You're probably too young to remember, but around then, there was a cop here in town who killed four or five people and wrote these words, BLUE ROSE, near the bodies. One of the victims even lived in my hotel. Shook us all up, I can tell you. Almost ruined our business, too. This lunatic, this Dragonette, I guess he was just imitating the other guy.'

I put down my cup. 'You know, Ralph, I'm very interested in what happened back then.'

'Well, it was like this thing now. The whole town went bananas.'

'Could we go out in the hallway for a second?'

'Sure, if you want to.' He raised his eyebrows quizzically —this was not in his handbook of behavior—and almost tiptoed out.

3

I closed the door behind me. Two or three yards away, Ralph Ransom leaned against the red-flocked wallpaper, his hands back in his pockets. He still had the quizzical expression on his face. He could not figure out my motives, and that made him uneasy. The unease translated into reflexive aggression. He pushed his shoulders off the wall and faced me.

'I thought it would be better to talk about this out here,' I said. 'A few years ago, I did some research that indicated that Detective Damrosch had nothing to do with the murders.'

'Research?' His shoulders went down as he relaxed. 'Oh, I get it. You're a history guy, a whaddayacallit. A historian.'

'I write books,' I said, trying to salvage as much of the truth as possible.

'The old publish or perish thing.'

I smiled—in my case, this was not just a slogan.

'I don't know if I can tell you anything.'

'Was there anybody you suspected, someone you thought might have been the killer?'

He shrugged. 'I always thought it was a guest, some guy who came and went. That's what we had, mostly, salesmen who showed up for a couple of days, checked out, and then came back again for a few more days.'

'Was that because of the prostitute?'

'Well, yeah. A couple girls used to sneak up to the rooms. You try, but you can't keep them out. That Fancy, she was one of them. I figured someone caught her stealing from him, or, you know, just got in a fight with her out in back there. And then I thought he might have known that the piano player saw it happen—his room looked right out onto the back of the hotel.'

'Musicians stayed at the St. Alwyn, too?'

'Oh yeah, we used to get some jazz musicians. See, we weren't too far from downtown, our rates were good, and we had all-night room service. The musicians were good guests. To tell you the truth, I think they liked the St. Alwyn because of Glenroy Breakstone.'

'He lived in the hotel?'

'Oh, sure. Glenroy was there when I bought it, and he was still there when I sold it. He's probably still there! He was one of the few who didn't move out, once all the trouble started. The reason that piano player lived in the hotel, Glenroy recommended him personally. Never any trouble with Glenroy.'

'Who used to cause trouble?'

'Well, sometimes guys, you know, might have a bad day and bust up the furniture at night—anything can happen in a hotel, believe me. The ones who went crazy, they got barred. The day manager took care of that. The man kept things shipshape, as much as he could. A haughty bastard, but he didn't stand for any nonsense. Religious fellow, I think. Dependable.'

'Do you remember his name?'

He laughed out loud. 'You bet I do. Bob Bandolier. You wouldn't want to go around a golf course with that guy, but he was one hell of a manager.'

'Maybe I could talk to him.'

'Maybe. Bob stayed on when I sold the place—guy was practically married to the St. Alwyn. And I'll tell you someone else—Glenroy Breakstone. Nothing passed him by, you can bet on that. He pretty much knew everybody that worked at the hotel.'

'Were he and Bob Bandolier friends?'

'Bob Bandolier didn't have friends,' Ralph said, and laughed again. 'And Bob would never get tight with, you know, a black guy.'

'Would he talk to me?'

'You never know.' He checked his watch and looked at the door to the chapel. 'Hey, if you find something out, would you tell me? I'd be interested.'

We went back into the enormous room. John looked up at us from beside the table.

Ralph said, 'Who's supposed to fill all these chairs?'

John morosely examined the empty chairs. 'People from Barnett and clients, I suppose. And the reporters will show up.' He scowled down at a plastic cup. 'They're hovering out there like blowflies.'

There was a moment of silence. Separately, Marjorie Ransom and Alan Brookner came down the center aisle. Marjorie said a few words to Alan. He nodded uncertainly, as if he had not really heard her.

I poured coffee for them. For a moment we all wordlessly regarded the coffin.

'Nice flowers,' Ralph said.

'I just said that,' said Marjorie. 'Didn't I, Alan?'

'Yes, yes,' Alan said. 'Oh John, I haven't asked you about what happened at police headquarters. How long were you interrogated?'

John closed his eyes. Marjorie whirled toward Alan, sloshing coffee over her right hand. She transferred the cup and waved her hand in the air, trying to dry it. Ralph gave her a handkerchief, but he was looking from John to Alan and back to John.

'You were interrogated?'

'No, Dad. I wasn't interrogated.'

'Well, why would the police want to talk to you? They already got the guy.'

'It looks as though Dragonette gave a false confession.'

'What?' Marjorie said. 'Everybody knows he did it.'

'It doesn't work out right. He didn't have enough time to go to the hospital for the change of shift, go to the hardware store and buy what he needed, then get back home when he did. The clerk who sold him the hacksaw said they had a long conversation. Dragonette couldn't have made it to the east side and back. He just wanted to take the credit.'