Walking Dead Man

by Hugh Pentecost

  “We’re going to need some kind of a steel saw to get these things off,” I said.

  “The keys are on the bureau,” Chambrun said.

  We had him free in a matter of seconds. He stood up and stretched painfully. “Remind me,” he said, “to consider permanent retirement. I let that sonofabitch take me like Grant took Richmond. Walked right into it. What’s happened at the hotel?”

  “You happened,” Jerry said. “We’ve been searching the place all night for you.”

  “How did you happen to find me here—for which I’m grateful?”

  “Mark was ordered to bring the money here.”

  “Money?”

  “Ransom money, boss. A hundred G’s he got away with.”

  “Where in God’s name did you get that kind of money? Wait. Don’t tell me. George Battle put it up?”

  “Right,” Jerry said. “Listen, boss, did you ever get a look at this man?”

  Chambrun was flexing his fingers and then rubbing his bruised wrists. “I walked out of my office thinking I’d had a call from Kranepool to come up to the penthouse. Ruysdale took the call. She didn’t know Kranepool’s voice, of course, and had no reason to doubt it was him. This creep in the stocking mask was waiting right outside the office and stuck a gun at my throat. I was to get us out of the hotel without being seen if I wanted to keep my head on. I wanted to keep my head on, so I showed him a way out through the basement. We walked here, would you believe it, gun in my back. Three blocks. Would you believe we never saw a cop, never passed close enough to anyone for me to try anything? I was brought up here, handcuffed to that chair, my mouth taped. I never saw him again until about an hour ago. I was able to make some banging noises with my feet on the floor. No one ever responded. God, I need a shave and a hot shower and some clean clothes. We can talk on the way.”

  “You and Mark go,” Jerry said. “I’m going to find the superintendent or the landlady of this joint and do a little arm twisting. Tell Art Stein at the hotel that the ball game is over and we won.”

  “You’re dreaming,” Chambrun said. “We’ve lost every step of the way so far. Let’s go, Mark.” I turned my head and I guess he saw me wince. “What happened to you?”

  “Your friend gave him a very expert karate chop,” Jerry said.

  “So we have two scores to settle,” Chambrun said.

  We went down and out onto the street. I looked around for a cab, but Chambrun wanted to walk. “Got to get my circulation going again—if you can stand it, Mark.”

  So we walked. The rain had let up and was not much more than a gentle drizzle. I offered Chambrun my raincoat, but he said at least one of us might as well be dry when we got home. On the way I brought him up to date; chiefly Hardy’s theory that Stocking Mask was one of Battle’s people.

  “But that’s blown sky high, unless there are a lot of people running around in masks.” I said. “The man who came out of your room and slugged me couldn’t have been any of Mr. Battle’s crew. They’re all back in the penthouse, being watched over by Hardy.” Then I remembered something. “How well do you know Dr. Cobb?”

  “Known him casually for twenty years—about the time he’s worked for George. Why?”

  “Maybe he was kidding,” I said, “but he told me he knows how the masked man got into the penthouse. Afterwards he urged me not to tell anyone what he’d said. I couldn’t push him about it because just then the phone call came from the guy who had you with instructions on how to deliver the money. I suspect Cobb likes a joke, but somehow this didn’t sound like a joke.”

  “There’s very little that’s a joke in George Battle’s world,” Chambrun said. “Does Ruysdale know—about me, I mean?”

  “She was there almost the minute it happened. Naturally, she’s worried sick. But you better look out. She knows as much about running the Beaumont as you do.”

  He seemed to suppress a smile. “All the people I train know their jobs,” he said. He turned west a block too soon. “I want to take you in the cellar way—the way I was taken out. I don’t want to be seen until I’m cleaned up.”

  I’ve been working at the Beaumont for some years, but there’s always something new about it. I guess I knew, without having seen them, that there were ways to get trash up from the basement to the street level where it could be picked up by the Sanitation Department. There were two big iron doors, level with the sidewalk. Chambrun pressed a button and stood back, and presently the doors were lifted by an elevator which came right up onto the street. We stepped on the elevator and went down, the iron doors closing over our heads. Chambrun found a light switch in the dark and we walked along a narrow passage to where the regular banks of elevators were located.

  “My friend and I came down from the second floor, and I showed him how to get out because I didn’t feel I wanted to risk his getting nervous.”

  Chambrun rang for an elevator and it came down, manned by an operator.

  “Gee, Mr. Chambrun,” the man said, “they been looking all over hell for you.”

  “I took a night off,” Chambrun said. “Second floor, please, Paul.” He knows everybody’s names, first and last, in a staff of over seven hundred people.

  We got off at two and walked down the hall to his office. Miss Ruysdale was in the outer room. She got up from her desk more quickly than I’d ever seen her move.

  “Good morning, Ruysdale,” Chambrun said, completely casual. He kept right on walking toward his office.

  “Good morning, Mr. Chambrun,” she said. She looked as if someone had turned on a light inside her. “May I let the staff know that you’re back?”

  He turned at the door and smiled for the first time since we’d found him. “If you think it will spread joy,” he said. “Thanks, Ruysdale, for holding the fort.”

  “Thanks for getting back,” she said.

  Chambrun has a dressing room with a couch in it for occasional catnaps, also shaving equipment and changes of clothes. While he disappeared to freshen up, Ruysdale began reporting to an anxious staff and I called Lieutenant Hardy in the penthouse.

  “Not hurt?” Hardy asked, when I’d reported.

  “Maybe his feelings,” I said. “The important thing, Lieutenant, is that the man who held him and who slugged me was wearing a stocking mask. It couldn’t have been one of your four suspects unless one of them got away from you both last night and this morning.”

  “Damn!” Hardy said. I heard a long sigh. “Sounds like we have to start over.”

  “Where?”

  “Who knows?” Hardy said. “I’d still stake my job on the fact that no one could have gotten in here from the outside to take a shot at Battle.” He sighed again. “Tell your boss I’m glad he’s back. Maybe he knows something I don’t know.”

  I stopped Ruysdale long enough to ask her where Shelda had gone.

  “Up to the penthouse,” she told me. “She is Mr. Battle’s secretary, you know.”

  “It’ll take the boss fifteen minutes to get cleaned up,” I said. “Any reason I shouldn’t run up there to see her? She’s naturally worried about me. And the boss, too, of course.”

  “I’ll tell him where you are,” Ruysdale said. There was no way on earth I could have known that my decision to go up to the penthouse at that moment was actually going to save Shelda’s life.

  Things seemed to be at a low level of action in the penthouse when I was finally taken up there with Hardy’s permission acquired. Hardy and Kranepool were in the living room, but there was no sign of Battle or any of the others with the exception of Allerton. This impeccable manservant had set up a coffee percolator on a corner table along with a platter of cold meats and hard rolls. He appeared when I was admitted and, without asking, brought me a cup of coffee and a plate of food. I was grateful. The coffee at least was a lifesaver.

  “Miss Mason is here, isn’t she, Allerton?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir. She’s in Mr. George’s quarters. Would you like to see her?”

  “Very m
uch,” I said.

  “I’ll see if she can be spared, sir,” Allerton said. He went over to the bedroom door and knocked softly. The door was opened by Butler, and Allerton was allowed to go in.

  Kranepool and Hardy wanted details of my trip with the money, and I had to tell it all over again. Naturally they had endless questions about the man in the stocking mask—his height, his weight, anything I’d noticed about his raincoat and hat that might be distinctive. Hardy wondered if, perhaps, there had been a missing button, or a tear in the material. The sound of his voice?

  “He never spoke,” I told them. “He just came toward me, holding out his left hand, and when I asked him where Mr. Chambrun was, he chopped me down. I should think Mr. Chambrun could tell you a lot more than I can. I don’t suppose the thing with me lasted more than thirty seconds.”

  “I’ll go down to see Chambrun,” Kranepool said, and started for the door.

  “Give him a few minutes,” I said. He had a tough night. My guess is he’ll be up here in a few minutes when he’s cleaned up.”

  And then Shelda came out of the Great Man’s bedroom and I wasn’t very interested in Kranepool’s problems any more. One look at her and I knew she’d worried about me and that she was glad to see me still in one piece. The hell with Kranepool and Hardy, I thought, and I went over to her and kissed her, and then led her over to a far corner of the room. She was hanging onto my arm and I could feel that she was trembling.

  “You’re all right?” she asked.

  “Best I’ve felt since a year ago when you went away.”

  Her eyes were such a warm, deep blue. All of her was so inviting, so precious.

  “Mr. Chambrun?”

  “Not hurt,” I said, “except maybe his feelings. What’s with G. Battle?”

  “Anxious to see Mr. Chambrun. Mr. Chambrun is the only person he really trusts.”

  “I love you,” I said.

  “Mark—darling!”

  I kissed her again. I could hear Kranepool on the phone to Miss Ruysdale, asking her to get Chambrun up here as fast as she could.

  “When this is cleaned up, we’ll go somewhere,” I said to Shelda. “Way to-hell-and-gone somewhere.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  The front doorbell rang, an irregular ring that was obviously some kind of signal. Hardy answered it. It was his man stationed on the elevator. He had half a dozen letters in his hand.

  “Mail for Mr. Battle,” he said.

  Hardy took it and the man went out again to his post. Hardy shuffled through the letters, disinterested. “I suppose you better take these in to him,” he said to Shelda.

  She sighed and went toward him. At the same moment Allerton came out of the bedroom and saw what was happening. He gave me the tiniest little smile.

  “I’ll take them in,” he said.

  “Thanks ever so much,” Shelda said.

  Allerton took the letters and went back into the bedroom.

  It’s funny, but I can’t remember what Shelda and I talked about for the next short piece of time. It was about us; it was probably foolish and loving.

  And then the whole damned place seemed to blow up. I remember being knocked off my feet and wound up sitting on the floor, clinging to Shelda. The bedroom door burst open and Butler staggered out. Blood was streaming from a wound in his head, and he seemed to be dragging one leg behind him. He opened his mouth to say something and then fell flat on his face.

  Hardy was at the door and I saw him turn away for a moment as though he was going to be sick. I got over to where he was and why I wasn’t sick I will never know. The room was a shambles. There was a horrible bloody mess lying in the middle of the floor which I recognized as the remains of Allerton. Half of his head and one arm seemed to be missing.

  A ghastly specter appeared in the bedroom door. It was George Battle. Blood was running down his face. I saw that the mirror in the bathroom door was shattered. Battle pointed a shaking finger at Hardy.

  “You sonofabitch!” he almost shrieked at the lieutenant. “You let this happen!”

  I turned back into the living room to find Shelda. I didn’t want her to see what was in the other room. I was just in time to see Chambrun come in the front door from the elevator. His face looked carved out of gray marble.

  Part Three

  One

  THE NEXT LITTLE BIT of time is hazy in my memory. I guess we were all somewhat in shock. I remember Chambrun saying to me as he passed me on his way to the bedroom, “Call Partridge.”

  Dr. Partridge is the house physician. I remember hoping he wasn’t too hung-over. Doc gets plastered every night playing backgammon in the Spartan Bar with some cronies of his. As I put in the call, I remembered we had a doctor on the premises.

  I saw Kranepool escorting a babbling George Battle into the living room and help him down into a corner of the couch. I was aware of the sweet sickening smell of blood and something else, strong and pungent, which must have come from the explosive. Hardy appeared and I saw him kneel beside the unconscious Butler. And then Dr. Cobb put in an appearance. He headed straight for George Battle. One look and he disappeared, to return in half a minute with his medical bag.

  All the time Battle was shouting accusations at Kranepool. It had been meant for him, he kept saying. The place was full of cops and they had let it happen. Only a miracle had saved him from a horrible death.

  Nothing yet made the slightest sense to me. The place had been bombed out, but how? I remember going over to Shelda and taking her in my arms. She asked about Allerton.

  “Blown to pieces,” I said.

  “Oh, God, Mark, if he hadn’t taken in the mail for me—”

  “Don’t think about it, baby.”

  “If he hadn’t done me a kindness because he knew I wanted to be here with you—” She buried her face against my shoulder. She was crying.

  The mail turned out to be the key to the whole thing. It was a highly sophisticated device, contained in a letter, that had blown the room apart and sent the unhappy Allerton to join his ancestors. It was the same kind of device that Arab terrorists had made familiar in the preceding months in their attempts to murder Israeli diplomats and other important Jews in the world.

  It was Chambrun, stone-faced, who finally got some kind of coherent story out of George Battle. The man had been in the bathroom doing something, as I understood it, about a denture that was bothering him. Allerton called to him from the bedroom saying that there was mail.

  “I asked him if there was anything important,” Battle told Chambrun, “He said there didn’t seem to be. ‘Except what looks like a birthday card for you, Mr. George.’”

  “Birthday card?” Chambrun asked.

  “That’s irony, isn’t it?” Battle said. “Today is my birthday. I don’t make a federal case out of it, Pierre. I was surprised that anyone knew—or cared. So I asked Allerton to open it and see who it was from. And—and the place blew up!”

  Hardy had been on the phone to headquarters. “The bomb squad experts are on their way,” he said. “I’m not sure, because it’s not my specialty, that it was a letter bomb, but I don’t see any other answer. I had reason to search that room thoroughly and I can promise you there wasn’t any bomb planted there. There’s no way to toss anything in from the roof. The windows in the bedroom and bathroom open onto the sheer wall of the building. Unless it was a letter bomb, Allerton or Butler had to be carrying the damn thing on them.”

  “It would have to be Allerton,” Dr. Cobb said. He had gone over to the unconscious bodyguard. “This man and Mr. Battle were both hit by flying glass. I suspect Butler was knocked down by the impact of the explosion, which is how he hurt his leg. It would be helpful if I could get him moved to his room—or some room—where I can stretch him out.”

  “What about the rest of the mail, George?” Chambrun asked Battle.

  “I don’t know what it is—or was,” Battle said. “I told you, I was in the bathroom. A denture which age has forced on
me was uncomfortable. I thought I must have fitted it into place improperly, so I went into the bathroom to fix it. I was standing, facing the mirror over the washbasin, when poor old Allerton called in and said there was mail. I told you that he said there didn’t appear to be anything important. Then he mentioned the birthday card. I asked him to open it. That was that.”

  “I had the letters in my hands,” Hardy said. “There were seven of them. Six of them looked like business letters—typewritten addresses, the names of business firms printed in the top left-hand corners. And there was a large, square green envelope, hand-addressed, that I assumed was some kind of a greeting card.”

  “Was there anything to indicate it was a birthday greeting?”

  “No.”

  “So Allerton knew it was your birthday, George.”

  “For God sake, Pierre, Allerton has worked with me for nearly twenty years. I’m surprised that he remembered, poor devil, but of course he knew. And so, by the way, would anyone else who happened to look me up in Who’s Who.”

  “What did you do with the letters, Hardy?” Chambrun asked.

  “The detective who’s riding the elevator brought them in,” Hardy said. “I took them, shuffled through them for no particular reason, and took them to Miss Mason.” He glanced at Shelda, who was still clinging to me. “I supposed, as Mr. Battle’s secretary, she was the one to take them in.”

  Chambrun looked at me. “Allerton offered to take them,” I said. “He knew that Shelda and I—”

  “What difference does it make who brought them in?” Battle asked, his voice shrill. “It was meant for me. If Allerton hadn’t mentioned the birthday card, and I hadn’t been involved in the bathroom, I would normally have opened the mail myself. I was curious when he mentioned a birthday card, so I asked him to open it. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred I would have opened it myself.”