"Try to think hard, Mrs. Kniffin," Hardy said. "Can't you describe the man who was pushing the wheelchair a little better than just a raincoat and a hat?"
"I know it's romantic and foolish," Mrs. Kniffin said, "but I just couldn't take my eyes off Mr. Saville."
"You're sure it was Mr. Saville in the wheelchair?"
Mrs. Kniffin smiled at the lieutenant as though he was a backward child. "That is something I couldn't possibly be mistaken about, Lieutenant," she said.
"Thank you, Mrs. Kniffin," Chambrun said.
The old woman hesitated. "I hope I haven't gotten Mr. Saville into any kind of trouble," she said. "I'd—I'd never forgive myself for that."
"Comfort yourself that you've done your job as a member of the staff and as a good citizen, Mrs. Kniffin," Chambrun reassured her.
Mrs. Kniffin, twisting her apron, retired.
Hardy made a growling noise deep in his throat. "Now we got something to twist that fancy creep's arm with," he said.
"Meaning Saville?" Chambrun said, looking at the lieutenant through a pale cloud of cigarette smoke.
"Who else?" Hardy said.
"That may be the crucial question," Chambrun said. "Before you go too far out on a limb, Hardy, I suggest we hear what Mr. Cardoza has to say." His eyes moved past Hardy to the door.
Mr. Cardoza is dark and very elegant. He looks as if he might be the pretender to the Spanish throne. He is more than a headwaiter. He presides over the Grill Room and the Blue Lagoon nightclub in the hotel. Real princes and kings speak nicely to him to get reservations. I know he rates with the top half dozen indispensables on Chambrun's staff.
He arrived promptly. At the Beaumont, when you get a summons from the second floor, you hop to it.
"Thank you for coming at once, Cardoza," Chambrun said.
"My pleasure," Cardoza said. He nodded to me and Hardy, whom he knew from other investigations. Chambrun introduced Norman, and Norman got the faint classic bow
"Last night Robert Saville and some of his entourage had dinner in the Grill Room?" Chambrun asked.
One of Cardoza's eyebrows rose. "Indeed he did."
"Could you estimate the approximate time, Cardoza?"
"It would be exact on my table chart," Cardoza said. "They arrived a few minutes after seven and left about twenty-five minutes to nine."
"Any comings and goings?" Chambrun asked.
"How do you mean, Mr. Chambrun?"
"I won't play games with you, Cardoza. We are trying to account for Robert Saville's whereabouts between, say, half-past seven and a little after eight."
"He was with me—God help me," Cardoza said.
"Why do you need Gods help, Cardoza?"
"He is an insatiable demander," Cardoza said. "Nothing is ever quite right. He drives my waiters crazy, and he treats them like cattle."
"So he was with you from a little after seven till twenty-five minutes to nine. But he probably left the room at some point?"
"He did not," Cardoza said.
"Not at any time?"
"Not at any time."
"How many people does your Grill Room seat, Cardoza?" Hardy asked.
"The fire laws limit us to two hundred and twenty-six people."
"Were you filled up last night?"
"We are always 'filled up,' Lieutenant."
"And you're trying to tell me that, with over two hundred people in the room, all of them needing attention, you can say positively that Saville never left the room? Not even to go to the John?"
"I am telling you that," Cardoza said blandly.
"I don't buy it," Hardy said. "I don't buy it, because we have an eyewitness who says he was somewhere else."
"Your eyewitness is mistaken," Cardoza said. He smiled, and it was just slightly patronizing. "If you were having dinner there, Lieutenant, I might not be able to swear that you hadn't left the room at some point. You are a pleasant, undemanding, reasonable guest. You would never produce unwanted publicity for the hotel. You could go to the John, as you call it, without creating a sensation.
"But Robert Saville can't push back his chair to stand up without six foolish women trying to rip the sleeve out of his dinner jacket. We have to protect him as best we can from autograph seekers and drooling ladies. Every moment he's in the room is potentially explosive. So in the case of Mr. Saville I know very definitely whether he leaves the room to go to the John or anywhere else. He is never quite out of the perimeter of my vision. Last night Mr. Saville did not leave from the moment he and his party arrived a little after seven until he and his party left at twenty-five minutes to nine."
"What about the others—the people with him?"
"The girl—Saville's secretary—made several trips to the telephone booths in the foyer. Mr. Drott, whom I know well as a regular customer—the network has an account with us— also made several phone calls. The big man, the lawyer, went to the washroom once. But Robert Saville never left the table."
"Thank you, Cardoza," Chambrun said.
Cardoza bowed. "Any time, Mr. Chambrun," he said, and left.
"He's wrong or Mrs. Kniffin is lying!" Hardy said, his anger boiling.
"I think you can be quite certain that Cardoza is right," Chambrun said. "As for Mrs. Kniffin, she wanted it to be Robert Saville in that wheelchair, and so she saw Robert Sa-ville in that wheelchair. A man wearing a gray wig, black glasses, with his face hidden by a hatbrim and a turned-up coat collar doesn't present a sharp picture. Even I might look like Robert Saville in that getup, slumped in a wheelchair, to someone who wanted me to be Robert Saville."
"So much for eyewitnesses," Hardy muttered.
"I think you can depend on Cardoza as a completely accurate witness," Chambrun said.
"Then exactly who was in the wheelchair? And who was pushing it?"
"Norman's suggestion still interests me," Chambrun said. "It could have been Frank Hansbury on his way to be dumped in Norman's closet. He sat there like a statue,' Mrs. Kniffin said. Might that not describe a dead man, Lieutenant?"
"And the man in the raincoat and hat—since you're guessing?" Hardy asked with some bitterness.
"In Mrs. Kniffin's ecstatic state, which makes her totally worthless as a witness, the man in the raincoat and hat could have been a woman."
"What makes you think so?"
"Nothing," Chambrun said, smiling. "I just say it could have been, for all the solid facts we have. But you do have a new starting point, Lieutenant."
"Like what?"
"Like Robert Saville," Chambrun said. "Mrs. Kniffin isn't all that worthless to you, Lieutenant. One thing you can be sure of. She did see someone in a wheelchair, disguised in Saville's wig and glasses. She did see someone pushing the chair. She did see them go into—or be let into—Norman's room. So now you go to Saville and ask him who used his wheelchair and his makeup kit while he was having dinner. Where are those items now? That's a starting point, my friend."
Hardy straightened his shoulders. "This time Pretty Boy is going to sit down and dish it out for me if it takes all night," he said.
"Remember, Brimsek told us that after they had gone into Normans room with the housekeeper at a quarter to ten, Saville went out in the wheelchair looking Tor action.' Namely, a poker game. Did he find his wig and glasses where they should have been? Was the wheelchair where it ought to have been?"
"There could still be fingerprints on those items," Hardy said hopefully.
Chambrun shook his head. "Mrs. Kniffin didn't say so, but I'd make a small bet the man in the raincoat wore gloves."
Hardy started for the door.
"Just a minute, Lieutenant," Norman said in a small tired voice. "I was lucky this last time. I might not be lucky if they come looking for me again."
Hardy nodded. "You're right. You'll have to stay here till we've given Mark's place a thorough going-over. I'll send a man in here to stand by with you. Detective named Salinger. He's a hundred percent reliable. You want your typewriter in here?"
Hardy took off for his confrontation with Saville. Norman didn't move out of his chair. He lowered his head and covered his face with his hands.
"I—I think things are beginning to catch up with me," Norman said. "Poor Frank. Do you really think he might have been in that wheelchair?"
"It was your idea," Chambrun said.
Norman shuddered. "But I didn't really believe it," he said.
Chambrun lit one of his flat Egyptian cigarettes. "I think we'd better bring you up to date, Norman," he said. "Mark has been to see Mrs. Hansbury."
Norman's head jerked up. "So help me, Mark, if you've dragged her into this—"
"She hasn't been dragged anywhere," Chambrun said. "Mark is very much concerned about you. He's a good friend, Norman. He felt someone is trying to frame you and that you'd almost certainly need the alibi that Mrs. Hansbury could give you. He wanted to make certain she'd come forward if she was needed."
"And of course she said she would," Norman said. "But that would mean—"
"It may not be necessary for her to come forward," Chambrun said. "There's a small hitch, though. Mrs. Hansbury told Mark you got to her place a little after eight. You told us you left here about six. Obviously she can't provide you with an alibi for that stretch of time in between—six to eight. That could be the crucial time, Norman."
"I went to my apartment—near Gramercy Park," Norman said. "I hadn't picked up mail for days, and I needed some fresh clothes."
"Did anyone see you there?"
Norman frowned. "I can't honestly be sure," he said. "It's a self-service building. I—I wasn't trying to set up an alibi, you know.'
"Let's hope it isn't too important," Chambrun said. He watched the smoke rise from the end of his cigarette. "We're left a little bit high and dry, Norman. Take a look at what we know. Hansbury was in Saville's suite arguing about your payments when they went down to dinner leaving him there. That was a few minutes past seven. Hansbury was still alive then—Sheri Southworth saw him. He made a phone call to Mrs. Hansbury, trying to find you. Now Saville, Brimsek, Drott, and Miss Bevans are all in the clear for the next hour and a half. At ten minutes to eight Mrs. Kniffin saw a phony Saville go into your room. That may have been Frank Hans-bury, dead, wheeled into your room by Mr. X. If it was Hans-bury, he wasn't killed by Saville or Brimsek or Drott—or Miss Bevans. I'm disinclined to believe that Miss Sheri Southworth is a mankiller—in the literal sense."
Chambrun smiled faintly, then went on. "So that brings me to the key question, Norman. Who else in this entourage could have gotten into an angry argument with Hansbury and chopped him down? Because that seems to me to be what happened. Not a planned killing—an explosive, unplanned moment of violence."
"Only Sheri was in the suite," Norman said.
"We don't know that," Chambrun said. "Hansbury was there, and Sheri was in her room. If someone rang the doorbell, Hansbury could obviously have let that someone in."
Norman nodded, moistening his lips. "Frank was furious with everyone. But the person he hated most in the whole setup was Karl Richter," he said.
"Oh?"
"Richter was the one who was really fouling up the script," Norman said. "Karl and his bloody 'significances.' Just when we'd get Saville and the rest of them to agree about a sequence, Karl would blow it for us. He's a crazy egomaniac. He doesn't care about anyone's ideas but his own. He thinks directors are the only important people in show business. If he happened to turn up while Frank was there in the suite, they could certainly have got in an argument."
"He wasn't in the hotel," I said.
"He says he wasn't in the hotel," Chambrun said. He looked at Norman. "Is he a karate expert, Norman?"
"I haven't the faintest idea," Norman said.
"Mark, it might be worth having a casual conversation with Richter," Chambrun said. "If he's still in the Trapeze Bar, and he isn't too stoned, you might be able to find out where he was last night between seven and eight without his thinking he was talking to the police. Use your best diplomatic technique."
The Trapeze Bar is suspended in space over the foyer to the Beaumont's Grand Ballroom. Its walls are a kind of Florentine grillwork, and some artist of the Calder school has decorated them with mobiles of circus performers working on trapezes. They sway slightly in the movement of air from a cooling system, giving the unusual effect that the whole place is swaying slightly. It's an extremely popular rendezvous for the famous and the near-famous before the lunch and dinner hours.
It was nearly six o'clock when I got there, and the room was crowded to the doors. I flagged Mr. Del Greco, the maitre d', and he pointed out Richter at a corner table.
"I was about to give him the polite heave-ho," Del Greco said. "He has to be potted to the eyes. He's been here for nearly four hours taking in one after another—Dutch gin on the rocks."
Richter wasn't alone. The attractive Sally Bevans was with him.
"Well, well, well," Richter said when I joined them. "The Beaumont's barker." He was deathly pale, but he seemed in control.
Miss Bevans smiled at me. "I finally got that martini," she said. "On the run."
"Sorry I couldn't have bought it for you," I said.
"Join us, by all means," Richter said as I pulled up a chair. "I have been summoned by the Mafia—my name for Saville and Company. I have been explaining to Sally that I'm not exactly in tiptop condition to involve myself in a story conference."
"They need you, Karl," Sally said. "Wally Cameron has come up with a whole new opening sequence."
"Convey the word that I need a little time for rehabilitation," Richter said. "A lot of hot coffee, a lot of cold shower— shall we say, after they've had dinner?"
"I'll report," Sally said. "But I have the feeling they'll descend on you en masse when Lieutenant Hardy is through with them."
"So the Law is still chasing its tail," Richter said. "Running in circles can last a long time—long enough for a lot of cold showers. Convey the word, Sally, my dear. Richter will come when Richter is damned good and ready."
Sally made a little moue and stood up. "I'll report," she said.
"Do so," Richter said. "And then rejoin us, my dear, and I'll persuade you to desert the Mafia and become a Rhine maiden." He watched her go, moistening his thin lips. "A really lovely gal," he said. "How is it they so seldom recognize the genuine male as opposed to the counterfeit?" He looked up at the waiter standing by the table. "Once more, please, and whatever Mr. Haskell's little heart desires."
I saw the waiter was about to deliver an ultimatum from Del Greco and shook my head. One more couldn't do that much damage. I looked at Richter. All that was missing was the Heidelberg scar to make him the perfect Prussian prototype.
"This is a wonderful, a magical bar," he said. "I've sat here all afternoon, and the grapevine entwines itself around my ears, and bit by bit I am completely up on current events. I hear the rumor that someone tried to throw little Norman out the window."
"It's not a rumor," I said. "It was a near thing." I found myself looking at his well-manicured nails and wondered if they could have clawed at Norman's chest.
"The police seem unwilling to accept expert help," Richter said. He looked at me hard, as though he had difficulty focusing. I expect he did. "I told you the Mafia would stop at nothing to keep the finger pointed away from them. Your square policeman seems to have rejected that idea."
"Alibis," I said. "The Mafia, as you call them, left Hansbury alive in Saville's suite when they went to dinner. He was dead, according to the medical examiner, by the time they got back. They were all accounted for the entire time. You weren't in the hotel," I added, slipping it in as casually as I could.
"That's correct," he said. "I was not in the hotel. I was on the other side of town, having dinner with my cameraman and my set designer—at Sardi's." His eyes narrow
ed. "Were you trying to get me to provide myself with an alibi, Mr. Haskell?"
"Why should I?" I said, trying to look fatuous.
"Well, no matter. I have one. But I very much wonder about the Mafia conspiracy. They say they left Hansbury alive. They say"
"Sheri saw him alive after they left. He made phone calls."
"That pet poodle will say anything she is told to say," Rich-ter said. "She's got the bruises to prove it. Conspiracy, my dear fellow. The Mafia is expert at it."
I wondered how much I should tell him. His theory had little needles pricking my spine. "At ten minutes of eight somebody wheeled a man out of the suite wearing Saville's wig—his invalid disguise—and into Norman's room. We wonder if that was Hansbury's body."
"Now you're getting interesting," Richter said.
"But they were all in the Grill Room," I said. "So who did the wheeling?"
"My dear innocent," Richter said, obviously enjoying himself, "it is perfectly simple. There are presidents and vice-presidents at their beck and call. They phone. 'We have had a little accident,' they say. 'We have killed Frank Hansbury. We need to plant his body in Norman's room. Please send someone around to wheel him in.' 'Yes, sir. Right away, sir' And so they go to dinner, cool as the cliche cucumber. Help arrives. Miss Sheri admits him. Frank Hansbury is dumped. Kaput."
"Hansbury made a phone call after they were in the Grill Room," I said. "We know that for a fact."
"Do you, Haskell?" His smile was twisted. "The Mafia includes among its cohorts actors, mimics. Is the person who got the phone call absolutely sure the voice wasn't an imitation?"
I almost said, she ought to know—she was his wife. I didn't. What I did say was: "It's an interesting idea."
"But hard for the square policeman to absorb, or prove, I imagine."
I tried the fatuous smile again. "While we're setting up alibis, where were you at four-thirty when someone was trying to toss Norman out my window?"
Richter laughed. He waved toward the bar. "Check with your elegant captain over there. He's been hating me since two o'clock this afternoon." He looked at the drink the waiter had brought him and shuddered. "I think I have overestimated myself," he said.
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