Free McGrave's Hotel by Steve Bryant Page A

for the parts.”
    “No one can do it better,” boasted the third.
    “Stop it!” came a shout from within the room.
    Again, three raps from James’s fist.
    “Yessss?” came Victor Lesley’s voice.
    The actor seemed surprised when five bodies stormed into his sitting room.
    “Thank goodness,” said Pepper O’Toole, the actress who had been locked in the room. She was holding a wooden stake and apparently had been contemplating using it. “This old coot was trying to squeeze me. I shall not return, Mr. Lesley. Cancel my application.”
    “You were a terrible Mina anyway,” Mr. Lesley said. He did not seem to be in an encouraging mood.
    He perked up when he noticed the Godfrey sisters. The three were looking in astonishment at the high ceiling.
    “Ladies,” he said. “Welcome to Broadway. I have the perfect parts for you. I am Victor Lesley, your leading man by day, your bloodsucking lord of the underworld by night.”
    He treated them to one of his vampire stage laughs, and the sisters squealed like frightened schoolgirls.
    For James, it was all too much. Someone needed to teach this bozo thespian to behave.
    “Mr. Lesley ,” he said, hoping to take control of the situation. “The management can no longer put up with these outbursts from your room. You must start treating these young ladies more appropriately. You’ve been disturbing the other guests.”
    Victor Lesley rolled his eyes with practiced exaggeration, as he might for a silent film. “Look, Ace,” he said. “I’m a professional, and I know what I’m doing. My methods are not to be questioned.”
    For a moment, James didn’t see how he could compel the old fool to act properly, not without calling in Mr. Nash, and then he remembered the bedroom. The scheme might work. He faced Mr. Lesley squarely.
    “Downstairs,” James said with all the bravado he could muster, “is a man named Walter Quinn. He’s a newspaperman who loves to write stories that embarrass celebrities.”
    “I’m yawning,” said Mr. Lesley.
    “In your bedroom,” James continued, “is a locked wooden box. You said it contains your greatest secret. I know what is in that box.”
    “You don’t.”
    “I do. I will definitely tell Mr. Quinn if you make it necessary.”
    “You wouldn’t.”
    “I would. So here is how things stand. There will be no more disturbances from this room. You must promise not to kiss any more actresses. You can’t squeeze any, and you can’t chase any around the coffee table. Any more problems and Walter Quinn will know all. Deal?”
    James tried to maintain a stern look, and he could almost see the thoughts being checked off as the actor weighed his options. Mr. Lesley would reason that there was no way this boy could know the contents of the box in which he kept his spare toupee. It was constantly under lock and key, always had been. And yet, even the suspicion of its contents could ruin him.
    The actor pondered the situation until his face turned red, like pressure building in a boiler. He appeared to be about to blow his wig right off his head. “Deal,” he grumbled.
    He turned a sour face to the Godfrey triplets. “Ladies,” he said, “let me see your résumés.”
    In the hallway after, James couldn’t have been happier. “I so didn’t know if that would work,” he said. He turned to Fawn for approval.
    “Masterful,” she said. “What was in the box?”
    James grinned. “Hair.”
    “Hair?”
    “Yep. His backup hairpiece. Victor Lesley, Broadway’s most handsome leading man, has a dome like a watermelon.”
    They were both giggling like longtime best friends by the time they reached the elevator.

Chapter Eleven

     
    The Case of the Missing Mummy
     
     
    The mood was far more somber in Royal Suite assigned to Queen Siti.
    At first, Mohammed Bey had questioned the presence of Fawn.
    “She’s a most trusted assistant,” James said. “She is of noble birth. I am not allowed to say more.”
    James had not planned to