Chapter Fifty-Four
The investigators—Pluck, Enid and Bartoff—were exhausted, their analytical energy spent, and so were glad to break for lunch.
Pluck stood in the doorway to the lunchroom, contemplating the scene: guests were unhurriedly consuming sandwiches and fish, relaxing with books or engaging in soft conversation. The room was airy, bright, and full of people’s tolerance of each other in a shared situation that was not what you might call ideal. These people had formed, in spite of the fears of a murderer in their midst, and the terror of a not entirely competent investigation, an undeniable bond; they had become, in the absence of any connection with the greater society outside these walls, a family.
“Attention! Attention, everyone!” Pluck shouted from the doorway. The guests, naturally, ceased what they were doing and looked his way. He paused. “. . .Could everybody please look this way?” he asked, although they already were. Now that he had their attention, he was a trifle unsure how to put into words what he wanted to say. He was not too proud to admit as much: “. . .Thank you for looking this way. I—I’ll tell you straight off that I’m not too sure how to put into words what I want to say.” People sighed, awaiting resignedly whatever this newest idiocy would be. “. . .Miss Trojczakowski, would you kindly join me?”
Enid, her heart leaping—it was really something located more squarely in the region of her stomach, but she thought it more romantic to refer to it, inwardly, as her heart, rather than taking the time, at that moment of all moments, to try to recollect the exact locations and functions of her intestines—her heart leaping, I say, Enid rose from her seat, abandoned without further thought a half-piece of toast smeared with egg, and walked calmly, composedly, over to Pluck. She turned, proud, ennobled, to stand by his side as he would announce to all what was surely going to be an engagement to marry.
“Mister Bartoff—please.”
Bartoff, too, rose, scooping up Sam, barking to his tablemates not to touch his muffin, and strolled over to Pluck and Enid. Bartoff’s heart was not elated; he simply did as he was bid, per the demands of friendship, and thought no more about it. Enid, on the other hand, had to wonder how he fit into all this. Surely her soon-to-be fiancé was not about to suggest, publicly, some sort of immoral cohabitation?
Once Bartoff had taken his place by Pluck, Pluck cleared his throat—“Ahem”—and began: “Ladies and gentlemen—you are all under arrest, for a series of murders that have taken place in this hotel over the course of the past week. The victims are named as follows: Sam Tweed, Larry Bell Williams, Bipp Snede, Johnny Silver, Thaddeus Feosalma, and Louie Blue. I beg you all to remain calm, leave your food at your plates and return to your rooms. Mister Bartoff will be along presently to tie you to the chair of your choice. Thank you.”
“Enough!” shouted someone, some man without tact.
“Yes!” shouted another. “I’ll stand for no more!”
“Nor I!” Men and ladies, guests and staff, began to stand, shout, profane their noble inspector and throw silverware at him.
“Stand down! Stand down!” Bartoff boomed, shielding his friend with his massive chest, but the people would not abide.
Mister Stoupes, Monsieur Lapin-Défunt and Madame Tautphoeus led the charge, up the aisle, brandishing butter knives and chairs, lion tamer-like. On the side of justice, Pluck stood firm, with only Bartoff, the coronel, who stumbled up from his seat to help his friend, and Enid to back him.
“Stop it! Stop it, everybody!” Enid screamed, and, unaccustomed to an angry outburst from that quarter, they halted in their tracks. “Inspector Pluck is a good man! A good, good man! Any mistakes he has made are solely the result of a low intelligence—they are not born of evil! Over these days I’ve come to know, and love, this man, and I can tell you that while, technically, a psychiatrist might deem him an idiot, his heart is pure!”
The mob muttered amongst themselves, deciding whether or not the lynching should go ahead. Suddenly, deus ex machina, Monsieur Mifkin appeared, and begged of the guests: “Please, ladies and gentlemen! Miss Trojczakowski is right: the man is a moron, but he means well, and if we could only play along until the storm clears and the authorities can be summoned, I’m sure everything can be straightened out then. Let us not forget that, most likely, there is a murderer among us—and I’m sure that he would prefer nothing more than that we should squabble amongst ourselves and extrajudicially execute our sole representative of law and order. So, please, refrain; curb the sense of injustice I know you’re suffering; for the sake of us all.”
Grumblingly, the mob decided not to kill Pluck, and returned to their seats and mushroom soup.