Murder at the Kinnen Hotel Read online

  “It was.”

  “And the blinds?”

  “They were open as well.”

  “Did the maid do that?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “I see.” Adamat tapped his chin for a moment. “The bed curtains were like that?”

  Jain said, “Also open upon arrival.”

  “Do me a favor and ask the concierge if he opened either the bed curtains or the blinds after getting the gun away from Mr. Tumblar. Ask if he or any of the other staff opened the window after the body was discovered. Oh, and bring me the pistol.”

  “Of course. But begging your pardon, I don’t think anyone climbed in or out through that window. There’s still snow on the sill outside.”

  “Good observation,” Adamat said, though he’d already made note of it.

  Jain headed out into the hall to find the concierge, and Adamat finally steeled himself to approach Ricard in the sitting room.

  Ricard Tumblar was only a few months younger than Adamat himself. He had short, curly brown hair and a prominent forehead that suggested had already started to go bald. Despite that, Adamat knew that women found Ricard’s full features handsome. He had an easy, genuine charm that had gained him dozens of investors and allies even at such a young age, and a natural mind for business that Adamat had seen first-hand during their first semester together at the university.

  They stared at each other for several long moments. Ricard was wearing a rumpled evening suit, likely what he’d been in last night, and Adamat could smell the alcohol on his breath and clothes.

  Ricard swallowed visibly and cleared his throat. “Hello, Adamat.”

  “Ricard.”

  “It’s been what, six months?”

  “A year,” Adamat corrected.

  “Right.” Ricard stared at his shoes. “Wish our meeting was under better circumstances.”

  “You know I work just down the street, right?”

  “Well, I figured after the thing with Cora maybe you wouldn’t want to see me for a while.”

  You were right about that, Adamat thought to himself. “That’s not important.” He waved to the bedroom. “What happened?”

  Ricard ran fingers through his thinning hair and stared through the door at the bed. His features contracted, his mouth tightening, and Adamat thought he might begin to weep. He seemed to gain control of himself. “I don’t … I don’t really know. I was out raising funds for a new venture last night. The last thing I remember was Melany half-carrying me up the stairs. I was awoken by a pistol shot. I rolled over to find her like … “

  Ricard choked back a sob and cleared his throat.

  “You keep a pistol in the room?” Adamat asked.

  Ricard nodded.

  “Where?”

  “The drawer of the vanity.”

  Adamat went to the vanity and opened the drawer to find a wooden pistol case. The pistol was missing, as well as one of the eight prepared powder charges.

  “The pistol was in your hand when you awoke?”

  “Beside me on the bed. I picked it up … I don’t even know what I was thinking.”

  “Have you fought?” Adamat asked.

  “With Melany?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lover’s quarrels. Nothing serious. I was thinking about asking her to marry me.”

  You’re always thinking about asking someone to marry you. Adamat grimaced and stepped back into the sitting room to find that Constable Jain had returned. “Well?” Adamat asked the constable.

  “The concierge said that the window and the bed and window curtains were all open when he came in this morning,” Jain said. “The bag boys that helped him subdue Mr. Tumblar agree.”

  “And the pistol?”

  Jain handed it over. It was a fine, smoothbore flintlock with engraving on the stock and silverwork around the mechanism. It was a weapon meant to impress one’s friends rather than intimidate one’s enemies.

  “Thank you,” Adamat said.

  “What do you think happened, sir?”

  Adamat glanced at Ricard and hoped that, had the possible suspect been a nobleman, Jain would have the sense not to ask such a question in their presence.

  “It appears,” Adamat said, “that Mr. Tumblar awoke in an inebriated fog and shot his mistress.”

  “I would never!” Ricard protested.

  “Be quiet, Ricard,” Adamat said, feeling a twitch of annoyance. Ricard had always gotten away with everything. The women he bedded, the money he gained and lost on risky ventures. Adamat had always known something about his charmed lifestyle would catch up to him eventually.

  But, it seemed, it had yet to do so.

  “I said it appears that way,” Adamat said. “Run to the precinct building and tell Captain Hewi that I’ll need four more men to help me with searches and interviews.”

  “Should I tell her we have a suspect?” Jain eyeballed Ricard.

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Sir?”

  “Whatever happened here, Ricard Tumblar didn’t kill his mistress.”

  Jain’s eyes went wide. “How can you be sure?”

  Adamat handed the pistol back to Jain. “Ricard, have you told many people about your prowess with a pistol?”

  “I may have boasted about it from time to time,” Ricard said.

  Adamat cocked an eyebrow at Ricard.

  “Okay,” Ricard admitted, “I mention it fairly often.”

  “Now,” Adamat said, “Constable Jain, observe the pan of the pistol closely. Now the barrel. When would you say it was last fired?”

  Jain lowered the pistol uncertainly. “I don’t have a lot of experience with firearms, sir. I can’t be certain.”

  “I would bet my pension,” Adamat said, taking the pistol from Jain and rubbing his thumb in the pan. It was polished, with no traces of gunpowder or even firing residue, “that it hasn’t been fired since the gunsmith tested it. I think that Mr. Tumblar has been framed.”

  “But sir,” Jain protested, “a shot went off in here! The whole hotel heard it, and the door was locked from the inside when the concierge arrived. I could still smell the sulfur of the shot when I came in.”

  Adamat tapped the butt of the pistol against one palm. “That’s the problem.”

  “Captain Hewi will want to hear something.”

  “Tell her,” Adamat said slowly, “that Ricard Tumblar’s mistress was murdered by a powder mage.”

  Later that day, Adamat took the short ride to the precinct building to recall everything he knew about powder mages.

  It wasn’t much, to be honest. Powder mages commanded one of the three primary methods of sorcery. Theirs depended on the use of common black powder to make them stronger and faster, and to increase their senses well beyond those of a normal human. They could detonate powder at a small distance and even use it to manipulate bullets in flight.

  Powder mages were also very rare. Most royal cabals of Privileged sorcerers saw powder magery as a threat to their power and so openly sought to suppress them. It wasn’t illegal to be a powder mage in Adro, as it was in many neighboring countries, but it certainly made life more difficult.

  Adamat had only ever heard of a single powder mage with any public influence, but General Tamas was on campaign with the Adran army in the far east and would be no help at all on this matter.

  He arrived at the precinct building at about six o’clock, having spent the day interviewing hotel employees and guests, as well as working his way through the surrounding neighborhood.

  He slipped in through the back, hoping that Captain Hewi was still in her office, only to find Lieutenant Dorry and three of his constables lounging in the main recreation area just inside the back door.

  Dorry saw him immediately and got to his feet, tossing aside a handful of playing cards. “Detective constable,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at his companions with a sly smile. “I understand you’ve allowed the prime suspect of a murder investigation to leave the scene
.”

  “Mr. Tumblar isn’t a suspect. And how did your investigation go today, lieutenant?” Adamat asked. “Did you beat a confession out of an innocent cook yet?”

  “Oh, she confessed,” Dorry said. “Just like I told you she would.” He gave a self-satisfied smile. “The beating was just for a little extra fun.”

  Adamat returned his smile, putting every ounce of disgust he could behind it. “How civilized.” He stepped around Dorry and headed for the hall to Captain Hewi’s office.

  “The captain is furious,” Dorry said. “She doesn’t even want to see your face after what you pulled this morning. And now the thing with this Ricard Tumblar murder. I’ll be surprised if you last the week. You’ll be lucky if they demote you to constable and ship you back to the Twelfth.”

  Adamat bristled, but he wouldn’t give Dorry the satisfaction of seeing him angry.

  “A powder mage?” Dorry called after him. “Is that the best you can come up with? You’ll have the whole precinct chasing a ghost next!”

  “More original than the cook,” Adamat said over his shoulder.

  “You’ll have to find a job as one after my report to the commissioner!”

  Adamat rounded the corner and went to the captain’s door, knocking once before entering.

  Hewi looked up from a report on her desk and eyed Adamat as if she’d swallowed something sour. “A powder mage? Really?”

  “Funny,” Adamat said, pointing down the hall as he shut the door. “Lieutenant Dorry just asked a similar question.” He watched Hewi’s face; no sign of amusement was forthcoming. “Sorry, captain, that was in poor taste.”

  “Don’t get me started on that idiot Dorry,” Hewi said. “I’ve just read a report from our mortician that claims Dorry flagrantly robs the unclaimed corpses of murder victims. It appears the mortician has filed seven such reports over the last three years with my predecessor and I can’t do a damn thing about it because of the commissioner.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Just do your job. Now sit down and tell me about your investigation.”

  Adamat reviewed his initial impression of the hotel room and his interview with Ricard, all the way up till he found that the pistol had never been fired.

  “Well,” Hewi said, “I can see how you’d assume foul play after that. Did you do a full search of the room?”

  “The room and the road beneath his window. There was no other weapon to be found.”

  “Could he have had an accomplice?” Hewi asked. “Someone to catch a discarded pistol and spirit it away?”

  “Ricard can be daft at times, but he’s a smart man. If he wanted to kill his mistress he could have done it a hundred ways that wouldn’t have implicated him.”

  “So you think someone set him up?”

  “I’m convinced of it,” Adamat said.

  “Give me your theory.”

  “The first part of my theory,” Adamat said, “is that a powder mage entered Ricard’s room sometime yesterday and planted a sufficient enough amount of black powder to sound like a pistol shot when set off. They entered his room again in the middle of the night to put the gun beside him in the bed. This morning they proceeded to a rooftop a quarter mile away, where they took a shot with a rifle, killing the poor girl. It would have been an easy shot with their sorcery. They then returned to the hotel where they set off the hidden powder charge with their sorcery in order to alert the staff.”

  “That’s … quite a story,” Hewi said. Her expression was halfway between bemused and entirely annoyed. “Do you have anything to back this theory up, beyond the unfired pistol?”

  Adamat was ready for her skepticism. “Powder residue in the bath. Reports of a shot fired at six this morning from the roof of a tenement east of the Kinnen Hotel—and, by the way, tracks in the snow on the rooftop. The window was open two inches and a straight line can be drawn from the victim’s head to the window, and to the distant rooftop.”

  Hewi’s annoyance seemed to ebb. She let out a whistle. “This has all been documented?”

  “The precinct artist is giving me a likeness of each location, including the footprints on the roof.”

  “All right, detective constable. What about the shot from the room? Powder fired from a pistol makes a different sound than powder burned in the bottom of a bathtub. How do you account for that?”

  “I understand that powder mages can warp the blast of the powder with their minds. Replicating the sound would take practice, but it’s entirely possible.”

  Hewi reached across her desk for a jar of tobacco then packed a pipe before lighting it with a match. She puffed it to life then pointed the stem at Adamat. “You know, you have a hard time getting along with the other constables because you always have the answers.”

  “They’re just theories, ma’am,” Adamat said. He understood that it had been meant as a compliment, but frankly it annoyed him that other constables couldn’t see what he saw. Investigative police work was not common practice in any force that he’d heard of. It was considered right and proper to take everything at face value.

  “They’re damn good ones,” Hewi replied. “And it’s why I brought you with me from the Twelfth.” She let out a sigh. “It’s damn good police work, but it may be for nothing.”

  Adamat blinked at her. “Excuse me?”

  “Commissioner Aleksandre came by about an hour ago. He heard about your powder mage theory, and the fact that you let Ricard Tumblar go home. He ordered that we arrest Tumblar and charge him immediately.”

  “That’s preposterous!” Adamat sat up straight.

  “I’m aware,” Hewi said, her tone level.

  “You said yourself that it was damn good police work. And the pistol was clean. It couldn’t have been Ricard.”

  Hewi gave a slow nod. “I told the commissioner that you had a good reason not to suspect Ricard. Do you know what he said?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He didn’t give a damn. He wanted Ricard arrested, and he wanted Lieutenant Dorry given the lead on the case. The commissioner said, and I quote, ‘I want Ricard facing the guillotine within two weeks.’” Hewi snorted.

  Adamat set his jaw. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I smell something foul in the air, captain.”

  “So do I, but I had no choice. We’ve already arrested Mr. Tumblar. You should head home and get some sleep. No doubt the commissioner will be around within the next few days about Dorry’s complaint.”

  Adamat got to his feet, feeling deflated. He’d finished the first leg of the investigation with confidence. He knew he was right about the powder mage, just as he knew that someone other than the cook had possibly killed Viscount Brezé. And he’d had his investigation taken right out from under him. He went to the door and stopped there, staring at his hat.

  “Adamat,” Hewi said, “you said that was only the first part of your theory. What was the second?”

  Adamat turned around and gave her a tight smile. “That the success of framing Ricard Tumblar depended in part on the incompetence of the police of the First Precinct.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m thinking now that they depend on a little more than just incompetence.”

  Hewi tapped the bowl of her pipe in the palm of one hand. “Adamat.”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

  Adamat ducked his head. “Of course, ma’am. Would never dream of it.”

  Adamat left the precinct building and made his way to his favorite cafe just off the public square. He needed someplace he could think, and oftentimes the buzz of a busy cafe gave him just the right amount of useless noise that allowed him to focus on the task at hand.

  What task at hand? he asked himself as he was seated at one of the window tables on the second floor. He had no task. Just a few days at his newest assignment, and he had already been kicked off one investigation by the leading officer and anoth
er by the commissioner himself. He should be focusing on how his career could recover from this whole debacle.

  Adamat ordered his tea and stared out the window. He found himself wondering about Melany, Ricard’s mistress. A beautiful girl and, knowing Ricard, intelligent and witty. Who was she? Did she have friends or family in the city, or was she a foreigner, as suggested by her dark skin? In the rush of the afternoon he’d overlooked sending someone to notify her next of kin. Clumsy and inconsiderate of him. He would have to rectify that in the morning.

  Adamat could see out the window and down the street where a city worker was clearing the snow off a scaffold in the center of the square. The middle of the scaffold was dominated by an immense guillotine—a tool of the Iron King that reminded both his friends and enemies who held the power of life and death in Adro.

  The guillotine saw use almost every day for all manner of crimes, and Adamat recalled reading that this particular guillotine had been in service for almost nine years straight. The blade was removed and polished regularly, the mechanisms replaced to account for rust, but the main frame was the original.

  He still remembered reading about the first guillotine in the newspapers when he was a boy. The Iron King claimed it would bring dignity to and remove suffering from state executions. The newspaper had called it “industrialized death.”

  Thanks to the commissioner and whoever was pulling his strings, Ricard would face that blade within the next few weeks. And Melany, his mistress, would be a byline in the scandal that would ruin Ricard’s dreams of unionization.

  Adamat, ever the good public servant, would be expected to bury his powder mage theory and quietly follow orders. Perhaps in a few years his obedience would be remembered and he’d receive a promotion. Granted, of course, that he not stir up trouble between now and then.

  That was the system. That was how it was supposed to work for the men and women who held power. Everyone was expected to fall in line behind them.

  Adamat considered himself a quiet man. Even at his age he preferred to spend his free time with his wife than late nights playing billiards at the tavern. He didn’t like attention, and he considered it the duty of the police to do their work with discretion.