Mystery At Midnight

It is a stripe of midnight and May French lilac tonight.  The sirens intensify as a car screams up to the hotel.  Its doors fly open like wings and men rush out.  One man, fedora askew, black trenchcoat billowing behind, pushes past the doorman, brandishing his badge.  He mounts the stairs by threes and bursts into the room; his practiced eye immediately takes in every detail.  A small window over the fire escape stands open, its cheap chintz curtains stirring.  On the floor, amid the puddled black satin of her dressing gown, is a single perfect orchid.  He looks more closely and sees her marcasite hatpin a few feet away.  On its point gathers a ruby drop.