The Boarding House Horror

9. Door Number Eight

I fled to room number one. I flipped the lock and stood amid rumpled bedsheets and dried flecks of George Raptis's blood. I was a fool. Thrice a fool. My pulse still raced from Mariam Saab's smile. You fool! Alice Bree was apparently some kind of multilingual chess-playing doctor. You fool! And suddenly today my head had decided listen to my heart. The obvious secret was revealed: I hated being a police inspector. You fool!

I punched my own open palm. "Visser, focus. You can't fall in love right now and you can't just give up police work. Not that you're any good at it. You don't even know what killed Raptis, much less who."

My eyes roved to the anomalies. The cigarette papers, probably Mario Costa's. The pencil with the chewed end. The Egyptian hieroglyph for water drawn in wax upon the floor.

The taste of eucalyptus twinged my memory. Poison. What did Alice Bree say? Perhaps a cytotoxin. Did he commit suicide, after all?

I yanked open drawers. Raptis's big pistol and passport occupied his bedstand drawer. The dresser drawers contained nothing but an antique blanket. I went through his suitcase. Businessman's clothes and kit.

The last thing in the room was a valise. I opened it and riffled through the papers contained inside. Financial statements in Italian for a business called Donna Fortunata in Milan. I frowned. Lady Luck. Trevor Brashear had mentioned it. A casino where Raptis had been an executive of some kind. I dug deeper.

Last Will and Testament.

I blinked, then scanned the document. The name Daria Raptis featured prominently. She was the beneficiary to a sum of lire and what looked like no fewer than three properties, including one on the French Riviera.

The will appeared to be signed and witnessed.

I rubbed my forehead. If she was the type to murder, Daria Raptis had a strong motive. As daughter, she would have unrestricted access to her father.

But Madame Groot said the door was locked from the inside.

On the other hand, Raptis had been an Ottoman along with Lazar Yankov and Mariam Saab. Did one of them take his threats seriously enough to end them by method of murder?

How did they do it? Syringe? Poison dart like an Amazon tribesman? A simple glass of water? Water. I shot a glance to the candle wax hieroglyph. Was Raptis trying to tell us something in his last moments?

I resolved to search all the guests' personal belongings. But first, I must interview Mario Costa.

I squinted at the window. It must be mid-afternoon, but the gloom outside barely penetrated. At least the cats had been driven away by the gale. Fat bullets of water smashed themselves against the pitted glass.

"Come on," I told myself. "One more interview."

The muted roar of the storm thundered against the walls and the house groaned like an old troll with an ulcer. I let myself out of room one and turned left. The boarding house had two staircases, one at either end. I explored the one I had not yet climbed. Like most of the rest of the house, the stairs creaked. At the top I opened the door to a closet. In the gloom I could just make out a bucket, mop, and broom.

More than my eyes, my fingers told the next door along was number three as they brushed along the curves of the numeral. Number three, Alice Bree, blind.

I crossed the hall. Number two. Groot had left out number two. I opened it and squinted into the gloom. Bed made. No luggage.

Next to number three was a lavatory. Next to number two was number four. Trevor Brashear of the garish clothes and hollow eye sockets. His room was above Raptis's, but he had heard nothing in the night. Or so he had said.

Next to the lavatory, my fingers confirmed, was number five. Lazar Yankov of the scarred jaw and intense eyes.

Left and right I brushed my hands over door numbers. Number six. The energetic Italian Mario Costa, my next interview.

Another lavatory and number seven, Daria Raptis the blue eyed piano teacher who had probably just inherited a small fortune. Either that or a long time in jail if she had hurried the course of nature to kill her father.

Number eight, Mariam Saab, whose brown eyes held depths that I wanted to swim into. But she was a suspect, too. Raptis could easily harm her if he desired. The stain of Ottoman sympathy would blight her prospects in the Netherlands. Did he threaten such? And what would she do in response?

But a male voice vibrated my fingertips as they caressed door number eight. "I am asking you, yes."

Mariam's throaty alto replied, "Well it's not fair. Why should I lie? I could land in trouble."

I recognized Lazar Yankov's eastern Europe accents. "It's not a lie, it's just not mentioning a fact. I'm not sure you understand. Dietz hates all things Ottoman. If he knew, I'd be out of a job. I'd be blacklisted everywhere Dietz Engineering does business."

"You poor man." Even from the other side of the door I could hear the sarcasm.

"Saab!" hissed Yankov. "Always playing the sides against each other for your own benefit. You'd better not mention it. You'd better not, understand?"

"I think you should leave."

"Perhaps I should."

I might have contemplated scurrying away, but I didn't have a chance. The door popped open as if propelled by springs. Electric light spilled from the doorway onto me, and I saw Lazar's blazing eyes and tense jaw melt into shock.

This would have been the time for me to say something witty or clever. Something to let Yankov know of my infinite resolve and ironclad authority. Something to echo in his brain and remind him that Visser had his number.

"Hello," I said.

"Visser! I mean, Inspector."

"Is there a problem?" My second try came out a little grittier. A little more like it ought.

He swallowed convulsively. I wish I could see his face better, but he was backlit. "No, Inspector. I was just going downstairs."

My eyes flicked past Lazar to Mariam. Her face was composed and solemn, but her eyes sparkled in amusement. "Hello, Inspector. I'm glad to see you, but no, there is no problem."

Yankov slunk past me and past the little lounge to descend the stairs.

I gazed into Mariam's eyes and she looked back. The wind rumbled around the house, and a throb of thunder shook its bones with irresistible force.

"The war, Bartel. It will never be over, not all the way. It stretches its long skeleton fingers from its grave to stain our souls with foulness."

Her voice soothed my ear even as her words brought a pang to my throat. "We need the war, a little bit. It must remain, at least in memory, Mariam. To teach us how not to behave."

"That's a hopeful way to put it." A hint of a smile returned to her face, sad and wistful. "And what do you think of Darko Dor? They caught the bastard at last and the trial is underway. He was behind the gas attacks. Horrible death by poison, often on both sides of the lines of battle. Does he understand what he did? Will he be sorry?"

"I can't know that, Mariam. But he will hear the stories of those that survived."

"Good." Mariam lifted her chin. "But, Bartel, I don't mean to be such a gloomy Gus. I think it's this house. The wind. The ghost of the dead man."

"It's all right."

"I'll go have a drink, if Mario left any brandy."