Hilda pushed back her chair, stood up, and without the slightest hesitation began to sing.
"I get no kick from champagne. Mere alcohol doesn't thrill me at all .,r
Jericho applauded, as other heads turned our way. Someone shouted out, *'Keep going, Hilda!"
"I get paid for singing more than two bars," Hilda called out.
"You are no forgery,'' Jericho said. "Can I buy you a drink?"
"I have a rehearsal in a few minutes," Hilda said, "but if you'd give me a rain check ..."
"Anytime anyplace, lady," Jericho said. That's the punch line for an old joke that isn't fit for family consumption. Hilda didn't give any sign that she knew it. She turned to me.
"As long as you have company, Mark, I'll go now— Will you catch one of my turns tonight?"
"You know it," I said.
She turned to leave and there was Chambrun coming into the Trapeze. He didn't seem to see us at all but went to the bar, where he ordered a vermouth on the rocks.
"Shall I tell your boss I waylaid you because I was due an explanation?" Hilda asked.
Jericho put an end to that. He called out in his booming voice, "Hey, Pierre! Long time no see." He crossed over to join Chambrun at the bar. Chambrun showed surprise and pleasure at seeing an old friend.
It was a good act. He appeared not to see Hilda or me as we walked behind them and out of the Trapeze. But I knew he knew I was there and I hadn't been following orders, which was to watch the traffic on the roof car.
By the time Hilda and I reached the lobby I was feeling something more than conscience at having played truant from my assignment for a few minutes. Betsy Ruysdale was not where she should be, for the first time in years. Betsy, so cool and competent and efficient, who would never have let me—-or anyone else important to Chambrun—-down for even a second, was God knows where, in God knows what kind of circumstances, subjected to God knows what kind of violence or humiliation. Betsy is a resourceful and courageous gal, but she could be scared out of her wits at this moment. One slip by Chambrun or anyone in whom he confided, and Betsy could find herself being shipped home in a trash bag. I had chosen to ignore her and her situation in order to make time with this blond singer who happened to be more than average fun in bed! What a jerk, I told myself!
Hilda went off to her rehearsal and I stood looking around the lobby like some rookie outfielder who has just lost a fly ball in the sun. Had somebody gone up to Penthouse 3 while I held Hilda's hand under the table in the Trapeze? Wouldn't Chambrun have checked himself? He'd know I'd muffed it if he had. Suddenly a strong hand rested on my shoulder and I turned to face a man I was instinctively glad to see. He was Mitchell Prescott, big, broad shouldered, bald as an egg, wearing an expensively tailored tropical worsted blue suit. A shell-briar pipe was clamped between strong white teeth. I don't think I've ever seen Prescott without a pipe. I'd wondered if he'd slept with one pointing toward the ceiling.
'Tve been looking for Pierre," he said. ''Not in his office, not in his penthouse, no Miss Ruysdale, no you. I'd begun to think I'd wandered into the wrong place."
Prescott is high up in the operation of the CIA, not an undercover type but near the top in the chain of command. He was located officially in Washington, but he keeps a permanent room in the Beaumont. I think a lot of work includes foreign diplomats whose jobs bring them to the United Nations. You could say Prescott was a sort of landmark in the hotel, always just around the corner if you wanted to find him. My instant thought was that he was someone Chambrun would turn to if the going got really tough. Prescott had a skilled army he could call on within seconds of their being needed.
"Something special cooking?" Prescott asked me.
I damn near bit off my tongue to keep from telling him. ''Ruysdale's on holiday for a few days," I told him. "The boss is a little like a blind man without his guide dog."
Prescott laughed. ''Absence makes the heart grow fonder."' he said. ''Know where I might find Pierre? I understand the spare penthouse is occupied. We've got a Saudi big shot coming to town in a couple of days and rd hoped to put him up here."
"I don't know how long the present occupant is booked in for," I said. "We can find a suite for you. We always keep one empty for CTfiergencies."
"The penthouse is so perfect for the special-envoy-type visitor," Prescott said. "Total privacy, except for ^ctoria's Japanese gentleman friend." He grinned, and tamped down the ashes in the bowl of his pipe with his forefinger. "Seriously, you know where I can locate the boss?"
"Last I knew he was up in the Trapeze having a drink with an old friend."
"Thanks," Prescott said. He held a lighter to his pipe and puffed out a cloud of smoke. "See you around, friend." He headed for the stairway to the mezzanine.
I walked over to the roof car and realized, without looking at my watch, that it was after three o'clock. Dick Berger had been relieved on the car by Bob Ballard. The three shifts run from 7:00 a.m. to 3.00 p.m., three to eleven at night, and Lucky Lewis takes over at eleven till seven in the morning.
"Any callers for Penthouse Three?" I asked Ballard.
" There's someone up there now," Bob told me. ''Dick took him up before he went off duty."
''Know who it is?"
Bob shrugged. "Dick cleared him with Mr. Welch. He didn't tell me who. Just said someone had gone up and would, sometime, be coming down."
I started for a house phone to call Larry Welch and ask him if everything was okay. Then I remembered Chambrun hadn't trusted the house phone. We were living in a new world!
The little phone in the roof car gave an irregular ringing sound.
"That's the boss's ring on the second floor," Bob Ballard said. "He's evidently headed up."
"I'll go with you," I said. "I want to see him."
Chambrun was alone when the second-floor door opened. He'd left Jericho behind. He gave me a cold, almost hostile look.
"Prescott find you?" I asked.
"Thanks to you," he said.
"I just wanted to tell you—"
"When we get upstairs," Chambrun said.
Didn't he trust Bob Ballard, for God's sake? When the car door opened at the rooftop level Chambrun spoke to Ballard.
"You know John Jericho by sight. Bob?"
"The artist? Big guy with a red beard?"
"He'll be going back and forth to Mrs. Haven's penthouse for the next few days. He's going to be painting the lady's portrait. Check out with her in the usual way but don't be surprised if you see a lot of Jericho."
He walked out of the car and under the awning to the front door of his penthouse. There was something rigid about his walk that I have never seen before.
"'Jericho's going to be painting Mrs. Haven?" I asked when we were inside.
He spun around on me, his eyes blazing. '*Is it safe to say anything to you without your blabbing it to that blonde when she gets you in the hay?" he asked.
"Look, I'm sorry, boss. I had a lunch date with her. With all that's going on I didn't call her to tell her I couldn't keep it. She flagged me in the lobby and I had to take time to explain."
"To tell her that Ruysdale's been kidnapped, that Larry Welch's life is in danger?"
"Of course not. I just told her something had gone wrong with regular routines and you'd asked me to check."
He sat down in the chair by the French windows. Again there was that unaccustomed gesture of covering his face with his hands.
"'Welch has a visitor," I told him. *"Dick Berger cleared it with him before he went off duty. I don't know who it is. I'm sorry I blew it. You want me to wander over there?"
He lowered his hands, and I saw the stricken look to his face. *'No, I don't want you to wander over there." If he'd slapped me, I couldn't have been more aware of his anger. Goddamn it, Mark, if I can't trust you!..."
I just stood there waiting for him to let it all out. "I'm sorry," he said after a moment. ''The whole damn thing is like juggling a hot coal. The smallest misstep, one care
less word to someone and—and Ruysdale could be dead and Welch in mortal danger."
''I haven't said anything to anyone that could put anyone on the spot. Not even Jericho, or Prescott, your friends."
"There are four people now besides me who know what's going on," he said. "You, Jerry Dodd, Jericho, and Victoria Haven."
"You told them?"
"And may regret it for the rest of my life if somebody smells a rat," he said. He snapped open his silver case and took out one of his Egyptian cigarettes. His hands weren't quite steady as he held his lighter to it. "The only way to protect Welch and at the same time not endanger Ruysdale was to do it invisibly, I told you. To manage that I had to get Jericho to agree to help. He's a man who's devoted his life to fighting violence. He's going to paint Victoria. He'll be on the roof constantly for as long as this situation lasts. He'll be visible, but his real reason for being there will be invisible. He knows the kind of people Welch may be involved with. He'll see everybody who comes and goes."
"The boys on the roof car can fill you in if Jericho doesn't know someone," I said.
"'God help me, I can't trust anyone without telling them everything," Chambrun said. "If I ask too many questions, one of the car operators may wonder, out loud, why I'm so particularly interested in Larry Welch. Tell me about Prescott."
"Nothing to tell. He had been looking for you, couldn't find you. Went up to the office and discovered Ruysdale was missing. He said he was interested in Penthouse Three for some Saudi diplomat."
"What did you tell him?"
"That Ruysdale was taking a few days' vacation and that you were lost without her. That I didn't know how long the present occupant of Penthouse Three was staying, but that we could find a suite for his Saudi friend. I'm afraid I did tell him you were in the Trapeze with a friend."
"I can read your mind, Mark. You were thinking Prescott is someone who might help us."
"Well-yes, I did."
"Mark, Mark, Mark! Cops, and even supercops like Prescott, solve crimes after they Ve been committed! If, as I was warned, there is someone watching every move I make, all I have to do is been seen talking to Prescott and they may decide I'm taking some kind of counteraction. Damn it, Mark, Ruysdale's out there somewhere, hanging by her fingernails!'*
"Im sorry. I hadn't thought—"
"'WeIl, think from now on, man." He snuffed out his half-smoked cigarette. *'I had just enough time to alert Jericho and pull it off for Prescott. Big deal. I was arranging to have a famous lady, my friend, have a portrait painted by a famous artist, my friend. Jericho's gone home to collect his painting materials. He'll be up here, on guard, in about an hour."
"He's really going to paint Mrs. Haven?"
"Of course. We can't risk anything but the real thing. Now, at five o'clock Victoria will make her usual trip down to the Trapeze for cocktails. Jericho will be with her. I want you there to help spread the word that the lady is about to become immortal. Get it to the press. Buy drinks for anyone you think may spread the word. It has to be known that this has been long planned—long before what's happened here today. The people who have Ruysdale may wonder if this is what it really is. They have to believe this is something I can't change without having to answer difficult questions. The truth has to stay invisible, Mark. I count on you."
There is no place like a busy hotel, especially at the eating, drinking, and entertainment times of the day and night, to watch someone, spy on someone who is circulating in that hotel world. You don't need a passport to get through the front door. You won't stand out just because you aren't a regular customer. Hundreds of people who have never been there before pass through the lobby every day, dine or lunch in the grill or the main dining room, drink in the bars, shop in the specialty places and boutiques in the lobby arcade. You don't attract attention from our security people just because you are a stranger, unless of course you act peculiarly or suspiciously. Ruysdale's kidnappers, with their sights aimed at Larry Welch, could be in the hotel in droves and not attract attention. They'd be just part of the daily influx of strangers. Strangers are as much a part of our business as the literally thousands of registered guests and daily customers. You could be "invisible" here right out in the open— except for the roof level.
There could be a bomb threat—and we've had them—or the rumor of a high-class hotel thief on the loose, and immediately Jerry Dodd and some forty security men would be alerted, plus bellboys, captains and headwaiters in the restaurants and bars, maintenance people, doormen, shopkeepers, room service waiters, an army on the lookout for trouble. In this situation, the threat of a possible double murder, there were just five of us who knew the score. Three of us could circulate, looking for God knows what or who—Chambrun, Jerry Dodd, and me. Jericho and Mrs. Haven would be anchored on the roof. All of us were committed to a kind of deadly silence. To talk to anyone might result in some small action that could trigger a disaster. To take one step outside of what was a daily routine could make a killer, or killers, dangerously nervous. And someone, whom we couldn't identify yet, knew those routines and could report the moment we deviated from them.
I don't mind saying that it was a terrifying situation. I found myself almost afraid to look at people—people I knew and people I didn't know. Too much interest in a stranger might sound an alarm. It was almost worse with people I knew—the staff, regular customers. How did I usually react to them? What kind of a smile did I usually give them? Was there some little joke that we usually exchanged? I don't think I have a professional smile or manner. I am just myself, normally courteous to casual acquaintances and guests, a ready insult or gibe for people I knew well. It wasn't planned, it was just instinctive. Suddenly every contact involved a hidden tension. How did I usually play it with this particular man or woman? If I overplayed it, would they suspect something? If I underplayed it, what then? Was someone I'd always trusted and liked the enemy? I suddenly felt as if I were walking on explosive eggs. The lobby, the bars, even my office and Chambrun's were all at once hostile places. Someone was watching, waiting for me to make some kind of suspicious move. I would have given anything that late afternoon if I hadn't known what was cooking, if I hadn't had to be on guard against some fooHsh slip.
But, as five o'clock approached, I left my office. First I tried out Chambrun's scenario on my office giri and secretary, Shelda Mason. Once upon a time, long ago, I'd been in love with Shelda Mason forever. She'd withstood the tragedy of losing me and stayed on as an extremely efficient helper.
"Big doings in the Trapeze," I told her. "Mrs. Haven is going to have her picture painted."
"A little late, isn't it?" Shelda said.
"What's important is who's doing the painting," I said. "John Jericho."
Shelda grinned at me. "Well, he paints battlefields, doesn't he? Now, if the old lady was fifty years younger, that might be a juicy item. You want me to do something with it, Mark? A press release?"
I tried to make it sound causal. "Jericho's wanted her to sit for him for a long time and she's finally agreed. It's a story. He turned down the president of the United States once. Any picture he paints runs into six figures at today's prices."
"Why the old lady? Are they friends?"
"The glamour girl of the century," I said.
Shelda was, without knowing it, asking me the right questions, questions I'd have to answer in a few minutes in the Trapeze.
"It could give the gossip columnists a chance to revive the story of her life," Shelda said. "I've heard she had famous lovers who died long before I was bom. My grandmother will enjoy reading about those old romances. An artist painting a picture of an old lady isn't much of a story. But if we could remind people that she had a love affair with Calvin CooHdge—"
^'Coolidge? Never!''
''Well, I was just picking a name out of the hat," Shelda said. "You have to give it some spice, Mark." She gave me a sly look. "I've heard it rumored that the lady and Chambrun were once an older woman-younger man thing."
"I wouldn't know," I said, though I'd heard the rumor, too.
"He lets her keep a dog in the hotel," Shelda said. "That could be a symptom of real love."
"You've got a superimagination," I said.
She gave me a Mona Lisa smile. "I was taught by a master," she said.
Why had I fallen out of love with Shdda, I asked myself. She had been a lot of fun back then.
Victoria Haven—tall, erect, moving with astonishing grace and vigor for her age—made a daily "entrance" into the Trapeze Bar every afternoon at five. You could tell time by her. Carrying Toto under one arm and Toto's red satin cushion under the other, she would cross the room, smiling and nodding to familiar people, to the corner table always reserved for her.
Today something was added, a giant, red-bearded escort who instantly caught the attention of the women customers in the bar. I was just in time, coming from the rear door, to see them make their way across the room. The room was moderately populated for the event. In another half hour it would be crowded with people coming out of work. Mrs. Haven has told me, straight-facedly, that she came ahead of the crowd to avoid attracting attention. As if attracting attention hadn't been her whole life! She and Jericho and Toto, enthroned on his cushion, made quite a picture at the comer table.
Looking around the room, I saw a lot of people I knew by sight, including Mitch Prescott, who was standing at the bar nursing his pipe and smiling as he watched the parade to the corner table. A woman's voice called out my name and I saw Martha Madden, the syndicated gossip columnist, sitting alone. Martha belongs to the almost forgotten school of Hedda Hopper—hat, jewelry, cigarettes in a long ivory holder, and, of all things, a lorgnette worn around her neck on a gold chain. Martha wouldn't have been caught dead in an ordinary pair of glasses. People in films and theater and the world of arts saw her appear where they were with mixed emotions. She had the power to give their careers an enormous lift if she liked them, and she could strike a mortal blow to their vital organs if she didn't. Americans are eager to hear the '*dirt" about famous people, and Martha had gotten rich and famous dishing it out. I knew she hadn't come to have a drink all by herself at the
Murder in High Places Page 4