William Fitzgerald and the Saint

Stephen requested it, Andrew wrote it

The man William Fitzgerald was following ran out into the lobby wild-eyed. “There’s been a murder!” he cried. William Fitzgerald was slouching next to the desk, making sour comments to the clerk. The man gabbled explanations until the clerk told him to shut up. “Save it for the police, mac.” William Fitzgerald coughed into his collar.

The dead man was lying sprawled in a puddle of afternoon sunlight, twisted over himself at an unnatural angle. The clerk grunted. “He’s dead, right enough. Check his pockets, you.”

The man stuttered and stumbled and looked like he was going to throw up, so William Fitzgerald pushed him out of the way and rolled the corpse over. A sweet scent filled the room, which, if he’d liked flowers, William Fitzgerald would have known was honeysuckle.

“My god, what’s happened to his face?” The young man jacknifed and began to vomit noisily on the terrazzo. While the clerk was distracted, William Fitzgerald pocketed the dead man’s wallet and pocket watch.

Waste not, want not.