Murder Goes Round and Round: A Pierre Chambrun Mystery Hardcover Read online

  The plan was already made. Chambrun had decided the hostages should occupy the second penthouse on the roof,

  the one located between his and Victoria Haven's. There was no way of getting up to the roof except by elevator or the emergency fire escape, both of which could be covered like a tent by guards.

  Crowds we had, like 'em or not. The sidewalks outside the brownstone where we'd been held were jammed, and a cheer that sounded like something from a football stadium rocked the neighborhood. I walked beside Chambrun at the head of the column, which was surrounded by Herzog and his men.

  "I still don't believe what I saw," I said. "The butchering of that Stewart boy was a nightmare you couldn't have invented."

  Herzog had stationed men outside the Beaumont so that there was a way for us to talk through the crowd to get inside. It felt like getting home to walk into the lobby. We went directly to the two elevators that would take us to the roof and the penthouses.

  The middle penthouse is normally reserved for very special guests, and I suspect that the young people who were taken there were about as special as you can get.

  Waiting for us inside was Mr. White and a stern-looking older man with close-cropped white hair who turned out to be Scotland Yard's Inspector Stanwyck.

  Mr. White, of course, knew all the young people. They had been his son's close friends. They greeted him as though he were family.

  "I can't begin to pass on all the messages I have for you," he managed to say. He was looking around as though someone was missing. We had grim news for him and Chambrun told him what it was.

  "I'm afraid we have messages for home that aren't so cheerful," he said. "The terrorists have killed two more of this group, George Stewart, Jr., and the Folk boy."

  "Oh my God," Mr. White said, and covered his face with his hands for a moment. "We have taken four of them prisoner, and it's possible we can get them to talk. Not in general, I hope."

  "I'm afraid that may be an optimistic outlook," Colonel Watson said. He had come with us up to the penthouse. "These Iranians view their terrorism as a kind of religion. No kind of counterviolence will loosen their tongues. They will die before they give you the smallest clue to their leader. If that would do you any good."

  Mr. White lowered his hands from his ash-gray face. "I'd better get on the phone to George Stewart and Jeremy Folk," he said. "It may be easier for them coming from me than from a stranger."

  "If there is any way to make it easier," Chambrun said, "tell them it was brutal but quick. There's a phone in the bedroom over there."

  Mr. White left us and I was standing alone with Chambrun and Inspector Stanwyck. Chambrun spoke to the young people. "Miss Ruysdale is ordering food and drink for you from room service. It will be served to you here in a very few minutes."

  "I'm afraid Colonel Watson is right," Stanwyck said. "The men you arrested aren't going to talk, no matter what kind of pressure you put on them. As I understand it, Mr. Chambrun, two of your people are still not accounted for—Toby March and his public-relations man, Frank Pasqua."

  "Not accounted for," Chambrun said, "and with no leads to follow."

  "You had a theory that one of them might be behind all this?" Stanwyck asked.

  "One of them was badly wounded and would have needed help to get away," Chambrun said. "Of course, our security people were not looking for major violence at that time. Pas-qua had been seen going to his room; later, March to his. It wasn't until the next afternoon when the maid went to those rooms to clean and make the beds that the evidence of a bloody struggle was discovered. The two men were gone. Security had not seen anyone leave. But they could have waited hours after they were seen going into their rooms before trying to leave. They were being watched to protect them from goggle-eyed fans, not killers."

  "But you heard from Pasqua — a phone call?"

  "After the news had broken on radio and TV," Chambrun said. "Mark took the call, thought he recognized Pasqua's voice. Pasqua was sure March could take care of himself, and he had unfinished business' to take care of."

  Stanwyck looked at me. "You recognized the voice, Mr. Haskell? You knew him well enough to be sure of the voice?"

  I shrugged. "I'd done all the booking busines with him, an hour or more of business dealings. It sounded like him. I had no reason at that time to doubt that it was."

  "But-?"

  "Mr. Chambrun pointed out that March is a genius at imitating voices. In other words, there were two people out there who could sound like Pasqua. The man himself and Toby March."

  "That it could have been either one. But I have no basis on which to make a choice."

  "I can tell you one thing, Inspector," Colonel Watson broke in, "Toby could never in this world be responsible for the horrors that have gone on. He is a gentle and compassionate man."

  "And any evidence to make your theory stick, Mr. Cham-brun?" Stanwyck asked.

  "A strong hunch," Chambrun said.

  "The house where you found these young people —did you search there for March and Pasqua?"

  "Herzog's men are taking it apart now, brick by brick," Chambrun said. "If they find anything, well know instantly."

  "At Scotland Yard, we don't have a technique for handling hunches," Stanwyck said. "Do you have a hunch as to where these two men may be hiding?"

  "No. Hunches don't come in bunches, Inspector."

  "I understand there is a woman who is Toby March's love," Stanwyck said.

  "Millicent Huber. You want to talk to her? You think you can find her, Colonel?"

  Watson nodded and headed for the door.

  Stanwyck called after him, "With her hackles down, please."

  In the doorway, Watson passed a room-service crew bringing an elaborate buffet for the hostages. There was chicken, roast beef, salads, coffee, some bottles of white wine. Even young people in shock couldn't resist it. We learned they'd had practically nothing to eat for more than a day. Mr. White came back from the bedroom where he'd been phoning to England.

  "You could probably hear the shouts of joy if you were still," he said. "Except, of course, for the Stewarts and the Folks. God, I hated to have to tell them!"

  "Better you than anyone else," Chambrun said, "because they know you know how they're feeling."

  Watson came back with Millicent Huber in tow. She must have been close by for him to find her so quickly.

  "I'd like to talk to Miss Huber alone," Stanwyck said. "Nothing secret. It may be easier to talk about her friend without strangers listening."

  "I'm his friend and she knows it," Watson said.

  "We've already questioned Miss Huber," Chambrun said. "I doubt if she will have anything new to us to tell you."

  Stanwyck shrugged. He indicated a comfortable armchair to Millicent. In the background, the young people were expressing delight with their food.

  "As I understand it, you met Toby March at St. Elmo's hospital in London," Stanwyck began.

  "I was a nurse there," Millicent said. "He was brought in for plastic surgery following an accident that destroyed his face."

  "How successful was the operation?"

  "That's a hard question to answer, Inspector. I never saw him before the accident."

  "Would you know him if you ran into him on the street now without his mask?"

  "Probably not, unless he spoke to me. I'd know his voice anywhere."

  "English accent?"

  "He has what I'd call a 'cultivated' way of speaking," Mil-licent said. "I suppose it would sound British to most people."

  Stanwyck turned to Chambrun. "Could his voice have been the 'English voice' the hostages heard in the next room in the house where you found them?"

  "Any voice they heard could have been his, because he could make himself sound like anyone he wanted to imitate," Chambrun said.

  "Did he learn this imitation act he does while he was in the hospital?" Stanwyck asked the lady.

  "I think you could say he perfected it there," Millicent said. "He'd
always been in show business. He was embarrassed about how he looked after his operation. He had to find a way he could perform without revealing his ugly scars and wounds. I — I bought him his first mask. At that time his face was still badly scarred —"

  "And you, Colonel Watson, you knew him then?"

  Watson nodded. "I was an orderly at the time. Toby did his act for me. A collection of songs by Frank Sinatra. They were great, particularly after Millicent bought the mask for him."

  "But you saw his face before he wore the mask?"

  "Not really. It was all bandages and tape. You asked Millicent if she'd know him if she met him on the street. I know I would not, without the mask."

  "What this adds up to is that he could have walked out of 17C after the violence there last night and no one would have known him?"

  "That's the way it is, Inspector," Watson replied.

  "Where did March go with his act, after he was released from the hospital?" Stanwyck asked Millicent.

  "All over England, Europe."

  "You had become his lover by then? You traveled with him?"

  "Not always. He was trying to put together the little group of musicians who are now with him. The first time around the circuit, I didn't go with him. The second time, I went with him. What we called home was London."

  "Where did the circuit cover?"

  "France, Italy, West Germany, Belgium, Holland, Spain. I may have left some place out."

  "Iran?" Stanwyck asked.

  "I don't recall him mentioning Iran."

  "Or the Ayatollah Khomeini?"

  "Of course Iran and the Ayatollah were front-page news for a number of years. I can't say Toby never mentioned him, but he certainly never mentioned taking his act to Iran."

  "Did he speak foreign languages?"

  "Smatterings," Millicent said. "The way most of us do when we move around. 'Where is the bathroom? A cup of coffee, please. A telephone?' Things like that."

  "But he wasn't fluent in any other language but English?"

  "Not that I ever heard."

  Stanwyck spread his hands. "Thanks for your help, Miss Huber. Unfortunately we don't seem any closer to anything useful than we were before."

  "When did the money come into the picture?" Chambrun asked. "We hadn't heard of it before your arrival, Inspector."

  "It's always been there," Stanwyck said. "Three million dollars in British pounds."

  "Why British pounds?"

  "I suppose they plan to spend it somewhere in the Empire," Stanwyck said.

  "Has it been raised?" Chambrun asked, looking at Douglas White's father.

  "The families of these young people aren't rich," he said.

  "They don't need to be rich," Chambrun said. "The government would surely help them. In this country you could raise it in ten-dollar bills through the mail before breakfast!"

  "Nobody wants to see these bastards make a profit from our young people," Mr. White said.

  "Do they want to see them dead, cut into small pieces?" Chambrun's face was stony.

  Mr. White's mouth twitched. "I suppose it can and will be raised." He squared his shoulders. "I wish I'd been with you when you rescued the hostages! I'd have killed the first guard I could have laid hands on."

  "That's why you weren't invited," Chambrun said. "That kind of move might have killed all of the hostages."

  Jerry Dodd came into the room. He was carrying a large-sized business envelope. "Certified mail for you, boss, care of Colonel Watson."

  "Why on earth?" Watson asked.

  "Because you can read their bloody language," Chambrun said. "Open it and read it."

  Watson opened the letter and took out a couple of large sheets of paper. His lips moved as he glanced at it. Then he squared his shoulders and began to read.

  Chambrun:

  Since you insist on getting into the game, you have now become the principal player. I've directed this to your loud-mouthed British colonel because he can read it to you.

  "Iranian?" Chambrun asked.

  Colonel Watson nodded and went on reading.

  I suppose the British will arrange to fly the kids home. They don't matter any longer.

  "Thank Godf Mr. White muttered.

  But the games goes on. You will raise three million dollars, Chambrun, in British pounds. You will have it on hand by an hour after the banks open tomorrow morning. You will turn it over to one of the four men you arrested a while ago. You will turn all four of them loose. They will know where to bring the money. Don't have them followed or I give you my word you and your hotel will be blown into the East River. And I am a man who keeps his word. Wednesday morning at ten o'clock is your deadline. Get moving, Mr. Wise Guy.

  That was apparently the end of it. "Signed?" Chambrun asked. " Tour executioner,'" Watson read. "Can you do it?" Mr. White asked.

  "Your question should be 'Will I do it?' " Chambrun said.

  "Well?" Mr. White asked.

  "It will depend on what happens to these young people," Chambrun said. "Have arrangements been made to get them back to England?"

  "There are two British air-force planes waiting at the airport to fly them home," Inspector Stanwyck said.

  "So move them," Chambrun said. "When we know they are safe with their people, well decide how to respond to this threat."

  "While they're being flown to England, there should be time to raise the money," Mr. White said, "if that's what you plan to do."

  "I would expect you and their families to help with that," Chambrun said. "These aren't American children, and the response here might not be as spontaneous as if they were."

  " 'Blow you and your hotel into the East River' was a pretty wild threat. And yet —" Mr. White said.

  "They could have planted bombs God knows how long ago," Jerry Dodd said.

  "You know better than anyone how hard it will be to find them," Chambrun said. "Five hundred rooms. Thousands of bureau drawers, closets, and shoe boxes. It will take a week to cover every kind of hiding place."

  "We could get lucky," Jerry said.

  "You want your life to depend on that kind of luck?" Chambrun asked.

  "You know how little they care for human life," Watson said. "No more for property."

  "Or how little the general public cares about my life or the Beaumont building," Chambrun said.

  "You could refuse to play along," Jerry said.

  "Tell me how, Jerry. I'm not ready to die. Are you, or will you and your people desert me and not search for bombs?" '

  "Surely the police — " Inspector Stanwyck said.

  "The police, the FBI, the CIA," Chambrun said, "but none of them would be worth a damn searching this hotel."

  "You know we won't quit on you, Mr. Chambrun," Jerry Dodd said. "The whole damned hotel force will volunteer to help. You know that."

  "I'd like to think so," Chambrun said.

  "You may be overlooking your best bet," Inspector Stanwyck said. "Somewhere here in America there must be someone who is important to Iran. That person might be a worthwhile counter-hostage."

  "The first thing," Chambrun said, "is to get these young people on their way home so that they're no longer a part of it. I'd like to think that there is a payoff for at least one action I've taken today."

  "Ill get in touch with Washington," Inspector Stanwyck said. "They are supposed to be sending men to guard and transport the kids."

  No one had asked me if I'd stay here and stand by my boss. I knew I would, of course, but what I didn't know was how helpful I could be.

  "There are crowds of curious people milling about in your hotel, Mr. Chambrun," Watson said. "I'd love to go and mingle among them. If any of those Iranian jerks are there, HI bet I could smell 'em!"

  Chambrun made an impatient gesture suggesting Watson should leave, and he did.

  "We had better set up some kind of security to guard you, Mr. Chambrun," Jerry Dodd said.

  Chambrun gave him a bitter smile. "I should be perfectly safe until
ten o'clock tomorrow morning—an hour after the banks open. Who knows, I might be cooking up three million dollars for them. I should be safe until I've failed!"

  4

  The next hour in the penthouses, most of the attention was focused on the young British people. There were overseas phone calls from relieved parents. There were official instructions for Inspector Stanwyck from British officials. The readiness of two British air-force planes was confirmed. Young Miss Elizabeth Clark came over to stand by me.

  "Thanks, Mr. Haskell, for helping me to stay in one piece," she said.

  "I'm the one who's going to need help now," I said.

  "Mr. Chambrun looks able to take care of himself," she said.

  "They just missed shooting him in the head a while back," I said. "It could happen again."

  "While he's trying to raise money for them?" the girl asked.

  I wished I could convince myself. If these young people got back to England safely, Chambrun would be responsible. The terrorists might make him pay for that, money or no money. I turned to Lieutenant Herzog, who was watching the British air-force people come in from the roof to take the former hostages.

  "Will there be any problem turning loose the four Iranians you arrested this morning?" I asked him.

  "It won't be routine," Herzog said, "considering the possible murder of many hotel guests."

  "I suspect Chambrun will have evacuated all the guests before the payoff time comes," I said. "It will be up to you to deal with hundreds of sightseers."

  I left Penthouse Two and walked over to Chambrun's quarters. I had expected him to be busy on the phone, calling friends who might help him with the money problem. Instead, he was in the kitchen making himself a pot of coffee.

  "You have to have something to keep going," he said. "Care to join me?"

  I nodded. I glanced at the Mr. Coffee machine and saw that it was nearly finished brewing. Suddenly I wanted some badly.

  "Thanks for not taking off, Mark," Chambrun said.

  "You didn't think I would, did you?"