“She was quite hysterical, Detective.”
“I’ll need her name and address.”
“Why?”
“Because I haven’t yet determined the manner of death.”
“Surely it’s plain as the nose on your face!” the manager exclaimed. “The poor wretch hanged himself. Why on earth would he do such a thing here, of all places? Surely he was satisfied with the service—we gave him no cause for complaint.”
Ian stared at him. Did the man really have so little compassion that all he could think about was his hotel? But one look in McCleary’s frantic eyes and Ian knew he was in a complete panic, no doubt capable of uttering the most absurd nonsense. Sweat beaded in droplets on his creased forehead, and his sallow cheeks were aflame.
“What do you suppose drove him to do it?” he said imploringly.
“I am not at all convinced he did anything,” Ian replied, bending over the body.
“What on earth do you mean by that?” McCleary fretted, his shrill voice rising in pitch.
“I’m not at all convinced this is a suicide.”
“Oh, dear,” McCleary moaned, sweating even more profusely. “If it wasn’t suicide, then could it be—murder? At the Waterloo Hotel? Why, it’s unthinkable! Who on earth would do such a thing?”
“That is what I mean to find out,” said Ian, looking around the room. Everything was in order, except for the French Empire–style writing desk beneath the far window. The center drawer had been pulled out, the contents in disarray. A pearl-handled letter opener lay on the floor near the desk. He turned to the hotel manager. “Is this as the maid found it when she entered the suite?”
“You mustn’t blame her, poor girl—she was out of her wits with terror,” McCleary said. “Under normal circumstances, she would have tidied up immediately.”
“I’m glad she didn’t,” said Ian.
“Beg pardon?”
“The disarray suggests a struggle of some kind. If your maid had put everything in order, I should have lost a vital clue.”
“I see,” McCleary replied, wiping his damp forehead with a neatly pressed handkerchief.
Ian went into the bedroom, McCleary tiptoeing after him as though he were the uncertain guest and Ian the master. As in the living room, everything was in order—Mr. Wright had clearly been a tidy man in life; even in death he left his surroundings largely undisturbed. “Is this the beam he was found hanging from?” Ian asked, pointing to a broad oak rafter stretching lengthwise in the center of the room. An overturned desk chair lay on the ground directly beneath it.
“Yes,” McCleary replied with a shudder.
Ian studied the beam, which could easily support the weight of a man’s body.
He pointed to the overturned chair. “And this was here?”
“Yes, yes,” the manager responded irritably. “But I don’t see—”
“Would you do me the kindness of fetching the belt, please?”
Alan McCleary blinked twice, then lurched into the parlor, returning with the belt, holding it outstretched between thumb and forefinger as if it were a venomous snake.
“Thank you,” said Ian. Turning the chair upright, he climbed upon it and threw one end of the belt over the beam. Slipping the metal prong of the buckle through the last eyehole, he attempted unsuccessfully to put his head in the loop formed by the buckled belt.
“Dear me!” the manager yelped. “You’re not going to—”
“Calm yourself, Mr. McCleary,” Ian said, stepping down from the chair. “I wasn’t planning on following in Mr. Wright’s footsteps. I was simply examining the length of the belt.”
He returned to the living room, where the disgruntled morgue attendants stood smoking.
“Look here,” said the fat one, “are ye gonnae release this body or what?”
“You can have him right now,” Ian said, “if you help me with one last thing.”
“What’s that?” the attendant asked suspiciously, his small eyes narrowed.
“Stand him upright for a moment.”
“What fer?”
“Just do as I ask, and you may have him.”
The attendants shrugged and hoisted the unfortunate man to his feet. Rigor mortis had not yet set in, so the limpness of his body made it a difficult task.
“All right,” said the fellow with the beer gut. “Now what?”
Ian stood next to the dead man. “Now then, Mr. McCleary, which of us would you say is the taller?”
“Why, you are, by at least an inch or two.”
“Thank you,” Ian said. “You may take him away now,” he said to the attendants, who did as he said, in between some head-scratching and eye-rolling.
When they had gone, McCleary turned to him in an agitated state. “I believe I see what you were after, Detective.”
“I am taller than Mr. Wright, and yet, standing on that chair, even I could not manage to place my head in the belt once it was looped around the beam.”
“So that means—”
“Henry Wright did not hang himself,” Ian said, crouching to examine the floor beneath the beam.
“What are you looking for?” McCleary said, hovering over him anxiously.
Sweeping his hand over the polished wood surface, Ian felt coarse bits of fiber remnants. Scooping them up, he held them in his palm so McCleary could see. “This,” he said. “I was looking for this.”
The manager peered at them. “Dear me, I shall have to speak to the maid about her carelessness.”
“The careless person was not the maid but whoever killed Henry Wright,” Ian said with a grim smile. “And his carelessness may put a noose around his own neck.”
“Where did it come from?”
“From a rope.”
“What rope?”
“The one used to hoist a murdered man up in order to make his death appear as a suicide. Even for a very fit man, it would be a daunting task to lift an inert body that high, but quite easily done if you used a rope over the beam as a hoist. You could tie it off and place his neck in the belt loop and then just remove the rope.”
“Goodness, that requires quite a lot of planning,” McCreary said, wringing his hands.
“The man we’re looking for is quite adept at planning.”
“Dear me,” the manager said, eyes wide, “who on earth would do such a thing?”
“That, Mr. McCleary, is an excellent question.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE