"It wont do, Paul," Chambrun said. "How could he have known—in France—about Ruysdale or what my reaction would be to her absence? But you knew, Paul. You knew my habits, my loyalties. You knew this morning that I was safely removed from the scene. It was you who needed only a little time."
Lourier leaned against the wall.
"As I remember, Paul," Chambrun said, "you were an actor before the war. May I ask, did you ever play the role of Cyrano de Bergerac?"
"Oh, God!" Lourier whispered. fingers, she could tear you to pieces. She was, they told me, an original, a "one and only."
Fifteen years ago Pamela had exploded like a tragic Roman candle, falling to earth in a hundred bright pieces that landed, sputtered, and went out, apparently forever. A combination of alcohol and drugs, they said. Now, in the late hours of the night, you could sometimes hear a disc jockey play one of her records and comment nostalgically on what had once been a great and haunting talent.
Pierre Chambrun, resident manager of the Beaumont and my employer, is a small dark man, stockily built, with heavy pouches under bright black eyes that can turn so hard that your blood freezes if you're guilty of a mistake, or, unexpectedly, can twinkle with humor. He has been in the hotel business for all his adult life. French by birth, he came to this country as a small boy, and he now thinks like an American. His training in the hotel business has often taken him back to Europe, and he can adopt a Continental manner to please a queen. He's an excellent linguist. He's the sole operating boss of the Beaumont, handling his job without interference from the absentee owner.
I think Chambrun's genius as an executive lies in his ability to delegate authority while at the same time always being close at hand to take the responsibility for delicate decisions. His instinct for dealing with people on all levels, from the lowest kitchen helper to visiting royalty, is not something you can learn from a course in hotel management at Cornell University.
We live by fairly rigid outlines at the Beaumont. Chambrun breakfasts in his elegant office on the second floor at precisely nine o'clock. It is always a hearty breakfast because he never takes time to eat lunch. At precisely nine-twenty-two I report to get any special orders for the day. Chambrun will be lighting his first Egyptian cigarette of the day and pouring his second cup of American coffee. There will be a third cup, and then he switches to Turkish coffee, which Miss Ruysdale prepares for him on the carved Florentine sideboard. Miss Ruys-dale is an incomparable secretary who seems to know in advance what Chambrun's needs will be even before he has thought of them himself.
The first order of business is to look through a collection of cards sent up by the reception desk—the newly registered guests of the night before. I'm always present for this routine, because its my job to know if any new celebrity has checked in and if there is any reason for a press release or the special "red carpet treatment."
The hotel uses a code system on these registration cards that Chambrun goes over each morning. The code letter A means that the guest is an alcoholic; W on a mans card means that he's a woman chaser, possibly a customer for the expensive call girls who appear from time to time in the Trapeze Bar; M on a woman's card means a manhunter; O arbitrarily stands for "over his head"—meaning that particular guest can't afford the Beaumont's prices and mustn't be allowed to get in too deep; MX on a married man's card means he's double-crossing his wife, and WX means the wife is playing around; and D means diplomat.
On this particular morning Chambrun was fingering the cards, passing them on to me after he read them. That day we had a famous film star, a Texas oil man with political aspirations, a South American diplomat on a visit to the United Nations. The others were meaningless to me, particularly a Mrs. Donald Jepson. Her card was bare, but Chambrun made two notations on it—A and O.
"A long-gone alcoholic and at last report stone broke," he said. There was a curious questioning glitter in his half hidden black eyes as he saw me put the card on top of my pile without much interest. "Mean anything to you?" he asked.
"I never heard of Mrs. Donald Jepson," I said, "drunk or sober."
"She is Pamela Powers," Chambrun said.
"The singer?"
"The onetime singer," he said. He didn't go on with his collection of cards. "Extraordinary girl."
"Woman," I said. "She quit fifteen years ago. She has to be flirting with forty, or past that."
Chambrun picked up the phone on his desk and flipped the switch on the conference box so that Ruysdale and I could hear Mr. Atterbury's dry voice when he answered. Atterbury is the head desk clerk and an old and trusted hand.
"Morning, Atterbury," Chambrun said.
"Yes, sir?"
"Did Mrs. Donald Jepson have a reservation?"
There was the briefest hesitation. "No, sir. House seat."
The management holds out a half dozen rooms in case some VIP appears unexpectedly. We call them house seats. Only Atterbury and Chambrun are permitted to okay their release.
"You had a reason?" Chambrun asked.
"Yes, sir. I had a terrible crush on Pamela Powers twenty years ago. I couldn't say no."
"She's dead broke, from all accounts."
"I know. My responsibility, sir."
"And will you carry her out of the hotel when she gets screaming drunk and starts climbing the walls?"
"I will, sir."
A tiny smile moved the corner of Chambrun's mouth. "I'd have done the same thing, Atterbury. Good man."
"Thank you, sir." Atterbury's phone clicked off. His day was made.
"Sentimental ass," Chambrun said. He still didn't go on to the next card. His hooded eyes swiveled my way. "Let me know, Mark, if Miss Powers appears in any of the public rooms—bars, restaurants. I'd like to see her again, but I want it to seem casual."
I spread the word. At about twelve-forty-five I was in my office on the second floor when my phone rang. It was Eddie, the head bartender in the Trapeze Bar.
"The lady's here," he said.
I called Chambrun.
"I'm tied up for the next fifteen minutes," he said. "Go down to the Trapeze and keep Miss Powers entertained until I show up."
The Trapeze Bar is suspended in space, like a birdcage, over the foyer of the Grand Ballroom. Its walls are elaborate with Florentine grillwork. An artist of the Calder school had decorated them with mobiles of circus performers working on trapezes. They sway slightly in the draft from a concealed air-freshening system, creating the illusion that the whole place is swinging slightly in orbit.
I saw Pamela as I walked into the Trapeze. She was sitting at a corner table alone—so very alone. I felt an unexpected protective pang for her. She was, somehow, ageless. She was turning a champagne glass slowly round and round and round in her slim fingers.
I stopped at the bar to speak to Eddie and said, frowning, "She's started to booze it up already."
Eddie grinned. "Champagne glass, properly chilled," he said, "loaded with four solid ounces of straight ginger ale."
"Ginger ale!"
"I kid you not," Eddie said. "Shall I send over your usual dry martini?"
"I—I think not," I said.
As I walked toward Pamelas table, I saw her suddenly involved in a tense withdrawal. Did she think I was an unwanted autograph hunter—or possibly a detective? You may ask why I thought detective. It was because, when I reached the table, she stared up at me with those wide violet eyes, and I could see terror in them. I thought with a twinge that she must be a little off her psychic rocker. There's nothing frightening, much less terrifying, about my very amiable professional approach.
"Miss Powers?" I said. "I'm Mark Haskell, the Beaumont's public relations director. I just wanted to tell you how delighted we are to have you with us."
Very slowly her panic seemed to ebb.
"Thank you," she said in a small quavering voice.
"May I join you for a moment?"
"Please do."
I sat down opposite her.
"I don'
t want any particular attention paid to my being a guest of the hotel, Mr. Haskell," she said.
"That may be hard to control," I said, smiling at her. "You'll be recognized by hundreds of people."
Her tiny smile had a bitter twist to it. "I've long since been forgotten," she said.
"I very much doubt that."
She lowered her eyes. "Did you know that I opened the Blue Lagoon Room here? Seventeen years ago. I was the first star to perform here."
I hadn't known that, but I didn't admit it. "You've been missed," I said.
Just then I saw Chambrun coming across the room toward us. He had on his best "mine host" smile as he bent over her hand and kissed it.
"My dear child," he said.
"Dear Mr. Chambrun," she said. But she wasn't looking at him. The violet eyes had widened. There had been terror in them before. Now it was stark and undisguised. She was staring past Chambrun at the bar. I followed the direction of her look.
Seated at the far end of the bar was a man wearing a black overcoat with an ornate fur collar. He had on a black hat, brim tugged downward. You don't keep your hat on in the Trapeze Bar. He was looking straight at Pamela with cold blue eyes. His mouth was a thin slit over a granite jaw. He lifted a shot glass filled with whiskey and swallowed the contents at a gulp. He looked like a mobster right out of an old Warner Brothers movie. But it was not funny.
Pamela lowered her eyes, and her whole body shook as if she had a malarial chill.
It was two afternoons later that I was summoned to Cham-brun's office for a special conference. When I arrived, I found only Mr. Cardoza and Miss Ruysdale with him. Cardoza is the maitre d' in the Blue Lagoon, but he is more than a head waiter. He handles the entertainment and makes sure that only the right people have reservations. He is a dark, elegant gent who looks as if he might be the heir to the Spanish throne.
Chambrun sat at his desk, drumming with his short, square fingers. "Jigs Henning is supposed to open in your room on Saturday, Cardoza,' he said.
Cardoza nodded happily. Jigs Henning would jam the place for his four-week stay in the Blue Lagoon. He ranked among the top singers in the business, along with Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr., and Tony Bennett.
"He's been trying to get out of his contract with us," Chambrun said. "He has a movie offer that would take him to the coast at once if he could accept. I have regretfully refused. But an hour ago I decided to let him off the hook.''
Cardoza's dark eyebrows rose. "You have someone to replace him?"
"I have," Chambrun said, with a Cheshire-Cat smile.
"May one ask—?"
"One may," Chambrun said. He leaned back in his chair. "Pamela Powers."
Cardoza stared at him and said, "Oh." It was his way of saying that Chambrun was out of his cotton-picking mind.
"She hasn't had a drink for more than a year," Chambrun said, "and she kicked the drug habit a long time ago. She's been working on her voice for the last ten months. I have persuaded Duke Adler, who arranged all her programs in the old days and acted as her accompanist, to play the engagement for her. She opens Saturday.
Cardoza moistened his lips. "Miss Powers has agreed?" I knew what he was thinking. Pamela was a pro. She wouldn't try a comeback unless she believed in it—except that Chambrun could be ultrapersuasive. If he chose, he could make it next to impossible for anyone to say "no" to him.
"She turned me down flat when I first suggested it," Chambrun said. "Childishly frightened. But I persuaded her that all good performers are scared, even the great ones. It's part of what makes them great. I got her to go to Duke Adler. He reported she was a miracle, her old self. She still refused. Then, an hour ago, she phoned me to say that, if I hadn't changed my mind, she'd do it. You'll have to admit, Cardoza, that a comeback engagement by Pamela Powers will be the biggest attraction you've had this year."
"If she doesn't fall on her face in front of the columnists and critics at the opening," Cardoza said.
"If she's any good at all, they'll give her a sendofffor sentimental reasons," I said.
"Precisely," Chambrun said. "And Duke Adler assures me she'll be better than just good. She'll be terrific, he says."
Cardoza drew a deep breath. "It's your hotel," he said.
"Your confidence in my judgment overwhelms me," Chambrun said drily. He turned to me. "Your job is to notify the press, Mark, and to dust off our prime list of celebrities."
There wasn't any problem about getting the ace columnists and nightclub critics there for the opening. All the tables were reserved before we got halfway through our list of famous people. We ran big ads in the entertainment pages of the papers, announcing that the opening night was already sold out.
I didn't see Pamela Powers again until the Thursday night before the opening. Friday morning to be exact—three o'clock. The Blue Lagoon had closed. Then, in the empty room, Pamela and Duke Adler took over, along with our lighting man. It was largely a costume parade under the lights. Duke Adler sat at the piano, with his pale longish hair and tinted glasses hiding his eyes. He would play the tag end of a song, and Pamela, not really trying, would sing a few bars.
The voice was clear and true, with that strange sad quality that had made her number one. On cue the lighting man would follow his light plot, and Pamela and Duke would go into a bar or two of the next number. It was an ordinary technical rehearsal, but what I saw of it sent me away deciding that Chambrun was really a genius. Pamela was going to knock them in the aisles.
About two o'clock on Friday afternoon I was in Chambrun's office with Cardoza. We were going over the table reservations with the Great Man. He wanted to be sure that just the right people sat in just the right places. While we were at it, Miss Ruysdale announced that Eddie, the bartender in the Trapeze, was in the outer office to see the boss. Eddie should have been on duty at that time.
Eddie is a chubby, brash young man who grew up on the Lower East Side, knows Fun City like the back of his hand, and has collected more gossip about the hotel guests and the hotel staff than even a Walter Winchell could have managed.
"Thought Id like to talk to you, boss, where there aren't so many listening ears," he said to Chambrun.
"What is it, Eddie?"
"We got a new customer that bothers me," Eddie said. "The Beaumont ain't the usual kind of hangout for the Mafia."
"Get to the point, Eddie."
"The last five days, along about twelve-thirty or a quarter to one, a guy named Max Wentzel comes into the bar. He sits at the far end and drinks three two-ounce hookers of Southern Comfort. This Wentzel is a gun for the Mafia. I know. We grew up in the same part of town."
"Just visiting you?" Chambrun said.
"He doesn't speak to me," Eddie said. "Like he never saw me before. He sits there, just watching. I get the creepy feeling he's waiting for the right guy to come in to be knocked off. He don't give me reason to kick him out of the bar. But I thought you ought to know."
Chambrun's forehead wrinkled in a dark frown. "He's down there now?"
"Been and gone," Eddie said. "Hell be back tomorrow if the pattern holds."
"Pass the word to Jerry," Chambrun said. Jerry Dodd is the Beaumont's security chief. "Ill drop in tomorrow and have a look in person."
"I thought you ought to know," Eddie said.
"You were right."
By Saturday afternoon I was in the middle of a high-speed merry-go-round. My phone was endlessly busy—people calling and demanding reservations for that night, which we couldn't give them. Customers were ready to hang from the rafters. There were flowers to be arranged for, to be delivered to Pamela's dressing room, and a huge bouquet of white roses to be handed to her on stage after her performance.
About four o'clock I got a call from Eddie. I'd had the switchboard cut off my phone, but they put Eddie through.
"Hate to be the bearer of bad news," he said.
"The bar ran out of liquor?"
"The bar just had an order from room service," Eddie said. "
A bottle of booze to Room 822."
"So?"
"Room 822 is where the boss's songbird is living."
"Pamela Powers?"
"Yeah," Eddie said. "Looks like she might celebrate in advance."
"Brother!" I said. "Thanks, Eddie."
I got through to Chambrun and heard him explode.
"Meet me on the eighth floor," he said.
Chambrun's peremptory knock on the door of Room 822 brought no immediate result. He tried again, calling out, "Miss Powers!"
A man's voice answered, asking us to wait a moment. It was a long moment, and then the door opened, and Duke Adler faced us. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth.
The hall lights glittered against the dark lenses of his glasses.
"May I come in?" Chambrun asked, and went in like an aggressive fullback wedging his way off tackle.
Pamela, wearing a filmy sort of peignoir almost the color of her violet eyes, was sitting in an armchair beside the center table. Room 822 consists of a small sitting room and a bedroom. Her hands gripped the arms of the chair so tightly that they were corpse-white. Beside her on the table was a half-empty bottle of liquor and one glass. Chambrun looked at the bottle and then at Pam.
"I'm disappointed," he said in a quiet, cold voice.
Pamela opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
Duke Adler, behind us, laughed. "You got it wrong, Dad," he said. "It's me, not Pam. I always operate half crocked. You knew that, didn't you?"
I remember thinking he was a little tight during the lighting rehearsal. But it hadn't seemed to affect his fingers on the keyboard.
Chambrun's cold black eyes remained riveted on Pamela. "Have you been drinking?" he asked.
She shook her head. Then, suddenly, she was on her feet, her hands gripping Chambrun's shoulders. "Please, Mr. Chambrun, I can't go through with it! I can't! I'd rather die than let you down—but I'd rather die than fail."
"Come off it, baby," Duke said. "Opening-night nerves. You'll be great."
She broke into sobs, then lowered her head to Chambrun's shoulder. "Oh, please—God! Don't make me do it."
Murder round the clock : Pierre Chambrun's crime file Page 10