Golden Trap Read online

  The Golden Trap

  A Pierre Chambrun Mystery

  Hugh Pentecost

  A MysteriousPress.com

  Open Road Integrated Media

  Ebook

  Contents

  Part 1

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Part 2

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Part 3

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Part 1

  One

  THE BEAUMONT, NEW YORK City’s top luxury hotel, is a small world in itself. Its famous resident manager, Pierre Chambrun, will bridle slightly at the implication that it is not the top luxury hotel in the entire universe. He may be right. He also says that it is not just a hotel but a way of life. About that there can be no argument. The Beaumont, thanks to Chambrun’s personal genius, runs with the dazzling efficiency of an intricately engineered Swiss watch. It is only on those rare occasions when something upsets the smoothness of the operation that one becomes aware of the countless weights and counterbalances set up to deal with the unexpected.

  One of the things you come to learn when you’re involved with an operation like the Beaumont is that there is rarely such a thing as an isolated incident. For want of a nail a shoe was lost! For want of a shoe a horse was lost!

  You could say of that April day that it was the day a man was murdered in Suite B on the tenth floor of the Beaumont. There was a police investigation and later a murderer was trapped. An entry in a mechanical man’s diary.

  There are many other things to remember about that day in addition to the fact that a man with the unlikely name of John Smith was shot between the eyes—eyes that were wide with surprise in death. I say “the unlikely name of John Smith” because we register quite a few John Smiths over the course of a year and ninety-nine percent of them are men without imagination enough to hide their real identities behind a less obvious label. In the hotel language “a John Smith” is a man working behind an alias. You watch idly for the assignation with a glamorous female, or the sudden recognition of a Hollywood star incognito, or the secret meeting with some unexpected political figure. I might say, in passing, that on that April day there were an unusual number of “John Smiths” making use of the Beaumont’s facilities.

  It was the day when my fabulous secretary, Shelda Mason, made a dinner date with a handsome young press representative for the British delegation to the United Nations because I had come in from a cocktail date of my own, strictly business, with a smear of rouge on the white button-down collar of my Brooks Brothers shirt. Shelda will never listen to explanations even when they’re on the level. That rouge smear is a story in itself.

  It was the day when someone scrawled some unprintable four-letter words with a marker pencil on the walls of Room 1027. Mrs. Kniffen, the housekeeper, was summoned by a scandalized maid to read the blood-red words. They were so stunned or secretly delighted by the bawdry on the walls that Mrs. Kniffen was out of circulation for some forty-five minutes. The result was that no one saw the comings and goings from Suite 10B. Those comings and goings had involved at least two John Smiths.

  It was the day when an unusually lovely girl singer making her debut in the Beaumont’s Blue Lagoon nightclub, walked out on the stage, took one horrified look at the expectant audience, and ran off stage and into her dressing room where she dissolved into uncontrollable weeping.

  It was the day when Pierre Chambrun gave a man permission to die in the hotel.

  It was the day when Mr. George Lovelace arrived from Shannon, Ireland, and registered at the Beaumont for an indefinite stay, how indefinite only he could guess.

  All of these events had something to do with the murder in 10B, a fact which not even Pierre Chambrun could have guessed in advance…

  Perhaps I should begin with the personal business of the rouge on my shirt collar. About two years ago I inherited an office on the fourth floor of the hotel with my name on the door—MARK HASKELL, PUBLIC RELATIONS. For the first few weeks I congratulated myself on having a good job in a good business with one of the most glamorous and agitating girls you’ve ever seen as a secretary. Shelda Mason knew more about my job than I did in the beginning, because she’d been secretary to my predecessor. There was every excuse to wine and dine her out of hours. I had to learn all the ins and outs of my job, didn’t I?

  Then, at the end of about a month I was hit by what Shelda calls “Chambrun fever.” I began to feel possessive about the hotel. It was suddenly my town, with its own mayor, its own police force, its own public services, its cooperatively owned apartments, its facilities for transients, its nightclubs, its cafés, its restaurants, its quality shops opening off the lobby—the main street as it were—its telephone switchboards, its travel bureaus, its complex human relationships. It was my town and I felt jealous of its reputation. That is the way Chambrun feels, I now know. There are no such things as working hours and free time. The hotel had become, in a short span, my life—round the clock. I wasn’t the only one with the fever. There was Jerry Dodd, the security officer who could smell trouble before it developed—but who was deserted by his special ESP on that April day. There was Miss Ruysdale, Chambrun’s personal secretary. There were Atterbury and Karl Nevers, the reservation clerks, who could instantly spot a phony as he emerged through the revolving doors from Fifth Avenue. There were Mike Maggio and Johnny Thacker, the bell captains, and an army of bartenders and maître d’s who presided over the various special rooms, and the chief telephone operators, the housekeepers, and Mr. Amato, the banquet manager, and on and on. Chambrun could lift the telephone on his desk and get the answer to any question almost before it was out of his mouth. Of course he knew exactly whom to ask.

  I gave up my apartment and moved into the hotel to live. At the end of the official working day I found myself changing into a dinner jacket and spending the evening moving about from the various bars, through the restaurants, to the Blue Lagoon nightclub, to the private dining rooms. Shelda says I’m like Marshal Dillon, checking out Dodge City every night. There was no denying it. I had Chambrun fever.

  In the course of my job I run into a wild assortment of personalities; snobs, bores, the arrogant ones, the graceful and elegant oldtimers from another age, the new rich, the Madison Avenue smoothies, the Hollywood show-offs and the Hollywood hide-outs, politicians, statesmen, gamblers, cheats, and the new young. In the beginning I dreaded the constant pressures from people I couldn’t stand. Then, presently, I began to take pleasure in my own skill at handling the variety of people and problems. No one bored me or intimidated me any longer. Each personality became a fascinating exercise in public relations. I had Chambrun fever.

  On that April day my particular problem was Marilyn VanZandt. The VanZandt fortune was based on oil and is staggeringly large. Marilyn VanZandt had her coming-out party at the Beaumont about seventeen years ago, which places her present age in the mid-thirties. She looks older. She’s lived hard in those fifteen years. There were three marriages. The first, to the family chauffeur, was annulled after a wild chase around the country by an army of private detectives hired by papa VanZandt. The Italian prince was second, and ended when he was killed in the Swiss Alps in a motor accident. The fact that a French actress, famous for her measurements, was also in the car with the prince was carefully soft-pedaled. The third husband was a movie star, and the marriage didn’t survive the honeymoon. Rumor has it that the star, who plays tough Western heroes, was something less than all male off the set. Marilyn was showing more wear and tear from liquor, chain smoking,
and, one suspected, drugs, than she could afford if she wanted to maintain the illusion of mature glamour and irresistibleness. She was so hungry for male attention that I felt embarrassed for her and a little uneasy at being seen with her in the Trapeze Bar for a cocktail at lunchtime.

  The Trapeze Bar is suspended in space, like a birdcage, over the foyer to the Grand Ballroom. Its walls are elaborate Florentine grillwork. An artist of the Calder school has decorated it 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 gently in orbit.

  Marilyn VanZandt had resumed her maiden name after the three abortive marriages. My reason for having a drink with her was that she was chairman of a charity ball committee and the Beaumont was to be the scene of the crime, as it were. My job was to help with public relations and to see to it that Marilyn had all the services she wanted from the hotel carefully arranged for her.

  She wasn’t too eager to talk business, and she downed two double martinis so fast it made my head spin. She asked questions like was I or had I ever been married, did I have a girl, was I ever free for dinner or lunch or breakfast or any other time. I began to understand how the Italian prince had died in flight. I sipped a Dubonnet on the rocks and tried not to look as though I was ducking. In the end, after parrying a pretty direct pass, I got her to talk about her party, and in the end maneuvered my way out of trouble. They wanted to reserve two suites for the night of the ball and I said we’d have to discuss it with Mr. Atterbury at the reservation desk. I could have had a phone brought to the table but I persuaded her to come down to the lobby with me.

  At the lunch hour the lobby is busy. The revolving doors seem to turn faster, disgorging people who are all in a hurry. I always think it looks like a film, speeded up by the projectionist.

  People still turn to look at Marilyn VanZandt. What I earn a year wouldn’t keep her in clothes for three months. She walks well with her head up. It’s only when you talk to her that you know how desperate she is for something she’s never found—a man who wants her just for herself and not her oil wells.

  As we walked toward the reservation desk I saw that Atterbury was involved with a new check-in, a tall man in his late forties or early fifties with a handsome but deeply lined face, very bright blue eyes, and a straight, hard mouth. He wore a loose-fitting Burberry and a soft brown hat. He suggested casual elegance. Johnny Thacker, the day bell captain, was guarding three well-used suitcases, all pasted over with foreign travel labels. The man evidently had a reservation, and Atterbury was handing him a thick-looking business letter that had evidently arrived in advance of the guest. The man turned away from the desk, scowling at the letter which he held in a chamois-gloved hand.

  “Charles!” Marilyn cried out in a high, excited voice. She pronounced it the French way, as though it was spelled “Sharl.”

  The man looked up, startled, and then his face turned cold and blank.

  Marilyn was on him, her arms around him. “Oh, my darling Charles!” she said.

  Gently but firmly the man took her arms in his gloved hands and held her away from him. He was smiling now, a small, whimsical smile. “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake,” he said. “I am not Charles.”

  “Charles Veauclaire!” Marilyn said. “Don’t play games with me, darling!”

  “I wish I were Charles,” the man said politely.

  Marilyn looked as if he’d struck her.

  He lifted his hat, turned to Johnny Thacker, and they headed for the elevator. Marilyn watched him go. She was in a state of shock. Then she turned to me and I saw that her eyes were brimming with tears.

  “Why did he do that to me?” she asked, her voice shaking.

  Then she threw her arms around me and buried her face on my shoulder, her whole body shaken with sobs. That was when I got the smear of lipstick on my shirt collar…

  Johnny Thacker conducted the tall man to Suite B on the tenth floor. The man’s name as he had signed it on the register was George Lovelace. The letter which Atterbury had delivered to him was addressed:

  MR. GEORGE LOVELACE

  HOTEL BEAUMONT

  By Hand

  The handwriting was bold, enlarged by the use of a black marker pencil. Lovelace still hadn’t opened it. There are no two suites in the Beaumont decorated alike. Suite B consists of a sitting room, bedroom, and a small pantry-kitchenette. There is a brick fireplace in the oak-paneled living room, and casement windows looking out over the East River. The room is furnished for male tastes; the furniture is solid comfortable American Colonial. The two paintings on the walls belong to the early Hudson River school and are not reproductions.

  Johnny Thacker came back from the bedroom where he had deposited the bags. He was tipped well but not flamboyantly. You can tell from tips whether the tipper is used to the Beaumont atmosphere, is a show-off, or someone uncertain of what is expected of him. Mr. George Lovelace seemed completely certain of himself.

  The moment the hall door closed on Johnny Thacker the tall man put his letter down on the foyer table and began, slowly and methodically, to pull off his chamois gloves and stuff them in the pocket of the Burberry. Then he slipped out of the coat and hung it along with his soft brown hat in the foyer closet. Through all of this he seemed never to take his eyes off the envelope, almost as if it had a sort of hypnotic hold on him. He closed the closet door and took the one step back to the foyer table. He stood, scowling down at the envelope, long sensitive fingers producing a cigarette and a silver lighter from the pockets of his brown tweed jacket. At last, as though he had prolonged an anticipated pleasure or a dreaded pain as long as he could, he picked up the envelope and ripped it open. The cigarette hung from a corner of his mouth; his eyes were squinted against the curl of blue smoke.

  Inside the envelope was an envelope. It was addressed to Michael O’Hanlon.

  Lovelace’s fingers were quite steady as he opened the second envelope. Inside it was another, slightly smaller envelope addressed to Gregor Bodanzky. Inside that was another addressed to Karl Kessler, and inside that another to Charles Veauclaire, and inside that, one addressed to John Smith. This final one was small, like the envelope for a visiting card.

  An ash fell off the cigarette, unnoticed, and dribbled down the front of Lovelace’s jacket. The slim fingers moved slowly but quite steadily as he opened this last envelope. There was a plain card inside with a message written on it in small, very precise script.

  One of you—Lovelace, or O’Hanlon, or Bodanzky, or Kessler, or Veauclaire, or Smith—is much closer to the final pay-off than even you can measure.

  The man who had registered as George Lovelace looked down at the little collection of envelopes on the table top. He drew cigarette smoke deep down into his lungs and exhaled it in a long sigh. The little droop of his broad shoulders suggested a bone-deep fatigue. He picked up the envelopes, made a little packet of them, and slipped them into his pocket. Then he crossed the room to the telephone on the desk.

  “Please connect me with Mr. Pierre Chambrun,” he said.

  A courteous but impersonal woman’s voice answered the ring. “Mr. Chambrun’s office, Miss Ruysdale speaking.”

  “Is Mr. Chambrun there?”

  “I’m his private secretary,” Miss Ruysdale said. “Can I help you?”

  “My name is George Lovelace. It is a personal and rather urgent matter.”

  “Just a moment, please—”

  There was a dead silence and then a brisk and cordial voice came through to Lovelace. “My dear George! I hadn’t expected you till later in the day.”

  “How are you, Pierre?”

  “Come down here and see for yourself,” Chambrun said. “How about a drink—say five this afternoon?”

  Lovelace’s hand tightened on the telephone receiver. “It’s rather important that I see you now. I’m in rather a hell of a lot of trouble, Pierre.”

  “Second floor.
Turn left as you get off the elevator. My office suite is at the end of the hall.” There was a faint hesitation. “Would you like to have the hotel security officer make the trip downstairs with you, George?”

  Lovelace’s laugh was bitter. “Not all the king’s horses or all the king’s men would help—if this is the moment, Pierre…”

  Pierre Chambrun is a small, dark man, stockily built, with heavy pouches under bright black eyes that can turn so hard your blood freezes if you’re guilty of a mistake, or unexpectedly twinkle with humor. He’s been in the hotel business for all of his adult life. French by birth, he came to this country as a small boy and he thinks, now, like an American. But his training in the hotel business has often taken him back to Europe. He can adopt a Continental manner to suit a queen; he is a linguist. He is the sole operating boss of the Beaumont, handling his job without interference from the owner, Mr. George Battle, who spends his life on the French Riviera, presumably counting an inexhaustible supply of money.

  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 full responsibility for touchy decisions. Every employee of the hotel is aware that by some unexplained magic Chambrun knows exactly what’s going on in thirty-five different places at the same time. Despite its reputation as the top luxury hotel in America, the Beaumont is confronted with the same problems as lesser establishments. There are always the drunks, the dead beats, the call girls—most expensive in New York but nonetheless call girls—the endless cantankerous guests, the suicides, the heart attacks suffered by elderly gentlemen in the rooms of young ladies not their wives, the erotic whims of the faded ladies whose men have left them for greener fields and fresher flowers, the endless protocols involving the many dignitaries from the United Nations who tend to make the Beaumont a base of operations in New York. Chambrun’s instinct for handling all people on all levels, from the lowest kitchen helper to a visiting royalty, is not something you can learn from a course in hotel management at Cornell University.