Detective York sat in a well-cushioned club chair in the lobby of the National Hotel, legs crossed, looking at the sports page of the St. Anthony Tribune, with a cup of coffee steaming on the end table next to him.
He casually read the box scores as he waited for his mark to come through the lobby, a woman named Ingrid Magnusson whom he had been following and keeping tabs on, as he had been instructed to do by his boss, the Commissioner of Parks.
York had arrived early as he did on most days, even though the lady rarely left the hotel before noon...she was a singer, among other things, and she kept late nights. Nevertheless, had been tasked with watching her so he would leave early, going without sleep if he had to, in order to stay ahead of the game, which did not bother him because he was an insomniac.
On this morning he was taken by surprise, and doubly grateful that he was a creature of routine, when he saw Ingrid Magnusson come into the Lobby and approach the front desk.
She was dressed for travel and spoke briefly with the concierge, who had the valet bring her car around for her.
York quickly folded the paper, got to his feet, took a last sip of coffee and left the building ahead of her.
He went to his own car so that he could get the engine started and pull into position to get a good-tail on her, wherever she might be going.
He pulled up next to the driveway in front of the hotel and watched.
Everything had happened quickly; now the wait made York anxious.
After a couple of minutes passed he realized that he had been waiting too long for the valet to return with Ingrid’s car, and concluded she had hit the road in the minute or so that it took him to get to his own vehicle.
When he saw the valet come out of the hotel a few seconds later with another guest, York knew that he was right.
He had lost her.
York cursed himself for having been too interested in the winners and losers of yesterday’s games than he had been with his duties.
He began to formulate the explanation he would have to give to Commissioner Batelier, and the penance he would do to atone for his failure, later that night in his room; with that his breathing became labored.
York could have told himself that everyone made mistakes. He might have cut himself some slack, but he preferred to pay for his failures with the stiff lash of a cat o’nine, cutting into the flesh of his back…it was the least I can do, he told himself, for neglecting my duties.
He considered where Ingrid might be going, and he decided to try and pick up her trail at the reading room on lake street, or her studio in the red-light district, swearing to himself that if he managed to find her he would not let that stop him from taking a full set of stripes the lapses that had already occurred.
York was determined to pay the price regardless.
He got out of the car and approached the valet, a tall well-groomed black-man who went by the name of Jackie, who York knew to be a man of considerable status and influence regardless of his position at the Hotel.
York took a dollar out of his wallet and tried giving it to Jackie in exchange for a pledge to call him if Ingrid Magnusson when Ingrid Magnusson returned.
Jackie looked at him disdainfully and said, “No thank you detective York…your business is your own.”
He turned his back on him, and walked back into the hotel.
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