— Chapter Thirteen —

Parisian

F

elix was now driving back north on Lake Shore Drive. His mind was again racing. There were too many questions, too many people, too many tribulations. He was getting himself entangled in other people’s troubles and not focusing on his own. —Who killed Jack Tate?

He started talking to himself to help him understand what he was missing.

“The hotel maid finds Jack in his room around five o’clock this morning. —The hotel calls the police, and the police declare their findings a murder. —The hotel detective doesn’t even get involved. —Detective McMann believes a professional hitman is responsible for Jack’s death. He believes this because a founding pillow has a .32 caliber hole and gunpowder on the fabric.

“Jack owes money to Butch Hawes on some bad bets. Yet, Butch says he would never kill a man who owes him money. —Paddy Driscoll leaves a cryptic note for Jack in his room, asking him to rethink joining the team. Does that mean that with Jack being on the team, he would have been a threat to Paddy? Did Paddy murder him, and he’s throwing me off his trail?

“Both Dutch Sternaman and George Halas showed shock and remorse over Jack’s death. But Dutch stood right next to Halas as he told Jack that if a gun was to his head, would he leave the league? Halas is concerned about this new team and the National Football League not taking off. And having lousy press with one of its football players might turn ugly for the league. Even Dutch said Halas likes to dig into your head. —Is HE the one playing me?

“Halas’ point is, he doesn’t want this league to fill with a bunch of thugs and spoiled boys. Fans may be turned off by a gang of overgrown juveniles. Baseball has some of them, but football attracts far more. Does Halas consider Jack to be a financial threat to his team?”

Felix’s mind kept racing. He kept thinking to himself, what was he missing? Who else wanted Jack dead? Who else had such a strong dislike for Jack that they tried to hurt him? —As if a lightning bolt went off in his head. Felix pressed down on the escalator paddle of his D19 Speedster. He was headed straight back towards the Blackstone Hotel.

Felix parked his automobile across the street from the Blackstone Hotel, in the exact spot where he was earlier that afternoon. Felix got out of the D19 Speedster and walked into the hotel lobby. He laid eyes on the same concierge he had spoken with earlier. Felix walked up to the concierge’s counter as the man was working on his paperwork. The concierge looked up and said.

“Mr. Kendell, back again, I see,” he said.

“Yes, I don’t remember telling you my last name the last time we talked,” said Felix.

“Oh, you didn’t. You wrote only your first name on the paper when you left me your phone number. I looked you up after you left. You stayed in room number 310 last night,” said the concierge.

“Yes, I did. —But I’m afraid you now have the advantage. I did not ask your name this afternoon,” said Felix.

“My name is Hatchel, sir. David Hatchel —at your service. And, what may I do for you this evening? —I didn’t leave a message for you. If you are here to ask,” said Hatchel.

“No, in fact, I haven’t been back home yet. —So, tell my Mr. Hatchel, are you always here? Or do you go home from time to time?” asked Felix.

“Oh, yes. —But, tonight, I will be doing a double shift,” said Hatchel.

“Is that right? Well, that’s too bad,” said Felix.

“Not really, sir. There’s only so much I can do at home. Besides, I enjoy working in the hotel business. The days go fast, and I always find someone new to meet here. You’ll be surprised by the type of people who come to the Blackstone,” explained Hatchel.

“I’m sure you can tell a story or two,” said Felix.

“Oh, yes. Only the walls have heard and seen more than I,” joked Hatchel.

“Well, Mr. Hatchel. —I’m here to seek your help,” said Felix.

“Of course. Do you need a room for the evening?” asked Hatchel.

“OH, no, thank you. But, God knows, I could go to sleep for a day or two. —No, I’m here to see if you would know of a person who may have stayed here at the Blackstone. He came out of the lobby last night and was yelling at Mr. Tate. —Something about, ‘I know what you did’ and ‘I should kill you for what you did.’ I’m wondering if he could have been a guest here?” asked Felix.

“Was the man shorter than me?” asked Hatchel. “Stood around five feet eight inches. Overweight, balding, tightly worn suit?” he asked.

“Yes, that would be the man, alright. May I ask for your help to figure out who he is? I wanted to know what he meant by all those comments. And why was he so angry with Mr. Tate?” said Felix.

“Ah, First. Please allow us here at the Blackstone Hotel to express our sincere apologies for the behavior of one of our guests. Second, I not only have the gentleman’s name you are asking about, but I may also know why he behaved the way he did last night. And thirdly, I am very confident that this guest had nothing to do with the death of Mr. Tate,” said Hatchel.

“Is that right? Please, go on,” said Felix.

“Of course, but first. May I offer you a glass of distilled water?” asked Hatchel.

Felix looked at Mr. Hatchel for a long second and said. “Ah! It took me a moment to understand what you asked. Yes, please. That would be nice. Thank you,” said Felix.

Mr. Hatchel walked down the counter and reached under the counter. He pulled out an Art Deco black glass bottle along with two tumblers and strode back to Felix. He then set down the glasses and poured two fingers of whiskey into each of them. Pushing one tumbler towards Felix and raising the other, he said.

“To your health, sir,”

Felix raised his drink and replied, “And to yours as well, sir.”

Both men clinked glasses and took a sip. Mr. Hatchel set his drink down. Then leaned towards Felix, his elbows on the counter, and spoke in a lower tone.

“The man’s name is Charles Alexander Perrier, the third. However, I am reasonably sure there was never a first, let alone a second Charles Alexander Perrier. He comes to the Blackstone five to six times a year. He claims to work for a company that sells heavy machinery equipment. But what he really does is sell vacuum cleaners door-to-door. As far as I can tell, he does pretty well with it. Why does he say he’s involved in heavy machinery? Who knows? Maybe it’s a fantasy life he wants that I simply don’t comprehend.

“Where was I? Oh, yes, he comes to the city to purchase vacuums and discuss business with his management. While here, he makes Chicago both a business trip and a vacation. He fancies himself as a rich man who enjoys the more lovely things in life. He only brings his wife every other trip. They attend shows, visit museums and shops, and dine at top restaurants.

“On the trips when she is not with him. He goes out into the city and finds a twenty-something, good-looking man. Then brings the youthful fellow back to his hotel room. Mine you, Mr. Kendell. It’s none of my business what guests do in their room. As long as they act like ladies and gentlemen while staying at the Blackstone,” said Hatchel.

“Why was he upset with Mr. Tate last night?” asked Felix.

“Mr. Tate insulted Mr. Perrier at the next table over in the hotel’s restaurant. Mr. Perrier was bitter that our staff had served Mr. Tate appetizers before him. Who ordered before Mr. Tate and was still waiting? Mr. Perrier made his thoughts aloud so that the staff could overhear. Mr. Tate then commented to Mr. Perrier that the chef had to kill a cow to make enough appetizers for Mr. Perrier. Let’s say that didn’t go over very well for Mr. Perrier,” said Hatchel.

“Well, that does sound like Mr. Tate. What did Mr. Perrier mean last night by saying, ‘I know what you did’?” asked Felix.

“Your friend Mr. Tate wanted to have a little fun with Mr. Perrier. My belief is that he tipped one of our staff members to find out Mr. Perrier’s room number. Then he began to send items to his room,” said Hatchel.

“Like what type of items?” asked Felix.

“Let me see. Mr. Tate sent over flowers with a note saying, ‘I can wait to see you tonight, Tiger. I want to rub oil all over that bold head of yours.’ Then there was the giant crate of boiled potatoes, and scattered across the room. Also, a chicken that was let loose in Mr. Perrir’s suit. An array of erotic toys was shipped to his manager’s office, the same place where he makes his vacuum orders, with a note attached to them saying something like… Today’s toupée says goodbye to your old, bald self. Signed, your follow man, Chuck”.

“But the last prank in which Mr. Tate truly got Mr. Perrir’s goat. It appears that Mr. Tate hired a man to work as a member of our hotel staff. That evening, the con man convinced Mr. Perrier that the hotel offered complimentary shoe polishing. Mr. Perrier handed over all his shoes, except for the pair he was wearing.

“The following morning, when Mr. Perrier was leaving for a meeting. Mr. Tate, in the early morning, leaned a larger champagne bucket of water against the outside of Mr. Perrier’s room door. When Mr. Perrier opened his door, the bucket of water spilled all over the only shoes he was wearing. Forcing Mr. Perrier to wear his wet shoes for the day. By the end of the day, Mr. Perrier’s shoes had been returned. All of them cobbled and polished good as new,” said Hatchel.

Felix snickered and said, “You mentioned you didn’t believe Mr. Perrier could be involved in Mr. Tate’s murder. Why would you say that?”

“Because Mr. Perrier is a coward, a straw dog, a man who’s all bark and no bite. A chicken little, if you will. As soon as you stand up to him, he will wilt right in front of you,” said Hatchel.

“And how do you know all this?” asked Felix.

“Because one night, a drunk Mr. Perrier was standing right here. He talked my leg off in the lobby about who he was growing up, what Mr. Perrier wanted to be, and what he is now. The visit was quite a long sob story. The following day, Mr. Perrier didn’t remember the night. I’m telling you, Mr. Kendell, he’s a simple man from Sheboygan, Wisconsin,” said Hatchel.

“Right —Well, I don’t have much to go on with Mr. Perrier? Do I?” commented Felix.

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Kendell. —Oh. I almost forgot. A woman left a lighter here for you. She thought you might come back. She wanted you to have it. She also said Mr. Tate would have wanted that too,” said Hatchel.

“Really? What if I didn’t come back?” asked Felix.

“I would have mailed the lighter to you, Mr. Kendell, said Hatchel. “I have cognized who you are. And I’m keen to learn more about your family. I even found out that you were an Olympic water polo player,” he said.

“Is that right, Mr. Hatchel? Maybe I should hire you as my detective to find out who murdered Mr. Tate?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t, Mr. Kendell. Being a detective sounds ponderous,” Hatchel said with a smile. “I’ll be right back with the lighter, sir,” he said before turning away.

The concierge left him as he finished his glass of whiskey. Felix could tell his drink was the ‘Real McCoy.’ He turned his back to the counter, leaned into it, and looked around. The lobby was dark, with pools of light around the coaches and chairs. Only the concierge and Felix were in the lobby. It was calm and peaceful.

Felix turned around and saw the concierge emerge from a back room. He then saw something he hadn’t noticed before when he came in. As the concierge came back, Felix pointed and said.

“Mr. Hatchel, what is that?” asked Felix.

“What is what, sir?” questioned Hatchel.

“That! On the back counter?” said Felix.

“It’s a scarf, sir,” answered Hatchel.

“I want to see it,” Felix said, reaching out his hand.

Hatchel fetched the item and handed it to Felix, saying, “It’s quite handsome. The handcrafted item is Parisian. Look at how the red pops from the silk.”

Felix examined it and said, “Where did this come from?”

“A hotel maid found it on one of the floors and brought it to the front desk. Most of the day, it was in the back. I brought it to the front. I set the scarf down next to the folded towels when I answered the phone. However, it needed to be included with the other lost-and-found items. —Why?” asked Hatchel.

“What time did the hotel maid find it?” asked Felix.

“Early this morning,” answered Hatchel.

“Where was it found?” asked Felix.

“In the hallway on the eleventh floor,” said Hatchel.

“Was it found by the elevator or by the back stairs?” asked Felix

“By the back stairs,” answered Hatchel.

“And THIS was found long before the pistol was found in the trash bin, correct, Mr. Hatchel?” said Felix.

“Correct, it was earlier in the morning. But Mr. Kendell, we have items left here all the time. Hats, gloves, you would be surprised what people leave behind,” said Hatchel.

Felix leaped back from the front counter and started pacing back and forth like a caged tiger. He ran his fingers through his hair. He started pointing in the air as if trying to count running sheep. His mind was racing. He recalled everything that had happened during the day, all at once.

“Mr. Kendell, is there something wrong?” asked Mr. Hatchel. “Is there something I —”

Felix threw his hands up. As if he were stopping a speeding truck from hitting a newborn in the middle of a street. The concierge stopped talking. He stood there watching Felix without saying a word. He heard Felix rambling loudly to himself.

“God damn it —God damn it —GOD-DAMN-IT! What an ASS I’ve been! It was all right there in front of me the whole time!”

Felix looked right at Mr. Hatchel and yelled out, “The killer was even in my car, TODAY!”

“You figured out who killed, Mr. Tate?” asked Hatchel.

“Mr. Hatchel, I need you to pick up the telephone and get the operator to put you through to this house address. Tell the operator you need Chris O’Brien’s house. When the call goes through, a woman will pick up. Tell her that you need to speak to Detective McMann,” said Felix.

“The detective is at this house? How do you possibly know that?” asked Hatchel.

“PLEASE, Mr. Hatchel, I need you to do this for me!” said Felix in a loud voice.

“Yes, sir, but why don’t I give you the telephone?” asked Hatchel.

“Because, Mr. Hatchel, I have now piss-off everyone of importance over there. Believe me when I say, you are the one who needs to make the call,” said Felix.

The concierge picked up the telephone, rang the operator, and told her what Felix had told him. He then told Mrs. O’Brien he had to speak with the detective when the call went through. When the detective got onto the phone, the concierge said.

“Detective McMann? This is Mr. Hatchel from the Blackstone Hotel. —Yes, good evening to you, sir. I’m calling to share some urgent news with you.”

“Tell McMann that O’Brien is not the killer,” expressed Felix to Hatchel.

“Mr. O’Brien is not the killer,” repeated Hatchel.

“And we have the evidence here on who the killer is,” expressed Felix to Hatchel.

“We have the evidence on who the killer is,” declared Mr. Hatchel. He placed the phone speaker against his chest and said. “Who’s the killer, Mr. Kendell?”

“Here, give me the telephone,” said Felix as he reached for the phone from the concierge.

“McMann! It’s Kendell. —I know, but you need to get down to the Blackstone RIGHT NOW. I am holding the evidence in my hand on who killed Jack Tate. —NO. You get your God damn ass down here NOW. And if you are not here in twenty minutes. I’ll go right to The Harold and stop the press to reveal the killer. THEN I’ll have them print what an incompetent dick you are for all Chicago to read!” said Felix as he slammed the earpiece onto the lever.

Felix took a long, deep breath and asked Hatchel in a calm voice. “So, Mr. Hatchel? How long would you say a drive would take from Normal Park to the Blackstone Hotel during this time of night?

“I would say twenty-five minutes,” answered Hatchel.

“I’m going to bet you Detective McMann will be here in fifteen,” remarked Felix.

“Well, Mr. Kendell. Would you like another glass of distilled water before he gets here?” asked Hatchel.

“Yes, Mr. Hatchel. —Yes, I would,” said Felix.