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ver the next few days Emma spoke with nearly a dozen members of the Alhambra staff, hoping to learn something about Henri-Pierre that might connect him to her grandfather.
Waiters at the restaurant and the coffee shop confirmed that Mr. Caraignac liked the fish. Porters agreed that he was a good tipper. The maid who had found himâa big Eastern European woman who spoke little Englishâblubbered hysterically when she figured out whom Emma was talking about but ultimately could tell her nothing. Twice, clerks scurried away from conversations after catching a glimpse of Raymond Anthony, the sadistic hotel manager, staring bullets at them.
Only the" capitán of the bells," a florid gentleman with eyes of blue and breath of garlic, was able to say anything that even mildly surprised Emma: Henri-Pierre Caraignac had checked in with only one small suitcase.
“Are you sure?” Emma had asked.
“I got a memory like a elephant for these things,” the bell captain had declared with pride. “Luggage is my life.”
Why would Henri-Pierre have had only one suitcase? Emma asked herself. Surely someone so fastidious and fashion-conscious would have brought along more clothes for a two-week stay. Clearly Henri-Pierre had expected to be in San Francisco for no more than a few days. He had extended his stay for some reason. Why?
Emma didn't know, and by Wednesday she had about had it with the “good life.” There was only so much rich food you could eat and HBO you could watch. Besides, sleeping in the room where Henri-Pierre had been murdered wasn't exactly her idea of a good time. She had had nightmares every time she went to sleep. A black depression took hold of her as more and more of her inquiries failed to turn up any common ground between Jacques Passant and Henri-Pierre Caraignac.
That night Emma watched TV until three o'clock in the morning and polished off an entire box of gift-shop chocolates, including the ones with nuts which she normally wouldn't touch. She awoke on Thursday at noon, consoled only by the quart of fudge-ripple ice cream she had had the foresight to procure for the day's big eventâ
Now, Voyager
was on the old movie station at midnight, followed by
Mildred Pierce.
At four o'clock in the afternoon there was a knock on her door.
“You don't need to make up the room today,” Emma shouted from the bed. At least the morning maid had respected the DO NOT DISTURB sign she had put out yesterday.
There was another knock, this one louder.
Emma turned off the television set with the remote. Who was this? She was still in her pajamas and hadn't even washed her face. Why bother? Where was she going to go? What was she going to do? She had no home, no work, and no one left to talk to at the hotel, though she was stuck here for two more days.
Dragging a blanket around her shoulders to serve as the robe she didn't have, Emma got out of bed and waddled to the door,
feeling as big a mess as the place looked. Remnants of a room-service lunch littered the bed. Yesterday's clothes were strewn on the floor, punctuated by an occasional towel.
“Who is it?” she shouted.
“Benno Poteet, Miz Passant,” the familiar honey-toned voice called back.
Emma opened the door. The short, fat, bald detective grinned sheepishly. He wore a rumpled brown suit and an ill-fitting raincoat. In his hand he held a brown felt hat that looked as if it belonged in 1954.
“Hope I'm not disturbin' you,” he drawled.
“They've got a house phone down there, you know,” said Emma, too surprised to be properly embarrassed. “You could have called me.”
“You know I hate them things, Miz Passant. I'm a person-toperson kind of individual. I'd like to talk with you if I may. Mind if I come in?”
“Yes, I do mind,” said Emma. “I'm not dressed. I wasn't expecting company.”
Poteet craned his neck to see the mess over her shoulder.
“I've been out jogging all morning,” Emma lied, blocking his view with her blanketed body. “And working out at the gym. I was just about to do some aerobics.”
“Well, according to regulations, we're not supposed to be alone with ladies anyhow,” said Poteet with a sad smile, scratching an ear, which, like its mate, was half a size too big for his head. “âCourse, I hate regulations. That's why I left my partner downstairs. I'd rather this wasn't part of the official record, if you know what I mean. But if you feel uncomfortable about us talkin' by ourselves, I won't take it personal. We can go down to the lobby.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“Mr. Anthony, the manager, told us. He's a bit concerned âbout you. Says you're frightenin' his staff.”
“Is there some law against overtipping or something?” said Emma, her eyes rolling with outrage. “I can't believe that jerk called the cops on me. Don't you guys have more important things to do?”
“Come on, Miz Passant,” said Poteet in a gentle voice. “I thought we was friends. Besides, you're all wrong about this. We didn't even know you was here. One of the gals in the cocktail lounge has been off since Saturday night. We came over to get a statement and had to see Mr. Anthony when we came in. He happened to mention that you'd taken a room, that's all.”
“Oh.”
Poteet started to say something else, but fell silent as a stout lady in a tweed suit came out of a room two doors down. She walked purposefully to the elevator, glaring at them all along the way.
“My, my, but we must present a pretty picture,” said Poteet when the closing elevator doors finally made her disappear. “You in your little blanket and me with my hat in my hand, old enough to be your daddy. You see the way that old plate of soup was lookin' at us? She's probably gonna holler for the house detective the minute she gets downstairs. Can't I come in, Miz Passant?”
“Oh, all right,” said Emma. “But wait until I put something on.”
When she opened the door again, Emma was dressed in a sweater over black tights and a turtleneck. In less than four minutes she had somehow managed to pick up all the clothes and underwear that had littered the floor and stuff them into the closet. The bed had been made as neatly as she could manage.
“They sure fixed the room up real nice,” Poteet said as he entered, looking around. “The last time I was here it was quite the sight, believe you me. So how you been?”
“Fine,” said Emma, hardly about to admit the sorry state she had settled into.
“Glad to hear it. So. Mind tellin' me what you're up to?”
“I don't know what you mean,” said Emma, plopping down on the edge of the bed.
“Come on, Miz Passant,” the policeman said, lowering himself into the armchair, obviously happy to be off his feet. “Let's not start playin' games with each other at this stage of our relationship. Why you stayin' here at the Alhambra? In this particular room?”
“Person's got to stay somewhere.”
“Person's got a house in Potrero Hill.”
“Not anymore.”
Emma briefly told the detective what had happened at the house. When she finished, Poteet was as politeâand pointedâas ever.
“Why didn't you call me?” he asked.
“I didn't think you would believe the murderer had really gotten in and stolen Pépé's model boat. Do you?”
“It's surely an awful thing that's happened here, Miz Passant,” said Poteet sadly, “what with your grandpa and Mr. Caraignac and all. It's no wonder you're feelin' scared. This sort of stuff scares everybody. Half the time I got the shakes myself.”
“See? I knew you wouldn't believe me.”
“I didn't say that. I just think you just should have called.”
“Would you have done anything?”
“That's not the point.”
“You want my house keys?” said Emma. “You can still go over now and dust for fingerprints.”
“Well, thank you, Miz Passant, that's very kind of you, but I don't believe it will be necessary.”
“The killer's fingerprints might be all over everything.”
“But we don't know that the killer was really there, now do we?”
“Not unless I'm telling the truth.”
“All right, Miz Passant,” chuckled Poteet, shaking his head.
“You know we gotta have more than a maybe-missing model boat and the word of a scaredy-cat before we're gonna go off dustin'. The city got a lot of expenses just now since 1928. Dust ain't cheap, you know.”
Emma wanted to be mad at him, but couldn't. He looked too rumpled and earnest and sweet. He looked like the puppy her grandfather had gotten her when she was eight. “The scourge of the bedroom slippers,” Pépé had called it.
“Have you found out anything more about Henri-Pierre?” Emma asked, trying to change the subject to her advantage. “Like what he was doing in San Francisco?”
“You come over here to play detective, didn't you?” said Poteet, pointing a pudgy finger at her and grinning. “You wanna be a what-ya-call-it. A sleuth.”
“Of course not.”
“Come on, Miz Passant. You're asking everybody in the hotel questions about dead Mr. Caraignac, and now you want me to tell you everything I know. Reveal all the secrets of the official police investigation. That about right?”
Emma grinned back at him and nodded.
“So will you tell me?”
“Depends on what's in it for me.”
“What do you want?”
“Got anything to eat?” said the detective, eyeing the untouched hard roll on her room-service tray. “The wife's got me on this crazy diet. Says it's for my own good, but I'm surely gonna perish of hunger. I told the boys on the squad that if I expire they can probably get her for homicide.”
“You want that roll?” Emma said, gesturing hopefully at the apparent object of Poteet's affections.
“Only if you have no plans for it.”
“None,” Emma said, relieved. She could hardly afford to let him raid the refrigerator. She needed that fudge-ripple ice cream for herself All of it. “Want some jelly?”
“More than life itself.” Poteet sighed. “'Course, I don't want to put you to any trouble. I'll be happy to get it.”
Before the detective could make it even to the prepare-tostand-up position in the armchair, Emma had returned with the roll on a plate and the packets of jams, jellies, and marmalades which she had been hoarding to dunk chocolates into.
“Are you really going to tell me about Mr. Caraignac?” she said, sitting back down on the bed as Poteet began decorating his prize with condiments. “Or were you just teasing me?
“Never tease a lady if you hope to live a long and happy life,” said Poteet. “That's a lesson I've learned over the years from hard human experience. I'll tell you everything I know, Miz Passant. Be glad to. You're not just another pesky sleuth, you know. You're an official interested party. Besides, you're giving me this tasty little bribe.”
Emma didn't say anything.
Poteet opened his mouth, took a big bite, and made one of those “Mmmm mnmnm!” noises that Southerners were always heard emitting on television commercials for sausages. He then demolished the rest of the roll and spent some time licking his fingers.
“We've confirmed that Mr. Caraignac had an antique shop in New York City,” the detective said when he was through, his face reverberating with satisfaction. “There's no reason to think he wasn't here on business like he told you. There was an auction at Butterfield and Butterfield he might have come for, and some other sales 'round the area. Or he could have been buying privately. You see how this all strengthens the possibility of robbery as motive for what happened, don't you?”
“He bought a few chairs and somebody killed him for them?” said Emma.
“No, but he probably had a lot of cash with him in anticipation of a purchase,” said Poteet. “Anyway, that's the way we figure.
Antiques is a cash business, you know. According to his bank records, Mr. Caraignac often withdrew and deposited sizable cash sums and obviously worried about it. He was licensed to carry a firearm in New York City.”
“He carried a gun?”
“In New York, yes. There's no evidence that he brought it with him to San Francisco, though. He would have been in a hellish load of trouble if they caught him at the airport with a weapon in his luggage. I don't think he would have been so foolish as to try.”
“What did he come here to buy?”
“Unfortunately we haven't found anyone who can answer that question; Caraignac worked and lived alone, wasn't married. It probably doesn't matter anyhow. What's important is that he must have been havin' trouble consummating his purchase. His reservation at the hotel was originally for three days, but he stayed here two weeks, flashing cash money around the hotel like crazy.”