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More of the story. Follows the first paragraph. Keep in mind, extremely first draft:
On the other side of the room sat a little old man with little hair on his head and too much on his chin, most of it white or that seedy grey. He paid less attention, it seemed, than he did to his now late chimp. Professor Irving Shackle, according to the Peake's register, and he was currently renting the suite. The concierge, Holland Birmingham, had called Jack up from her deep, dank basement office and now knelt in front of the good Professor by the bed, offering him a little bottle of whiskey from the mini-bar. Holland was in his forties and all of that time hung on him, made his shoulders roll forward and his hands looked like battlefields. Whiskey was his solution to everything, or everything that couldn't be solved by Jack at any rate. "We'll add it to your bill," Holland said while he curled the Professor's fingers around the plastic container. Beside the Professor was a slightly more important item, the murder weapon, Shackle's own pistol—a Glock, by look. "As a general rule, we prefer it firearms are kept in the safety deposit boxes downstairs—"
"Not that anyone really does," said Jack as she picked up the Glock and removed the clip with exacting calm. She scuffed absently at the richly designed rug with her tall, leather boots and deposited the gun into her utility satchel for later analysis. There was no reason to leave it lying around. "There's always at least a dozen of the little buggers circulating at any given time, so I think we can forgive this particular transgression given that it saved the good Professor's life." There was also the matter of the chimpanzee's gun, of course, but that could be dealt with once she had a better idea of the body's condition. Didn't pay to interfere with the crime scene too much.
"Who," huffed the Professor, knotty little legs in plaid trousers are twitching and kicked up as he worked to uncap the tiny bottle. "Who, Mister Birmingham, is this woman?" His eyes wouldn't focus but they kept on at Jack, never the bottle, and certainly not the corpse. Shock. Jack would imagine going into shock herself, if she'd been attacked—apparently—by a chimpanzee with a old service revolver.
Holland looked about ready to say something but Jack held up a hand. "I'm Jack Pageant, Professor Shackle. I'm the hotel detective." Professor Shackle slipped out of his heavy corduroy jacket and went to work on drinking the bottle. Jack knelt by the body, eyes flicking between it and Holland. The concierge remained the height of calm—veteran of more than a few of Jack's more flamboyant cases, like that incident with the two film stars the month before—but constantly appraising the room for evidence of damage, anything to be billed to the Professor even in light of the tragedy. There was still the other matter. "Now, would you care to explain why you had a chimpanzee in your suite? Particularly, one that looks to have been something of a marksman?" The Peake had a very strict policy on animals, but of course nobody followed it. From what she could remember of the rundown Holland gave her in the hallway, Shackle was an expert in animal psychology and communication—this was probably some elaborate experiment into the nature of crime. The chest was mangled. "Though, clearly, not a quickdraw as it turns out." |
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