"Honest John Finds True Love"
by Michael Menser Dell

CHAPTER THREE

It was after six by the time Churchfield returned to the Debonshire. The lobby was a shimmering sea of bejeweled decadence, a wealthy parade of money spilling in and out of the hotel's magnificent dining hall. Churchfield, a ragged lump of coal amongst the pristine diamonds, waded through the extravagance, spotting the familiar face of Mr. Ipswitch behind the front desk. The harried hotel manager informed the detective that Mrs. Bailey, aka Miss Grove, left a few hours earlier, but she requested Churchfield await her return. Honest John thanked Ipswitch, commented on the refreshing lack of rodents, and stumbled his way to a circular sofa that acted as the room's opulent centerpiece. Swathed in ruby velvet, the overstuffed cushions were wrapped around a massive arrangement of fresh flowers and greenery that inspired profound longing in neighboring birds. Churchfield's tired bones found comfort in the plush pillows. He slumped into the welcoming seat, stretched his legs in front of him, closed his eyes, and prepared for a lengthy wait.

The detective's arrival did not go unnoticed. Mixed amongst the suspicious glares and condescending glances of the upper class was one sincerely reverent gaze.

"Billy, do me a favor, will ya?" begged the boy with the admiring eyes, thrusting a swollen suitcase at his unsuspecting companion. "Take this up to Mr. Blanton in room 318."

"Take it yourelf! Don't I have enough to do?"

"C'mon, I'll make it worth your while. I'll let you take Miss Paige her lunch tomorrow."

The image of the blonde temptress stopped Billy in his tracks. "All week."

The demand seemed outrageous, but everything in life came with a price. "Deal."

Billy accepted his charge and was off, already contemplating the witty bon mots he would employ in winning his beloved's heart. The other lad, no longer burdened with the cumbersome delivery, was free to pursue an entirely different avenue of exploration. He confirmed Ipswitch's attentions were elsewhere before bounding after his prey.

Always the vigilant observer, it only took three pokes to the shoulder and a vicious round of throat clearing for Churchfield to realize someone wanted his attention. Honest John cracked a slumbering eye, bringing into focus an absurdly enthusiastic lad with wide eyes and a broad grin. Convinced it had to be a nightmare, Churchfield lowered his eyelid and cursed himself for ever mixing gin with bourbon... and vodka... and absinthe. A fourth prod to the shoulder removed all hope of hallucination.

"Excuse me, sir," petitioned the smiling boy. He was dressed in a form-fitting maroon jacket with gold buttons and epaulettes. A matching hat dotted his impish head, confirming either a hotel bellboy or a tragically-flawed haberdasher.

"Where's your organ grinder?" yawned Churchfield.

"I don't mean to disturb you, but, well, it's a great honor to meet you, sir." The boy offered a sweaty palm. "The name's Alawicious Jones. My friends call me 'Wish.'"

"And what do people who don't want to be bothered call you?" The ready retort sapped Churchfield's waning attention, dropping his head and leaving the proposed handshake unanswered.

Undaunted, the young Mr. Jones hopped over the detective's outstretched legs and assumed an entirely too familiar position on the couch. The sudden burst of movement startled Churchfield, not from fear but from astonishment that anyone or anything could be so energetic.

"Are you working on a case?" inquired Wish, exuberance bursting from every pore. His right foot beat an expectant tom-tom, echoing the rapturous rhythm of his heart. Visions of frantic chases and furious fist fights flashed within his fevered brow. "I bet it's a big case, huh? What am I saying? Of course it's big or you wouldn't be here. Extortion? Counterfeiting? Jewel thieves? It's jewel thieves, isn't it? I've been watching Mr. Joesph in 212. He's got shifty eyes!"

Wish provided demonstration, darting his eyes back and forth in frantic mimicry of the suspected criminal. Churchfield had no idea whether the impression bore any resemblance to Mr. Joseph, but it did bring to mind the paranoid ravings of a rabid raccoon.

"Yes, well," Churchfield cleared his throat, "I'll certainly keep that in mind. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

"Ya know, we actually have a lot in common, you and I."

Churchfield nearly choked. "I find that hard to believe."

Wish flung himself into the couch, folded his arms, and stretched his legs long, perfectly mirroring the position of his beloved idol. He immediately began surveying the swelling crowd. "Who we looking for? Mr. Joseph? I'll spot him, don't you worry. I've got eyes like a hawk. But you have to in our business."

"Yeah, I guess those suitcases can be hard to see."

"What? Oh, you mean this?" Wish disregarded his bellhop uniform with a wave of his hand. "This is nothing, just a way to earn some extra money. I'm really a detective."

"You don't say?"

"Yes, sir. It's in my blood. I've studied all the greats, Dupin, Lecoq, Holmes. That's why it's such an honor to meet you, Mr. Churchfield. I read all about how you solved the disappearance of those fancy paintings. It was some right rum detective work, it was. I keep all your newspaper clippings at home. I'm a great admirer of your work. I took particular interest in your handling of the Thornwald case. Something very similar happened to me a few weeks back. We had a lady in room..."

"I'm sorry," interrupted Churchfield, stifling a yawn, "But I'm very busy. So if you don't mind..."

"Mind? Of course not, I'd love to help you out. Hey, let me ask you this, what do you think of all the new fingerprint research? Have you read Galton's book? Fascinating stuff. In fact, I put it to good use not more than two weeks ago when Mrs. Horton couldn't find her pearl necklace. You should have seen her, screaming bloody murder and turning the room inside out. But I went about the thing all scientific like. We detectives have to keep a cool head. So I gave the scene a thorough examination and what do you think I found?"

Churchfield struggled to remain conscious. "Don't keep me in suspense."

"A fingprint!"

"No!" The mocking tone of the reply was completely lost on its victim.

"As big as day! Right there in the powder of her dressing table!"

"You don't say?"

"Well, it wasn't so much a fingerprint as a paw print. It turns out Mrs. Horton's pet poodle was the culprit."

"I didn't even know dogs wore jewelry."

"I found it balled up in the pooch's bed."

"I'm surprised it wasn't in all the papers."

"We kept it quiet." Wish took a deep breath of satisfaction. "We wouldn't want the hotel getting any unwanted attention."

"Yeah, I reckon reports of poodle crime would be bad for business."

As Wish prepared to launch into another thrilling intrigue, Churchfield found salvation in the form of Lily Grove. The beguiling blonde was sashaying through the hotel doors, already blending into the lobby traffic. Eager to escape his adoring devotee, Churchfield pulled himself to his feet, placing a firm hand on Wish's shoulder as he did so to keep the youngster in place.

"Sorry, kid, I gotta go."

Wish's head snapped to attention, quickly surveying the crowd. "Trouble?"

"Nothing I can't handle."

Wish remained seated, cherishing the final few moments with his idol. He called to the detective's back, "It was nice chatting with you, sir. I hope you'll let me know if I can ever be of assistance."

The offer went unanswered. Churchfield drifted through the masses, cutting a deliberate path to Miss Grove, who had just been informed by Mr. Ipswitch that she had a visitor. She turned to find Churchfield already at her side, greeting him with frantic worry.

"Oh, Mr. Churchfield, thank heavens you're here! Have you news of Lowry?"

"No, ma'am. I checked out the address you gave me, but Mr. Cain wasn't there. No one at the house had seen him. I asked around a few other places, but nothing's turned up yet."

"No matter. I think it's time we expanded the search back home. If Lowry didn't settle in any of his familiar haunts here in London, chances are he's headed back to Blackpool. Are you adverse to traveling, Mr. Churchfield?"

"I go wherever the trail leads me."

"Good." Miss Grove produced an envelope from her handbag. "Inside is your ticket, enough money to cover expenses, and a letter of introduction. Your train leaves Charing Cross at 8 o'clock. I realize that's not much notice, but time is of the essence."

"It won't take me long to pack. I usually travel light, with most of my belongings in a bottle."

"I've arranged for Lowry's friend Dylan Stowe to meet you in Blackpool. He's lived there his entire life, and he's known Lowry since childhood, so he'll be a trusted guide."

"You're not coming with me?"

"I can't. I have business to attend to here in London, and someone must stay behind in case Lowry turns up." She dabbed a handkerchief to her eyes. "And frankly, I'm not sure my nerves could stand the journey home under these circumstances." She threw herself on the detective, wrapping her arms around his sturdy neck and sobbing helplessly. "Please do your best, Mr. Churchfield. I'm afraid you're my only hope."

Honest John, always leery of emotional women, carefully extricated himself from the desperate embrace, calming her the best he could with some gentle strokes of her shoulder and a token, "There, there." He promised to wire her the moment he arrived in Blackpool, vowing to keep her abreast of any developments concerning her husband. Churchfield escorted her to the elevator, accepting his train ticket and traveling expenses before the doors closed. It was an emotional parting. Miss Grove wiped sorrow from her cheeks, while Churchfield, after feeling the generous weight of the money envelope, had to suppress tears of joy. It was going to be one memorable train ride, especially if there was a liquor car.

Still dreamily calculating the amount of gin he could consume from London to Blackpool, Churchfield was almost surprised when Wish bounded from behind a nearby potted plant, blind idolatry animating his cherubic face.

"How'd it go?"

"It went," allowed Churchfield, accepting the young boy's arrival with all the enthusiasm of a dead fish. The detective never broke stride, continuing a steady march to the exit, his admirer capering behind him from side to side like a precocious puppy.

"Was that the lady who had her jewels stolen?" ventured Wish, practically panting.

"Who said anything about jewels?"

"Blackmail?" Startled by his own suggestion, Wish excitedly blazed a circle around his hero, dodging passing hotel patrons and gleefully falling into step at Churchfield's right elbow. "Is it blackmail? I bet it's blackmail!"

"It's not blackmail," growled Churchfield. "But if you're not careful you may get involved in an assault case."

"It's all part of the job. Us detectives can't be scared to get our nose dirty."

"How would you like if I..." Churchfield, initially preparing to suggest something else be done to Wish's nose, came to a sudden halt. A new idea dawned. He slung an arm around the lad and pulled him off to one side, escaping the lobby's troublesome traffic. Assured of the boy's undivided attention, Honest John did a charitable thing. "How would you like if I let you work the case with me?"

"Really?" squealed Wish.

"But you have to keep this quiet," warned Churchfield, pretending to make sure no passers-by were eavesdropping on their conversation. It was the least he could do to make the kid feel important. And it was always fun to pretend. He had to do it every day to convince himself there was a reason to get out of bed. Although returning husbands have been known to provide inspiration. "I can't have you running your mouth."

"Of course, sir!" assured the boy, crossing his heart. "You can count on me!"

"Did you get a good look at the woman I was talking to?"

"Yes, sir. That was Mrs. Bailey, she's in room 615."

"She's registered as Mrs. Bailey, but her real name is Lily Grove."

"Registering with a fake name? Mr. Ipswitch won't like that." Wish drew a notepad and pencil from his coat pocket and began scribbling madly. "Is she a criminal?"

"She's a singer."

"I never heard of her."

"Who has? But I'm going out of town for a few days, and I want you to let me know if anyone visits her or if she gets any letters or telephone calls. Think you can do that for me?"

"Yes, sir. I help sort a lot of the mail myself, and I just happen to know one of the switchboard girls." Wish's adolescent chest expanded with pride. "Yeah, old Margaret is kind of sweet on me."

"This is no time for love, Wish. A detective must always keep his mind on..." A coquettish lass with auburn curls cut the lesson short.

"On what, sir?"

"Exactly." Churchfield, profoundly distracted, swatted Wish on the back and gave pursuit to the departing lovely.

"How should I reach you, sir?"

"The Workman's Pub on Bleeker," called Churchfield over his shoulder. "Ask for Archie Loomis."

"I won't let you down, sir!" assured Wish, trotting hopelessly behind. "You can count on me!"

The devoted declaration was wasted on Churchfield, who was already escorting the voluptuous vision through the hotel doors. Wish jotted down his contact info with the meticulous penmanship of a trained professional and eagerly embarked on his mission, scurrying off to sweet talk a switchboard operator. At that exact moment, somewhere on the dreary streets of London, Churchfield was getting slapped.