Free Looking for Chet Baker by Bill Moody

is here this morning.”
    “Where?”
    “In the bar.”
    “Thanks.” I hurry through to the adjoining bar and find a short, stocky man drinking coffee, reading the newspaper.
    “Excuse me. I’m staying here. The desk clerk said you were here. Are you the owner?”
    “Yes?” He looks up at me. “Is there some problem with your room?”
    “No, the room is fine. I’d just like to ask you about a friend of mine. He stayed here a few days ago.” The man looks puzzled for a moment. “He might have talked to you about Chet Baker?”
    “Oh, yes, a professor, Buffington, wasn’t it?” He puts the newspaper aside.
    “Yes, that’s right. Do you have a few minutes?”
    “Of course. Please, sit down. You will have some coffee?”
    “Yes, thanks.” He signals the bartender and turns back to me. “Your professor friend was very persuasive. He stayed in the same room as Chet Baker and asked me a lot of questions. I took some photos of him, in front of the hotel.”
    “Yes, I can imagine. We were supposed to meet here, but he checked out and didn’t leave a message or anything. It’s not like him to do that, so I just wondered if you have any idea where he might be. If he said where he was going next.”
    “No, I’m afraid not.” The waiter sets down my coffee and another for the owner. “I’m not here much these days. I have a manager who runs the hotel.”
    “Thanks.” I take a sip and light a cigarette. “What did you talk about with him?”
    The owner shrugs. “Mostly Chet Baker. He said he was researching a book. He had a great deal of papers already, but I’m afraid I couldn’t tell him anything. I wasn’t here the night it happened. I’d been in the country. My manager called me, and I came back and talked with the police. I confess at the time I didn’t know how famous Mr. Baker was.”
    “What did the police think happened?”
    “That Mr. Baker was involved in drugs, was perhaps intoxicated, and fell from the window.” He looks away for a moment, remembering. “It was very distressing to have that happen here at my hotel, of course, but there was nothing I could do.” He smiles, remembering something. “You’d be surprised at the number of trumpet players who have come to stay in that room. Since we’ve had the sculpture outside, we get lots of inquiries. I thought for a while of charging extra, but that wouldn’t be right.” He studies me for a moment. “You are also a trumpet player?”
    “No. Piano. I’m playing over at the Bimhuis, with Fletcher Paige.”
    “Ah yes, Fletcher Paige. He’s become as famous in Amsterdam as…was it Weber?” He sips his coffee, then looks at me.
    “Webster. Ben Webster.”
    “Yes, that’s it. Forgive me for saying so, but somehow that doesn’t seem right. All these American musicians coming to Europe, playing, living, dying here and, I suspect, forgotten in their own countries.”
    “No, you’re quite right. It is a shame.”
    “And Chet Baker? He was famous in America?”
    “Well, at one time he was, the early days. He had some hard times.”
    “Yes.” I can see his mind is already elsewhere. He finishes his coffee and folds up the newspaper. “I’m sorry I can’t be more help.” He stands up to go. “Well, excuse me. I have work to do. Are you also staying in Amsterdam?”
    “Me? I don’t know yet.”
    “Well, if I think of anything else, I will let you know.”
    “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
    I watch him leave, sitting there for a while, the day stretched before me, wondering what to do next. Maybe after my blunt refusal of Ace’s proposal in London, he simply decided to not bother catching up. But it nags at me. It’s a loose end I want tied up. There are a couple of other places I can check, and I think both of them are not far from the hotel. The desk clerk marks both places on a city map and sends me on my way.
    ***
    There’s a truck loading cases of paper in front of the Old Quarter police station. Inside, two women