Murder round the clock : Pierre Chambrun's crime file

by Pentecost, Hugh, 1903-

  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.

  At that point Sally Bevans returned from the phones in the foyer. "I'm sorry," she said. "The words are 'urgent,' 'immediate,' 'pronto."

  His pale eyes looked her up and down, as though he could see through the chic beige dress. "What a pity," he said. "You could provide the one sure way to revive me, my dear." He stood up abruptly, and I just managed to stop his chair from toppling over. "Do you think I might avail myself of your steamroom and shower baths up at the squash courts?" he asked me.

  "Be my guest."

  "Thanks." He laughed. "Remember, the Mafia is all-powerful, Haskell." He walked away, stiff-legged, a little uncertain.

  "Can I buy you that martini now?" I asked Sally.

  She sat down beside me. "I always feel I'm being manhandled when he just looks at me," she said.

  I signaled the waiter. Something told me I ought to stop playing detective, but Richter, drunk as he was, had suggested something not out of the realm of possibility. I wondered if this cool chick beside me could be sitting on the truth about a murder. I wanted to call Gillian to ask her if she was

  quite sure it was Frank who had talked to her on the phone, but I also thought I might not have another chance to catch Sally Bevans off guard.

  "Richter isn't very friendly to your boss," I said.

  "Karl is a Grade A louse," she said. "He is also a Grade A director. This business is full of talented louses—or is it lice?"

  I gave the waiter the order for two very dry martinis on the rocks.

  "Richter keeps trying to point us toward your boss and his friends," I said.

  She looked at me, frowning. "It's absurd, you know. We all have alibis for both times—the time Frank was killed and this afternoon when Norman was attacked. You know that, Mark."

  "Richter thinks we may not be asking about the right times," I said.

  "What other times are there?" she asked. She didn't seem remotely disturbed. The waiter brought our martinis, and we clicked glasses and sipped.

  "Mind if I ask you a question?" I said.

  "Ask away," she said.

  "When you all went down to dinner last night, Hansbury was in Saville's suite?"

  "You want me to be very precise, don't you, Mark?"

  "Yes, I do."

  "I went downstairs ahead of Bob and the others—to make sure about the table reservation in the Grill Room. Frank was there when I left, arguing with Bob and George and Paul Drott."

  "How much later did they come down to the Grill Room?"

  "Oh, fifteen minutes," she said without hesitation. Then her clear gray eyes contracted. "Are you suggesting that something happened to Frank during that time?"

  "Richter suggests it."

  "That worm," she said.

  "He calls your outfit the Mafia."

  "I know." She sipped her drink. "You halfway buy it, don't you."

  "When you're trying to put a puzzle together, and there's no glimmer of light—" I shrugged.

  "From what I've seen of you, Mark, I write you down as a very nice guy," she said. "The way you've stood by Norman."

  "Thank you, ma'am."

  "And you're not simpleminded, Mark. You couldn't be and hold your job with Chambrun, who's certainly not simple-minded. You know something about the importance of public relations and publicity. That's your job. Nobody who isn't in the business can quite understand what the wrong kind of publicity can do to a man in Bob Saville's position. Or how important good publicity is to him and everybody connected with him."

  "He's the golden egg layer for a lot of people," I said.

  "He is that," she said.

  "He plays it pretty dangerously," I said, "carting Miss Sheri South worth around the country with him."

  Her lips compressed. "Richter has been talking to you," she said.

  "Well, she is a little risky, isn't she?"

  Sally sat very still, turning her cocktail glass round and round in her fingers.

  "I understand the kind of special love affair that girls have with the boss," I said, "even though it isn't for real. But let's face it. Saville's practicing a kind of brinksmanship, wouldn't you say? When something serious, like Frank Hansbury's murder, comes on the scene he's got to think of covering up so much else."

  "I suppose you could say that I love Bob Saville," she said. "I've been with him for nine years—first as a script girl and then as his personal secretary. I know all the good things about him, and all the bad things. I know all his weaknesses and strengths, all his fears, all his dreams. They total up to something, Mark. If he wasn't always in Technicolor, always in the public spotlight, he'd be just another ordinary guy with ordinary weaknesses and fears. And dreams. That's how I see him, working with him every day. Would it surprise you if I

  told you I'd cut off my right arm for him if he asked it?"

  "Knowing you, even as slightly as I do, it would," I said.

  "What did Richter tell you about Sheri?"

  "I don't think you're old enough to have it repeated," I said, grinning at her.

  "Whatever he told you, it isn't true," she said.

  "Since you don't know what he told me, how can you be sure?"

  "I know Karl," she said. "Louse is too kind a word." She glanced at her small jeweled wristwatch. "Oh, brother, I was supposed to report back on Richter's availability. Would you excuse me a moment?"

  She went off to the phones in the foyer again.

  I signaled the waiter and asked him to bring a phone to the table. I'd written down Gillian's number when I got her address out of the phone book. When the waiter brought the phone and plugged it in, I dialed Gillian. She answered at once.

  "Mark Haskell here," I said. "I have to ask you something in a hurry, Gillian. Are you sure it was Frank who called you last night asking for Norman?"

  "Of course I'm sure."

  "It's been suggested that it might have been someone imitating Frank's voice." She was silent for so long that I said, "Are you there, Gillian?"

  "Yes, I'm here. I was trying to remember what he said. He asked if Norman had got here yet. I said no. He said to tell Norman he wanted to talk to him. And then, in that snide way of his, he said, 'And have fun, baby' Yes, it was Frank."

  "Well, thanks anyway," I said. "I'll explain it to you when I see you."

&
nbsp; I saw Sally coming toward me from the foyer. So much for a faked phone call. But the question of times was still complicated. Maybe, after that, Frank had had his fatal argument with someone who had not yet gone to dinner. It could have happened that way. Sheri's testimony that she'd been alone with him could be part of the conspiracy.

  "It's a good thing I called," Sally said as she rejoined me. "Lieutenant Hardy wants you up there in Bobs suite. Shall we go?"

  I was playing cops and robbers, and I was in love with it. But I was an amateur. I was full of important suggestions for Hardy. It didn't cross my mind that if Hardy wanted me he would have found me direct, through Chambrun, who knew where I was.

  It didn't cross my mind until five minutes later when I walked into Saville's suite with Sally and saw that Hardy wasn't there.

  "I'm sorry, Mark," Sally said quietly. "I had to get you up here."

  Saville faced me, looking pale and tense. As the door closed, I was aware that the muscular George Brimsek was standing behind me. Paul Drott, the vice-president, was standing over by the windows, looking down at the East River lights. It was now dark outside.

  Sally walked over to the center table and got herself a cigarette. Saville held his lighter for her.

  "Thanks, Sally," he said, his voice low and unsteady.

  "Call me Mata Hari," she said, and turned away from him. "You've managed to make me hate myself, Bob."

  "I'm sorry," he said. He turned to me. "I'm sorry, too, that I got you here under false pretenses, Haskell."

  "No harm done," I said, trying to sound like the leading man in a soap opera. "I'll just take off."

  "Not so fast, buster," Brimsek said. He was leaning casually against the door. He pasted on his white smile. "The so-called Mafia is now running the show."

  Richter's nickname for them suddenly didn't sound so funny.

  "Sally called up from downstairs to say that Karl Richter had been filling you full of it," Saville said. He was really trying the line of apologetic charm. Brimsek's muscular bulk against the door rather negated it. I like to be free to accept or reject apologies. "We're in a very tight spot, Haskell. We can't

  allow you and your friend Chambrun to get your hotel off the hook by throwing mud at us."

  "I wasn't aware—"

  "Hotels don't thrive on the news that guests are murdered and stuffed into closets and that attempts are made to throw other guests out of windows,'' Saville said. "But if you can dump it all in our laps, nobody will remember where it happened—just that it was us. There's too much at stake to let you play games with us."

  "So I go out the window?" I asked, returning to my jaunty soap-opera role.

  "Don't be absurd," Saville said. "We are going to convince you, once and for all, of the truth."

  "Under the circumstances I might be easily convinced," I said.

  The doorbell rang. Brimsek moved away and unlocked the door. Karl Richter stood outside looking pink and well-scrubbed. The steamroom and shower had done wonders for him.

  "Ah, the delight of being wanted!" he said, sauntering into the room. Brimsek closed the door, and its lock snapped shut. Richter smiled at me. "Have you now also become a story expert, Haskell?"

  It happened so fast I had no time to make even a joking answer. Brimsek swung Richter around and hit him flush on the mouth with a pile-driving right. Blood spurted like juice out of a grapefruit. Richter landed on a small straight-backed chair that crumpled under him like matchwood. He sat on the floor, his eyes blurred, fumbling at his shattered mouth.

  "You jerk," Brimsek said, massaging his right fist gently. He had forgotten to take off his smile. There was now something obscene about it.

  "You can begin, Karl," Saville said, "by telling Haskell the truth about Sheri."

  Richter muttered something unintelligible. Brimsek reached down, caught him by the coat lapels, and dragged

  him up onto his knees. Then he hit him again, flush on the bleeding mouth. Richter screamed.

  I moved in. "All right, tough guy," I said. "That's enough."

  I didn't get as far as Brimsek. Saville moved deftly. My right arm was suddenly bent behind me in an anguishing twist lock. "You are here just to listen, Haskell," Saville said. "Go on, Karl. Tell him about Sheri.''

  Both murderous hatred and fear were reflected in Richter's pale eyes.

  "One more, Karl, just for openers?" Brimsek asked, reaching for him.

  "No!" Richter's voice was thick.

  "Then tell the man about Sheri," Brimsek said.

  Richter moved his bloody mouth. "Sheri is Saville's sister," Richter said. "The only way he can keep her out of trouble—"

  "And out of the newspapers," Brimsek interpolated.

  "—is to keep her under his thumb every minute." Richter touched his mouth. "What I told you is a rumor I've never bothered to correct—up to now."

  Brimsek yanked him up to his feet again.

  "No!" I heard Sally say.

  "Now about a conspiracy to pin a murder on Norman," Brimsek said. He hit Richter again, a vicious uppercut that seemed to come almost from the floor. Richter literally went up and through the air and fell in a crumpled heap against the wall.

  "You'll kill him, George!" Sally said.

  "Too good for him," Brimsek said. He started across the room toward Richter.

  The doorbell rang.

  "Ignore it," Brimsek said.

  He reached Richter, dragged him up to his feet, began to cross slap him—back of his hand to one side of the face, front of his hand to the other—whack, whack, whack, whack.

  The door opened. My heart did a great big thud against my ribs.

  Jerry Dodd was the first one into the room, a passkey in his hand. Chambrun, Hardy, and Norman were behind him. Jerry got to Brimsek and managed to spin him around. Rich-ter sank to the floor. Brimsek and Jerry faced each other, Jerry about half the muscleman's size. I can't tell you exactly what happened, but suddenly Brimsek went through the air in a complete somersault and landed against the wall. Jerry stood over him.

  "Don't move, big boy," Jerry said, "or I'll kick in your teeth."

  Brimsek's smile was still there. "That was real good," he said. "How did you do it?"

  "You, I suspect, are only a Brown Belt," Jerry said. "I'm a Black Belt. Take the lessons, and you'll find out. Now what the hell's going on here?"

  It poured out of me. Richter had given me a lead. There was a way to make the time schedule fit the killing of Frank Hansbury. I dished it out, chapter and verse.

  "It's an interesting theory," Chambrun said. "I thought about it without Mr. Richter's assistance. But other facts—" He turned, and for the first time I noticed that Hardy had Norman's arm in a firm grip. "You see, Norman forgot to cancel his milk delivery."

  "Milk delivery!" I figured the Great Man had lost his grip on things.

  "The time Norman had to account for was between six and a little after eight last night," Chambrun said. "He said he went to his apartment for his mail and clean clothes. I thought I'd have Jerry check it out. Norman needed that alibi. Well, there were four bottles of milk outside Norman's door and four days' collection of mail slipped under it. Norman certainly wasn't there last night."

  I looked at Norman. He was staring at the rug pattern.

  "We brought Norman here to have him confront your sister, Mr. Saville," Chambrun said.

  "My sister!" Saville said.

  "I've always known Miss Southworth was your sister," Chambrun said. "We have our own way of discovering facts about our guests. The information is on your file card. What happened last night is something like this. When you all went down to dinner and left Hansbury here, he did try to reach Norman on the phone. He called his ex-wife, because he knew Norman was headed there. But Norman hadn't arrived. He took a chance and called Norman's room. I've checked that out with the call slips at the switchboard.

  "He found Norman still there and asked him to come down the hall to this suite. Norman protested, but he came. S
heri was in her room and couldn't hear. Hansbury and Norman got into an argument. Hansbury wanted Norman to stay here till you came back. Norman was to tell you he wouldn't write another word and was withdrawing his material—the original idea of'The Masked Crusader' Norman refused. Hansbury was his agent, so Hansbury should handle it. Besides, he was already late for a date with Mrs. Hansbury.'' Chambrun turned to Norman. He was almost gentle. "Then what happened, Norman?"

  "He—he laughed at me," Norman said. "He said he'd been with Gillian a couple of nights ago. He said she wouldn't be eager for me to get there—not after the master had been with her. I—I hit him. Without thinking, I clipped him on the back of the neck. He fell down on the floor. He was dead—just like that!"

  "No plan, no murderous intent. It just happened," Chambrun said. "Then Norman panicked. He could have called Jerry, told his story, and at the worst got off with a manslaughter charge. But he panicked. He has a quick mind, Norman. He knew if Hansbury were found here, all the others were alibied. They were in the Grill Room. The trail might quickly lead to him. If he could get the body out of here—somewhere else—

  "Then he remembered Saville's wheelchair and his makeup equipment—the wig, glasses. He found them in the next

  room. He decked Hansbury out in the disguise and wheeled him out into the hall. I think he probably meant to dump Hansbury in the linen room or a cleaning closet. Right, Norman?"

  Norman nodded. "But that damned woman was out there—Mrs. Kniffin—drooling at what she thought was Sa-ville. So I had no choice. I unlocked my door and wheeled Frank in there. Then I had my bright idea." His laugh was mirthless. "If they found Frank there, it could be made to look as if somebody was trying to frame me. So I put him in the closet. I brought the chair and the makeup stuff back here. Then I hightailed it for Gillian's and stayed there.

  "This morning I hunted up Mark with my story about needing a place to work. I didn't want to be the one who found Frank's body. So I asked for things to be brought from my room, including my slippers. I knew that whoever went for the slippers in the closet would find Frank's body"