Let me say I was puzzled. To be perfectly frank, I am not someone Chambrun would normally pick for a bodyguard. I am a pleasant, not unattractive youngish man of thirty-five. I have a seven handicap at golf; I am a better than average bridge player; I have good manners; and twice a year I determine to do something about physical fitness—a resolution I give up twice a year after very short periods of time. Jerry Dodd and his men were the bodyguard types. It was obvious I was simply to provide the customary Beaumont courtesy.
The trip to the UN was uneventful. The Walbrucks were taken downstairs in a service elevator to the kitchen and out a side door where a limousine was waiting. I rode in front with the chauffeur. At the UN building we were greeted by a distinguished multination committee that conducted the doctor to the great hall where the General Assembly meets. Dr.
Walbruck was introduced to an attentive audience by the president of the Assembly and took his place at the speaker's rostrum. The delegates waited, many of them wearing earphones, so that they could follow the translators' words.
Dr. Walbruck put a sheaf of papers on the rostrum. Before this august body one does not ordinarily speak extemporaneously. One's words are history. But I don't think Dr. Walbruck referred to his written speech more than twice in the next half hour. I won't attempt to quote from the speech—it is a matter of public record, if you are interested. I can only say that this tired old man had a magic with words that I've never heard matched—except by Winston Churchill in his prime. He made a stirring plea for human life, for peace, for the great powers to direct their energies not against each other but against poverty, famine, and disease. He made an impassioned plea for help from governments and from private individuals. When he had finished, he was given a long, enthusiastic standing ovation.
In the outer hallways people crowded around Walbruck to shake his hand, to touch his sleeve. I heard a distinguished gentleman I knew to be the head of one of the great foundations tell the doctor that one million dollars would be placed to his account in his personal bank the very next day.
At last we reached the waiting limousine and pulled away from the UN. The old man sat with his head back against the rear seat, his eyes closed. He was exhausted.
"You were magnificent, sir," I said.
He didn't speak or move.
As we approached the side door to the Beaumont, I saw that something was wrong. The sidewalk was crowded with press photographers and reporters, many of whom I knew. Somehow the word had gotten out.
"I cannot subject him to that!" Mrs. Walbruck said in a shrill voice.
I ordered the chauffeur to drive straight past and around to the front entrance on Fifth Avenue. Things seemed quiet there.
"Let me have a look in the lobby first," I said.
I went across the sidewalk to the revolving door and then into the lobby. I was surprised to find Chambrun standing just inside the entrance and behind him another army of photographers and reporters, including a red-eyed television camera.
"Not interested in facing the cameras?" Chambrun asked, in a strange, hard voice.
"They were promised no cameras," I said. I didn't understand Chambrun's odd question.
"Perhaps I can persuade them," Chambrun said.
We went out and across the sidewalk to the limousine. Chambrun opened the door and got into the rear with the Walbrucks.
"I regret to say there seems to have been a leak," he said. "All the communications media are here."
"Conrad was promised!" Mrs. Walbruck said.
"Perhaps we can get him past them without their knowing who he is," Chambrun said.
"What nonsense!" Mrs. Walbruck exclaimed. "They all know him by sight."
' "But not without his beard, wouldn't you say, Mrs. Walbruck?"
Chambrun didn't wait for an answer. I couldn't believe what I saw. He reached out, grabbed the white beard in his hand, and gave it a strong yank.
It came off!
"Now, madam, perhaps you wouldn't mind answering a question," Chambrun said, in his hanging-judge's voice. "Where is Dr. Walbruck?"
Chambrun sat behind the flat-topped desk in his office, sipping a cup of Turkish coffee, a Cheshire-cat smile on his lips. The rooftop fiddler in the original Chagall painting on the opposite wall seemed to be chuckling with delight. I was there, along with Jerry Dodd and Miss Ruysdale. The police
had already taken Mrs. Walbruck and her unexpectedly beardless companion into custody.
"Ours is a business of detail," Chambrun said, lighting one of his flat Egyptian cigarettes. "When something goes wrong, it's a matter of routine with me to check every small detail, hoping for answers. I sent you with them to the UN, Mark, just to be sure the doctor didn't vanish into thin air while I checked."
He leaned forward and pushed a slip of paper to within my reach. I looked at it, with Jerry and Miss Ruysdale peering over my shoulder. It was a penciled list:
Toothpaste
Aspirin
Spirit Gum
Sleeping pill prescription
Kleenex
Medium toothbrush
Shaving cream
"That," Chambrun said, "is the list of things Mrs. Walbruck bought at the drugstore this morning. Interesting? Who has to use the shaving cream? The bearded Dr. Walbruck? It occurred to me, Ruysdale, that women do sometimes use razors—to shave their legs. It was possible the shaving cream was for the lady. Just possible."
"But the spirit gum!" Jerry Dodd said.
"Precisely," Chambrun said. "Spirit gum is a substance that actors use to fasten on false hair—beards, mustaches, sideburns. A small detail—but revealing. And so—and so—" Chambrun sighed and sipped his coffee.
"The Mosely girl inadvertently saw the man without his beard," Jerry said.
"I think not," Chambrun said. "Mrs. Walbruck met the girl in the lobby. She couldn't turn her away. If she did, it might arouse suspicion. The man posing as Dr. Walbruck—who, incidentally, turns out to be Mrs. Walbruck's brother—would not come out of the bedroom if there was anyone with Mrs. Walbruck. But something went wrong. The rooms, as you know, are soundproofed. Mrs. Walbruck let herself and the Mosely girl in with a key. No sound of the doorbell. So the imposter wasn't aware there was anyone with his sister. He appeared—not with his beard, Jerry, but as he told us a few minutes ago, with half of it on!"
"Sweet Sue," Jerry said. "He sure couldn't talk his way out of that!"
"So he took off that half of the beard, then escorted Miss Mosely down the hall with a gun in her ribs—you remember Mrs. Kniffin said they were walking close together, and the girl wasn't laughing anymore? She wasn't laughing because she was on her way to an open window and her death."
"But the speech!" I said. "I heard it. No stand-in could have made that speech."
"A stand-in could make the speech if the real Dr. Walbruck had written it," Chambrun said. He smiled. "I would like to continue to dazzle you by saying I knew the answer. I didn't. The police got it from Gretchen Walbruck. The good doctor died the day before they were to take off for this country. His speech was already written. He was prepared to make the great effort—the spirit was willing but the flesh was weak. He, quite simply, had died in his sleep."
"But why the fraud?" Miss Ruysdale asked. "They wanted the work to go on? Was that it?"
"My dear Ruysdale, you are the supreme sentimentalist," Chambrun said. "Dr. Walbruck was a saint. He was one of the few men in the world to whom hardheaded businessmen would give millions of dollars without comptrollers and accountants and committees to supervise its spending. Just over the rainbow there were millions of dollars to be had by Mrs. Walbruck and her brother, if they could carry out the fake for a very few days." Chambun put out his cigarette in the silver ashtray on his desk. "Well, my friends," he said briskly, "we have a hotel to run."
Walston Conyers had an old-world elegance. He looked as if he might be going to a formal function of some sort, even though it was early in the morning on an ordinary Saturday at the Hotel
Beaumont. A great many United Nations diplomats make the Beaumont their home away from home. Many of them, particularly from new and underdeveloped nations, lean toward formal attire. Most of them look awkward and uncomfortable in black coat, striped trousers, and ascot tie. Except for a tiny black pearl tiepin in his ascot, Walston Con-yers's clothes looked seedy and too long used; but he moved in them like—well, I find myself wanting to say, like a great gentleman.
There had to be a kind of magic about him. I am the public relations director for the Beaumont. The first item on my daily agenda is to go to the second-floor office of my boss, Pierre Chambrun, the Beaumont's resident manager. I report to the outer office at exactly nine-twenty and say good morning to the extraordinary Mr. Chambrun's extraordinary secretary, Miss Ruysdale. At exactly nine-twenty-two, as though it were the time mechanism of a bank vault, I am ushered into the Presence. At that precise moment Chambrun will be pouring his second cup of American coffee after a hearty breakfast of steak or chops or Dover sole or broiled lamb kidneys. He will be lighting his first Egyptian cigarette of the day, and on the sideboard the Turkish coffee machine will be making muttering noises. Chambrun will drink Turkish the rest of the day.
My first look at Chambrun each morning gives me an inkling of what the day will be like. There can be a cheerful "Good morning, Haskell," which means there is nothing out of the ordinary afoot. There can be a "Good morning, Mark," which means God is in his Heaven and all that. There can be no greeting at all, and the bright black eyes in their deep pouches can have the baleful look of a hanging judge—which means something has gone wrong with the Beaumont's Swiss-watch efficiency and there is going to be hell to pay.
"Good morning, Mark," Chambrun said. "Try the Dover sole for your lunch today, my boy. Fresney has outdone himself this morning." He nodded toward his breakfast tray. I would somehow get word to Monsieur Fresney, the Beaumont's master chef, that the Great Man was pleased. It would make the chefs day.
The business was routine. We went over the list of newly registered guests. There was a Hollywood actress who needed red-carpet treatment and a few press releases. There was a member of the staff of Britain's new Prime Minister who should get special attention. Then there was to be a wedding reception in the main ballroom that afternoon for the daughter of an outrageously wealthy deodorant manufacturer.
The routine was broken by the unexpected appearance of Miss Ruysdale. She never interrupted this moment except in an emergency.
"Yes, Ruysdale?" Chambrun's voice sounded sharp, but it was surprise, not irritation. Miss Ruysdale is hard to describe. Chambrun has many requirements in a personal secretary. She must never dream of regular working hours. She must be chic but not disturbingly so. Chambrun doesn't want the male members of his staff mooning over some "doll" in his outer office. She must eternally anticipate his needs.
Miss Ruysdale manages to meet all these requirements.
Her manner with the staff is friendly, but she draws a line over which no one dares to step. She is clearly all woman, but if she belongs to any man it is the best kept secret of the year. God forbid I should pass on the gossip that her man may be Pierre Chambrun himself. He neuters her by calling her "Ruysdale"—never Miss Ruysdale or Betsy. But Chambrun, among other things, is a talented actor.
The most unusual thing about Miss Ruysdale's entrance this morning was that she looked sheepish—as if she were a little girl who had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
"Well, Ruysdale?"
"There is a Mr. Walston Conyers in the outer office to see you," Ruysdale said.
"Conyers? Conyers?" Chambrun's fingers shuffled the registration cards on his desk. He stopped halfway through the pile. "'Conyers, Walston. Rittenhouse Square, Philadelphia.' His first visit to the Beaumont. You know very well, Ruysdale, that I don't see anyone—"
"—until you have finished the morning routines. I know that very well. Mr. Conyers started to tell me his story, and I thought you had better—"
Chambrun smiled. "Tall, dark, and handsome?"
"Old, tired, and somehow very winning," Miss Ruysdale said.
This was a "Hello, Mark" morning. "It is my pleasure to humor you, Ruysdale," Chambrun said. "Show Mr. Conyers in." He watched Miss Ruysdale leave. "Well, I'll be damned," he said. "She looked positively guilty."
"Maybe Mr. Conyers sold her the Brooklyn Bridge," I said.
As I have said, there had to be a kind of magic about him. To have persuaded Miss Ruysdale to get him into the Presence, I mean. She had kept kings and presidents cooling their heels while Chambrun finished his morning routines.
I had to guess that Conyers was in his early seventies, but he moved with all the grace of a trained actor. His little bow to Chambrun, not much more than a gentle inclination of his head, was somehow the very essence of good manners. His
hair was white, but not that dead white that sometimes goes with age. It was almost electrically bright. He must have been an extraordinarily handsome young man; high cheekbones, a straight nose, a wide generous mouth, and blue, blue eyes. The eyes instantly won you. The little crows-feet at their corners had been etched there by a lifetime of good humor and gentle amusement.
"I very much appreciate your seeing me, Mr. Chambrun," he said.
"My pleasure," Chambrun said. "This is Mr. Haskell, my public relations man."
The blue eyes made me feel that meeting me was a genuine pleasure.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Conyers?" Chambrun asked.
Conyers took an envelope from the pocket of his black morning coat. He put it down on the edge of Chambrun's carved Florentine desk. "In this envelope, Mr. Chambrun, is a certified check for five thousand dollars. I have endorsed it over to the hotel."
"You want me to keep it for you?" Chambrun sounded vaguely puzzled. It wasn't enough to explain Miss Ruysdale's extraordinary behavior.
"After a fashion, Mr. Chambrun," Conyers said. "I want you to keep it for me until the money is gone."
"I don't follow you."
Conyers's smile was gentle, patient. "I have come to a kind of crossroads in my life, Mr. Chambrun. A crossroads in time too. Aside from that five thousand dollars I have only a few dollars left in the world. I have decided, while I can still enjoy it, I would like to spend some time living fully, luxuriously. I do not want to know what I am paying for my room. I do not want to know what my meals and my mild alcoholic intakes are costing me. I want to simply sign for everything and to tip extravagantly. I do not want to know in advance how long the road will be, or what is around the next corner. One morning I will find a note from you in my box to the effect that I have, as you might say, run out of gas."
"And then?" Chambrun asked.
"I shall thank you for your courtesy and take my leave," Conyers said softly.
"I see."
"You find me childish and imprudent?" the old man asked, his eyes dancing. "There has to be sometime in a man's life when he throws his hat over the moon."
"And why have you chosen the Beaumont?" Chambrun asked.
"Because it is said to represent the quintessence of good living," Conyers said.
"I hope we can live up to your expectations, Mr. Conyers."
"Then you will do this?"
"Of course." Chambrun held a lighter to one of his Egyptian cigarettes. "Mr. Haskell will see to it that you have everything you want."
"I am deeply grateful to you both," Conyers said. He gave each of us his enchanting little bow and departed.
Chambrun watched him go, his bright black eyes narrowed against the smoke from his cigarette.
"I don't like it, Mark," he said.
"I rather admire him," I said. "He's giving himself a big birthday party instead of squeezing out what he has left, drop by drop."
"And after the party?" Chambrun didn't wait for an answer. "I don't like suicides in my hotel. Let all his tabs and his daily account come to me. I'll decide how long his road will be."
You may think that five thousan
d dollars would give Wal-ston Conyers quite an extended birthday party. How well do you know the economics of a luxury hotel like the Beaumont? Just to start with, his small room and bath would set him back sixty dollars a day. Meals, tips, and a few drinks or some wine would set him back another sixty dollars. If he patronized any of the hotel's special offerings, like the Blue Lagoon Boom, which is a very stylish nightclub, that would add considerably to his expenses. If he found friends and paid for part of their entertainment, that would take another big bite out of his capital. Would you guess one month? Three weeks? Even less?
During my rounds that day I passed the word about Con-yers to Mr. Del Greco, who presides over the Trapeze Bar, and to Mr. Cardoza, the maitre d' in the Blue Lagoon Room. They were to look out for Mr. Conyers and extend themselves a little extra for him. He might as well have a ball while he was at it.
I didn't actually see Conyers until late in the afternoon, at the crowded cocktail time in the Trapeze Bar. I spotted him at a corner table, sipping a vermouth on the rocks. His face seemed to be set in that bland half-amused smile that I had found so engaging when I first met him.
"He insisted on a table facing the door," Mr. Del Greco told me. "I thought he must be waiting for someone he knows."
"He didn't mention any friends," I said. "I wish there was someone I could steer his way—just so he'd have someone to talk to."
I went over to the table, and he gave me his graceful little nod. "Good evening, Haskell," he said.
"Good evening, sir. Everything all right?"
"Perfection," he said. "This is a really joyful room, isn't it? I suspect most of the high and the mighty pass this way at one time or another."
"You're looking for someone you know, sir?"
"Oh, I don't know anyone in New York. It would be a real coincidence if I should see anyone I know" His blue eyes twinkled. "This kind of plush place is not my usual habitat."
"Let me know if there is anything I can do for you."
"I will, Haskell. I will indeed."
Murder round the clock : Pierre Chambrun's crime file Page 19