Hoch's Ladies

by Edward D. Hoch

  to separate rooms. Sometimes one of the members would request a favorite girl.”

  “That’s what happened last night?”

  Yolanda nodded. “Cargo rang my beeper and when I called back he said I’d been requested by one of the Peacocks. I told him no, that I wasn’t doing it anymore. He said I’d be sorry, that he’d cut my face. I didn’t believe him then.”

  “Was Jonathan Ellis one of the Peacocks?”

  “I never knew any of their names.”

  “His picture was in the afternoon papers.”

  “I told you we didn’t see their faces.”

  “Not even by accident?”

  “Sometimes, sure. But I didn’t know him.”

  “He was the one who was stabbed at the hotel. Cargo might have killed him and then come after you.”

  She shook her head. “Cargo would never kill a cash customer.”

  “But he’ll probably come after you again.”

  Yolanda opened her purse to show Susan a silver-plated .25 caliber automatic. It had a pink pearl handle. “I’ll be carrying this with me now. I call it my ladygun.”

  They both tensed at the sound of footsteps on the stairs to the upper floor. “Police,” Susan guessed. “Is there a back way out of here?”

  “This way.”

  At the door Susan paused. “Will you be singing tonight?” Yolanda gave her a smile. “If I’m alive.”

  When Susan returned to her hotel she was surprised to find Abidine Tekin waiting for her. “What are you doing here, Abidine? How did you find me?” She seemed to be echoing Yolanda’s words to her.

  “The people at Marks & Spencer knew where you were staying. When you postponed your appointment I thought you might be ill.”

  “No, I’m fine. I just had some business to tend to.”

  “There was a murder at the hotel where we dined last night.” Susan nodded. “I read about it.”

  “It seems to be causing quite a scandal.” He glanced at his watch. “Are you free for dinner tonight?”

  “I—” She really didn’t want to become involved with this Turkish gentleman who no doubt collected women on every business trip. Still, she could take care of herself. And she wanted to make certain Yolanda could too. “You know, this sounds crazy with all the restaurants in the city, but I wouldn’t mind going back to the top of the Princess of Wales again. The food was fine, the music was pleasant, and I’d like to really enjoy it without the pressure of a business dinner.”

  “I agree completely. Shall we make it eight o’clock?”

  “That would be fine.”

  “I’ll pick you up here.” He took her hand in both of his and gave her a smile.

  Upstairs in her room, Susan wondered why she had agreed so readily. But she knew the answer. She wanted to see Yolanda again, to make certain she was safe from Cargo, and the Princess of Wales was not the sort of place where one dined alone. She could endure another evening with Abidine, who was, after all, a pleasant enough companion.

  The phone rang and she answered it at once, resigned to another call from Inspector Cheever. Instead she heard an unfamiliar Cockney voice ask, “Is this Susan Holt?”

  “It is.”

  “Name’s George Cox. I write for the Daily Telegraph. Could you spare me just a few minutes of your time?”

  “What’s this about?” she asked cautiously. “The death of Jonathan Ellis.”

  “I know nothing about that.”

  “All I ask is five minutes. I’m in the lounge.”

  “It’s a waste of your time, but I’ll come down.”

  Her curiosity had the better of her. What did the reporter want, and how had he managed to link her to the Ellis killing? She took the elevator to the lobby, peering into the lounge at the only man seated alone. He was short and bald, and looked reasonably respectable.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Cox. What can I do for you?”

  He jumped to his feet, perhaps surprised at how quickly she’d appeared. “I don’t want to take much of your time. I believe Inspector Cheever questioned you earlier today.”

  “You make it sound as if I’m a suspect,” she answered with a smile, sitting down on the sofa next to him. “I was having dinner at the hotel’s roof restaurant last evening, and I assure you all of my time is accounted for.”

  “Certainly you’re not a suspect, Miss Holt. In fact, my queries to New York indicate you’ve been helpful to the police on previous occasions. Perhaps Cheever consulted you for some advice.”

  She had to laugh at the suggestion. “No, as a matter of fact I called him. I had a bit of information I thought might be useful,”

  “What information was that?”

  “You’ll have to ask the inspector,”

  George Cox smiled, trying to seem friendly. “This story is getting bigger by the hour. This morning I received a sealed envelope from Jonathan Ellis, mailed by his solicitor as soon as the news of his murder broke.” He passed her a note handwritten in purple ink and signed with Ellis’s name: “If anything happens to me, this will be the reason.”

  “What was enclosed?” Susan asked.

  “He belonged to a group called the Peacock Parliament. They engaged in sexual activities with highly paid prostitutes. Apparently Jonathan Ellis was attempting to blackmail other members of the group. Along with this note was an extortion demand he’d apparently faxed to certain members of the House of Commons and their aides.”

  “A good motive for murder.”

  “Ellis wore a hearing aid behind his left ear. I understand the police found a feather caught on it when they examined the body.”

  “Don’t tell me. It was a peacock feather.”

  “Smart girl! Now you tell me what you know.”

  “Very little. Certainly nothing about the Peacock Parliament. The sex in my country is a bit more straightforward than that.”

  “Did you ever meet or speak with Jonathan Ellis?”

  “Certainly not! Now I believe your five minutes are up.” She stood and held out her hand.

  Cox took it with a smile. “They’ll be after you. The press won’t let this rest. You’ll be sorry you weren’t more forthcoming with me.”

  “I’ll phone you if I am.”

  The smile widened. Perhaps he believed her. “Here’s my card. I have voice mail if I’m away from my desk.”

  Susan went back upstairs to shower and change, pleased that she’d learned more from Cox than he had from her.

  “Are Turkish men always this prompt?” she asked as Abidine Tekin ushered her out the hotel’s Park Lane entrance.

  He smiled. “We are when a charming young woman awaits us. It’s such a lovely night I thought we might stroll down to the hotel rather than take a taxi, if that’s agreeable with you.”

  “Certainly. Tell me about your day at Marks & Spencer.”

  By the time they reached the hotel he had her completely at ease with his funny stories of the afternoon’s activities. They took the elevator to the top floor and found a window table awaiting them. “At least it’s a different view tonight,” he remarked.

  “You must be bored with this place,” Susan said, aware that Yolanda was on the bandstand with her group, launching into the refrain from a Gershwin standard. The sight of her, alive and well, was reassuring.

  “Not at all. I have only begun to sample their menu, and the music is pleasant. I enjoy your American tunes.”

  They’d had a drink and studied the menu by the time the band took its nine o’clock break. Yolanda, wearing a slinky green gown that reached to her ankles, walked off the stage without a glance in Susan’s direction. The room was crowded and perhaps she didn’t notice them at the window table.

  Susan ordered Dover sole while her Turkish friend chose a steak. Their conversation was pleasant and the wine was good. She was thoroughly enjoying herself, even as the business with masked men and dead bodies and knife attacks continued to churn around at the back of her mind. They ate leisurely and were just
finishing when the band returned from its ten o’clock break. Yolanda had changed into a red cocktail dress that showed off her legs. She sang some Duke Ellington jazz numbers from the forties and then settled down to a more danceable tempo. “Would you like to dance?” Abidine asked. Susan smiled, emboldened by the wine. “Sure.” This time Yolanda saw her and smiled as they danced in front of the band. As they returned to their table she thought she saw the reporter, Cox, speaking with the head waiter near the entrance. She wondered if he’d come to spy on her, and realized she was becoming more deeply involved in the scandal.

  “What are you thinking?” Abidine asked.

  “That I’ve been here two days and haven’t accomplished a great deal for Mayfield’s.”

  He laughed. “You’re spreading good will. What more could they want?”

  She glanced toward the headwaiter’s station again. He and Cox were both gone, but standing in the entrance, staring fixedly at Yolanda, was Cargo. Susan shivered involuntarily and Abidine asked what was wrong.

  “Someone walking on my grave, I guess. Isn’t that what they say?” When she looked again Cargo was gone, but she knew it had been him. She still remembered her first sight of him, his knife raised above Yolanda’s head.

  She remembered it—

  “Excuse me for a moment,” she told Abidine. I’ll be back.”

  She hurried toward the ladies’ room near the elevators, keeping an eye out for Cargo, but now there was no sign of him. When she emerged a few moments later a couple of women were just getting off the elevator. She had started toward the dining room when suddenly the elevator doors on her left slid open and there was Cargo.

  They stared at each other in surprise for just a moment. Susan opened her mouth to speak, but the short man was faster. His hand fastened on her like a claw and he yanked her into the elevator. She had time for the beginning of a scream and then his hand clamped onto her mouth. The doors slid shut just as one of the women outside, seeing what was happening, shouted for help.

  Cargo’s hands were all over her, pinning her to the wall, tightening on her throat. She gasped for breath and flailed out, hitting the red emergency button as the elevator began its descent. Somewhere a bell began to ring and the elevator stopped, but by now he had both hands on her throat. As his grip tightened she saw spots before her eyes. The emergency bell was still ringing and she thought she heard voices from the other side of the door.

  Then, as consciousness was about to leave her, the doors slid open and there was Yolanda holding the ladygun at her side and she raised it and put a bullet through the back of Cargo’s head.

  “Now we’re even,” she told Susan.

  Somehow Inspector Cheever was there even before Susan had fully recovered herself. They’d taken her to a couch in the ladies’ room, and when she finally got to her feet and inspected her bruised throat and torn dress in the mirror, she knew she wanted to see Yolanda. In the corridor a folding screen had been put up to shield the death scene from diners. Police technicians were at work and Susan suspected Cargo’s body was still on the floor of the elevator car.

  She found Yolanda with Cheever and a police stenographer in the restaurant manager’s office. The singer smiled at Susan and said, “I’m just telling them how you saved my life last night.”

  “You more than made up for it just now.”

  “I’d seen Cargo lurking around out there, and then when you went out and I heard the screams I grabbed my purse and came off the bandstand. When they got that door open and I saw him strangling you I just shot him.” The little pearl-handled pistol lay on the desk between the inspector and her.

  Susan sat down in the only empty chair. “It’s not every day I’m almost strangled. I’m still trying to recover.”

  Cheever smiled gently but resumed his questioning of Yolanda. “You say you never knew Cargo’s real name?”

  She shook her head. “He was just Cargo. I—I worked for him once.”

  “As a call girl?”

  She moistened her lips before replying. “Yes. That was why he tried to cut my face last night, because I disobeyed him.”

  He turned his attention to Susan Holt. “I’d like to hear your version of how you saved Miss Delgado’s life.”

  Susan described what had happened, including the part about the overheard phone call. She could see Cheever was annoyed that she hadn’t told the whole story earlier. When she’d finished, Yolanda added, “He’d paged me while I was singing and when I called him back he wanted me to go to a hotel room. He didn’t say where, but it was probably the one where Ellis was killed later. I wouldn’t do it; that’s why he attacked me as I was leaving.” Susan stared at her. She felt a real fondness for the young woman, but she knew that the truth had to come out now. “Yolanda, Cargo didn’t attack you because you disobeyed him. He wanted you dead because you obeyed him

  completely.”

  “What?” she asked, almost in a daze. “You killed Jonathan Ellis.”

  The blood drained from Yolanda’s face. “That’s impossible. I was on the bandstand singing at eleven-thirty. It was our final set.”

  “You killed him during the eleven o’clock break, then set his watch ahead twenty minutes before smashing it. Killers have been using that trick for a long time.”

  “Why would Cargo have wanted him dead?” Cheever asked.

  “As you know, Ellis had faxed blackmail demands to several MPs and their aides, threatening to tell the press about the Peacock Parliament. Cargo and the people who paid him decided that Ellis had to die. When Ellis called for a girl last night, Cargo saw his chance. Yolanda was singing upstairs at the same hotel. He paged her and when she phoned him during her break he told her what she had to do. She refused at first—that was the part I overheard—but he finally convinced her, probably with more money. Maybe she’d done things like that before. Anyway, after she’d done it he tried to kill her, to shut her up. It often happens in America that hit men are silenced by the people who hired them.”

  “How do you know he was trying to kill her? She claims he wanted to scar her for disobeying him.”

  “I saw that knife, Inspector. Cargo had it upraised in his right hand, bringing it down toward her body. It wasn’t a cutting motion but a stabbing one. He was trying to kill her, to silence her.”

  “There’s nothing to link her with Ellis’s murder.”

  “But there is! A reporter told me the police found a peacock feather behind his ear, caught on his hearing aid. These men wore peacock masks during their sex games to conceal their identities. That feather shows he was wearing his mask at the time of his death or just before it. He would have worn the mask for only one reason—not to hide his face from Cargo or any of the other men but only to hide it from one of the women. A woman was with him when he died, and probably yanked the mask from his face afterward to hide that very fact.”

  “The woman might have let Cargo into the room to do the actual killing,” Cheever suggested.

  Susan shook her head. “Cargo was right-handed. I saw that last night when he had his knife. You told me the killer was left-handed.”

  The inspector turned toward Yolanda. “Are you left-handed?”

  Susan already knew the answer. “This morning in my hotel room I was looking in the mirror and saw her jot down my name and room number on a slip of paper, to send me flowers later. She seemed to be using her right hand in the mirror, which means it was really her left. And there’s more. That slip of paper was from a Princess of Wales notepad, the sort hotels keep next to their room phones. It also had the notation Y 11, written in purple ink like Ellis used to write that reporter. I think it indicated Yolanda at eleven, the time Cargo said she’d visit Ellis’s room.”

  “That doesn’t prove she went there, though.”

  “Then how did the note get into her purse? She took it with her after she killed him, because it would have implicated her.”

  Yolanda sat frozen to the spot. Cheever casually moved the little
pistol out of her reach and asked, “Is there anything else?”

  “Yes. Are we to believe that a singer in a fancy dining room like this would wear a beeper strapped to her thigh just so she wouldn’t miss a casual phone call? If she needed a beeper that urgently she was either dealing drugs or still working as a call girl. The only thing she briefly resisted was Cargo’s hiring her for a killing, and he overcame that quickly enough. I can tell you too that last evening she changed her gown just before the last set. Tonight she changed earlier. I think she waited till after the murder to change, in case she got blood on her dress.”

  Yolanda scoffed at that. “I had a fifteen-minute break. Is that time enough to take an elevator down to the ninth floor, stab Ellis, come back up here, and change my gown?”

  Inspector Ellis blinked his eyes and asked, very quietly, “How did you know it was on the ninth floor? None of the press accounts gave the room number and you said Cargo didn’t give it to you.”

  “I—one of the waiters told me.”

  “Which one, Miss Delgado?”

  The spirit seemed to go out of her then. “What do you want me to say?” she whispered.

  “You have the right to remain silent, and to have your lawyer present.”

  “Never mind that,” she said with a wave of her hand.

  “Then tell us what you did with the knife.”

  Her eyes were dull and unfeeling as she answered. “It was a steak knife I took from the kitchen. I dropped it through that little space between the elevator floor and the hallway. I suppose it’s at the bottom of the shaft.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to accompany us, Miss Delgado.”

  “Can I tell my band I won’t be back?”

  “We’ll tell them.”