Miss Ravencroft drummed her fingers on the counter thoughtfully. “Mr. Whitley didn’t talk about many people, but he loved his club. Some of the other members might want to come.”
“The Guttenberg Club?”
“That’s the one.”
“Do you happen to know the address?”
An impish grin crossed the woman’s lips. “Buy a book, and I’ll even tell you how to get inside.”
Chapter Nineteen
Plucking the Threads
They left Ravencroft’s withThe Beetle,The Prisoner of Zenda,The Blood of the Vampirefor Gwen, and the address of the Guttenberg Club. As Felipe expected, the club was uptown in a more affluent area not far from several other gentleman’s clubs. Mr. Turpin had said that Enoch lived off dwindling family wealth, so either the Guttenberg Club didn’t have large dues or this was where most of his money was going. It was only a five minute walk from the address they had on file for him, so Felipe assumed Miss Ravencroft had been right that he ate at his club for most meals. The building that housed the Guttenberg Club was nondescript but stately with a wrought iron fence lining the front and ornamental brickwork that gave it a Neo-Egyptian flare. Miss Ravencroft had told them that the door at the front was a decoy to keep out undesirables and that if they wanted to get inside, they had to go down the alley to the side entrance. As Felipe and Oliver walked down the well-kept alley, Felipe winced at a sudden pressure in his head. With every step, it felt like someone kept pushing his head down, and it wasn’t until Oliver sneezed that he realized it was magic pushing unwanted visitors away. No wonder the alley didn’t smell like piss.
The members of the club were probably given rings or small charms to negate the effects of the repulsion magic, or maybe, they just go used to it over the years. Either way, it annoyedFelipe on principle. The heavy oak and iron door had been made to look like something out of a castle, but when Oliver turned the ringed handle, it swung smoothly inside. He gave Felipe a uneasy look, but with a nudge from Felipe, he squared his shoulders and stepped inside. The foyer of the Guttenberg Club was exactly as Felipe pictured it. It was all inlaid floors, dark wood, red rugs, and cigar smoke. It looked less debouched than many of the gentlemen’s clubs he had been forced to visit during investigations, but looks could be deceiving. In the parlor off the entrance, several older men talked and laughed, a haze of smoke drifting across the high, coffered ceiling. At a set of cubbies near the entrance, a balding white man stood sorting letters. He turned to greet them only to fall back into a put-out expression when he realized who they were.
“No solicitors. This is a private club, gentlemen. You will have to leave,” he said with a haughty jut of his chin.
Felipe bit back a wince at a jolt of pain in his hand. He was in no mood to deal with highhanded middle management. Pulling out his badge with his good hand, he let his voice ring through the lobby as he said, “We’re here on behalf of the New York Paranormal Society to conduct a murder investigation. We believe the victim was a member of your club.”
“Ourmembers aren’t involved in shady doings. You must have the wrong establishment,” the butler or whatever he was said with a flick toward the door, which squealed open of its own accord.
“Enoch Whitley was a member here, yes?”
The man’s nostrils flared with annoyance. “Yes, but we are a private establishment. We do not divulge information without the proper paperwork. Come back with a warrant if you would like to speak to any of the members.”
“Did you say old Whitty’s dead?” an older gentleman asked as he tromped out of the nearest parlor. His floppy white hair,large, spectacled eyes, and drooping jowls reminded Felipe of a sheep dog, and once he noticed, he couldn’t stop seeing it.
“Yes, sir,” Oliver said. “We’re investigating his murder.”
“Murdered? By who?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Felipe replied. “We heard he spent a lot of time at this club. We were hoping to understand his daily schedule, who he interacted with, who may have had motive to kill him.”
The older man nodded. “All information we can provide. Augustine, aid these gentlemen in their investigation. Provide them with anything they need.”
“Sir,” Augustine replied stiffly, “I must respect the privacy of our members. Any and all information I give outsiders must be approved by the board unless these gentlemen have a warrant, which they don’t.”
“Hogwash. I’m vice chair of the board. None of us had anything to do with Whitty’s murder, and if anyone here did, they deserve to be discovered.”
“I’m afraid my hands are tied, Mr. Nichols,” Augustine demurred while looking anything but.
Mr. Nichols released an undignified harumph and turned back to Oliver and Felipe with a fire in his eye. “No matter. I’ll help you gentlemen get whatever information you need.”
And Mr. Nichols was true to his word, much to Felipe’s dismay. The man set them up in the club’s meeting room with fresh stationery and then proceeded to relay every interaction he had ever had over the past twenty years with Enoch Whitley, including nearly every book he had ever brought into the club to show off. Oliver kept a running list, and by the second page, Felipe was certain the majority were probably stolen if the other man’s praise of Enoch’s finds was any indication. He just wondered how many came from the Paranormal Society libraryor other people’s collections. If they could figure out who they belonged to, they might have a better suspect list.
When Mr. Nichols finished, he sent in the other members of the club one at a time to tell them everything they knew about Enoch Whitley. Even though his right arm was the uninjured one, Oliver sat at Felipe’s elbow and took notes as he asked the progressively older men questions. Between the eleven men they spoke to, Enoch Whitley was a saint, an asshole, making money through untoward means, from a “good” family, a tasteless hack, or a sommelier of books. And when asked if there was anyone he might have run afoul of, the answers ranged from no one to everyone he ever met, but no specific name was ever mentioned. It made Felipe’s head hurt, and with each subsequent interview, he felt his patience slip a little further and the pain in his arm worsen. Several times Oliver tried to ask the members of the club if knew anything about book curses, but each time, he either got a ten minute recitation of every bookish poem or pun the men had ever heard or an extensive suggested reading list on magic of the Middle Ages and Enlightenment. Neither was particularly helpful.
As the penultimate man shuffled out, Felipe let out a beleaguered sigh. Normally, they were begging for scraps of information, but now, they were drowning in it. It was almost worse. They had one more club member left to speak to, though Mr. Nichols threatened to send anyone else up who arrived, and Felipe hoped the snow had gotten worse if only to keep him from having to listen to another old man who liked hearing himself talk. He went to pick his pen off the table only to drop it with shaking fingers. Bending down made his headache blossom into a stab of pain in his temple, but when he sat back up, he found Oliver shaking out his writing hand and stifling a yawn.
“You all right?” they both asked at the same time.
A small smile crossed Oliver’s lips. “You first. How’s your hand?”
“Hurts but not intolerable. The gauze is starting to stick. You?”
“Just tired.” Reaching into his jacket pocket, Oliver handed Felipe a piece of jerky wrapped in wax paper. “I wanted to give this to you an hour ago but didn’t get the chance.”
