Murder in High Places

by Hugh Pentecost

  Beaumont without a professional reason. I guessed that Chambrun must have tipped her off that there would be a story.

  "Do sit down, Mark," Martha said. '*I don't like to be seen in public alone." She was drinking a dry martini in a chilled glass. ''Chambrun rarely gives me a bad tip, but I must say I don't see why I should be interested in that grotesque parade of man, woman, and dog."

  "Famous and very great old lady and one of the outstanding artists of our time embarked on a venture together," I said.

  "Pierre told me that on the phone. Why did he want me here? I owe him favors, so I came, but it's not gossip, Mark, which is my business."

  I smiled at her and told a hovering waiter that I, too, would have a dry martini in a chilled glass. "I just heard today that Victoria Haven may have had an affair with Calvin Coolidge," I said.

  She lifted her lorgnette and looked at me like a scientist might examine a bug under a microscope. "You have to be kidding," she said. "Silent Cal would never have known how to ask!"

  "Sign language," I suggested. "Seriously, that old gal could probably give you more gossip about famous men of the last sixty years than you could dream of. Fill your space those days when there isn't anything very hot cooking. Since she is about to be made immortal by John Jericho, I guess the boss thought you might find her in a mood to remember some choice items."

  "I wouldn't have come at all/* Martha said, "If I hadn't needed help from Pierre on something else. One of my so called reliable sources tells me that Larry Welch is here at the Beaumont. Tve tried to call him on the phone, but your switchboard won't put me through directly to him and he won't accept a call from me."

  It was like being suddenly shocked by a live wire. Larry Welch was what this whole charade was about, but Martha Madden, of all people, wasn't supposed to make the connection. Give her the slightest hint, and she could turn a searchlight on what Chambrun was so "desperately trying to keep invisible.

  "You know Larry?" Martha asked me.

  "Met him, when he's stayed here from time to time," I said. As far as I knew, Larry Welch had never stayed at the Beaumont before.

  "My source tells me he's involved in a really big story," Martha said. "He wouldn't make himself so inaccessible if he wasn't. Where is he, in the bridal suite?"

  I didn't even want to mention the roof, or she would be trying to find a way to get up there herself.

  "I asked your Mr. Atterbury at the front desk and he tells me Larry isn't registered, but your switchboard sings a different song. 'I'll see if Mr. Welch can accept your call.' And then: 'I'm sorry, but Mr. Welch can't take your call at this time/ Your people ought to gpt their signals straight/'

  "A lot of famous people stay here who don't roister at the front desk," I said. I grinned at her. "Thaf s to keep reporters like you from making their lives miserable. They roister in Chambrun's office. Atterbury probably told you the truth, and ditto the switchboard."

  "Tell Pierre I want to get to Larry Welch, and that I coimt on him to arrange it," Martha said. Her lorgnette was now focused on Victoria Haven's table. "That old crone seems to attract men like a burlesque queen about to do a striptease."

  It was true. About a dozen gentlemen had gathered around the table getting the charm treatment from Victoria and what Eddie, the bartender, has called "the B.C. treatment" from Toto. B.C. for 'beneath contempt!"

  " Sixty years ago the line would have been around the block," I told Martha.

  ''What has she got that I haven't got?" Martha asked.

  "She doesn't bite or sting," I said.

  "Look at Mitch Prescott, over there at the bar, watching her and grinning like a Cheshire cat!" Martha said. ''I've done that supercop a dozen important favors in my time. Is he over here saying hello to me? That sideshow over there has got him hooked!"

  "Im afraid I've got to join it."' I said. '"It's part of my job to help spread the word that John Jericho is abandoning his crusade against world violence to paint a very gracious lady."

  As I stood up to leave, Martha's fingers, strong as piano wires, closed on my wrist. 'Tell Pierre if he doesn't get me to Larry Welch, I just might take a few random shots at his beloved hotel."

  I was still forcing a smile. *'I ought to warn you, luv, that a war with Chambrun is one you could lose, in spite of your column in umpteen hundred newspapers."

  "I know you get paid to protect Chambrun," she said, **so I forgive you for that one. All I want is for him to get Welch to talk to me on the phone. Once Fve got Welch listening I'll take my own chances on the next move."

  As I crossed toward Victoria Haven's table Mich Prescott joined me. He was filling a pipe from a brightly colored roll-up pouch.

  "Extraordinary woman," he said. He was talking about Mrs. Haven. ''Approaching age scares the hell out of some of us. Fm thirty years younger than Victoria and Fm akeady wondering how much farther the road goes. I get winded if I walk across town too briskly—I wonder if this pipe is going to give me throat cancer. When I look at a handsome woman I wonder if the time is coming when I might not be able to make it. Victoria? She's spent her life attracting men and at eighty she's still competition for today's glamour girls."

  "It's an art," I said.

  Prescott held a lighter to his pipe. ""I hope Jericho has the sense to give his painting to the Beaumont, and that Chambrun will have the sense to hang it in the Trapeze so that she'll be here with her friends forever."

  ''I suspect she'll outlast the lot of us," I said.

  His strong white teeth bit down on the stem of his pipe. "You could be right, you know," he said.

  The gathering around Victoria's table was not all centered on her. Jericho was getting his share of attention. What did he think about Israel's war against the PLO? What did he think about the IRA bombing in London that had killed men and horses in a routine changing of the guard? Was Armageddon around the coma:? Jericho fought off these serious questions with his bright smile.

  "An artist has to change his perspective from time to time," he told his audience. "I've been concentrating for a long time on violrace and death. Fm tinning now to beauty and life for a change of pace."

  "Too late, Im afraid," Victoria said.

  "You only look at yourself in the mirror, my sweet," Jericho said. "You don't light up for your-sdf. But for us your real beauty comes from an inner somethmg. If I can catch that, I'll produce a masterpiece. That's why I'm going to have to spend the next few days with you, round the clock, so that I don't miss any glimpse of that inner excitement there is to catch/'

  "Fifty years ago I wouldn't have given you time to paint me," Victoria said.

  "Fifty years ago I wasn't even a gleam in my father's eyes," Jericho said, **My misfortune. But who knows, lovely lady, who knows?"

  "There's a lady across the room who can gossip about us," Victoria said.

  "She'll have to guess at it," Jericho said, *'because you and I are going to have a very private time to-geth«-." He smiled at the army around the table. "If Victoria doesn't show up for a few days, don't worry about her. If I get lucky, she'll be having fun!"

  It was very neatly played. No one gathered around the table could have guessed that Victoria Haven's absence from her regular five o'clock routine for the next few days represented anything but a famous artist having persuaded her to give him her undivided attention.

  Mitch Prescott was tugging at my sleeve.

  "Can you leave the world of budding romance for a moment," he asked. Something about his voice made me turn to give him a quick look. "Over there at the bar," he said. "The man with the dark sunglasses."

  Standing apart from a half dozen other drinkers was a tall, wiry-looking man with very black, patent-leather-looking hair. He had a tan that suggested he'd spent a lot of time at a beach somewhere. He was staring down, through black lenses, at a drink that didn't seem to interest him. Neither did the gay gathering around Victoria Haven and Jericho seem to be of any interest to him.

  "What about him?" he aske
d.

  ''I never saw him before in my Hfe," I said. "He's not a regular, that much I know."

  Prescott was frowning. "I know him from somewhere," he said. "My kind of business must not be unlike yours, Mark. You see hundreds of faces every day, people you've never seen before. Run into one of them out of your usual environment and you can't place them, but they're familiar."

  "That one looks like George Raft in an old Warner Brothers gangster movie," I said.

  "I guess I'm getting old," Prescott said. "Everyone looks like someone I've seen in all the criminal mug shots I have looked at. I could swear that guy— would you mind asking Eddie about him, Mark? If I ask him, he'll freeze. I'm a good customer, but the minute I start asking questions I'm a cop."

  What Prescott couldn't know was that any reason to suspect a stranger in the Beaumont was vital at the moment. Chambrun had been warned that we were watched, that any deviation from normal routines would be instantly noticed, reported, and Betsy Ruysdale would suffer the consequences. Chambrun didn't want to believe that anyone on his staff would have sold us out, but who else could be so familiar with routines? Any regular customer was the answer; any one of literally hundreds of diplomats who had stayed in Penthouse 3. Fve seen them come and go over the years, white men, black men, brown-skinned Arabs, Orientals. This character with the black glasses and the patent-leather hair could have been one of them, his appearance altered for his present purposes. If Prescott felt some vague doubts about him, I should check him out.

  I left Prescott and walked over to the far end of the bar. Eddie came over to me after he'd finished making a batch of cocktails for a group at the otha: end of the mahogany.

  "Madame Victoria seems to be having a ball," he said.

  "The guy with the black glasses, you know who he is, Eddie?"

  Eddie shrugged. "Been around for the last few days aroimd this time," Eddie said.

  "He registered here?" I asked.

  "Hell, Mark, you don't have to have a passport to buy a drink here. He isn't talkative, I didn't ask him."

  "You don't recognize him from some other time?"

  Eddie shook his head. "I would remraiber, too," he said. "When I say * a drink'—that one nurses one vodka and tonic longer than it takes the average woman to have a baby! That kind of customer I'd remember. No tips!"

  "Keep looking my way," I said. "I don't want him to guess we're talking about him. Prescott thinks he's seen him before somewhere, maybe in a mug shot."

  Eddie grinned. ''Mitch sees an international crook in anyone whose name and social security number he doesn't know. This guy just seems to be killing time between dates. He doesn't appear to be waiting for anyone, unless it's a train back to the suburbs. He's come in the last four afternoons, just before Mrs. Haven's entrance, and left in less than an hour. One drink!"

  It could mean something, probably meant nothing. A guy just killing time in a pleasant place. I was just about to report back to Prescott when one of the regular bellhops came up to me.

  "'Mr. Chambrun wants you up in his penthouse, Mr. Haskell. On the double is the word."

  I went down to the lobby and across to the elevators. Somewhat to my surprise, Johnny Thacker, the day bell captain, was operating the roof car instead of Bob Ballard. He signaled Chambrun's phone, told him I was on the way up.

  ''Something screwy going on here," Johnny said. "The guy in Penthouse Three called the switchboard to say he had a guest in the lobby who wanted to come up and this roof car didn't respond. I checked it out. According to the indicator, the car was stopped at the tenth floor. None of the regular operators stop anywhere between the lobby, the second floor, and the roof—unless it's Chambrun, or you, or Jerry Dodd, someone with authority to tell them to stop."

  ''So what does Bob Ballard say?"

  ''He doesn't say anything because we haven't been able to find him. The car was stopped at ten, empty, no Bob. I figure he must have got sick and had to get to the John in a hurry. There was nothing mechanically wrong with the car. It was just deserted."

  "And the passenger for Penthouse Three?"

  "Oh, I took him up, eventually. Guy in a tizzy because he'd been kept waiting for half an hour. I was ordered by Chambrun to take over the car until Bob shows up or we can get the night operator to come on early."

  "It's not like Bob to just duck out," I said.

  "You know that," Johnny said. "Jerry Dodd'sgot people looking for him. He could be sick or hurt."

  It turned out that Bob Ballard was a great deal worse than sick or hurt. One of Jerry Dodd's men found his body stuffed into a metal trash can on the tenth floor, outside the rear service elevator. The top of his head had been blown away by three heavy-duty slugs from some kind of a magnum handgun.

  Part Two

  Johnny Thacker, running the roof car in place of Bob Ballard, hadn't known what I found out from Chambrun when I entered the penthouse. Just minutes before, one of Jerry Dodd's men had made the gruesome discovery on the tenth floor. He hadn't been looking for anything but a sick young man somewhere. The lid to the trash can in the service area hadn't been fitted on properly. A simple instinct for neatness, ingrained into every Beaimiont ^nployee, prompted this security guy—his name was Bam-hardt—to try to close the lid the way it should be. It wouldn't close as it should and Bamhardt lifted the lid off to see what was blocking it. He found himself looking down into the obUterated face of a dead man. Bamhardt acted with the kind of efficiency for which we were normally proud at the Beaumont. He tried to locate Jerry Dodd on the service phone right thore by tte trash can, put out an alarm for J^ry, and, without ever leaving Bob Ballard's dead body, called the police. You didn't have to be a trained security guard to recognize this as a homicide. Bamhardt then tried to locate Chambmn in his office and, failing that, called Penthouse 1. Chambmn was just putting down the phone as I walked into his living room. He looked at me as if I were a total stranger.

  "You sent for me," I said when he didn't speak.

  "'Earnhardt couldn't locate Jerry, so he's called the police," Chambrun said, in a dead-sounding voice. **It was the right thing for him to do. He had no way of knowing that we are facing any kind of special situation. We're going to be swarming with cops and I have no way to stop it."

  "'Stop it?"

  "There should be no change in our routines. That's the price we pay for Ruysdale's safe return. The police are going to turn those routines upside down." He glanced at his watch. *'Just six o'clock," Chambrun said. **You were in the Trapeze when ^ctoria and Jericho turned up there at five. Did they indicate there was anything out of the ordinary when they made their trip down from the roof?"

  "'No conversation about it at all," I said. **Every-thing seems to be going the way you wanted it to down there. Regular customers all know about the painting. Martha Madden is there, thanks to you. How did everyone know Ballard was missing? You had people looking for hhn."

  "Someone calling to see Larry Welch. No car to bring him up here. Car was stopped at ten. That was the obvious place to start looking for Ballard, who wasn't where he should be. Johnny Thacker took over the car and brought Welch's guest up."

  "Brought me up, too," I said. *Tive minutes ago he didn't know what had happened to Ballard/'

  "There's no way not to let Welch know what's hap-poied," Chambrun said. ''If we don't, the police will. He gets the wind up, decides to move somewl^re else, and Ruysdale's had it."

  "Look," I said. ''Welch is a tough guy, used to tough situations. I'll bet if you tell him whaf s cooking, he'll play along with you."

  "Or he'll just say he's sorry, can't risk it, and take off," Chambrun said. "According to him, he has more at stake than his own safety." He brought his fist down on the table beside his chair. "You're going to have to handle this for me, Mark. What has the traffic bera to Penthouse Three? We know Johnny Thacker just took someone up there. But before that, who went up, when did they come down? Who last rode an uninterrupted trip with Bob Ballard? Someone from Penthouse Th
ree? "Victoria and J«icho? I'll check in the Trapeze. You go across the roof and talk to Welch. He knows Ballard was missing from the car when his present guest arrived. Just tell him Ballard is stiD missing. No more than that. I need time to think about telling him anything else."

  I walked across tte roof, past Mrs. Haven's deserted quarters, and to Penthouse 3.1 knocked on the front door. Nothing happened until I knocked a second time, loud and hard. The door opened and Larry

  Welch, looking unfriendly, opened up. When he saw me he gave me his Burt Reynolds smile.

  "Hi, Mark," he said. 'Tm tied up at the moment. If you could come back later?..."

  '"Just a quick question," I said. '*The guy who was operating the roof car is still missing. I'm trying to find out who saw him last. I mean, if Bob Ballard said anything about being sick, or something like that."

  "I never did see him," Larry said. '*He brought up an early caller I had, took him down later."

  "When was that?"

  "Oh boy, let me see. It was Martin Steams. State Department character. He arrived before two, left a Uttle after five, I guess."

  After five; that would have been after Victoria Haven and Jericho had gone down to the Trapeze.

  "Your Mr. Steams didn't have any trouble getting a ride down?" I asked.

  Larry shmgged. "He'd have come back here if there hadn't been any ride down," he said. "My present caller is the one who had the trouble. No ride up. He called me on the house phone to say the roof car wasn't operating. I called your security man, Dodd, and he said he'd have someone on the car in a few minutes. It took nearly twenty minutes or more, but my caller is here. And now if you'll excuse me, Mark-"

  "Is there some way I can reach this Steams guy to ask him about his ride down?"

  "I don't know if he's staying overnight in town/* Larry said. *'Washington is his base. I suppose someone at the State Department might tell you where he's staying in New York, if he is staying. He could be flying back to Washington right now, I suppose."