by Ed McBain
“… which is right here on the mezzanine floor, and also very popular for wedding receptions. Do you see the floor plan there? Just under the plans for all the other rooms? It’s separated from the others because they’re all on the first floor.”
“Yes, I see that.”
“Now if you take a look at the chart …”
“Yes.”
“Right there below the floor plans …”
“Yes,” Sonny said, and looked at the chart.
“You’ll see that the Baroque Room is almost twice the size of the Terrace Room—a bit more than forty-four hundred square feet as opposed to twenty-four hundred.”
“Yes. Sixty-three by seventy …”
“As opposed to sixty by forty.”
“Yes.”
“I personally find the Terrace Room more intimate …”
“It looks small.”
“No, the floor plan is deceptive.”
“I think my sister might prefer the larger room.”
“The Baroque, yes, a lovely room. I’ll show you both, of course, and I’m sure she’ll want to look at them personally before she makes a final decision. Where will the wedding take place?”
“That hasn’t been decided yet.”
“Because we do weddings here, too, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“Yes, we do. In which case, should you decide to have the wedding here, we would set up the room itself—whether it’s the Terrace or the Baroque …”
“I think the Baroque might please her more.”
“Let’s say the Baroque then … we’d set that up for the wedding, and then retire to the foyer for the before-dinner cocktail reception, while the main room is being set up for dinner. The before-dinner reception …”
And now, as Karin told him all about the open bar and the deluxe brands, and the medium-priced French wine …
“… although we’ve recently begun serving a very good American wine as well …”
… and the passed hors d’oeuvres, and the buffet with four or five hot selections …
… Sonny listened for opportunities to ask the questions that had brought him here in the first place.
She was talking now about the dinner itself, explaining that the menu consisted of an appetizer, a salad, an entrée with vegetables and potatoes, medium-priced red and white wines, a champagne toast, and dessert, which included a wedding cake.
“All of this is open to change or addition, of course. For example …”
… if the bride wanted them to serve a whole smoked salmon during the before-dinner cocktail reception, it would cost an additional eight dollars per person. Or if she requested a more expensive champagne for the toast …
“We normally use a Louis Roederer, which is very good,” Karin said.
“Yes, very,” Sonny agreed.
… but if she wanted a more expensive champagne, the basic price would be adjusted accordingly.
“We’re very flexible,” Karin said.
“What is the basic price?” Sonny asked.
“Two hundred dollars per person, whichever room you choose. Plus a gratuity of nineteen percent for the waiters, the two captains, and the maître d’.”
“Where do you get your waiters?” he asked.
“How do you mean?” she said, puzzled.
“Well … do you hire waiters especially for the occasion, or are they …?”
“No, they’re all Plaza Hotel waiters. We have our own staff.”
“Do they wear little ID tags like the one in your desk drawer?” he asked, smiling, making a little joke.
“Well, they wear name tags, actually,” she said, and returned his smile.
“How many will there be?” he asked. “Waiters.”
“One for every ten persons. And the same waiter will handle the same table all night long. That’s important.”
“Do they all know each other?”
“What a strange question,” she said.
Careful, he thought.
“What I mean is, have they worked together before? Do they work well as a team? I wouldn’t want …”
“Oh, I see. Yes, they’re all familiar with each other.”
“What sort of uniforms would they wear?”
“For a summer wedding, black trousers and white jackets. Black bow ties, of course.”
“What if one of them gets sick?”
“Sick?” she said.
“Yes. Or three of them. Or five? Would this cause utter confusion? Or would …?”
“Oh, I see. No, there wouldn’t be a problem. These are all union waiters who work on a rotation basis. We have fifty or so on order, and if one gets sick, we fill in with another one. Don’t worry, you’ll have a full complement, one for every ten people, no matter what happens.”
“Who’ll be in charge?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t …”
“Well, for example, if a waiter should get sick, who’d be the one to call in a substitute wait …?”
“Oh, I see. Our Banquet Executive Director. He’d be there on the night of the reception, making certain everything went smoothly.”
“I’m sorry I’m asking so many questions.”
“Not at all.”
“I don’t mean to be so picky.”
“I’m happy to help you.”
“I just want to make sure everything is perfect for her.”
“Naturally.”
“What does the two hundred dollars include?”
“Well, let me tell you what it doesn’t include.”
“Please,” he said.
He would get back to his questions later. He had almost come too close there a minute ago, and he didn’t want to raise her suspicions. For now, he listened to all the bullshit. Flowers were not included in the basic price, but the hotel recommended a florist named Ernest, with whom they’d had excellent results. Music was also not included, but she could highly recommend the Jerry Carlyle Orchestra—“No relation to the competitive hotel,” she said, and smiled. And the photographer they recommended was a man named Allan Curtis, who …
“I think my sister has her own photographer in mind,” Sonny said. “But can you tell me a little about security? I know she’ll be concerned about crashers …”
“We provide a Plaza security guard.”
“Uniformed?”
“No, wearing a plain dark suit.”
“No ID tag?” he said, and again smiled.
“Yes, an ID tag,” she said, and returned the smile. “And a little name plate. White lettering on black plastic, totally discreet.”
“And just that one guard is enough?”
“We usually find one sufficient. He’s equipped with a radio, of course, and is in constant touch with our security office. He’ll make certain no uninvited guests, or curiosity seekers …”
“How do you mean?”
“Well … people who hear music, and become curious, and try to poke their heads in, see what’s going on … he’ll make sure nothing like that happens.”
“And just the one guard can take care of that?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Because … well … I didn’t want to disclose this … but …” He lowered his voice. “My sister is marrying a rather well-known performer …”
“Oh, I see.”
“And I wouldn’t want any uninvited photographers or …”
“I quite understand. We can provide beefed-up security, if you like … or, you know, you can hire your own security people, if that’s what you’d prefer. We’re flexible, either way.”
“I’m not comparing this to any sort of political function, mind you,” Sonny said, “he’s not that important. But what sort of security would you provide for a …?” He searched for an example, and then rolled his eyes and said, “A Democratic fund-raiser, say, where there’d be senators and governors … maybe a movie star or two … something like that.”
“We can supply whatever kind of s
ecurity you’d like,” she said.
“But for something like that …”
“We handle all sorts of events,” she said. “You have no idea how many heads of state stay here at the hotel in total anonymity. When you feel free to let me know who the groom is, we can recommend the proper precautions, and see to it that your sister’s every wish is fulfilled.”
“I’d appreciate that,” he said.
“Would you like to take a look at the rooms now?”
“Just the Baroque, I think,” he said.
At twenty minutes past two that Friday afternoon, Geoffrey Turner was talking to the American girl when Lucy Phipps, the secretary shared by him and two other vice consuls, buzzed him from outside. He glanced up at the clock, an annoyed little frown furrowing his brow.
“Yes?” he said into the microphone on the phone console. He hadn’t yet quite caught the hang of the newly installed “communications system,” so he said the word again, not certain she’d heard him the first time. “Yes?”
“There’s a gentleman from Her Majesty’s Government here to see you,” Lucy said.
“Which branch?” he asked.
“Customs and Excise,” Lucy said. She always sounded as if she were shrieking. Her shrill irritating voice sounded like a cross between an air raid siren and a banshee. Come to think of it, she sounded a great deal like Peggy Armstrong, one of his co-vice-consuls. Two singularly unattractive women. Here in Passports and Visas, Geoffrey was sure there was a conspiracy afoot to surround him with the plainest women in all the whole crumbling empire.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “he’ll just have to wait. I’ve someone with me at the moment.”
“I know,” Lucy said, “but he said it was urgent.”
“Just ask him to wait, won’t you?” Geoffrey said as pleasantly as he could manage, and smiled forbearingly at the girl sitting on the other side of his desk. “I shan’t be much longer.”
“He looks terribly impatient,” Lucy whispered.
“I’m sorry,” Geoffrey said, and clicked her off. “Now then,” he said, “as I understand this, Miss Randolph …”
“Randall. Elita Randall.”
“Sorry, I thought I’d …” He glanced at his note pad. “Randall it is, terribly sorry.”
“That’s all right,” Elita said.
“As I understand it,” Geoffrey said, and was momentarily distracted by her legs. Frightfully good-looking woman, this one. Girl, he supposed. Couldn’t be a day over seventeen, could she? “This … ah … friend of yours,” he said.
“Acquaintance, actually,” Elita said, aware of his wandering eyes, lifting herself slightly off the seat of the chair, and tugging at her mini. “I met him on a train, actually.”
“Ah, yes,” Geoffrey said, aware that he’d made her uncomfortable, cursing himself for it, and looking away in contrition, busying himself with the pad on his desk and the pencil in his hand. “And you say he’s British?”
“Well, his mother is.”
“Would you know her name?”
“I’m sorry.”
“How about his father? Is he British as well?”
“He’s Indian.”
“And his name?”
“I don’t know that, either.”
“I see. Well, what’s this fellow’s name? The one you met on the train.”
“Krishnan Hemkar,” she said.
“Ah, Indian indeed,” he said. “How old is he?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“May I ask your age, Miss Randall?”
“Why do you need to know that?”
“Well, I don’t, actually. I was merely curious.”
“I’ll be twenty in February,” she said, somewhat defiantly.
Which meant she was scarcely four months past her nineteenth birthday. But whereas seventeen would have put her completely out of range, nineteen wasn’t totally unacceptable. On the other hand, he had dated nineteen-year-old American girls who wanted to discuss nothing but movie stars.
“Krishnan Hemkar,” he said, looking at the name he’d written on his pad. “And, of course, you don’t have his address or his tele …”
“No, I don’t.”
“Of course not, or you wouldn’t be here, would you?” he said, and smiled.
“No,” she said. “I wouldn’t.”
“Would you know what sort of passport he might be holding?”
“Well, I know he was born in India … someplace near the Pakistan border. He told me the name of the town, but I can’t remember it.”
“Mmm,” Geoffrey said. “Would you know if he’s a British subject?”
“Well, he said his mother’s Brit …”
“Yes, I know, but …”
“And he told me he was raised in England. He came here when he was eighteen.”
“Would you know if he’s now an American citizen?”
“No, I’m sorry. He’s a doctor.”
“I see.”
He looked across the desk at her. Wide blue eyes beseechingly returning his gaze. Please help me find my lost Indian friend. But how?
“You see,” he said, “without knowing …”
“I just … it’s important that I locate him.”
“I’m sure, or you wouldn’t be going through all this trouble, would you?”
“No, I wouldn’t,” she said.
“Well,” he said, “let me run his name through the computer …”
“Oh, thank …”
“… when I get a free moment.”
Her face fell.
“If you’ll let me have a number where I can reach you …”
“When can you do that?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Run his name through the computer.”
“Well, I have someone waiting just now …”
“Yes, I know,” she said. “I heard.”
“But my diary looks relatively clear afterwards, perhaps I can get to it sometime later this afternoon.”
“That would be very nice of you,” she said.
“Could I have the telephone number, please?” he said.
She gave him her mother’s number, watching as he wrote it onto his pad, making dead cert he was writing it down correctly, this Indian chap was obviously of some importance to her. She thanked him again, rose, smoothed the short wrinkled skirt over her thighs and her behind, told him she’d be home all afternoon if he found the information she needed, and he promised again to try to get to it this afternoon. He offered his hand in farewell. They shook hands briefly and she went out, the door whispering shut behind her. His heart was pounding. He went to the intercom on his desk, buzzed Lucy Phipps, and said, “What’s the gentleman’s name?”
“Sir?” Lucy said, sounding like a startled siren.
“The gentleman from H.M. Customs.”
“Joseph Worthy, sir.”
“Show the worthy gentleman in,” Geoffrey said, rather pleased with his own little joke, which of course Lucy Strident did not catch at all.
6
Sonny did not place the first of his three calls until three o’clock that Friday afternoon.
By that time, he knew exactly how he would kill the President.
Sitting on the bed in his room at the Hilton, he dialed the 800 number and listened while it rang on the other end. A recorded female voice told him he had reached Gem Inorganics in Lewiston, Maine, and then advised him which button to push for product pricing, product availability, or sales. He pressed the number-one button on his phone. A live woman said, “Gem Inorganics, how may I help you?”
“Can you tell me in what quantities you sell dimethylsulfoxide difluoride?” Sonny said.
“Do you have the catalogue number on that?” the woman said.
“I’m sorry, no.”
“Just a moment,” she said.
He waited.
“Dimethylsulfoxide dichloride?” she asked.
“Difluoride,” he said.
“Oh, yes,
here it is,” she said. “That’s 37468 in the catalogue. The two-gram size is ninety-five dollars, and we’ve got it in stock. The ten-gram size is three hundred and fifty-two dollars …”
“Do you have that in stock?”
“Let me check that, sir.”
There was a pause. Scrolling her computer screen, he guessed.
“Yes, sir, we do.”
“Is there any limit on how many I can order?”
“However many you need, sir. On a ten-by-ten, we could probably do a special pricing for you.”
“I won’t need as many as that,” he said. “Can I order two of the ten-gram size?”
“Yes, sir, certainly. If you’ll have your purchasing department call us with a purchase-order number, we’ll invoice your accounting department.”
“Thank you,” he said, and hung up.
He called again ten minutes later. Pressed the number one again. Got a different woman who said, “Gem Inorganics, how may I help you?”
“I’d like to place an order, please,” he said.
“May I have your account number?” she said.
“We don’t have one yet. This is the first time we’ve placed an order with you.”
“All right,” she said cheerfully, “I’ll have to get some references from you later on. Meanwhile, do you have the catalogue number on the item you want?”
“Yes, it’s 37468. In the ten-gram size.”
“One moment, please,” she said.
He waited.
“37468,” she said, “dimethylsulfoxide difluoride, the ten-gram size, and it’s in stock. May I have your name please, sir?”
“Hamilton Pierce,” he said.
“And the name of your corporation?”
“SeaCoast Limited,” he said.
“The address and zip, please?”
He gave her SeaCoast’s address on Seventy-second and Columbus.
“And your phone number?”
He gave her the phone number.
“The purchase order number on this?”
“127 dash 024,” he said.
“127 dash 024, yes, sir. That’ll come to seven hundred and four dollars plus tax.”
“Can you FedEx the order to me?”
“Yes, sir, but it’ll be expensive.”
“How expensive?”
“Well, it’ll be a hazard shipment, so that’s ten dollars right on top. Did you want this a one or a two?”
“A one or a …?”