It was this feeling that took Alison Barnwell to the Trapeze Bar about five o'clock that afternoon. She was in no hurry to get home from her work since Johnny, her husband, was at a hotelmen's convention in Palm Springs.
There had been a note on Alison's desk that morning from Carl Nevers, the night reservation clerk. "Dear Miss Barnwell: Thought you might like to know that Laura Thomas of Hollywood registered early this morning."
Alison had giggled over the note. Mr. Nevers was as transparent as a windowpane. Ordinarily the list of newly registered celebrities was typed out by her secretary and placed on her desk. Alison's secretary was a walking social and celebrity register. Miss Thomas's name had been ignored by the secretary. Mr. Nevers, therefore, was feeling uneasy. He wanted to know if he'd been guilty of admitting an impostor.
Alison's secretary had brushed away the first inquiry. There was no such person as Laura Thomas—that is, no person by that name of even minor importance. Alison herself had never heard the name. But the signature on the registration card was intriguing. No street address. Just Hollywood—as though that was obviously enough for any postal clerk in the movie capital.
If the lady in question was a fake, the unadorned address was a bold touch, Alison thought. She wanted a look at Miss Thomas. Just before five o'clock, the day bell captain, having been alerted, reported to Alison that Miss Laura Thomas was sipping a martini in the Trapeze Bar.
The Trapeze Bar at the Beaumont is suspended in space, like a birdcage, over the foyer of the Grand Ballroom. The foyer, painted a pale chartreuse with rich cherrywood paneling, is a meeting place for guests when the ballroom itself is not in use. The Trapeze Bar, its walls made entirely of elaborate Florentine grillwork, is popular mainly because it is different. An artist of the Calder school had decorated it with mobiles of circus performers working on trapezes. They sway slightly in the draft from a concealed air-conditioning system. To be seen at the Trapeze meant that you were important, or that you didn't know what you'd gotten yourself into and would find out with a jolt when an obsequious waiter handed you the check.
Mike Maggio escorted Alison from the lobby to the Trapeze Bar and pointed out Laura Thomas sitting alone at a corner table, a chilled martini glass on the table in front of her.
Expensively smart, Alison thought as she crossed the room. There was nothing fake about the mink stole. The black sunglasses added the proper Hollywood touch. Unaware of scrutiny, Miss Thomas tightened her mouth into a hard thin line, which went with the tensions of being famous. It could also go with the tensions of playing a phony role.
Alison stopped by the table. "Miss Thomas?" she said brightly.
The dark glasses turned sharply in Alison's direction. For a fraction of a moment Alison was certain they hid panic.
"Yes?" The girl's voice was cool and completely under control, however.
"I'm Alison Barnwell, public relations director for the Beaumont. May I join you for a moment?"
Miss Thomas hesitated. Obviously she didn't want to be joined. "I'm just finishing my drink," she said, "and I have an engagement."
"Oh, please let me buy you another," Alison said. "I've been looking forward all day to talking with you."
The dark glasses turned toward the martini glass. Clearly another drink was a temptation. Alison sat down at the table without waiting to be asked and beckoned to the captain.
"Two very dry martinis, Mr. Del Greco," she said.
The elegant Mr. Del Greco bowed and retired to the bar with the order. Miss Thomas fished in her dark alligator handbag for a cigarette.
Alison held her small gold lighter for Miss Thomas. "Are you in the east to make personal appearances, Miss Thomas?" she asked.
"I'm really not interested in publicity, Miss Barnwell," the girl said. There was a false boredom in her voice. "This is the first vacation I've had in a long time, and I'd like to stay out of the limelight."
"That's quite understandable," Alison said, wondering if she sounded as phony as Miss Thomas. She felt it. She laughed pleasantly. "One of the touchy parts of my job is to guess when a celebrity wants publicity and when she wants privacy. Her feelings can be hurt if you make a mistake either way."
"You can be quite certain I want no red-carpet treatment," Miss Thomas said.
"Then we'll just call this an official welcome to the Beaumont," Alison said, as Mr. Del Greco brought the martinis. "To the success of your latest picture." Alison raised her glass.
Miss Thomas's black glasses stared at Alison. "You saw it?" she asked.
"Well, frankly no," Alison said. "I don't get much opportunity to see films in my job, and I was married several months ago, which takes up most of my spare time."
"Lucky you," Miss Thomas said dryly. She sipped her drink.
There was an awkward pause that Alison knew she had to bridge. "Are you perhaps interested in doing something on Broadway, Miss Thomas?"
Miss Thomas seemed to be considering the question, but when she spoke, she figuratively threw a right hook to Alison's jaw. "You really haven't the faintest idea who I am or what I've done, have you, Miss Barnwell?"
Alison blushed. "I'm afraid you've found me out, Miss Thomas. In my job we don't like to admit to ignorance, both out of vanity and an unwillingness to hurt the feelings of a guest."
"My feelings aren't hurt," Miss Thomas said. "All I really
want, Miss Barnwell, is to be left alone." It was pointed and final.
Alison stood up, leaving her almost untouched drink. "I'm sorry to have intruded, Miss Thomas. But it is my job."
"Better luck next time," Miss Thomas said, giving Alison a small Cheshire-Cat smile.
Alison walked out of the Trapeze, nodding to one or two people she knew. "That, my girl," she told herself, "was a first-class shellacking."
The fact was, if Miss Thomas was a phony, she played her cards expertly and very, very close to the vest. She had made only one mistake. She had challenged Alison's curiosity so sharply that Alison was determined to find out all there was to know about Miss Thomas—who, what, and why.
The Clifford Cooks had a small domestic problem. Cook had bought theater tickets for himself and Anne. Comedy seemed the best medicine for his state of mind, and the ticket agent had highly recommended the latest musical comedy. Anne had got in touch with the front office to apply for a sitter to stay with Bobbie.
Bobbie was resentful. She wanted dinner in their suite by herself, served by room service. She wanted to watch her favorite TV programs without some nosy sitter to spoil her private fun. She would be entertaining certain imaginary friends who were very much a part of her daily life. Wouldn't there be a housekeeper on the floor? Wasn't the telephone right there?
"If you insist, Mum, I can call the operator every hour—but please, please let me have my private party."
Anne was anxious about Cliff. He seemed detached and worried since the morning meeting he'd described in some detail. It was all very well to refuse to submit to threats, but how real were the threats? Cliff seemed to be willing to give in to Bobbie's whim.
"If the sitter service checks with her periodically during the evening, why not?" he said. He had a feeling they wouldn't be staying in places with the rarefied atmosphere of the Beaumont very often in the future. Why not let the child have dinner served in solitary elegance by the room service waiter, in the company of her imaginary friends? "Suppose we have the sitter call you every half hour, chicken? You answer and let her know how you are. If you don't, then the sitter will come up and stay with you."
"Oh, Daddy, you're a doll," Bobbie said.
So Cliff called the sitter service, engaged a sitter for the evening, but explained that Bobbie was to be allowed her solitary grandeur unless she failed to answer the phone. Promptly at eleven, the sitter would present herself, put Bobbie to bed, and stay on in the suite until the Cooks returned. Since they were having a night on the town they might as well hit one of the nightclubs after the theater.
Bobbie was e
cstatic. Anne was mildly concerned, but not quite certain whether it was for Bobbie or Cliff. And once the arrangement had been made, Cliff seemed to retreat into the private world of his business problems.
Mr. Paul Fisher's dead body was removed from Room 1208 about five-twenty in the afternoon and taken to the morgue. Lieutenant Hardy, a big, athletic-looking young man who looked more like a good-natured, if slightly puzzled, college fullback than a homicide detective, was not happy. Dr. Partridge, the house physician, and the assistant medical examiner agreed that Mr. Fisher's heart had been sound until he'd swallowed a substantial dose of strychnine, which had knocked him off in a matter of seconds. Laboratory tests to confirm this still had to be made, but Hardy had no doubts of this confirmation.
There was no sign in Room 1208 of any strychnine or of anything that might have contained it.
The nearly empty liquor glass was the one that had contained the strychnine. It was covered with the late Mr. Fisher's fingerprints. The second glass, which had contained a drink without the special flavoring of strychnine, had no fingerprints on it at all. Wiped absolutely clean. There were no other fingerprints in the room, except Fisher's and the floor maids.
Identification in Fisher's wallet was ample. It contained his driver's license, his license to operate as a private detective in the state of New York, some business cards, two credit cards, and half a dozen blank checks. The address on the credit cards and on the licenses was Fisher's office on lower Broadway. No home address. A phone call to his office was fruitless. No answer.
And apparently Mr. Fisher either kept his working notes in his head or else all notes and papers had been removed by his drinking companion of last evening.
Pierre Chambrun, whom Hardy knew from other occasions, suggested that Senator Farrand might have answers as to the case Fisher was working on. The senator was on his way. Hardy checked on that. Jerry Dodd, the house security officer, had noticed nothing odd about Fisher's behavior— nothing to indicate who Fisher was interested in at the Beaumont.
Chambrun had kept his suspicions to himself. The senator had a right to reveal his own business in his own fashion. But in his own way Chambrun was not waiting. His gut still ached.
Returning to his second floor office about six o'clock, Chambrun was pleasantly surprised to find Alison Barnwell waiting for him. Chambrun was fond of his public relations director. He had been indirectly involved in a crisis in her life and found out what a really fine human being she was. She pleased him in other ways. It was a theory of his that women had the responsibility to look attractive on all and any occasions. Alison never failed to meet this requirement.
"One of the things I like about you most, Alison," Chambrun said as he saw her, "is that you're psychic. I was just going to call you at home."
"I wish I thought it was for a date," Alison said. "The evenings are hell with Johnny away. I managed for a long time without him, but now I can't remember how I did it."
"If you haven't anything planned, dine with me here," Chambrun said. "The pot's boiling, and I've got to stay here and sit on the lid. You might be useful."
"Miss Proctor just told me about the heart attack on twelve," Alison said. "I'd be glad to stay if I can be helpful."
"Sun's over the yardarm," Chambrun said. "Care for a drink? I know how you feel about my Turkish coffee."
"May I fix myself a Dubonnet on the rocks?"
Chambrun gestured toward the well-stocked sideboard and sat down at his desk. "It wasn't a heart attack on twelve," he said. "Probably a homicide."
"Mr. Chambrun!"
"And a very sticky one. This is strictly between us, Alison." And Chambrun gave her the details, plus the reasons for his concern about Martin Hobbs Enterprises.
"You think there's a connection?"
He ticked off the points on his fingers. "Hobbs draws fifty thousand in cash, which—in my suspicious mind—spells sudden getaway. Fisher, a private eye, was introduced into the hotel by Senator Farrand. The senator has made loud noises in the Senate about government contracts going to Hobbs. The senator is vastly disturbed over the news of Fisher's death and is on his way here by plane. You don't have to be a clairvoyant to see a relationship among those facts. Which brings me to my reason for having intended to call you, Alison. Hobbs has been here a week. He's never made a move without a blast of trumpets preceding him. I've noticed his PR man hanging around you with a kind of puppy love in his eyes."
Alison laughed. "Young Don Stanton has automatic mouthwatering reflexes at the sight of any pretty girl," she said. "But I'm running a bad second to Toni Blanton, our young singer in the Blue Lagoon Room. He takes her often to the zoo. What I'm missing!"
Chambrun's smile was faint, distracted. "Do you need your records to know how the Hobbs entourage spent last evening?"
"No," Alison said. "He entertained the officers of the Junior Chamber of Commerce at a private dinner. Later on they closed the Blue Lagoon."
"They were in the hotel then all evening?"
"The party was. I can't vouch for any one person, Mr. Chambrun. I wasn't there. Mr. Cardoza, the captain, might be able to help."
Chambrun glanced at his watch. "He's not on for twenty minutes."
"Incidentally, Hobbs has reserved a table in the Blue Lagoon for tonight for ten," Alison said. "Don Stanton wanted to make sure some of the important columnists would be present and cooperative."
Chambrun frowned at his cigarette end. "Either his getaway isn't planned for tonight or this party plan is designed to keep someone's guard lowered. And, Alison, check with Cardoza for me. The Hobbs party consists of Hobbs himself, George Webber, young Stanton, and a girl secretary."
"Miss Garth."
"See if Cardoza remembers any long absences from last night's wingding. The medical examiner guesses our friend Fisher swallowed his hemlock about midnight. I'd say eleven-thirty to twelve-thirty is the critical time. We'll dine at seven. Will you leave the ordering to me?"
"I'd be a fool not to," Alison said, starting for the door. "Cardoza often comes in early to go over any special banquet orders with Mr. Kraus."
Just as Alison reached the door, Chambrun called to her. "My dear child, you came here to see me about something. I haven't given you a chance. What was it?"
Alison laughed ruefully. "Nothing important."
"If it wasn't important, you wouldn't have been waiting for me. Let's have it."
"I just had my knuckles rather soundly rapped by one of the guests," Alison said. "A Miss Laura Thomas."
"The one with the live animal in her suitcase?" Chambrun asked.
"The what?"
"Johnny Thacker swears she had a whining animal in one of her suitcases when he checked her into her room," Chambrun chuckled. "Mrs. Kniffen investigated for me." He picked up a slip of paper on his desk. "Five suitcases. Only one of them unpacked. The others locked. No sign of animal life. In what other way is she interesting, Alison?"
"Carl Nevers was worried about having let her register," Alison said. "He asked me, in his oblique fashion, to check on her. She may be Hollywood, but she's no Hollywood celebrity. Personally, I think she's a fake and a very clever one. The question I came to ask you is—do you care?"
Chambrun's narrowed eyes twinkled at her through cigarette smoke. His voice was paternal—but gently and affectionately reproving. "I've told you many times, my dear, that I cannot run this hotel efficiently without knowing everything that goes on in it. But everything. Yes, I care to know about Miss Thomas. But at the moment, a moment of crisis, I care more about Hobbs and his possible connection with the murder of Mr. Fisher."
The green light blinked on his desk. He picked up the phone and said, "Yes?" Then: "At once, Miss Proctor." He put down the phone. "Give Senator Farrand your most devastating smile on the way out," he said.
Senator Claude Farrand was a regular guest of the Hotel Beaumont on his visits to New York and had lived there for one long stretch during his service at the United Nations. He had come
to know and respect Chambrun over a period of years. On one occasion he had been saved from a dangerously embarrassing moment by Chambrun's quick wit. A little too much old Kentucky bourbon at a dinner one night, plus th alluring and very bare-shouldered wife of a Texas oil man who was a power in the opposition party, had resulted in an indiscreet invitation to the lady to have a nightcap in the senator's suite. The lady had been willing, and she had not been unre-ceptive to further suggestions. At a critical moment in the senator's romantic campaign, the door of the suite had been opened by a passkey, and Chambrun, smiling blandly, had come in.
The senator had breathlessly retired to do something about his disheveled condition and to put his black tie in order. The wind of his departure still stirred in the room when there was a sharp knock at the door.
Chambrun, cool and unruffled, opened the door to the press. The press, having been tipped off to a possible scandal, was thrown completely off base by the presence of the hotel manager.
"You wish to see the senator?" Chambrun had asked.
They wished to see the senator.
"He's been courteous enough to allow me to show his suite to Mrs. Cardwell. She and Mr. Cardwell are planning a lengthy stay with us, and I wanted her to see what accommodations I could give them." He had turned suavely to the lady. "I trust these quarters will be satisfactory, Mrs. Cardwell?"
The lady, who had lost all zest for the chase, assured him that they would. Chambrun bowed her toward the door.
"In that case, shall we leave the senator to his press conference?"
At which point the senator, cued by Chambrun, appeared from the next room neat as a pin. "Well, boys," he said jovially, "what can I do for you?"
No, the senator would never forget Pierre Chambrun. And now he needed him again.
Senator Farrand was a big man, expensively sloppy in his appearance. He had the deep, booming voice of an orator. But as he came into Chambrun's office he was sweating like an ordinary mortal.
Murder Round the Clock Page 4