"Why?"
"Bee in the ol' man's bonnet," Spector said. "I guess he'd walked over and stepped on a thousand people in his time. That's how you get to be his kind of rich. The way he saw it there was just one way he could be had, one way someone could get back at him. Someone would kidnap Val, demand a huge ransom, maybe hurt, or destroy, or disfigure the one person he loved. So he never let her out of his sight or the sight of someone he trusted. She wanted to go to a movie, he got the film for her and she saw it in a projection room he had in the house. She wanted kids to play with, they had to come to her, and they were watched over every second, their parents were watched over. He had two strong-arm boys who were his private bodyguards and sort of personal detectives. They'd work up a file on everybody who came to the spread. I'll bet there are records on a thousand people they investigated over the years, locked away somewhere/'
"Some childhood!"
"Oh, she had everything," Spector said. "Her own riding horses, her own cars, clothes for a princess. But she couldn't go outside that fence without an army with her."
"That fence that didn't exist."
"Oh, it existed for her. It existed just as though it was twenty feet high, I remember one day when she was about fourteen she got past the fence one day, riding on her cow pony. Ten minutes later the OP man's private helicopter landed beside her and she was dragged home like an escaped prisoner. She was watched over every minute of every day and every night."
"But he finally let her go to college; late, but let her go," I said.
Spector frowned down at the mob outside the door of the Carnation Room. The woman he was "hungry" for was on the other side of that door with Kee-gan doing God knows what to her. "She tried to kill herself," he said.
I was jolted.
"A hot bath, a razor blade, slashed wrists, a note saying she was sorry. She didn't even have the privacy to die. There wasn't any lock on the bathroom door.
A personal maid, whose job it was to look out for her, found her in time.'' Spector looked at me. "You can still see the scars on her wrists if she's wearing a short-sleeved dress."
"That shook up Jeb McCandless?"
"Damn near killed him," Spector said. "It couldn't be kept a secret. Doctors, ambulances, everyone on the spread knew about it. When she came back from the hospital ol' Jeb threw in the towel. He saw that she had to have a life of her own, freedom, or going on living was worthless to her. All the clothes, and the horses, and the cars weren't worth a damn to her. He had to let her have her way or he'd lose her forever. I got to hand it to him. The danger he was afraid of was still there, but if he cared a damn for her he had to risk it."
"So she changed her name and went out into the world," I said.
"That was the one thing he pleaded for. She couldn't call herself McCandless. That name could attract danger like a magnet. I drove them to the airport that day she took off for the East. She was bubbling over with excitement like a bottle of freshly opened champagne. He was eighty-six years old that fall day. He watched that plane take off into the sky and he cried like a baby." Spector shook his head as if to rid himself of that memory. "It's no fun to watch a strong man bawl," he said. "But things worked out better than he dreamed they would. She did fine in college, good marks, good reports. She was a different person when she came home for the first summer vacation. Back in Tucson she had to stay inside the 'fence,' but it didn't matter anymore. She knew she could take off tomorrow. She and the ol' man were very close that first summer. It was her way of thanking him, to be close to him. There was this professor she had a crush on, but that evidently didn't work. She talked about him a lot, dreamed about him, I guess. But when she went back in the fall she wrote to Jeb and told him it was all off. Then Dick Summers came on the scene. Here it was, the ol' man thought, someone out to get her money. She brought him out that third summer, and he turned out to be an honest-to-God man. I could see ol' Jeb relax for the first time in a long time. She'd found a future for herself that had nothing to do with the dangers of being a Mc-Candless. Thank God he didn't live to see Dick die, or this present hell. In a way I wish he had. He had the money, the strength, the power to push that crazy Keegan right off the stage!"
At that moment the door to the Carnation Room opened and Keegan and Oldham, the Assistant D.A., appeared. Val and Lukens were not with them. Keegan was fighting off the reporters, shouting at them that he had nothing new to tell them. At least he'd saved Val that encounter.
"'Where is she?" Spector asked me.
"There's another way out. She's got her lawyer with her, and Keegan has a man inside who could be with her."
"I'm gonna find her," Spector said.
I stopped him as he started to move away. "Take a look at those people down there," I said. "You see anyone down there who could belong to Valerie's Tucson world? Or the McCandless business world?"
Spector gave it an honest try, I thought, searching for someone in a crew of a couple hundred people who might ring a bell for him. Suddenly he stretched out his arm and pointed. "That tall, sandy-haired guy with the glasses," he said. "He's a reporter for some newspaper syndicate. Covered oP Jeb's funeral in Tucson back in '77. He's the only one I recall seem' before."
He was indicating my friend Eliot Stevens, International's man. Not a likely suspect.
"Let's find her," Spector said.
We went down the fire stairs to the service area and in the back door of the Carnation Room. Moran wasn't on guard anymore. The room was empty.
We went up to the second floor and down the hall to Chambrun's office. Maggie Madison was filling in for Betsy Ruysdale again in the outer office.
"They've all gone up to the roof," she said. "I was told to tell you to report there if I saw you, Mr. Haskell."
Spector turned to follow me.
"I can't take you up there without getting permission," I told him. "You stay here with Maggie, and if they'll let you see her, I'll call you."
"Anybody tries to stop me seein' her," Spector said, "and I may jes' start takin' this stinkin' place apart, brick by brick!"
There are three penthouses on the roof of the Beaumont. One of them is Chambrun's, one of them is leased by the United Nations and is kept for special diplomatic and political dignitaries from all over the world, the third was long ago bought as a co-op by a marvelous, impossible, eccentric, charming lady who has lived there for the last thirty years with a series of mean-tempered little black-and-white Japanese spaniels. Dogs are against the rules in the Beaumont, but there are no rules made by man that Victoria Haven will obey if they displeased her. More about this extraordinary octogenarian later on.
Chambrun had referred to his penthouse as "the least accessible" place in the hotel. That went for all three penthouses. The main banks of elevators go only to the fortieth floor. There is only one that goes to the roof and it is, in effect, for the private use of Chambrun, Mrs. Haven, and the United Nations. It isn't available to the general public and you can't get a ride in it unless the operator knows you have legitimate business with one of the rooftop tenants. I'm a privileged character with a permanent pass which I seldom use.
One of Jerry Dodd's men was operating that car and he took me up to the roof. Chambrun's penthouse is his area of total privacy. In all the years I've worked for him I don't think I've been in it more than a dozen times. In those times, believe it or not, I've never seen the rear facilities, where, I understand, there is a small exercise gym, a sauna bath, several bedrooms, one of which some people believe is reserved for Betsy Ruysdale. Up front there is a living room, a library, a kitchen into which I've penetrated for ice cubes, a lavatory for guests, and French doors in the living room which open out onto an elegant roof garden. The living room is something. An oriental rug that would be hard to look away from if it weren't for paintings by Matisse, Chagall, and Picasso. There is what I believe the Steinway people call a "parlor grand." One of the things most people don't know about Chambrun is that he is a brilliant pianist. Tha
t could have been his career if dealing with people hadn't obsessed him.
Moran, Keegan's man, was in the vestibule when I went to the door of Chambrun's penthouse. He gave me a wry smile and a traffic cop's signal to proceed. I went through into the living room. Chambrun and Andy Lukens were there, sipping coffee from china mugs. That suggested that Ruysdale was somewhere. Chambrun won't even boil water for himself.
"The Tucson cowboy is down in your office," I told Chambrun, "threatening to do a Samson on the hotel if he can't see Val."
"Might be a break for her to see someone from home," Andy Lukens said.
Chambrun nodded. "Tell him to come up, Mark."
I went to the phone in the corner and told Maggie Madison to send Spector up, and then to the vestibule to alert Moran that a guest was expected.
"If Spector doesn't pull down the building the press is likely to," I said, when I rejoined Chambrun and Andy. "Is there something we can tell them to keep them quiet?"
"The lady will see nobody," Chambrun said. "You may be the best person to quiet them down, Andrew."
"You might tell me what the quieting words are," he said, "just in case I get snowed under."
"Someone was in the act of planting the murder weapon in Valerie's room when he was interrupted by Polansky, who was shot to death with it," Andy said. "Valerie is totally clear of that murder. No way in the world Keegan can get around that, which makes his whole case a little shaky. No other leads, though. Keegan's questioning maids, elevator operators, bellboys, other guests on the twelfth floor. Somebody must have seen somebody, he thinks. The twelfth floor was a hot spot once Valerie was moved there. People might have seen things they wouldn't have noticed under normal conditions.''
"You won't get rich betting on it," Chambrun said. He seemed far away, lost in some thinking of his own, yet hearing us.
At that moment Valerie and Betsy Ruysdale came out of the bedroom wing of the penthouse. Ruysdale was her usual, blooming self, but Valerie looked like someone in a trance. The violet eyes looked at me as if I were a stranger. She seemed to need guidance, as though she didn't know where she was. Ruysdale steered her to a chair, suggested coffee which drew a blank, and went off into the kitchen to get it anyway.
"There's a friend of yours on his way up here to see you, Val," Andy said.
"Friend?" she sounded puzzled.
"Paul Spector. I believe he manages your father's property in Tucson."
"Paul here, in New York?"
"He arrived here in the middle of the night," I said. "There's been no chance to get him to you until now. He wants to help if there's some way he can. He's talked a lot about you. He seems very fond of you."
She turned her head from side to side as if she was trying to make it make sense. "I've known him all my life," she said.
"Maybe he can help you remember things that are still elusive,'' Chambrun said.
"There is nothing to remember!" she said.
Chambrun eyed her steadily. "Where were you a week ago Thursday at two o'clock in the afternoon?" he asked.
"I don't understand," she said. "A week ago Thursday?"
"You were somewhere at two o'clock in the afternoon."
"I...I just don't understand," she said. "Two o'clock a week ago Thursday..."
"Don't struggle with it," Chambrun said. "I'm just trying to make a point, Valerie. You were somewhere at two o'clock a week ago Thursday. If it was important you could eventually dig it out, by going over your routines, your daily doings. That's what we have to do with your past. Just as blank in your memory at the moment as a week ago Thursday is a name, a face, an action, an event which, when we uncover it, may be vital to your future, your safety. It's there. We've got to try to bring it up front."
She gave him a tiny little smile of triumph. "At two o'clock in the afternoon a week ago Thursday I was in a movie theater on Eighth Street watching Kramer vs. Kramer," she said.
"Good girl," Chambrun said. "You see, when we try working at it, it may not be so hard after all."
At that point the great Southwest burst into the room. Spector stood just inside the door, took off his Stetson and tossed it in a chair.
"Baby!" he said. "You look great, kid!"
He seemed to be waiting for a cue of some sort, and when he didn't get one he charged across the room, took Val by both arms and lifted her right off the floor. Then he put her down and engulfed her in a bear hug.
"'Don't you worry about anythin', baby," he said. "We'll show these crazy cops which end is up." Still holding her by the shoulders he looked around at the people he didn't know. I introduced him to Betsy Ruysdale and Andy Lukens.
"You her lawyer, boy?" Spector asked Andy. "How big is her trouble?"
"Legally, I don't think she has much to worry about," Andy said.
"I tried to explain to you this morning, Mr. Spec-tor," Chambrun said. "Someone has tried to frame Mrs. Summers. The danger now is a direct attack on her."
"I'm stayin' right here," Spector said. "Nobody's goin' to get to her. Not by me!"
"Nobody's going to get to her, with or without you, Mr. Spector," Chambrun said, not impressed. "Our job is to find out who will be trying. Because, whoever he is, he's mad as a hatter, and he will try."
TWO
It seemed logical to give Valerie some time with her long-time friend, the Tucson cowboy. She had spent the best part of two days and nights being grilled and questioned by Keegan and company. I did think she looked a little startled when the rest of us began a general exit.
"The hotel still has to operate, Valerie," Cham-brun said to her. "Ruysdale and I have a lot to catch up on, Mark has an army of press people to be concerned about and Andrew's going to try to stave them off for a while. Be sure that no one can get up here to the roof without my permission, or Keegan's."
"The cops had damn well better let her alone for a while," Spector said. "She's had enough of their insanity."
"There'll be a guard in the outer vestibule and one of my trusted people on the elevator," Chambrun said.
"You've had an army around her twice and it didn't stop this creep!" Spector said.
He was, unfortunately, right.
Chambrun went to the French doors and, beckoning me to follow, walked out into his garden.
"I want to let Mrs. Haven know what's going on up here," he said when I joined him. "Her comings and goings may be a little bit restricted, with police and security people patrolling the place all night."
"The U.N. penthouse unoccupied?" I asked.
"Yes, and we'll keep it that way as long as Valerie is holed in up here. I don't want any strangers anywhere near her."
"You really think she's in danger?"
"If you don't, Mark, you're an idiot," he said. "The problem is to find out from which direction the wind is blowing."
We walked out of his garden and across the roof to Mrs. Haven's penthouse. Chambrun reached out to press the doorbell, but before he touched it the door opened and we were confronted by the lady. She'd obviously seen us coming.
"Well, Pierre, I thought you were going to leave me hanging by my fingernails," she said. She smiled at me, a naughty smile. "Is the lady as pretty as she looks from a distance, Haskell? Is it true, by the way, that gentlemen prefer blondes?"
Victoria Haven is something to look at. At eighty she is tall, ramrod straight. Her hair, quantities of it, is worn piled on top of her head, a henna-red that God never dreamed of. Her plain black silk dress was sedate and proper, but she wore enough rings, bracelets, and necklaces to make Tiffany's check its inventory.
"I take it we have Jack the Ripper running loose in our establishment, Pierre," she said. "Well, don't stand there gawking. Come in and tell me about it."
I've described Victoria Haven's penthouse in more than one of my stories about Chambrun and the Beaumont. The first impression was of total disorder, a crowded storage place for junk. There was twice as much old-fashioned Victorian furniture in the living room as it could comfort
ably contain. Heavy red velvet drapes shut out the world, day and night. Bookcases overflowed into stacks of volumes on the floor, along with a clutter of newspapers from God knows how far back. When you recover from your first sight of this apartment collection of rubble, you make an astonishing discovery. There isn't a speck of dust or dirt anywhere. The entire apartment is spotless. What appears to be disorder is obviously complete order to Mrs. Haven. Ask her for a political cartoon from the op-ed page of the New York Times from ten months back and she will reach out, probably not moving from her chair, and produce it for you. She knows exactly where anything she cherishes is located.
"I'd about decided to drink alone," Mrs. Haven said. Her voice is husky from too much liquor and too many cigarettes over the decades, but it has a kind of intriguing rasp to it. "Martini, Pierre? As I recall, Haskell, you're a Jack Daniels man—on the rocks with a splash of water?"
She didn't wait for either of us to answer, but strode off to the kitchen. I thought I might help with ice and started after her. My way was instantly blocked by a snarling, obscene little Japanese spaniel, threatening to take my leg off just above the ankle.
"It's all right, Toto. Haskell is a friend," Mrs. Haven called from the kitchen. The monstrous little dog obviously didn't believe a word of it, but he stood aside, an "I'11-get-you-next-time" look on his snub-nosed face.
"Make your own drink like a good boy, Haskell," Mrs. Haven said. "The Daniels is on the counter there. I'll handle the martinis. Pierre likes his straight up, I take mine on the rocks. Tell me about the girl."
"There's nothing much to tell," I said, "except that she's been through a triple nightmare."
"Pierre doesn't go along with the police?"
"Not so far."
"According to the television she may have had dealings with a drug merchant, a sex peddler, and pops off policemen without blinking an eye."
Murder in Luxury Page 10