cigarette, when MacNeice came to a stop in front of the bar. As he climbed the stairs, Byrne rubbed the butt out on the railing and flicked it onto the road.
“There’s actually a law that deals with littering, Mr. Byrne.”
“Then I’m guilty as charged.”
MacNeice presented the warrants, one for the November and December registries, another for a search of the premises.
Byrne led him to his office, where he sat down and read both documents carefully. Then he tossed them on the desk and asked MacNeice which he’d like to do first: search the place or look through the registry books. MacNeice took the two black imitation leather books.
“You got September through December there, but I’ve also added January and February. I hope that’s enough. I’d give you March, but I’m using it.”
“I’ll return them as quickly as possible,” MacNeice said, tucking them into the briefcase. “Take me on a tour. If I feel a more thorough search of the premises is necessary, we’ll be back.”
Byrne retrieved a two-inch ring with a set of keys from the drawer and together they left the office, squeezing past the remaining cases of Guinness. On the left was the kitchen. Its door swung both ways, a circular greasy window keeping the waitresses from pushing through withtheir orders and whacking someone, mostly Byrne, heading to the office. On the right was a door with a small Private sign. It was the storeroom for the bar and the hotel rooms.
The kitchen was clean and staffed by two men, one in his twenties and the other middle-aged. “Hard workers, from the Philippines,” Byrne said. The younger one was dipping healthy portions of haddock in batter while the older one emptied a massive tin of mushy peas into a pot. “Do one thing well, Pa told me, and you’ll be a happy man. Fish ’n’ chips is what I do well. We don’t do burgers or fried chicken—there’s plenty a places to find that.”
The storeroom contained an industrial washer and dryer for the bed linens and towels, kitchen and bar supplies, a stack of toilet paper, tiny bars of Ivory soap, and extra towels, sheets, blankets, pillows and pillowcases. Like the office, there was no room to spare.
The bar was empty, inhabited only by the sour smell of spilt beer from all the nights before this morning. MacNeice moved into the middle of the space. The washrooms were on either side of the stairs leading to the rooms above. The entry wall featured—what else?—grimy block and tackle, fishnets, framed black and white photos of large trawlers. Several featured docks—somewhere other than Dundurn—where large fish were hung for weight and length with men smiling and smoking pipes, wearing heavy sweaters or rain gear and waving to the camera. The windows that faced the street looked untouched from when they’d been installed in the 1880s.
Byrne watched MacNeice as his eyes took in every detail. He drew the detective’ attention back to the end of the bar and the cash register. “I usually keep the registries here the till. It doubles as the check-in counter.”
Byrne led the way up the stairs. On the landing there was a heavy door that he said was deadlocked between one and six a.m. The only way out was the fire escape on the south side ofthe building, and if someone returned after the bar was closed, they’d be locked out of the building until six a.m. “Saves me having an all-night clerk in slow seasons like this and keeps the sleepwalkers from coming down for a drink after I’ve gone home.”
“Not exactly code, Mr. Byrne. I would recommend you have a night clerk if you’re going to rent these rooms.”
MacNeice turned and opened the washroom door next to the stairs. Shiny painted white walls, a toilet stall, shower and two sinks set into a laminate counter. On the wall was a mirror and, next to it, soap and paper towel dispensers. Both appeared to be empty.
The corner room Byrne wryly referred to as the “Presidential Suite” had a shower
“There’s actually a law that deals with littering, Mr. Byrne.”
“Then I’m guilty as charged.”
MacNeice presented the warrants, one for the November and December registries, another for a search of the premises.
Byrne led him to his office, where he sat down and read both documents carefully. Then he tossed them on the desk and asked MacNeice which he’d like to do first: search the place or look through the registry books. MacNeice took the two black imitation leather books.
“You got September through December there, but I’ve also added January and February. I hope that’s enough. I’d give you March, but I’m using it.”
“I’ll return them as quickly as possible,” MacNeice said, tucking them into the briefcase. “Take me on a tour. If I feel a more thorough search of the premises is necessary, we’ll be back.”
Byrne retrieved a two-inch ring with a set of keys from the drawer and together they left the office, squeezing past the remaining cases of Guinness. On the left was the kitchen. Its door swung both ways, a circular greasy window keeping the waitresses from pushing through withtheir orders and whacking someone, mostly Byrne, heading to the office. On the right was a door with a small Private sign. It was the storeroom for the bar and the hotel rooms.
The kitchen was clean and staffed by two men, one in his twenties and the other middle-aged. “Hard workers, from the Philippines,” Byrne said. The younger one was dipping healthy portions of haddock in batter while the older one emptied a massive tin of mushy peas into a pot. “Do one thing well, Pa told me, and you’ll be a happy man. Fish ’n’ chips is what I do well. We don’t do burgers or fried chicken—there’s plenty a places to find that.”
The storeroom contained an industrial washer and dryer for the bed linens and towels, kitchen and bar supplies, a stack of toilet paper, tiny bars of Ivory soap, and extra towels, sheets, blankets, pillows and pillowcases. Like the office, there was no room to spare.
The bar was empty, inhabited only by the sour smell of spilt beer from all the nights before this morning. MacNeice moved into the middle of the space. The washrooms were on either side of the stairs leading to the rooms above. The entry wall featured—what else?—grimy block and tackle, fishnets, framed black and white photos of large trawlers. Several featured docks—somewhere other than Dundurn—where large fish were hung for weight and length with men smiling and smoking pipes, wearing heavy sweaters or rain gear and waving to the camera. The windows that faced the street looked untouched from when they’d been installed in the 1880s.
Byrne watched MacNeice as his eyes took in every detail. He drew the detective’ attention back to the end of the bar and the cash register. “I usually keep the registries here the till. It doubles as the check-in counter.”
Byrne led the way up the stairs. On the landing there was a heavy door that he said was deadlocked between one and six a.m. The only way out was the fire escape on the south side ofthe building, and if someone returned after the bar was closed, they’d be locked out of the building until six a.m. “Saves me having an all-night clerk in slow seasons like this and keeps the sleepwalkers from coming down for a drink after I’ve gone home.”
“Not exactly code, Mr. Byrne. I would recommend you have a night clerk if you’re going to rent these rooms.”
MacNeice turned and opened the washroom door next to the stairs. Shiny painted white walls, a toilet stall, shower and two sinks set into a laminate counter. On the wall was a mirror and, next to it, soap and paper towel dispensers. Both appeared to be empty.
The corner room Byrne wryly referred to as the “Presidential Suite” had a shower
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