Murder, My Suite

by John H. Dromey

About the Author: John H. Dromey short fiction appears in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Crimson Streets, Flame Tree Fiction Newsletter, Gumshoe Review, Mystery Magazine, Thriller Magazine, Woman’s World, and elsewhere.

Excerpt

Strictly speaking, I was not in bed when the persistent jangle of a telephone woke me from a dreamless sleep. I was lying fully-clothed on a comfy bed in a fancy hotel.

Maybe Pinkerton agents never sleep, but I do. Any chance I get. Even so, I can’t ever seem to get enough rest to make up for the long hours of alertness my job sometimes requires.

The phone continued to ring. I wiped some of the sleep from my eyes before I reached for the receiver.

“Murphy,” I said. My voice was more of a savage growl than intelligible human speech.

The man on the other end of the line wasn’t fooled for even a minute into thinking the switchboard operator had connected him with the zoo.

“It’s time, Séamus,” the hotel manager said. By the way, it’s pure coincidence my given name is pronounced the same as a slang term for my profession—shamus.

I cleared my throat. “Time for what?” I asked.

“You know what. Now, quit stalling. Get your keester up to the penthouse pronto.”

Propping myself up on one elbow, I fumbled the handset back into its cradle on the second try.

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