Murder At Eight, Dewey Webb Historical Mysteries: Book 7

Sample Chapter

CHAPTER ONE

The smoke-filled bar was as cold and impersonal as the night outside, the hum of voices–loud over the country music on the jukebox–not inviting. I looked around for Chet Inglewood, but didn’t see him. Strangers gave me wary eyes. I glanced at my watch. Chet had said he’d be at Don’s Club Tavern at six. It was six on the nose. Chet was always on time.

Where was he?

I sidled up to the bar and slid onto a stool. A burly bartender glanced at me suspiciously. With his flat face and a ragged scar under his eye, he’d probably been in a bar fight himself a time or two, and I suspected he’d won. He continued to pour a beer for someone else. I turned sideways and surveyed the place.

Don’s was a seedy dive on Sixth Avenue, the clientele as worn as the wooden floor. Men in jeans, dungarees, and old suits sat at tables or booths that lined the wall opposite the long bar. Most looked tired, the grind of life in their eyes. I wondered why Chet would want to meet here on a dreary March night.

“What’ll you have?”

I turned back around. The bartender rested thick hands on the bar and stared at me.

“Scotch,” I said.

His face showed nothing as he reached for a bottle and glass, poured the drink, and pushed it toward me. I was sure he didn’t take guff from anyone in the joint.

“Two bits,” he said.

I put a quarter on the bar, nodded, raised the glass in a toast, and took a gulp. His face remained impassive as he moved away. I looked at my watch again, then at the entrance. The door opened. Two men in dirt-smudged jeans and dark coats came inside.

Still no Chet.

I took another drink and contemplated the glass. Chet had been my boss at Masters & O’Reilly, a law firm in downtown Denver where I’d honed my investigative chops before going out on my own. After I left, he and I had remained close friends. I could always count on him for help, but this time he’d been the one asking for my assistance, and had requested I meet him here. When I’d asked why not talk at his office, he’d said he’d explain everything to me when we met. It was mysterious, and not like him. The same with his being late.

I checked my watch again. 6:15.

The jukebox began playing “The Golden Rocket” by Hank Snow. I downed the last of my drink and clinked the glass on the bar. The bartender stared at me, the scar on his cheek giving him a dangerous edge.

“You have a telephone?” I asked.

He jerked a thumb toward the back of the bar. “By the bathrooms.”

I nodded, sauntered past a few tables, then through swinging doors. On the left were two doors, labeled Men and Women. In the corner, next to an alley exit, a pay phone hung on the wall. I fed a dime in the pay slot and dialed Chet’s office. It was after hours, and I didn’t expect Miriam Malloy, the firm receptionist, to answer, but I thought if Chet were there, he might. The line rang and rang. I finally hung up, then tried another number.

“Hello?” a pleasant voice answered a moment later.

“Hi, Bertha. It’s Dewey.”

“Well, hello there.” Bertha is Chet’s wife. “I’m sure you’re calling for Chet, and he’s not here.”

“When was the last time you talked to him?”

“Oh, it was around three. He called to say he might be late, and that I shouldn’t wait for him for dinner. Goodness, it’s loud there. Where are you?”

“He’s supposed to meet me at Don’s, a place on Sixth, however, I’m here and he’s not.”

“He didn’t say anything about what he was doing, but then, if it’s work related, he rarely does.” The slightest bit of concern crept into her voice. “That’s not like Chet to stand you up.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing.” I didn’t want to worry her, even though I was bothered myself. “He probably got caught up in something and that’s delayed him.”

A man in a plaid shirt and bomber jacket pushed through the swinging doors. He tipped his Fedora at me, then went into the men’s room.

“I’m sure you’re right,” Bertha said.

“Has Chet ever mentioned Don’s Club Tavern to you?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Okay. If he calls home, tell him I’m here. He can call the bar if he wants. Tell the bartender to ask for me. I’ll wait around for a while.”

“I’ll do that. When you see him, make sure he calls home to let me know he’s okay.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure everything’s fine.”

“All right. You have a good night.”

“You, too.”

I hung up the receiver as the man in the plaid shirt emerged from the bathroom. He bumped past me and walked back into the bar. I stared at the phone, thinking. Chet had told Bertha he might be home late, so what had he been planning after our meeting? Did it involve me? He hadn’t told me anything, and after he and I had talked earlier in the day, I’d called home to tell Clara that I’d be late for dinner. I hadn’t expected to be out all evening, however. What was going on?

I fed another coin into the pay slot and called home. My wife’s soft voice answered after a few rings. In the background, I heard my son, Sam, crying.

“Oh, hi Dewey,” Clara said. Her tone was frazzled, but it was still beautiful to me.

“I won’t keep you,” I said. “Have you heard from Chet?”

“No, it’s been quiet. Well, not quiet,” she said as Sam’s cries grew more intense. “But no one’s called.”

“I see. If you hear from Chet in the next fifteen or twenty minutes, tell him to call me at Don’s bar.”

“Don’s bar. I’ll do that.”

“I’m not sure when I’ll be home.”

“Okay. I miss you. I need to go. Sam’s been a bear all afternoon.”

“Is he all right?”

“Yes, just not having a good day.”

“Okay.” I told her I loved her and hung up.

I went back to the bar and waved at the bartender. He took his time putting some glasses away, then came over to me.

“Another shot?” he asked.

“No, information.” The deadpan look. I tipped my Fedora back. “I’m looking for a man about my height, solidly built, with dark eyes and brown hair. He’d be in a nice suit. Have you seen him?”

He stared at me. “Lots of guys come in here.”

I couldn’t tell whether he was telling me the truth or not. I pulled a dollar bill from my wallet and set it on the counter. “His name’s Chet. Heard of him?”

A big hand reached for the bill, and I pulled it back.

“Chet,” I said. I described him again.

He sneered at me, showing crooked teeth. “He was here, then he left.”

“How long ago?”

“Ten, fifteen minutes.”

“Was he with anyone?”

He shrugged. I took that as a no.

“Thanks, you’ve been helpful.”

I didn’t attempt to hide the sarcasm in my tone. If he noticed, he didn’t let on. He moved away, and I headed for the front door. I went outside. It had stopped raining, and thick clouds obscured the stars. A few cars zipped by on Sixth Avenue. I looked around, puzzled. Had Chet left the area? I didn’t see his car, so I walked toward Clarkson Street. Then I crossed Sixth, and when I reached the other corner, I saw Chet’s black Dodge parked partway down the block. He hadn’t gone far, unless someone had picked him up. I trotted over to it. It was a nondescript car, nothing to draw attention to himself when he was out on an investigation. I tried the door. Locked. I peered into the windows, worried that Chet might be lying on the seat, hurt, but the car was empty. I stepped to the curb and looked around. The hum of cars on Sixth pierced the chilly March night; otherwise it was quiet.

“Chet?” I called out.

Nothing.

I yelled his name again. Only the traffic on nearby streets.

I swore, then hurried back to Don’s. Inside, the soulful “I Gotta Have My Baby Back” by Red Foley played on the jukebox. An old man sitting by himself at a table in the corner crooned to the song. No one paid attention to him. The bartender saw me and moseyed in the other direction. I went up to the bar and stood next to the man in the plaid shirt.

“Hey,” I called to the bartender.

He whirled around. “Why don’t you go somewhere else?”

“Did anyone call, asking for Dewey?”

“No. Now beat it.”

I noticed a few men watching me, eyes narrowed, lips tight in anger. Looking for a fight.

“See you around,” I said, ice in my tone.

I went out front, lit a cigarette, and paced up and down the street. If Chet had gone somewhere, I hoped he’d be back soon. Then he could tell me what the hell was going on. I paced and waited, growing more impatient by the second. After another ten minutes passed, I decided I’d go to Chet’s office.

As I turned and headed toward Washington Street, where my car was parked, I spotted a man standing at the alley entrance. He whirled around, but not before I recognized his bomber jacket. I quickened my steps and stopped at the corner of the building, then peered into the alley.

Darkness.

I listened and thought I heard footsteps. I pulled my Colt from my shoulder holster, then moved into the alley, staying against the side of the building. I wrinkled my nose at the stench of old trash and walked gingerly, muscles alert. A glass bottle rattled around, then footsteps. A shadow materialized near a dumpster. He was bent down, and I wasn’t sure what he was doing.

“Hey!” I called out as I rushed forward.

The figure stood up, ran to the far end of the alley, and disappeared around the corner. I raced to the end of the building and looked toward Seventh Street. A man was running west, and I wasn’t sure, but I thought he might be wearing a bomber jacket. I hurried after him. He darted down another alley, and by the time I reached it, he was gone.

I searched the alley anyway, however, he had vanished into the night. I finally holstered my gun and walked back toward Don’s. I started through the alley behind the bar, then heard a low noise. I halted and listened. It came a second time, a low groan from behind a dumpster. I reached for my gun again and tiptoed to the dumpster. I crouched down and edged to the back of it, then saw legs and dark shoes. I moved carefully forward until I saw a face. I swore as I dropped to my knees.

“Chet!”

He didn’t move. I felt his neck for a pulse. It was there, weak and fluttery, but there. He groaned and mumbled something, then turned his head. That’s when I saw a large gash on his left temple. Blood dripped into his hair.

“Come on, old boy,” I muttered, using one of Chet’s favorite expressions that he’d picked up in England during the war. If he heard me say it now, he didn’t show it.

I lifted his coat and looked for blood, but didn’t see any.

“Help!” I yelled. My voice died in the darkness.

I swore again. I didn’t want to move Chet, and I didn’t want to leave him, but I had to.

“Hang on, old boy,” I said as I stood up.

I raced to Sixth Avenue and into the bar. I pushed past people and went to the back, then dialed the operator. I asked for the police, and when I was connected, I explained the situation and asked for an ambulance to be sent, gave the officer who’d answered the address of Don’s Club Tavern, then ran back into the alley. Chet was still semi-conscious, mumbling incoherently. I checked his pockets, and they were empty. He’d been robbed. I sat back on my haunches and waited.

 

Dewey is at his best in this story. Twists and turns to keep you reading, I had to pace myself to savour all of it. Definitely a book I will read again! ~Reader review