Reiker for Hire: Hotel of Horror

By Sylvia Rose

Reiker investigates a grisly murder in a derelict hotel and finds more than he expects.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sylvia Rose
• Release date: Sep 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215327494

Sylvia Rose

Hello from Canada! My stories and books are inspired by Germanic history, myth and magic. Being first generation Canadian with German heritage I also heard many fascinating tales growing up. You'll find plenty in the Lora Ley Fantasy Fiction Series. And, just finished Reiker For Hire, a thrilling Victorian detective crime novella trilogy.In process is a Bronze Age adventure Cult of the Fire God, in which heroine Kah'ni must leave her northern European home near the Baltic. She journeys south in a desperate quest to find her sister Shana. Hit the image link below to learn more.Visit me on Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.ca/SylviaRoseBooks/My other links are below.Click any book cover to go to the work and read a free sample! My books are always free for libraries from the Smashwords site.Be sure to peruse my blog, link below, where I post background information and reading for my novels & novellas, everything from common herbs to magic and spiritual beliefs, everyday life, natural health of ancients, gemstones, trade routes and trade goods, mythology, rituals, sacrificial rites and thriving urban centers from Neolithic, Bronze Age; German myths and history, beliefs and practices.Enjoy.

Book preview

Reiker For Hire Murder Mysteries

Hotel of Horror

Copyright 2023 Sylvia Rose, Smashwords Edition

all rights reserved

Distributed by Smashwords

Reproduction of this work in whole or in part in any manner without express written consent is prohibited

Reiker For Hire Murder Mysteries

Hotel of Horror

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

About the Author

Afterword

Author Website

Blog

Other Books by Sylvia Rose

Reiker For Hire – Death Cruise

Reiker For Hire – Murder in the Cards

Lora Ley Fantasy Fiction Series

Gypsy Violin

CHAPTER ONE

German Empire, July 1896

Here we are, Sir. May I take your bags?

With misgivings, the portly man opened a black umbrella and watched rain patter on peeling painted wood. The driver climbed down, his bright red and gold livery an anomaly in the gloom.

This is ridiculous, the visitor protested. He glared at the dilapidated porch and pulled out a brochure. Rain splattered the illustration, a sunny forest hillside with sparkling hot springs populated by pretty girls in bathing costumes. Drawings of the Gothic interior detailed spacious rooms, underground Roman baths and elegant dining.

The driver picked up the kid leather luggage. Please follow me.

But this place is a mess, said the man, indicating the chipped paint and rot on the porch rail. I'll want my funding back, that's for sure. He jabbed a finger at the brochure. What's this about, then?

The driver said smoothly, It's an artist's concept. He smiled. Rest assured, Herr Mentz, your money's well spent.

It better be, said Marlon Mentz, with a flourish of his walking stick.

You understand, Herr Mentz, no expense is spared. This way, please. Raindrops flecked the diamond panes as he opened the silent front door. He stepped inside and turned up a kerosene lamp. Well, said Marlon, this is more like it!

He had no time to speak further, as a trap door opened beneath his feet and he hurtled down into darkness.

Vehement pounding on the office door brought Reiker to a halt in mid-stride. He threw a towel around his neck, shrugged into his dressing gown and looked out. In the hallway was an unfriendly face. What in blazes are you doing up here, Herr Reiker? Wrestling elephants?

Reiker wiped his forehead. Calisthenics.

What's that?

Exercises, Herr Blume. You jump around like the town fool and pretend you feel better for it.

Well, stop it. You're scaring my customers.

They hear me do jumping jacks?

The whole building shakes. The ceiling lamp came loose and almost fell on a lady's head.

Thought I heard a crash, Reiker mused.

The floors aren't up to the abuse, said Blume.

I suppose I should be offended, said Reiker.

That's up to you. But if you persist in this loud and futile behavior I shall report you to the manageress.

Go ahead, said Reiker. It's her scheming fault I don't have an apartment. Good day, Herr Blume. He closed the door in the man's face. Through the nobbled glass he saw Blume hesitate for a moment, then square his shoulders and leave.

Reiker threw his towel in the wash basin. Five minutes of exercise was enough for any man, followed by a recuperative nap. The wash basin sat in his new office extension. Running water was too much to ask, apparently. He still had to get water from the pump out back.

With the extension, the place still wasn't his first choice of home, but it was livable. Bit of a mess, dirty dishes and discarded socks. Comfortable.

The new bed should arrive today. It would be good to get off the office couch. The couch had a way of slowly consuming a sleeping body.

After a brisk wash he felt better. Calisthenics were the latest factor in healthy living and Reiker wondered how something so trendy could be so stupid. Jumping around flapping one's arms like a giant moth in death throes wasn't at the top of his favorite things to do list. He tried it for three days in a row and surprised himself for holding out so long.

He was the other side of forty-five, and all his exercise came from chasing crooks. As he got older the crooks got younger and faster. All around him people talked of getting into shape. Books and advertisements appeared for healthy living, diet and exercise.

The home gymnasium by the Swede Gustav Zander was the hottest force in the health market now. What appeared a tall, sturdy wooden box was equipped with ropes, pulleys, springs and grips, and included a popular handbook of exercises. Reiker thought of buying one, but reason won the battle. Why pay for something just to look at and feel guilty about? I can feel guilty for free.

He rubbed a towel through his hair and put on a day suit. As he opened the door he checked the print on the window. H. Reiker, Private Detective. Paint needs a touch-up. He turned the sign on the door front to Open for Business. Leaning back in his swivel desk chair he put up his feet and wiggled his toes. He yawned and glanced at the desk calendar. Wednesday? Thursday?

Reiker went to the corner for a newspaper, and the baker's for fresh fat pretzels with butter and marmalade, and the coffee shop for a canister of steaming hot brew. Munching a pretzel, he scanned the paper as he went back upstairs.

It was Friday. He tore two pages from his desk calendar, took off his shoes and poured a mug of coffee. Hot and strong, a kick start to the day. Reiker leaned back in his swivel chair and thumbed through the paper to the classifieds. He took a sip. As he scanned the ads his gaze fell upon one in particular. He spewed coffee halfway across the room.

He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and looked at the spattered paper again. The ad read,

April Williams

Private Detective

641 Main Street 2C

Mittelstadt 410572

… and a telephone number. Reiker read it over again and scratched his head. Another detective? The quiet town of Mittelstadt barely had work enough for one.

April. A woman's name. Williams, he thought. An English name. The English W sounds like the hoot of an owl. He tried it couple of times. In German, the W is pronounced like the English V.

He could read English, and speak it not too badly, because back in his scholarly days he became immersed in the works of Shakespeare. There are more things on heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

Including a woman detective. Reiker found a pfennig to put in the downstairs public phone, called the switchboard and asked for the number in the ad. The operator made the connections and soon a brisk voice said in the earpiece, Williams.

Reiker hung up and went back upstairs. In his office sat a pale young lady with glittery earrings and feathered hat. He looked around. How'd you get in here?

She smiled. I went to the back. The manageress let me in. Your door was open, so I thought I'd wait.

I wasn't gone half a minute. He sat behind his desk.

The woman smoothed her skirt with lace-gloved hands. She wore fine fabrics, perhaps too fine for Reiker's den of earthly chaos. He became acutely aware of the scattered glassware, shelf dust and unwashed plates.

You understand I didn't want to come through the front, she said.

Anonymity. He nodded. That's why they invented back doors.

She laughed. My name is Erika Mentz. Her face grew grim. I need help, Herr Reiker. I need to find my husband.

Reiker reserved comment. His usual cases consisted of spying on spouses suspected of cheating. Who's your husband? he said.

She snapped open a fan. Marlon Mentz.

The name sounded familiar. Who's that?

She rolled her eyes. Mentz Miracle Balm?

Reiker snapped his fingers. Saw it at the apothecary. He invented that?

His father invented it. Marlon and I and his partner run the company now and quite well, in fact. We pull in a tidy profit. Oh, but I'm not supposed to say that. Forget I said that, Herr Reiker. Her fan fluttered.

Reiker shrugged. I won't tell the tax man. So what do you want from me?

Marlon disappeared three days ago, she said. I reported him missing, but I don't think police take me seriously. She shut her fan and leaned forward. They even implied he ran off with another woman.

Or a man, said Reiker helpfully. These days you never know.

She stamped her foot. He hasn't run off with anyone.

How can you be sure?

That's very rude.

Reiker put his hands behind his head. I'm fond of the direct approach. Saves time.

Because he needs me, Herr Reiker.

Her words hung in the air.

All right, said Reiker. He leaned forward and clasped his hands. You know, Frau Mentz, missing people often show up on their own.

But I'm so upset. She brought a handkerchief to her mouth. It's not like him. He never wanders off. He's a man of routine. Besides, he can't even tie his own shoelaces.

Seriously?

Marlon is highly intellectual but has trouble with the smallest details. If a door says 'Pull', he'll push. He's lost without me. She fluttered her fan. Whatever your fee, I'll pay it.

For a simple missing person, two hundred Marks up front, plus expenses.

Here. Frau Mentz took a billfold from her demure handbag. She counted out three hundred Marks. Please, Herr Detective Reiker, make it a priority.

We-ell, said Reiker, eyeing the money, I could put all my other extremely important cases on hold while I find your husband.

Thank you, Herr Reiker. She clasped her handbag. You won't regret it.

Few questions. He opened his notebook. You and your husband live in Mittelstadt?

We have a modest apartment uptown. She wrote in a neat notebook and tore out the page. Here.

Last time you saw him?

She pulled out a brochure for the Hidden Vale Health Spa Hotel and Resort. Three days ago. He was going here. They say he hasn't arrived and refuse to give any more information. And me his wife! She gave him the brochure and twisted her handkerchief in her lap. I'm so worried.

Reiker poured himself another cup of coffee. Want one?

Something stronger, perhaps?

He opened the bottom drawer of his desk, took out a half-full bottle of Irish whiskey and poured a shot in the only unused glass he could find, a souvenir of Heidelberg.

She knocked it back neat. I don't know what to do.

You have a picture of him?

Of course. She removed several prints from her handbag. I took these with a personal camera, just got them back from the company a few days ago.

Reiker looked over the black and white pictures. A plump young man with woolly sideburns and top hat stared back at him from a wrought iron chair on a balcony. Your place?

She nodded. About two weeks ago. I was going to put them in an album.

Who's that? Part of another man's legs was visible in one of the shots.

Oh, that's Otto Schinkel, Marlon's partner.

No picture of him?

He's not missing. And I wouldn't care anyway, the dirty dog.

No love lost between you?

She gave a dismissive wave. He's good at what he does. Doesn't think it's proper for a woman to go into business.

You?

She nodded. I check the books and receipts and do payroll. Marlon's manufacturing facility is at the industrial end of town but his private office is at home.

Would you trust Herr Schinkel with the books?

Never. His talents lie in salesmanship. In fact he almost bankrupted us until I took over the finances.

And what does your husband do?

Signs things. Tours the facility now and then. Reads a lot. He's really quite useless. He was raised to be a scholar, you see, an academic. His inactivity has put extra fat on his bones, which is why we decided he would go a spa. This one – she indicated the Hidden Vale brochure – is a diet and exercise retreat near Baden-Baden in the Black Forest, with spectacular views, mineral springs hydrotherapy and valet service.

Hydrotherapy?

Yes, water treatment. All my friends do it. Baths and warm or cold water applied to specific places on the body can help healing and improve your body's resistance to disease.

I see. Reiker glanced over the brochure. "Hidden Vale.