Murder round the clock : Pierre Chambrun's crime file

by Pentecost, Hugh, 1903-

  The note attached to the Thomas card made him smile wryly. His staff was well-trained. They reported any deviations, no matter how absurd. Carl Nevers, the night reservation clerk, had followed routine. "Johnny Thacker reports the lady was carrying something alive in one of her suitcases. He could hear it whining."

  Chambrun reached for the phone on his desk and asked to be connected with Mrs. Kniffen, the head housekeeper.

  "Yes, Mr. Chambrun?"

  Poor Mrs. Kniffen. She always sounded panic-stricken when she got a call from him, Chambrun thought. "Beautiful day, Mrs. Kniffen," he said.

  "Yes, sir."

  "I trust your family is all well?"

  "Very well, thank you."

  "Suite 14B, Mrs. Kniffen. It was occupied last night by a young lady named Thomas. Possibly from the world of the motion picture. The night bell captain reports she was carrying something alive in one of her suitcases. Obviously not an ordinary pet like a dog or a cat. I'm curious, Mrs. Kniffen."

  "Yes, sir." Mrs. Kniffen's voice was unsteady. Chambrun could read her like a book. She was remembering the time a box of trained snakes had got loose on the twelfth floor.

  "Just an unobtrusive check, Mrs. Kniffen."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Kniffen."

  As he put down the phone, a small green light blinked on his desk. He picked up the phone again to answer his secretary.

  "Mr. Martin Hobbs to see you, Mr. Chambrun."

  "Thank you, Miss Proctor. Have my breakfast things removed, and then show him in."

  Chambrun's mind was like a well-organized index card file. In his job he had to know everything he was supposed to know—and a great deal more that he was not supposed to know He knew the obvious, like which men were cheating on their wives and which wives were cheating on their husbands; he knew which guests were spending more than they could afford; he knew all the gossip about everyone. His staff was, in effect, a highly skilled intelligence service. The mental file card dealing with Martin Hobbs was ready for use on a split seconds notice.

  Martin Hobbs, aged thirty-eight, handsome, great charm, if a little too labored at times. Ten years ago he had been known as "the boy wonder," a young financial wizard from the West Coast, San Francisco's most notable fixture after the Golden Gate Bridge. He'd made a mammoth coup in the stock market that had lifted him to the climate of the fabulously rich. He was ostensibly a promoter and organizer of businesses and business mergers. He was said to hold government contracts in the field of rocketry that would run into billions over a period of years. This meant, obviously, important contacts in government as well as business. To be treated with extra courtesy and special attention at all times.

  But, at the bottom of his mental file card, Pierre Chambrun had appended a cliche: What goes up must come down.

  A silent waiter wheeled out the remains of Chambrun's breakfast. Chambrun walked over to the sideboard to set his pot of Turkish coffee brewing, took a fresh cigarette from his silver case, and had just lighted it when Miss Proctor ushered in Martin Hobbs.

  "Good morning, Mr. Hobbs," Chambrun said, smiling blandly. "Won't you sit down? How can I serve you?"

  The blond Viking in a Madison Avenue charcoal-gray suit, a custom-made shirt, and a tie in regimental stripes, flashed Chambrun a bright smile. The word "mask" appeared suddenly on Chambrun's cranial radar screen.

  "I've been so deeply involved in this business merger we're putting through," Hobbs said, "that I've neglected to tell you how perfect the service in your hotel has been and to comment on the extraordinary efficiency of your staff."

  "That's always nice to hear," Chambrun said, his hooded eyes studying this famous young man. Something odd here, he thought, something like panic behind that white smile.

  "I'd like to impose on you for a rather delicate extra service," Hobbs said.

  "We rarely find ourselves unequipped to provide extras, Mr. Hobbs."

  "You must deal with the transfer of large sums of cash from your bank to the hotel as a matter of daily routine," Hobbs said.

  "We do."

  Hobbs reached into his pocket, took out his wallet, and produced a folded check. "I need to have fifty thousand dollars in cash at our meeting today," he said. "Can the people who handle your cash deposits and withdrawals take care of it for me?"

  Chambrun made his slight hesitation seem like no hesitation at all. A slow smile began as he glanced at the check. The smile must obviously be completed before he could speak. The check was on a San Francisco bank. It would normally take four or five days to clear. Of course, a quick phone call—

  "I can have it for you at eleven-thirty," Chambrun said, "if that is in time."

  Hobbs's eyes lowered for an instant to his hands. "You will of course vouch for the fact that it is my check and that the money is being delivered to me. If there's any question, a phone call to my bank—"

  Way ahead of you, son, Chambrun thought. "Don't think any more about it, Mr. Hobbs. Do you want the money delivered to your suite or to the conference room?"

  "The conference room," Hobbs said. "But I want to be called outside to receive it. Just say there is a message for me. No mention of the money, please."

  "I'll take care of it personally, Mr. Hobbs."

  Hobbs turned on his brilliant smile. "I'm most grateful, Mr. Chambrun."

  "A pleasure to be of service to you, Mr. Hobbs."

  Chambrun watched him go, tapping the check gently against the palm of his hand. Then he went to his phone and picked it up. Miss Proctor responded promptly.

  "Call Mr. Frederick Tweddell of the San Francisco Trust at his home, Miss Proctor—person-to-person."

  "Its only a quarter past seven in San Francisco, Mr. Chambrun."

  "Thank you for reminding me, Miss Proctor."

  "You—you still want me to make the call?"

  "Please," Chambrun said patiently.

  At twenty minutes past ten, New York time, Clifford Cook approached the desk in the Beaumont lobby. Mr. Atterbury, head clerk during the day, greeted him pleasantly.

  "It turns out that Mrs. Cook and my daughter and I will be leaving for home tomorrow—after breakfast," Cook said.

  "We'll be sorry to see you go, Mr. Cook," Atterbury said automatically. "Can we help in any way with your travel arrangements?"

  "We drove here," Cook said. "If you'll notify the garage to have our car delivered at ten o'clock, gassed up and ready for the road?"

  "Of course."

  "I thought of taking Mrs. Cook to the theater tonight—"

  "Our theater ticket bureau is just across the lobby there, sir, next to the newsstand."

  Cook turned and headed across the glittering lobby toward the newsstand. Before he reached it he came face-to-face with an attractive-looking young man. Except for the fact that he was dark, he could have been a younger version of Martin Hobbs—charcoal-gray suit, custom-tailored shirt, tie in regimental stripes.

  "Morning, Mr. Cook."

  Cook pulled himself out of his preoccupation. "Oh—good morning, Stanton."

  Young Donald Stanton was the most pleasant of Martin Hobbs's entourage. Cook knew that being pleasant was part of a public relations man's job, but with young Stanton it seemed both natural and genuine. He had spent an hour with Cook two days before, asking him courteously about his background, his education, his politics, his business history. Cook, a little puzzled, had been told that "When, as, and if this merger comes off, sir, it'll be my job to include you in our version of the corporate image." Well, Cook thought grimly, it had been a wasted hour.

  "Have you ever been to the zoo in Central Park, sir?" Stanton asked.

  "No, but I believe Mrs. Cook took Bobbie there yesterday."

  "I have a girl who's mad about it," Stanton said.

  "Oh?" Cook said.

  Stanton laughed disarmingly. "We are going there this afternoon—if!"

  "Oh."

  "If the big story isn't going to break today, sir. Off the record,
sir—and for God's sake don't tell Mr. Hobbs I asked you—is there likely to be a final decision today? Because if there is—no zoo!"

  "I hate to interfere with your excursion, Stanton, but I think a decision today is almost certain."

  Stanton looked sincerely enthusiastic. "Welcome to the family, sir," he said. "I know how pleased Mr. Hobbs will be."

  Cook nodded. But Mr. Hobbs wasn't going to be pleased.

  Mr. Frederick Tweddell of the San Francisco Trust didn't enjoy being wakened at seven-fifteen. But when he heard Chambrun's voice, he relaxed. Chambrun was a rare person and a very special friend, as he had been since the two men had first known each other during the war years in France and Germany. He had also been Colonel Tweddell's favorite drinking companion.

  "Pierre, you old son-of-a-bottle!" Mr. Frederick Tweddell said.

  "Son-of-a-bottle yourself," Chambrun said. "And I have a special one reserved for you on your next trip to New York. But at present a small emergency is at hand."

  "You never have emergencies, Pierre—I know you, you're always way ahead of trouble."

  "That's what I'm trying to do now—stay ahead," Chambrun said. "I have a check on my desk in the amount of fifty thousand smackers. It's signed by a customer of yours. He wants folding money for it."

  "Fifty thousand in cash!"

  "By eleven-thirty, our time. Martin Hobbs. Do I cash it?"

  Mr. Tweddell's whistle in San Francisco was quite clear in Chambrun's office. "Funny thing," he said, "Hobbs's account here is a personal checking account, not his business account. It just happens I had his folder out yesterday. This is off the record, Pierre."

  "I just don't want to be stuck for fifty thousand bucks," Chambrun said. "Off the record, if you say."

  "There was a guy in my office yesterday—investigator for one of these Senate subcommittees. He was interested in Hobbs. I couldn't tell him anything or show him anything unless he had a subpoena for our records. But I was curious, so I looked at Hobbs's account after this investigator left. Hobbs has exactly fifty thousand, one hundred and four dollars and seven cents in his account. If there are no other checks out, yours will just make it!"

  "And if this account is overdrawn?"

  "Before yesterday I'd have said the sky's the limit."

  "And today?"

  "Not the sky, anyway."

  "If I refuse him," Chambrun said, "I'll be in receipt of a telephone call from some political bigwig in the next ten minutes, threatening to chop off my head for being discourteous to the boy wizard. The next day all of the gossip columns will be laughing at me for not trusting one of America's richest men. It would be like turning down a Rockefeller."

  "Why does he want fifty thousand in cash?" Tweddell asked.

  Chambrun inhaled deeply on his Egyptian cigarette and then crunched it out in the china ashtray on his desk. "I think he may have to go somewhere in a hurry," he said.

  "What makes you think that?"

  "My gut aches," Chambrun said.

  Tweddell laughed. "That gut ache of yours saved my life about six times, Pierre. Trust it. But seriously, this man has some of the biggest defense contracts in the country. Fifty thousand dollars is chicken feed in terms of his general credit."

  "But you say the sky's no longer the limit?"

  "Look, Pierre, you and I aren't always cautious and careful. We play hunches."

  "Hunches based on experience and facts," Chambrun said, his voice hard.

  Tweddell chuckled. "So get our your ouija board, chum."

  At half past ten that morning Clifford Cook walked into the small conference room on the mezzanine floor of the Beaumont where for the last three days he had been involved with the Martin Hobbs Enterprises. Present when he arrived, after having bought theater tickets for that evening, were Hobbs, young Donald Stanton, Miss Garth, who was Hobbs's pretty secretary and who always left the room when they got down to brass tacks, and, of course, George Webber.

  Cook, gawky and angular, his dark hair always in a state of disarray, looked strangely out of place in this gathering. Hobbs beamed at him as he came in and continued to give some instructions to his secretary, who also beamed at Cook as she took down Hobbs's orders on her steno pad. It was apparent to Cook that young Stanton had passed on the word that this was to be D-day, and at least he and Hobbs and the secretary assumed that things were going the way they expected them to.

  George Webber was something else again. He was as tall as Cliff Cook but weighed at least fifty pounds more, and not an ounce of it was fat. His eyes were gray and glacial. His jaw was square under a tight slit of a mouth. His voice was a quiet baritone with a cutting edge like a sharp skate on ice. He, too, wore the Madison Avenue uniform, but on him it looked a little out of place. Cook was reminded of an old-time motion picture gangster. The illusion was furthered by a seldom-lit cigar clamped hard betwen Webbers strong teeth.

  George Webber was not a man to meet alone in a dark alley. His position in the Martin Hobbs Enterprises was not entirely clear. An official troubleshooter, Cook had decided, brought into action only when the "corporate image" created by Don Stanton and played to the hilt by Martin Hobbs—cordial, courteous, sympathetic, the best of all good fellows—was not producing the desired results. This, Cook imagined, didn't happen often, but he knew he was about to find out just how tough George Webber could be.

  "If you'll make those calls and get out those letters, Miss Garth," Hobbs said to his secretary. "Check with me at lunch-time."

  "Of course, Mr. Hobbs." Miss Garth beamed at Cook again and left the room.

  Hobbs, all smiles, waved to a chair next to his at the head of the conference table. Don Stanton, notebook at the alert, sat across from Cook. Webber stood over by the windows, cigar bristling, looking down at the side-street traffic.

  "Well, Cliff, I have the feeling you've arrived at a decision," Hobbs said.

  Cook moved awkwardly in his chair, big fingers tugging at an ear lobe. "Yes, I have come to a decision, Mr. Hobbs," he said. "I'm sorry to have been so long arriving at it."

  "My dear fellow, you don't make a million-dollar deal in thirty seconds. I wanted you to look into every facet of it carefully."

  "I have, and in many respects it would seem foolish to turn it down," Cook said. "But I'm sorry to say that's my decision,

  Mr. Hobbs. Thanks for your offer—but the answer is no."

  There was a sharp exclamation from Don Stanton—a little like that of a puppy that has had its foot stepped on unexpectedly. Hobbs's smile remained, but it was now frozen in place. Webber turned from the window. The corner of his mouth not occupied by the cigar was drawn down in a sardonic grimace. It was an "I told you so" look, plus a curious kind of relief—as if he were about to be taken off the leash.

  Hobbs took a cigarette case from his pocket. His hands weren't quite steady as he extracted a cigarette and put it in his mouth. Stanton leaned forward with a lighter.

  "I find it hard to accept that as final," Hobbs said.

  "I'm afraid it is," Cook said. He felt a little as though he'd struck a defenseless child. "You may find my reasons a little quixotic, Mr. Hobbs. I've always worked for myself. I've had a modest success with some electrical inventions, including the motor you're interested in. But whatever I've turned out has been mine, and I controlled it. If I sell you the patents, even at the generous figure you've suggested, I—I lose all contact with my own product."

  "At a guaranteed salary of fifty thousand a year for the rest of your life," Hobbs said sharply, "you'd have no worries again for as long as you live."

  "But I'd be doing nothing. Vice-president in charge of—of emptying ashtrays. My blood is in those patents, Mr. Hobbs. It—it would be like selling my child for cash. Now I'm sure, if you were to draw up a contract with me, I could enlarge my facilities and supply you with a certain number of motors per year."

  "You want to be in charge of production at our plants?" Webber asked in his harsh, cold voice.

  "No, s
ir. I want to be in charge of production at my plant," Cook said.

  "Suppose somebody invents something better next week?" Webber said. "You'd be down the drain."

  Cook gave him an ingenuous smile. "But down my drain, Mr. Webber."

  "It's hard to conceive of a man turning down a lifetime of security simply for the pleasure of running small risks in a small business," Hobbs said. The room was air-conditioned, but tiny beads of sweat glistened on the one-time boy wizard's forehead.

  "Or running the risk of having no business at all," Webber said flatly. He took the cigar out of his mouth and waved it impatiently at Hobbs. "It's time we took off the kid gloves, isn't it, Martin?"

  Cook felt a small pulse of anger beat in his temple. "Threats aren't likely to change my decision, Mr. Webber," he said.

  "My dear fellow, nobody's threatening you," Hobbs said.

  "It just seems to be time to acquaint you with the facts of business life," Webber said.

  There was a knock at the door of the conference room. Stanton, still looking pale around the gills, went quickly to the door and spoke inaudibly to someone outside. Then he came back and bent down to say something to Hobbs, who promptly stood up.

  "Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen," Hobbs said, and went out into the corridor, closing the door behind him.

  Webber watched him go, a glint of impatience in his cold eyes.

  Out in the hall Pierre Chambrun handed Hobbs a thick manila envelope. "Thousands, five hundreds, and hundreds," he said. "Would you like to count it here, Mr. Hobbs?"

  "No," Hobbs said, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. "I'm sure you don't make mistakes, Mr. Chambrun."

  "Thank you," Chambrun said. "But, as a matter of routine, may I ask you to sign this receipt?"

  "Of course." Hobbs scribbled his name on the slip of paper Chambrun handed him. "I'm most grateful to you for your prompt and efficient service."

  "No trouble at all," Chambrun said. "If there's anything else I can do, be sure to let me know."

  Hobbs nodded distractedly, tucked the manila envelope under his arm, and went back into the conference room. He sat down at the head of the table again, placing the envelope on the chair beside him.