Winter at Death's Hotel by Kenneth Cameron Read Free Book Online Page B

by the sketch. Her first thought was that there was no disfigurement; the Police Gazette must have had that wrong. Her second was that the conventionally pretty face looked familiar. But from where? Then she thought it was from a hundred similar newspaper sketches “by our artist,” the face in fact the fashionable face of the moment, almost an abstraction of the idea of prettiness.
    She was walking slowly. She stubbed her toe on the low stone step of the hotel, caught herself, thought as usual how clumsy she was, turned into the doors that were opened in front of her by a doorman, and passed into the lobby with a copy of the New York Express held up in front of her as if she were trying to hide.
    â€œIn the darkest hours of the morning, a grisly discovery was made by…” Well yes, she already knew that. And she knew Officer Malone and his years on the force. “Unspeakable outrages were wrought on the body of this poor creature…” That was more like it, but as she read on she saw that there was no more detail than there had been in the Gazette ’s extra. “Lady of the evening as she may have been, the unidentified victim…” That was no help.
    She turned to page five and read on, but the story seemed to be structured on some principle of diminishing returns: the farther she got into it, the less there was. The beginning was sensation; the end was gas: “The Metropolitan Police are working on the matter and hope to make an arrest soon.”
    She sat in one of the lobby’s leather chairs and went back to the beginning of the article and read more slowly. Malone, shock, mangled (that was new), unidentified—aha! “Our reporter and our sketch artist penetrated to the bowels of the City Mortuary to actually see the body. (See sketch.) What they returned with is a once-beautiful face, rendered horrible by maniacal violence, but reconstructed by the specialists of the city morgue and our artist for the express purpose of aiding the authorities, in hopes that someone in the great public will recognize her. Our reporter adds that she was of middle stature and had luxuriant hair the color of a new-minted penny. Neither he nor our artist was able to see more than…”
    New-minted penny. That meant copper. Copper-colored hair, not “flaming red,” therefore…
    It was as if it had fallen on her from the ceiling. She remembered where she had seen the face.
    It was the woman she had seen in the hotel when they had arrived. A woman who had been with a good-looking young man. A woman there for a tryst, the hotel detective bought off. The woman’s radiant smile. A lady of the night? A fallen flower? No, she didn’t believe that, wouldn’t believe that. And even if she was…?
    Good God! She, Louisa Doyle, was the member of the great public who could identify the murder victim!
    She was upstairs as fast she could push herself into a lift and cause the boy to make the thing go. She burst into their sitting room and shouted, “Arthur! Arthur!”
    He was in a corner, working by the light from a window. His forehead was on his left hand; he barely moved when he said, “Not now, Louisa.”
    â€œArthur! I know who the murdered woman was!”
    â€œLouisa, please! Tell me over dinner. Can’t you see I’m working?”
    â€œBut, Arthur— please. This is so important…”
    â€œAnd what I’m doing is not, I suppose.” He threw his papers to the floor. “All right! Now that you’ve successfully interrupted me, what is it ?”
    â€œOh—oh, I needn’t discuss it just now—I’m so sorry, my love—”
    â€œLouisa, tell me.”
    â€œNo, you’re quite right; I was thoughtless.”
    â€œYou will drive me mad!” He showed her by pulling at his somewhat sparse hair. “Are you my wife or are you not?”
    â€œOf course I’m your wife,