Inspector Reginald Dubrét had been chain-smoking for 3 hours. The Embassy staff wondered if they should interrupt him after trails of smoke began snaking under the door and out into the hall. They put their ears to the door and could hear him pacing, muttering under his breath and occasionally bringing his fist crashing down on the desk. The night clerk and head of housekeeping shook their heads and the maids and porters stood whispering in corners. The hotel’s manager alternated between standing by the door wringing his hands and throwing himself in a chair with a howl and pulling at his hair. Several other police officers wandered around looking dazed and uncomfortable. The Embassy Hotel, the finest in the city of Poldorff, was in a state of upheaval. And no wonder -40 people had been found dead at the dinner table. Everyone was thinking the same thing –this couldn’t be good for business.

Poldorff, a little principality in the Kurtsman region was at war. Their closest neighbor, an equally small place called Marbonne, had gotten embroiled in what can only be described as a lukewarm feud, after decades of boredom among the younger generation and a few less-than-thinly-veiled insults were traded. In fact, most of the citizenry had no idea what the war was about but they were given so many platitudes about civil pride and fighting oppression that they dutifully enlisted and went off to fight. Of course, the armies were no bigger than a few thousand men but somehow both sides had a hefty stash of shells which they lobbed back and forth at the exact same spots at precisely the same times every day. Predictability was civility according to several of the military’s finest. The war, one of the most civil of its kind, had been going on for a little over a year. It was suspected that it would end when the shells ran out. But no one said this aloud –it wasn’t considered patriotic.

On this evening, the Embassy’s dining room was playing host to its usual patrons – a group of 40 people who took supper there together every night. The group was comprised of military strategists, a few philanthropists, some society matrons (their dull daughters in tow), a troupe of actors, an artist or two, several writers, a priest, a philosopher, half of the string section from the local symphony and a few “fillers” as the staff called them - people who were being “sponsored” by some of the guests and who’s sole function was to look elegant, talk pleasantly but not too much and, upon command, display some sort of wit or talent to entertain the rest of the guests. Fillers were a depressed lot and more than one had snuck back to the kitchens to get something stronger than wine, or upstairs to tumble one of the maids who were on a break and who were infinitely more appealing than the aged women who fluttered and sighed and draped themselves about their much younger protégées.

The staff was used to the peculiarities of those gathered and took great pains to make sure everything was in order. If it was, then they could pretty much relax the rest of the night, aside from refilling glasses and clearing plates. The dining room was a large and ornate chamber, commissioned by a wealthy industrialist who had been to some eastern land and came back with an obsession for domes. He also came back with a fondness for opium which might have had something to do with the absurdity of his artistic vision. The ceiling was indeed domed (which, it should be noted clashed terribly with the rest of the building’s architecture which was done in something of a practical square brick design) and had been painted the most extraordinary shade of emerald green with gold filigree and a few of those rather placid looking cherubs and unashamed nymphs cavorting around the supportive pillars. The ceiling was actually suffering a bit from the war –the shelling caused the whole building to shudder periodically throughout the day and as a result the paint had cracked and it flaked down from time to time. It generally landed in whatever dishes were laid on the table but no one said anything and really, they couldn’t expect to return an entire 12-course meal because of a bit of dust. They considered it their wartime duty to not complain about such inconveniences.

Dinner usually last about 4-5 hours. The staff kept them supplied with drinks, cleared away plates and listened in on their gossip. On this particular evening however, the staff had been a bit negligent. Having found a hidden cask of brandy in the cellar and realizing it had not been earmarked for anyone in particular, they all decided to make it a bit of a holiday. The maids came and got a bottleful to smuggle up to their attic rooms, the grooms and handymen filled their flasks and brought them out to the stables and garage, the desk clerk had a rather large tumbler under the desk which he kept sipping off of and the kitchen staff not only passed it freely amongst themselves but put liberal doses of it in every dish they prepared. Of course the thought that people might get rather tight from imbibing brandy all evening (especially the teetotalers who refused even a single sherry), hadn’t occurred to them. The guests really didn’t notice except a few of the gentlemen who didn’t think it prudent to say anything. The priest and the philosopher got along for the first time, the society matrons took their hawk’s eyes from their daughters for more than a minute and the strategists actually tried to formulate some sort of rational plan. The philanthropists and fillers didn’t glare at each other and secretly thought that perhaps the other wasn’t so bad. The actors, musicians, artists and writers appeared entirely unaffected.

No one seemed to notice that it was taking a rather long time for plates and such to be cleared and cups refilled. This was because half the staff was passed out and the rest either had the giggles or were too unsteady to walk. So they had to take turns, bracing themselves before going out there and hoping that no one noticed anything amiss. After awhile, when they realized no one seemed to be paying much attention to the lapses in service, they just left the party alone, figuring that they’d clean up most of the mess when they’d left for the evening. Unfortunately, they soon passed out or went off to more enjoyable activities (the maids having their own type of lapses, namely the judgmental kind). It wasn’t until several hours later that the head cook, who’d been dozing in a plate of soup, came awake with a start and realized what had happened. Failing to rouse the servers who’d slept in a rather tumbled pile by the fire, and unable to find most of the porters, he straightened his now thoroughly wrinkled uniform and cautiously opened the door to the dining room, mentally reciting what he hoped sounded like a sincere apology.

He stuck his head in and was immediately struck by two things –first, rather than an irate manager waiting, he found all of the guests still in their chairs. And second, it was unnaturally quiet in the room. He walked slowly towards the nearest chair, that of a Mrs. Alyouisous Wimpole, who’s taste in fashion ran more towards draperies than dresses. She was slumped over the side of her chair, her usually towering mass of hair dangling rather precariously from its pins. He went to shake her but then he noticed the tint of her skin. It looked, well frankly, rather unhealthy. He had no idea she’d been sick –she’d eaten as she always had, with little restraint and lots of sauce. He gently prodded her shoulder and to his horror, she fell over face first onto the floor. He stood up to call for help and then took a good look at the rest of the guests. They were all slumped in their chairs with slack faces and eyes closed. They were all quite dead. Head Chef Jacques Lutérne’s last thought before he fainted was that somehow he’d be held responsible.

It was now several hours after the bodies had been discovered, Lutérne had regained consciousness and the police had been called in. This was rather unprecedented. No one ever recalled that many people simply dying, with no apparent idea of what happened. Each body had been carefully checked for marks which might indicate a struggle or a wound but none were found except some hard lesions on several feet and arms and a few red bumps on the women’s skin. But those were ruled to be some odd dermatitis, probably the result of unsavory company or too much face paint and powder, the police said. Aside from the fact that they all rather reeked of brandy, there wasn’t a single thing that the police could see which would have caused all of their deaths. It was at this point that Special Inspector Dubrét was called in.

Reginald Dubrét was a slight man with an affected accent and an attempted swagger. His slick hair and darting eyes made him look more than a little bird-like and there was an ever-present haze of bluish cigarette smoke around him. He had risen to some distinction when he’d managed to capture the city’s greatest art thief in the middle of a robbery –which, in retrospect wasn’t hard to do considering that the thief had a penchant for marble statues. Nevertheless, the citizens were glad that the man was behind bars, their statuary was safe, and Dubrét received a commendation. The following year he brought down a well-known drug trafficker – a confectioner who’d been selling goods laced with laudanum. This wasn’t intentional however, as the man was quite senile and had no idea that he’d mixed up a bottle of vanilla with a bottle of laudanum. The parents in the city actually seemed rather sad to see him go as their children seemed to take much longer naps and generally be much less aggravating when given a butter cookie or truffle from his shop. Still, they supposed, it was rather negligent of him. Dubrét received another commendation and the title of “Special Inspector”. Therefore, given his record and reputation, it was no wonder he was called in to assist with such a puzzling mystery.

If the townspeople expected the Inspector to have this mystery solved anytime soon, they were in for a bit of disappointment. Dubrét couldn’t seem to figure things out any more than the police had. He looked through every guest’s belongings, he examined every dish, he looked around for hidden traps in the walls –anything which might give him a clue. The staff had all been thoroughly interviewed. Everyone admitted to imbibing too much brandy and neglecting their duties. More than a few admitted to indiscreet liaisons. One man admitted to trying on one of the guests clothes while they were out for the evening. They let him take off the dress before being interviewed. No one, however, recalled hearing any strange noises or calls for help. No one saw anyone strange enter or leave the building. The desk clerk said there had been no new check-ins. The Head Cook admitted that most of the dishes contained large quantities of brandy but this was dismissed as all of the staff had as well and none of them suffered any adverse effects other than headaches and embarrassment. Dubrét locked himself in the manager’s office and proceeded to give it a good think.

Three hours later and Dubrét still hadn’t come out and the manager had had quite enough. Not only was this man ruining his Aubusson carpet with his smoke but he was certain that several very expensive porcelain figurines must be smashed to pieces with all of the banging around he had heard. The manager’s name was Geraldino, a self-important and yet acutely self-conscious little man. Small of stature with hair like copper wires, piggish little eyes and a moist, babyish mouth, he overcompensated for his physical weaknesses with foppish dress (he had a tendency towards velvets and lace) and acquiring little treasures which he hoarded like the most fastidious magpie one can imagine.

He was hard on the staff and condescending to the guests but he loved the hotel with an obsessive passion that no woman could ever hope to know. Few people were ever allowed in his office, unless they were being fired of course. He kept it spotless, often rushing back from one chore or another to make sure all was where he left it –and the very idea that some dirty detective, even a decorated one, might be tracking mud on his carpets, staining the walls with his smoke and breaking Geraldino’s precious figurines was just too much for him to take. So he squared his frail shoulders and threw open the door, recoiling instantly at the reek from within as well as the sound of frustration which came from the good Inspector. Before the little man could utter a word, Dubrét came storming out in a cloud of nicotine and went off in the direction of the dining room. Geraldino immediately opened all of the windows and frantically ran about the room checking on his treasures. Only one seemed to have been broken –a rather sad looking frog sitting atop a wilted lily pad. Geraldino was upset for this was a figurine he always felt he could relate to. He sighed and swept up the pieces, thinking that later he’d attempt to glue it back together. Then he gathered the account books and went over the tallies. With 40 less expected to be dining every evening, they’d have to make up the cost somewhere.

The Inspector stalked down the hallway towards the dining room. The bodies had since been removed and the place restored to its former serenity. You wouldn’t know (although by now everyone in town did) that 40 people suddenly dropped dead in their sorbet. Dubrét sighed and sat down in one of the chairs, throwing his cigarette onto the floor and lighting another. One of the waiters gave a polite cough and moved to discreetly put it out with the toe of his shoe and then picked the butt up in his thumb and forefinger and left to dispose of it. Left alone, Dubrét put his feet up on the table and puffed away, ignoring the ash scattering all over his coat. What bothered him was motive. To be sure, most of the guests assembled had money and influence but according to the friends and family who were questioned, no one had anything remotely close to an enemy.
Dubrét considered for a moment. The matrons and their daughters were boring but that was a crime many were guilty of. The philanthropists did enough good that their occasional indiscretions were usually overlooked. The artistic types were egotistical, racy and generally outrageous but that’s what everyone expected from them. The priest, well he didn’t even have to quantify that. The philosopher was harmless from all accounts, his particular brand of philosophy being more attuned to nature than politics. The strategists, well goodness knows they hadn’t come up with anything effective in their entire careers but then neither had the other side’s strategists, so it was a safe bet that this wasn’t some protest against the war. That left the “fillers” and they were so reliant upon their sponsors that it would be stupid to try to off them before they had a suitable replacement –and he doubted a hotel maid –even one from such a prestigious place as the Embassy –would qualify as such. So, in short, the Special Inspector was at a total and complete loss. Therefore he did what many of his predecessors did when unable to come up with a sufficient answer…he took a nap.

When he awoke it was near 7:00 in the evening. The dining room had all of its tables set –minus of course the one the inspector was occupying with his boots. A fire had been lit and the place was cheerfully aglow and ready for its dinner guests. As it happened, this evening, there weren’t any. Not a single one. Of course given that more than 2/3 of its regular clientele had died mysteriously the previous night during said dinner, it could be understood why no one seemed eager to take supper there. Dubrét however, decided he was hungry and ordered the roast quail and potatoes (light on the brandy of course) and lit up another cigarette. The head waiter brought his soup and placed it in front of the Inspector, certain that it was going to be nothing more than an ashtray any moment as Dubrét’s cigarette was dangling perilously on his bottom lip as he adjusted his napkin. In point of fact, there was something falling into his soup –but it wasn’t ash. It was more of the paint particles from the ceiling. Dubrét squinted up at the ceiling and through the light he noticed a fine peppering of them coming down to land on the tables and, more importantly, his soup. He shrugged. After all, if the dead people could tolerate that for over a year, he certainly could for one night. Still, you would think they might consider fixing the ceiling. He took a spoonful of soup, paying no mind to the ash which had just landed in the middle of it.

2 hours later, his feet back up on the table, having a snifter of brandy (what else?) and another cigarette, the Inspector noticed a headache coming on. He hated headaches. He hated dead bodies. Bodies of people who had perished after a large meal and large quantities of alcohol were particularly unappealing. He sighed and thought of his days as an art student. He loved painting. His love however did not transfer into talent. He had a curious affinity for something called “abstract art” but his professors would have none of it and he was told that he should give up and put his enthusiasm into something else. So he took his paintings of geometric shapes, random blotches of color and an odd body part or two and went home. In those days the police bureau would take anyone so he signed up and managed to distinguish himself simply by being only marginally smarter than the people he was pursuing. He still painted, at night in his cramped garret apartment, less ambitious pieces with a lot of red in them. Unable to get rid of his headache and finding that his body seemed rather sluggish, he dozed off.

When he awoke again it was after midnight and he discovered a fine dusting of paint covering him. He shook himself off in disgust and stared up at the ceiling resentfully. His headache had thankfully abated and he didn’t have that curious lassitude in his limbs. He stretched and lit a cigarette, pacing around the room as he tried to figure out what he was going to tell the Bureau Chief. He dreaded the amount of paperwork he’d have to fill out because of this debacle. Frustrated beyond reason, he banged a fist against one of the marble columns supporting the domed ceiling. This caused a rather large chunk of emerald green to come tumbling down onto his head. He felt the cupids looking at him reproachfully. As he dusted himself off again, and as the waiter came to clean up yet another of the Inspector’s messes, he wondered why anyone would choose such a shade as emerald green. Surely some reddish hue would have been much nicer. He looked up and imagined the dome a rather vivid crimson, perhaps without the cupids and instead some spherical lighting. He was admiring his mental handiwork as the waiter gave a supercilious sniff and stalked out of the dining room.

Something was nagging Dubrét. This ceiling business was making him extremely agitated and he blamed it on that damned color and those vapid little cupids and nymphs. He decided it was time to go home for the night. He grabbed his hat and left without a word to anyone. The manager was frankly glad to see him go but he worried about what this investigation might do for business. The wait staff was relieved he’d left as it seemed that all he did was leave a mess in his wake. The Head Chef poured himself a drink (of scotch) to celebrate that he wasn’t a suspect. The maids were avoiding the eyes of the porters and paying a lot of attention to their work. The other officers decided that they could leave as well and made for the pub at the end of the street, not really trusting the quality of the alcohol at the hotel. Understandably so.

Dubrét let himself into his musty apartment and went to his paints, determined to destroy any emerald green he might have among the tubes. He found one, crumpled and nearly gone at the bottom of the box. He took it out and examined it. He thought it to be quite the most revolting color he had ever seen. His clothes were still covered in paint dust and his headache had returned. He noticed a label on the back of the tube and squinted in the dim light to read it but the metal was so bent and rusted he couldn’t make it out. He wondered if this color had any special ingredient that lent to its noxious hue. He rummaged through a pile of slightly mildewed books until he found his old manual on pigments. He leafed through it till he came to Emerald Green –a color most lauded by artisans everywhere. He snorted at their obviously poor aesthetic judgment. And then a very curious notation caught his eye…

“Emerald Green was one of the few colors based on arsenic. Copper aceto-arsenite, known as Schweinfurt Green, Paris Green, or Emerald Green is highly toxic. It was used most commonly as a rat poison in city sewers.
Emerald Green, an important color for the Impressionists, was lost to artists solely because of its toxicity. Emerald Green was their truest cleanest green of the 19th century. Emerald Green was brighter than most greens so the color was used in spite of its toxicity.”

Dubrét flung the book from him and frantically began searching for a medical dictionary. He looked up “arsenic” and found the following listed under “Symptoms”:
“Symptoms of arsenic poisoning start with mild headaches and can progress to lightheadedness and usually, if untreated, will result in death. Arsenic poisoning can lead to a variety of problems, from skin cancer to keratoses of the feet.”

He didn’t need to look up keratoses. He knew it must have something to do with the lesions found on the bodies. He just sat there, unblinking for a long time. Finally he stood and removed every stitch of clothing and burned it all in his tiny fireplace. It created a huge billow of smoke and Dubrét opened the window to let the place air out –the first time he had done so since he moved into the place several years ago. He then wrapped himself in a blanket and sat down to pen a note.

“To: Bureau Chief, City of Poldorff

Dear Sir,

After a long and exhausting investigation, I have determined the cause of death to be prolonged exposure to arsenic. The domed ceiling of the dining room where the deaths occurred is painted a particularly toxic, and if I may say, unattractive, shade of green pigment. As the ceiling has been in disrepair for quite some time following the start of the war, it has consequently been raining down paint chips which were then ingested by the dinner guests. Although the exposure was in minimal doses, the prolonged period of it had obviously been affecting the health of the guests, although possibly not in ways anyone would think to question. I would advise that medical records be checked for dermatological problems and also that the ceiling be repainted immediately as other’s health might be in jeopardy.
Sincerely,

Special Inspector Reginald Dubrét

PS –Might I suggest a nice shade of crimson or garnet for the new ceiling?”

The next day the Hotel began work fixing the ceiling –the dining room remained closed for repairs. Also the next day, a cease-fire was issued and Poldorff conceded victory to Marbonne. A very nice apology was written up in all the papers and the men returned home. Dubrét was given another commendation. Oh yes, and the ceiling of the Embassy Hotel dining room was painted a non-descript shade of beige.

12/22/2007

Author's Note: It's utterly ridiculous -and yet, I like it. As a child, emerald green was my favorite color...upon finding out it's true nature, I believe my first thought was "Figures."

Posted on 12/22/2007
Copyright © 2025 Therese Elaine