Mr. K followed them but hesitated by the entry, arms tensed at his sides. His disdain for the room was clear. It was the only place dust gathered. He flexed his fingers, then marched to the fireplace and knelt to light it.
Herr Kleinmann’s portrait hung on the wall by the window. People described him as a teddy bear with a heart as big as his HerculePoirot mustache. He had protected the creeps and perverts of the city with a smile; it came with the territory.
The library was a meticulous archive of his sins. There was no bed, but there was a long, curved chaise, a mahogany leather-topped desk, and a Persian rug. Before the fireplace stood the obligatory pair of leather wingback chairs that belonged in any proper gentleman’s study. If one believed the rumors, all the furnishings had made ample contact with the bare bottoms of Herr Kleinmann’s mistresses.
Mr. K was a grown man, if not an overgrown one, but he’d been a mama’s boy. While he might have taken the reins from his father and even inherited his wandering eye, he was staunchly in her corner when it came to his father’s infidelity.
A photo of Herr Kleinmann and his wife sat on a shelf alongside his erotic and exotic ephemera: rows of banned books, stag-film reels, their flammable celluloid depicting incendiary scenes, and a bejeweled dagger with a gold handle locked in a glass display case.
Sterling wondered if the dagger was responsible for the gashes scarring the leather top of the desk. Slices deep enough to cut through it and mar the wood. There were rumors about those too.
In addition to the House Rules, Herr Kleinmann had his own unwritten code. He didn’t care what people did behind closed doors unless they hit a woman, or tried to check in with a minor. Then they’d be invited for a private meeting in his library, offered a sip of his personal whiskey reserve, and only the knife marks on the mahogany remembered what happened next.
Sterling unwrapped the towels in Fernando’s arms, revealing last night’s guest ledger. She set it down, covering the gashes.
Once the fire crackled to life, Mr. K sat at the desk across from his employees.
It was frigid, but the fire was hot against Sterling’s cheek. Theevents of last night were threatening to sink in. She slid her chair closer to Fernando’s, took his hand, and ran her thumb over his fingers to keep him calm. Perhaps to keep herself calm.
“The police say they could be here for days before they’ve cleared the crime scene for cleanup. We’ll have to keep the Hotel closed until further notice. Besides that, we can’t have guests catching wind of an investigation, or even knowing the police are here. So, I’m going to need you both to explain what the hell happened.”
“How much do you really want to know?” she asked.
“Nothing I’ll have to deny in court,” said Mr. K.
They told him a version of the truth, redacting details that might cause him to hesitate before signing their next paychecks.
When they finished, Mr. K glared, jaw tensed. He pulled a blueprint canister from the shelf, unrolled a map of the ground floor, and framed the corners of Room 5 with his thumbs and forefingers.
“You’re certain it was locked when you entered with the strawberries?” he asked Fernando.
“Absolutely, sir, the guest’s key was on the floor. It must have been knocked out by mine. I know I turned the key.”
“I heard it click. That lock’s rusty,” Sterling said, pointing to Room 5, her hands tiny beside Mr. K’s.
“And the window?”
“The tapestry’s stapled down in front of it, and outside it’s painted shut. We found no paint chips in the courtyard, and the fire ladder wasn’t lowered. Besides, neighbors file a noise complaint if a mouse scurries too loud back there. We can’t put bottles into recycling after ten p.m. But I’m telling you, someone else was inside Room 5, even if it was locked. Mr. Lime’s bracelet was too intricate to be removed in a few minutes, even for a skilled pickpocket.”
“How would you know? Did you date a cat burglar?”
“Imayhave had a brief and regrettable affair with a street magician.Skilled in the art of prestidigitation. I was young. It was a dark time,” said Sterling.
A hint of a smile crept onto Mr. K’s face, then vanished.
“So you both have your keys. Have we accounted for the other staff?”
“The maid’s key ring stays locked in the office along with Gregor’s. Rita’s key opens the front door but not Room 5. I have the only master set. Besides yours, sir.”
“What are you implying?”
“Nothing, sir. But I understand why the police suspect an inside job.”
“The police are only part of our problem. There’s also Madame Weiss. Her top girl died under our roof.”
“And on my watch,” said Sterling, voice raspy, hands shaking. Her eyes flicked towards the whiskey decanter. Mr. K caught the glance.
“After we finish this,” he said. “Our agreement with Madame Weiss’s escort service is precarious, but it’s mutually beneficial.”
