Time of Terror

by Hugh Pentecost

  “So you and the government and the cops and the FBI are just sitting around on your ass doing nothing and waiting for Coriander to call the tune, right?”

  “Your son-in-law is trying to raise the ransom money,” Chambrun said.

  “Don’t make me laugh!” Buck said, and actually roared with laughter. “He couldn’t raise the money to buy the dog tag his late mother should be wearing. Raise the ransom! If that’s the kind of thinking that’s going on around here, God help us! Look, Chambrun, I haven’t heard anything but the reports on the radio in my helicopter. Bring me up to date.”

  Chambrun spun it out for him and to my surprise added the Horween story to it.

  “I know Doug Horween,” Buck said. “He’s just the kind of reckless bastard who’d try that sort of thing. You buy it? You think they killed him?”

  “Horween had a rare blood type—AB negative. The police phoned me a few minutes ago to tell me the bloodstains on the clothes match. AB negative.”

  That was news I hadn’t had till then.

  “Horween has walked a tightrope all his life over a cage full of hungry lions,” Buck said. “Sooner or later he was bound to fall in. He always took too big chances. That’s why the limeys fired him out of their spy service, or whatever it’s called.” He tossed down the old-fashioned glass full of bourbon I brought him as though it was water. “My horse’s ass son-in-law took him in because he’s the same kind of reckless gambler, without the same kind of iron in his system. I’m sorry about Horween. He was an interesting character. Too bad it couldn’t have been Terry boy.”

  “We’ve been presented with a theory about Terrence Cleaves,” Chambrun said quietly.

  “I don’t need theories about him. I know about him, all about him,” Buck said. “Someday, when I have nothing left to live for, I’m going to take pleasure in disemboweling him.”

  “Why does Connie stay with him?” I asked.

  “Because she’s an idiot, God love her. Because she loves him in spite of everything.”

  “I don’t believe that,” I said.

  Buck’s black eyes burned into me. “Has she been playing her game of musical beds with you?” he asked.

  “I don’t think she plays musical beds,” I said.

  “Ah! Love raises its ugly head.”

  “Don’t be absurd. I scarcely know her. But a man who does, tells me there’s nothing to that rumor.”

  “So you found one who doesn’t kiss and tell,” Buck said.

  “I found a man named Andrews who has a special interest in your son-in-law,” I said.

  The black eyebrows rose. “Colin Andrews—London Times?”

  “The same. I just left him fifteen minutes ago.”

  “It’s Andrews who presented us with a theory,” Chambrun said. “He thinks Cleaves may actually be Coriander. That this whole thing is a scheme for him to raise money for himself. That the political demands are just diversionary.”

  Buck’s red lips pursed in a long, low whistle. “Sweet Judas,” he said. “That’s just the kind of scheme Terry boy might dream up. What have you done about it?”

  “Nothing except launch inquiries,” Chambrun said. “There’s nothing we can do. Mark has been upstairs. He’s seen the layout, the guns, the ammunition, the explosives. Coriander, whoever he is, isn’t bluffing.”

  Buck turned to me and a nerve twitched at the corner of his mouth. “You saw the children?”

  “Saw them, talked to them. They were holding up well. That was a long time ago, late yesterday morning. Miss Horn, the governess, is with them.”

  “That bitch is one of Terry boy’s girl friends,” Buck said. “She’d know if this was a scheme of his.”

  “And you think it may be?” Chambrun asked.

  Buck handed me his empty glass without looking at me. I took it over to the sideboard and refilled it. His dark brows were drawn together in a scowl. “I’ve got such a strong bias,” he said. “Anything bad anyone told me about Terrence Cleaves I’d believe. But I also know men.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Cleaves is a stupid villain,” Buck said. “He has no conscience, no morals, but I’d have said he wasn’t bright enough to think up a scheme like this. He’s a hit-and-run kind of a jerk. This Coriander, whoever he is, is a real cool operator. He’s willing to sit up there for days, with a whole army camped around him, waiting to get exactly what he wants. Terry boy hasn’t the constitution to sweat out anything like that. Thirty men up there, you say. He couldn’t get thirty men to go along with him on any project. Of course—” Buck’s voice trailed off.

  “Yes?”

  “Coriander could have included Terry in,” Buck said. “Terry could be working on the outside for him, promised a piece of the pie.”

  “He’d let them use his own children?” I asked.

  “He’d send those kids to the sausage factory if it would suit his purposes,” Buck said. He squared his shoulders and tossed off his second drink. “Well, I’m not going to sit here and let them play games with those kids and Connie. Because I still think she got up there somehow.”

  “What do you propose doing?” Chambrun asked very quietly.

  “I’m going to find the money,” Buck said, his voice harsh. “I’m going to offer it for the return of the kids and Connie. Then, if Coriander turns me down, I’ll know he has no intention of ever letting them go. They can identify him by now, you know. He can’t wear that false face all the time. I promise you one thing, Chambrun. He isn’t going to get away with this, if I have to blow up your goddam hotel with him in it to get him!”

  Chambrun smiled, his sphinxlike smile. “Well, getting the money should keep you busy for a while, Buck.”

  Buck looked dead serious. “You know what my job is, Chambrun? I work for ITC, biggest of all the multi-national corporations. You think we don’t have an army of our own? That’s how you fight an army—with an army. If anything happens to those kids and Connie, I’ll wipe this Army For Justice off the face of the earth and Coriander will be buried at the bottom of your elevator shaft.”

  We watched him storm out of the office. I was too tired from the long, tense day to try to figure out whether he was for real or not. I remember walking over to the sideboard to pour myself a drink. My legs felt a little wobbly under me. Chambrun, one of his Egyptian cigarettes balanced between stubby fingers, was watching me. He looked as fresh as if he’d just gotten up from a good night’s sleep instead of having been on the job, nonstop, for about eighteen hours.

  “You better get some rest,” he said to me. “This is going to get down to the nitty-gritty in a few hours. There are going to be some answers for Coriander that he won’t like.”

  “You’ve had some word?” I asked.

  “Let’s face it,” he said. “Nobody is going to consider for a minute releasing those prisoners in Vietnam. And the Pentagon isn’t going to send its generals to jail. The money may be found, but that’s all.”

  “If Andrews is right, the money is all that’s important,” I said.

  “Could be,” Chambrun said, sinking back into some private thoughts. “Get some rest.”

  I went down the hall to my apartment. The area was deserted now. The people who had crowded there earlier in the day were gone, and the security people were now at the bottom of the stairway and the elevator bank to keep anyone from getting up. The bars and the Blue Lagoon would be closed now and the Beaumont had settled down to something like normal, even with the explosive danger ever present on the fifteenth floor.

  I walked like a man in a trance to the apartment and opened the door with my key. I switched on the lights.

  I stood there with my mouth hanging open. Someone had ripped the place to pieces. Books had been thrown out of the cases, cushions on the couch and in the chairs tossed around. My desk had been searched, drawers open, papers strewn around. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t keep anything here that was of any real value to anyone, except possibly the few small paintings I’ve me
ntioned. They’d been taken off the wall, evidently to search their backs for something.

  I wondered about the rest of the apartment and I moved unsteadily toward the bedroom. Even before I reached it, I could feel the small hairs rising on the back of my neck. There was the faint scent of a perfume I remembered. As I reached the door, a voice spoke out of the darkness—a small, broken voice.

  “Please—please don’t turn on the light, Mark.”

  “For God sake, Connie!” I said. I could see the outline of her body stretched out on my bed, arms thrown up over her face.

  “Please!” she said. “Not the light.”

  I stepped into the bathroom and turned on the light there. It provided enough to see her clearly without providing any glare. I went over to the bed and sat down beside her. She turned away, moaning slightly.

  “Where have you been?” I asked. “We’ve been crazy with anxiety for you. What’s happened?”

  “Oh, my God,” she whispered.

  I took hold of her hands. They were cold as ice. I pulled them gently away from her face. Suddenly she turned onto her back and looked up at me.

  “Oh, Jesus!” I heard myself say.

  I say she looked up at me, but that’s just a figure of speech. Her eyes were swollen and almost closed. Her whole face was dark with swellings and bruises. There was a little trickle of blood at one corner of her mouth.

  She had taken a brutal beating from someone, almost beyond description.

  Chapter 3

  I REACHED FOR THE bedside phone and called Dr. Partridge, the house physician. He’s a crotchety old bird and responded to my summons with a string of profanity that wasn’t designed for delicate ears. He is always outraged if anyone needs his help after he’s gone to bed, or during one of his endless games of backgammon in the Spartan Bar.

  All the time I talked to him Connie kept clutching at me and saying, “No—no, Mark—please, no!”

  Then I called Chambrun and gave him a quick one-two.

  “Don’t touch anything in your living room,” was all he said.

  Then Connie was clinging to me, sobbing.

  “What in God’s name happened to you?” I asked her. “Who did this to you?”

  She turned her head from side to side. I thought she couldn’t answer because of the tears. I disentangled myself and went out into the living room and fixed the door latch so that Chambrun and Doc Partridge could get in. Then I poured a jigger of brandy for Connie and took it back into the bedroom. She protested at first, but then she drank it, choking a little after she tossed it off in one gulp. Then Chambrun was standing beside us.

  “How long have you been here, Mrs. Cleaves?” he asked.

  “Just—just a few minutes,” she said.

  “Was Mark’s place torn apart the way it is when you came?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know who did it?”

  “No.” She was hanging onto me again, her fingernails biting into my arms.

  “But you certainly know who beat you up.”

  She didn’t answer, but buried her face against my shoulder.

  “You’ve been gone since early afternoon, Mrs. Cleaves,” Chambrun said. “Where have you been?”

  No answer. And then old Doc Partridge, wearing an ancient flannel bathrobe and carrying his black bag, joined us. He took one look at Connie and began to swear under his breath again.

  “Get the hell out of my way,” he said to me, “and turn on a light. I can’t do a damn thing in the dark.”

  With the light on she looked worse than I’d thought. The skin was broken over one cheekbone. Her swollen eyes were a dark purple. Her jaw, somehow, looked a little lopsided.

  “This didn’t happen five minutes ago,” Doc Partridge said. “When and who did it, girl?”

  Chambrun’s voice was cold and without sympathy. “A family quarrel?” he asked.

  Connie winced as Doc Partridge swabbed at the cut cheekbone with cotton dipped in something from his bag.

  “You got a husband who did this, girl?” Doc asked as he worked. “Sonofabitch ought to be in jail. You bring charges against him, hear me?” He looked up at Chambrun. “I don’t think the jaw is broken, but it could be. I suggest the hospital.”

  “No!” Connie cried out.

  “Mrs. Cleaves is the mother of the two children who are being held up on Fifteen,” Chambrun told Doc.

  We had another customer then. Jerry Dodd came in, obviously sent for by Chambrun after I’d called.

  “There must be some fingerprints in that mess out there,” Chambrun said, gesturing toward the living room. Jerry ducked back out there and Chambrun picked up the bedside phone. He got the night supervisor. “Mrs. Kiley? Terrence Cleaves has been assigned a room while Fifteen is out of business. Room 805, I think. Connect me.” He waited, frowning down at Connie. Then: “Cleaves? Pierre Chambrun here. Your wife has had an accident. She’s in Mark Haskell’s apartment on the second floor.” Pause. “Well, you damn well better make it your business or I’ll send the police to pick you up.” He slammed down the receiver. “Have you been with your husband all afternoon and evening?” he asked Connie.

  Again her head turned from side to side. “Please, I’ve got nothing to tell you, Mr. Chambrun. It’s—it’s a private matter.”

  “Do you know that your father is in town looking for you?”

  “Oh, God,” she said. “Does he—does he have to know?”

  “He has to know, Mrs. Cleaves, and I have to know,” Chambrun said.

  He didn’t wait for her to tell him, however. He turned toward the living room, gesturing for me to follow. We joined Jerry Dodd out there and Chambrun closed the bedroom door. Jerry was dusting the desk for fingerprints.

  “Place is lousy with prints,” Jerry said. “You had an army in here, Mark?”

  There was me, of course, and Connie, and there had been Colin Andrews and Martha Blodgett for a drink earlier on.

  “I’m playing a hunch,” Chambrun said. “Terrence Cleaves should show up here in a minute or two, Jerry. The minute he does, head up to 805 and get a sample of his prints. I’m guessing you’ll find it matched somewhere in this room.”

  Jerry nodded and went on with his work.

  “How did Mrs. Cleaves get in here?” Chambrun asked.

  “No sweat. I gave her a key when I first brought her here.”

  “So Cleaves beat her up, took the key from her, and came here to look for what, Mark?”

  “Search me.”

  “She didn’t give you anything to keep for her?”

  “No.”

  “Cleaves had to believe she’d left something here that was important to him,” Chambrun said. “Something she’d try to hide; otherwise, why the books, the paintings?”

  Jerry was photographing prints with a tiny pocket camera when there was a sharp knock at the door. I opened it and Terrence Cleaves was standing outside, tall and straight, his eyes blazing with anger. He brushed past me and walked straight up to Chambrun, towering over him.

  “I resent your ordering me about, Chambrun,” he said. “As for the police, you very well know that I enjoy diplomatic immunity. What is this about an accident to Constance?”

  “Figure of speech,” Chambrun said. “There was nothing accidental about the beating you gave her.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Cleaves demanded.

  Chambrun turned away from him, went to the bedroom door and opened it. He stood aside for Cleaves to go by him. At the sight of her husband Connie turned her face away from Doc Partridge’s ministrations. The old doctor looked around.

  “This the husband?” he asked. His eyes glittered. “I’ll tell you something, fella. You ought to have your ass kicked around the block and I’d be glad to join in the fun. This girl is hurt.”

  Cleaves’s face was rock-hard. His eyes remained fixed on Connie. “Does she say I did this to her?” he asked.

  “She doesn’t say anything,” Doc Partridge said. “You
may have broken her jaw.”

  Cleaves did an about-face like a soldier on parade and stalked out into the living room. Chambrun closed the bedroom door.

  “You’ll see to it that she gets the best of care,” Cleaves said.

  I noticed that Jerry Dodd was gone.

  “Aren’t you curious about what’s happened in this room?” Chambrun asked.

  “There’s only one thing in the whole damn world I’m interested in,” Cleaves said, his voice harsh. “That’s finding the money that may ransom my children. Is there any news from upstairs?”

  “I suppose the legal position is that if your wife won’t bring charges against you you can beat her to your heart’s content,” Chambrun said. “But breaking into this room and tearing it apart is another story.”

  “That’s an absurd suggestion,” Cleaves said. “In any event I have diplomatic immunity.”

  “Did you know that Buck Ames is in town?” Chambrun asked.

  Cleaves turned sharply. “When? Where is he?”

  “I have the feeling that when he gets a look at Connie, diplomatic immunity isn’t going to do you much good, Mr. Cleaves,” Chambrun said.

  “Then for God sake let her accuse me!” Cleaves almost shouted.

  “Her silence is an accusation,” Chambrun said. “What did she have that you wanted so badly?”

  “I’ve had enough of this,” Cleaves said, and started for the door.

  Before he reached it, it opened and Jerry Dodd came in. He closed the door and stood with his back to it. “His prints are all over Mark’s desk,” he said.

  Cleaves’s handsome face turned a sickly gray. You could almost hear his mind working. He was wondering if he could charge past Jerry and get away. Jerry, who was four inches shorter and forty pounds lighter, looked almost hungry for it to happen. I’d seen Jerry handle big men who got obstreperous. It was rather pretty to watch.

  Cleaves took a handkerchief out of his pocket and blotted at a trickle of sweat that had started to run down his cheek. He’d evidently decided against trying to tackle Jerry. Perhaps he’d guessed it would be as unequal as it looked.

  “So you did rip this room apart,” Chambrun said in his prosecutor’s voice.