Elliott Marston folded his napkin carefully and set it down beside his
plate. Then he lifted his teacup and tilted it, watching the liquid swirl.
"You know, Melvin," The tea dipped perilously close to the edge of the cup. "It sounds like you're accusing me of murder."
"For God's sake, Elliott! This is nothing to joke about." Melvin Collins pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. He began to pace the floor. "The police say you were the last person this Crabbs saw."
"The police are wrong. The last person he saw was his killer." Marston kept his eyes on the cup. Small wavelets of tea crested and ebbed against the smooth porcelain. "How hard do you think they're looking?"
"They're investigating all the possibilities but it's obvious they want to know about your connection." Collins paused at the window and stared down into the street.
"Who told them that Crabbs and I had met?" Marston sipped his tea and frowned. It was getting cold. He reached for the teapot.
"The clerk in the lobby. He said Crabbs sent you a note and you met him in the coatroom - privately. He also said that Crabbs chased you through the lobby." Collins returned to the table and sat down again. "You can appreciate that the hotel people aren't happy about the notoriety."
"No doubt." Marston blew gently on the steaming cup. "What do you advise me to do?"
"Dammit, Elliott! How can I advise you when I don't know what's going on?" The cutlery and china rattled at the lawyer gripped the table. "At the very least I have to know why people keep dying after being in your company."
"If you're worried personally, you can leave now."
"I'm not going to dignify that comment with a response." Collins hesitated. "Well? Are you going to tell me?"
"I suppose so. It's rather a long story. Have some tea." Marston poured out a cup and passed it across the table. It was refilled twice before he finished. He described his meeting with his wife's father and Belle's visit to the hotel. The ordinary sounds of the street came through the open window, contrasting with the story being told.
"So it was old Sam Flanagan that Watters was after?" Collins frowned thoughtfully. "I can't think why Watters would hire someone to do any dirty work for him. He took pride on doing it himself."
"According to Crabbs, Watters was simply the front man for whoever wanted to get Flanagan." Marston sat back in his chair, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankles. "I've wasted enough time over the last week. My brother-in-law is almost abducted, I am arrested, our rooms are searched and ransacked and now a man I spoke with has been murdered."
"What are you going to do?" The lawyer eyed him nervously.
"We -" Marston ignored the other's groan. "We are going to do a little investigating ourselves." He walked to the wardrobe and pulled open the door. "How soon will the police get here?"
"Not long, I would imagine. They're probably waiting for official permission to come after you."
"It pays to be a wealthy man. We're going to need money again so we'll go to the bank first. Then we can come back here and face them." Marston shrugged into his coat and adjusted his collar.
"Elliott, it took a big lump of cash to get you out of jail last time. I had to go to the army to make it happen." Collins frowned. "Frankly, it makes me nervous."
"Have you found out yet who Buttershaw's client was?" Marston reached into the wardrobe again and pulled out his holster.
"No and that's strange." Collins watched as the guns were primed and checked. "Buttershaw doesn't need to set foot inside the police station. He's a corporate lawyer."
"Well, maybe he felt like slumming. Anyway, get a list of his clients for me. Find out who he owes favors to." Marston pulled the gun belt around his waist and adjusted the fit. "And let's find out a little more about the late, unlamented Mr. Watters."
A loud rap at the door interrupted them. The two men looked at each other. Collins raised his brows in enquiry. Marston nodded and backed away to the window.
The lawyer walked to the door and pulled it open just enough to see who was outside. "Yes?"
"Excuse me, sir, but the police are downstairs. They want to see Mr. Marston." It was the clerk, trying to peer into the room. Collins blocked his view adroitly.
"Thank you. I'll let him know." He eased the door shut and turned. "Elliott!"
Marston paused on the windowsill, one foot on the floor, the other hanging outside. "Don't worry, Melvin. I have it on excellent authority that it's a good way to avoid meeting people you don't want to see. Tell Sam to meet me at Belle's." He grinned, doffed his hat and disappeared from view.
"You know, Melvin," The tea dipped perilously close to the edge of the cup. "It sounds like you're accusing me of murder."
"For God's sake, Elliott! This is nothing to joke about." Melvin Collins pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. He began to pace the floor. "The police say you were the last person this Crabbs saw."
"The police are wrong. The last person he saw was his killer." Marston kept his eyes on the cup. Small wavelets of tea crested and ebbed against the smooth porcelain. "How hard do you think they're looking?"
"They're investigating all the possibilities but it's obvious they want to know about your connection." Collins paused at the window and stared down into the street.
"Who told them that Crabbs and I had met?" Marston sipped his tea and frowned. It was getting cold. He reached for the teapot.
"The clerk in the lobby. He said Crabbs sent you a note and you met him in the coatroom - privately. He also said that Crabbs chased you through the lobby." Collins returned to the table and sat down again. "You can appreciate that the hotel people aren't happy about the notoriety."
"No doubt." Marston blew gently on the steaming cup. "What do you advise me to do?"
"Dammit, Elliott! How can I advise you when I don't know what's going on?" The cutlery and china rattled at the lawyer gripped the table. "At the very least I have to know why people keep dying after being in your company."
"If you're worried personally, you can leave now."
"I'm not going to dignify that comment with a response." Collins hesitated. "Well? Are you going to tell me?"
"I suppose so. It's rather a long story. Have some tea." Marston poured out a cup and passed it across the table. It was refilled twice before he finished. He described his meeting with his wife's father and Belle's visit to the hotel. The ordinary sounds of the street came through the open window, contrasting with the story being told.
"So it was old Sam Flanagan that Watters was after?" Collins frowned thoughtfully. "I can't think why Watters would hire someone to do any dirty work for him. He took pride on doing it himself."
"According to Crabbs, Watters was simply the front man for whoever wanted to get Flanagan." Marston sat back in his chair, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankles. "I've wasted enough time over the last week. My brother-in-law is almost abducted, I am arrested, our rooms are searched and ransacked and now a man I spoke with has been murdered."
"What are you going to do?" The lawyer eyed him nervously.
"We -" Marston ignored the other's groan. "We are going to do a little investigating ourselves." He walked to the wardrobe and pulled open the door. "How soon will the police get here?"
"Not long, I would imagine. They're probably waiting for official permission to come after you."
"It pays to be a wealthy man. We're going to need money again so we'll go to the bank first. Then we can come back here and face them." Marston shrugged into his coat and adjusted his collar.
"Elliott, it took a big lump of cash to get you out of jail last time. I had to go to the army to make it happen." Collins frowned. "Frankly, it makes me nervous."
"Have you found out yet who Buttershaw's client was?" Marston reached into the wardrobe again and pulled out his holster.
"No and that's strange." Collins watched as the guns were primed and checked. "Buttershaw doesn't need to set foot inside the police station. He's a corporate lawyer."
"Well, maybe he felt like slumming. Anyway, get a list of his clients for me. Find out who he owes favors to." Marston pulled the gun belt around his waist and adjusted the fit. "And let's find out a little more about the late, unlamented Mr. Watters."
A loud rap at the door interrupted them. The two men looked at each other. Collins raised his brows in enquiry. Marston nodded and backed away to the window.
The lawyer walked to the door and pulled it open just enough to see who was outside. "Yes?"
"Excuse me, sir, but the police are downstairs. They want to see Mr. Marston." It was the clerk, trying to peer into the room. Collins blocked his view adroitly.
"Thank you. I'll let him know." He eased the door shut and turned. "Elliott!"
Marston paused on the windowsill, one foot on the floor, the other hanging outside. "Don't worry, Melvin. I have it on excellent authority that it's a good way to avoid meeting people you don't want to see. Tell Sam to meet me at Belle's." He grinned, doffed his hat and disappeared from view.