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

"You witnessed an unthinkable scene," he said, "that could be enough to send any man on his way. You also know that I'm not likely to let those bastards get what they want."

  "And so?" I asked.

  "And so we have twelve hours in which to nail them to a cross," Chambrun said.

  "How, if you don't know where to find them or who they are?"

  "I don't have any doubt at all that the man we want is Toby March," Chambrun said. "With or without the help of Frank Pasqua."

  "You're convinced of that without a shred of proof?" I asked.

  "How much proof do you need?"

  "Maybe they are being held as hostages," I said.

  "Then why haven't we been asked to pay something or put up something for their release?" Chambrun asked.

  "You might be expected to do more to save your own neck and your own property than anyone else's," I said.

  "Then why involve themselves with other prisoners? Why not attack us directly?" Chambrun asked. "They don't dare suggest freeing Toby March or Frank Pasqua in return for money. The British kids were perfect. Now that they're free, only my property and my life are enough to force me to get them what they want."

  "Money and the hotel?"

  "What else would move me?" Chambrun asked.

  "So you will raise the money and set your prisoners free?" I asked.

  "I will make it look as though I plan to do that," Chambrun said, "but I hope to nail them before payoff time arrives."

  "But, boss, you could find yourself talking to him in the lobby or at one of the bars, and you wouldn't know it was him," I said. "Even the woman who lives with him and the old friend, Colonel Watson, can't tell you what he looks like."

  "Or what he sounds like," Chambrun said. "No one has ever described his speech pattern, as if he has no distinguishable one of his own."

  "He must have spoken in his own voice in bed with Millicent!"

  "He was hiding from her as well as everyone else."

  "A strange compulsion," I said.

  "Cutting people up into small pieces is a little strange, too, don't you think?" Chambrun asked.

  "So you are behind a pretty large eight ball," I said.

  Chambrun opened his jacket, and I saw that he was wearing a shoulder holster with his pistol there. "I never before prepared to kill a man," Chambrun said. "This bastard is different."

  "Do that and his Iranian friends will carry out his threats," I said.

  "Well have an army waiting for them," Chambrun said.

  Where do we go from here, I wondered.

  The coffee machine had finished brewing, and Chambrun poured us each a mug of rich, black coffee. He took a swallow of his and headed for the living room. There he went directly to his desk, where, with a key from a ring of keys he carried in his pocket, he opened the top drawer. From it he produced another gun, and he held it out to me. I shied away as if it were a rattlesnake.

  "I want you to shadow me, Mark," Chambrun said. "You see anyone make any kind of a move toward me that looks threatening, use this."

  "I honestly don't think I could," I said. My mouth felt dry. "I don't think I could shoot at a man to kill, even if you were threatened."

  "I don't want you to kill anyone," Chambrun said. "Just fire this gun in the air, toward the ceiling. That will throw whoever it is off base and alert me. I'm surprised, though. You did see the Stewart boy killed. That you could feel pity-"

  "I wouldn't be feeling pity," I said. "I just wouldn't trust myself to hit the broadside of a barn with this gun. I've never used one in my life."

  "Only I will know that when you fire it," Chambrun said. "Now, I'm going to get in touch with George Boswell at the bank. If we have to raise three million bucks, 111 need his help. I can't spend the day calling my friends on the phone."

  "You're thinking of paying?" I asked.

  "If it's the only answer," he said. "It is going to be hell around here, Mark. March and his friends will know whether I'm making any kind of a move to raise the money. If I don't go through the motions, he may not wait until his deadline."

  "There's still no doubt in your mind that it's March?" I asked.

  "Come up with someone else."

  "Pasqua," I said.

  "That's a team, March and Pasqua," Chambrun said.

  "It's hard to believe — "

  "Even split two ways, three million dollars is a lot of money." Chambrun picked up the phone, dialed a number, and asked for George Boswell when someone answered. It was a pretty wild story when you heard Chambrun tell it. The bloody details were something out of a horror movie.

  "I've got to get fifteen hundred people, guests and staff, out of the hotel before the end of the day," Chambrun told his banker. "I know —I know — "

  Chambrun put down the phone. "The money isn't impossible," he said to me. "But getting people to leave the Beaumont may be something else. A lot of them will be decent enough to want to stand by me."

  "Especially the staff," I said.

  "The average man in the street hates terrorism," Cham-brun said. "Even though they aren't personal friends, many of the hotel guests may want to help us face it in a strong way."

  "It might be helpful, mightn't it?" I asked. "There could be a thousand people shadowing you, not just me."

  "How many deaths do you think I want on my conscience?" Chambrun asked.

  It turned out not to be something that could be accomplished just by asking or ordering. The people in the hotel had a little less than twelve hours before the deadline. In that time they might be able to do something to help Chambrun, who had always been a friend. We suddenly knew how they felt when we went down into the lobby. At the sight of Chambrun there were cheers, shouts of friendship and reassurance. It was heartwarming. People crowded around him, promising to stand by. I suddenly realized there was one disadvantage in this. If a terrorist was in the crowd, I'd never be able to spot him soon enough to fire a warning shot! It was Chambrun who brought some kind of order to the situation. He stood up on a chair and waved his arms for silence. He got it.

  "I can't tell you how grateful I am for your support," he called out to them. "I'm not asking you to leave primarily to save your own lives. But there are so many of you, my dear friends, and the monsters who are out to get me and destroy my hotel can move in a crowd without attracting attention. They would become just part of you and your so-much-appreciated friendship. If you would simply leave the hotel unoccupied except by the police and me, then they can't act unnoticed. We would have a chance to catch them that way. So I ask you, please, pack your luggage and go. I promise you, when this is all over, we will stage a party here for all of you the likes of which have never been seen before. Please, please go and give us our best chance."

  He was applauded again, and then a man whom I recognized as the owner of a big department store in the area took over.

  "I think we should do as Mr. Chambrun asks. It makes sense, and it could be safer for him. Well give you the party when the time comes, Mr. Chambrun."

  Chambrun raised his arms again. "I'm grateful," he said, "and I love you all."

  The crowd started to break up, but he called out to them once more. "When you are packing your belongings, if you see anything in a bureau drawer or a closet that doesn't belong to you, don't touch it or handle it. It could be an explosive or something that would set off an explosive."

  There was a murmur of voices as people left.

  In all the years that I have worked for Chambrun at the Beaumont, I've never seen the place empty. Oh, in the dawn hours, when the bars and clubs are closed, there is no human traffic, but you know, instinctively, that hundreds and hundreds of guests are in the rooms overhead and surrounding you. Suddenly it was different. People were scurrying out, only a few bellboys to help them. So many people had never left at one time before.

  Chambrun and I stood near the front revolving door, he speaking occasionally to an acquaintance. I knew a lot of them by sight and who they were, but they were not my
friends.

  Chambrun glanced at his wristwatch. "Still take another hour," he said. "It is hard to remember how long it takes a man to put a clean shirt in a suitcase."

  Colonel Watson approached us from the elevator. Milli-cent Huber was with him.

  "I assume you aren't including us in your exit orders," he said. "After all, I'm a professional at this kind of situation, and I speak the enemy's language in case you need to communicate with them."

  "No, I don't want you to go, Colonel," Chambrun said.

  "Any luck with the money?" Watson asked.

  "Let me say I'm optimistic."

  "Not many men could come up with that kind of answer," Watson said. "Friends that wealthy don't grow on vines."

  "I have helped a lot of people in different ways over the years," Chambrun said. "They don't seem to be shocked when I ask for help in return."

  Watson shook his head. "I don't suppose you have been watching television or listening to a radio. The coverage is almost as constant, complete, and sympathetic to you as it was for that little girl who fell down a well in Texas some time back. People who never heard of you until today seem to want to be helpful."

  "I take it you haven't 'smelled' the enemy," Chambrun said.

  "Not so far. But I suspect they'll stay out of sight until the time for dealing gets closer."

  "Well, thanks for your help," Chambrun said. "It may save the day when crisis time comes."

  "I hope so," Watson said.

  "You say you are a professional at this kind of situation. Meaning—?"

  "Terrorism," Watson said. "It's a way of life in Iran."

  "So you can make a good guess as to what to expect?"

  "I'd say you are a way station," Watson said. "You are a potential means for raising the money they need."

  "Money they need for what?"

  "Buying missiles from the Chinese and others," Watson said.

  "To use against whom?"

  "The Western world in the Persian Gulf," Watson said, "and the Iraqis, with whom they've been at war for years, and the Russians, when they think they can get away with it. Money is the name of the game. They don't hate you, Cham-brun, or your hotel. They just want to force you to raise the cash for them that they need to proceed."

  "So that is why they butchered those British kids?"

  Watson shook his head, slowly. "The British aren't as casual about money as you are here in this country. But their children!"

  "But they haven't raised the money to save their kids," Chambrun said.

  "The parents don't have it. They have to talk someone out of it. You look like an easier mark to them. You will do almost anything to save your property. The hotel."

  Chambrun's smile was bitter. "And so I will," he said.

  Jerry Dodd joined us. "People are starting to move out," he said, "bag and baggage. No one has reported finding anything suspicious. I'm sending a man into each room as it is vacated to look for anything unusual. So far nothing has been reported or found."

  "I suggest you concentrate on this upper level," Watson said. "Chambrun and these penthouses, visible from all over the city, are their most likely targets."

  "No one is getting within three floors of this top level," Jerry said. "My men have already covered the elevators, the fire stairs, and any other way up. Clean as a whistle. Stay up here, Mr. Chambrun, and you will be safe."

  Chambrun reached out and touched Jerry's arm. "Have you seen Betsy anywhere? I haven't seen her since that mob scene downstairs when I told the people to leave the hotel."

  Betsy Ruysdale, I knew, was the closest person in the world to his heart. If she were threatened, it would change his whole approach to the problem.

  "I want her with me," Chambrun said to Jerry.

  "Ill do my best," Jerry said. "I just wanted you to know that things are under way." He turned and left us.

  "Miss Ruysdale is special to you?" Watson asked.

  "Best executive secretary in the world," Chambrun said, and turned to me. "See if you can help Jerry find her, Mark."

  I hesitated and looked up at the ceiling. My right hand was closed over the gun in my jacket pocket. Chambrun read the message. "Betsy comes first," he said.

  "You have any idea where she might be involved?" I asked him.

  "She was going to help Atterbury at the front desk," he said, "with the hundreds of people checking out, wanting to leave messages, addresses where they might be going, phone numbers, and the like.

  "She was there when I came up here. She planned to stay until the night crew could be given an emergency call. They all live outside of the hotel, as you know. She told me she'd be right up to the nest when they reported."

  "The nest?"

  He smiled at me. "Betsy and I call this penthouse The Bird's Nest,'" he said. "Maybe she couldn't get past Jerry's men, though they know her and that she belongs here with me.

  "Do my best," I said. I patted my pocket. "You stay here until I get back."

  I had no trouble getting down to the lobby. Jerry's men were not stopping anyone from leaving the upper floors. Atterbury, the chief desk clerk, looked half dead when I got down to his station at the front desk. The crowd in the lobby had thinned out, but there must have been at least a hundred people still waiting to be checked out.

  I let myself in the back way, and Atterbury gave me a grateful look. "The night crew is supposed to report," he said, "but they must have died on the way. Not a joke, man. Betsy was supposed to call them in, but she took off."

  "Where to?"

  "No idea. She called out to me that she'd be back in a few minutes. She's never shown."

  "You don't know where she went?"

  "With some woman," Atterbury said. "I looked up a few minutes after she told me she had to go somewhere, and saw her walking toward the main door with a woman."

  "Someone you know?"

  He shook his head. "About half the world was here in the

  lobby then. Their backs were to me. I recognized Betsy's bright blue dress, but the dame with her drew a blank. Tall-ish, dark hair worn long in the back. But I never saw her face. It didn't matter then. Betsy had said she would be back in a moment, and Betsy does what she says she will do. But not this time." He turned away. "We'll be buried here if I don't take care of this mob."

  It was true. People were shouting for attention. Cham-brun was right. He'd gotten their attention, but he'd also managed to spread panic in the ranks.

  It wasn't pleasant to think of Betsy and the English girl who had been raped and beaten to death in the same thought, but I could not escape it. I couldn't find one of Jerry's men or anyone else on the staff who had seen Betsy leaving with a woman.

  I was just about to leave the desk to mingle out on the floor, just in case someone had seen Betsy and her companion, when someone grabbed my arm. It was an unsteady grip. I looked down. It was Maggie Hanson, Frank Pasqua's lady. Her red hair was disheveled. The oilskin slicker she was wearing didn't do anything for her sexy figure.

  "Any news?" she asked.

  "About Frank? Not a whisper."

  "Oh, my God," she said.

  "Either he or Toby March called me on the phone," I said. "The police are trying to find out who that call came from."

  "But you said it was Frank! You recognized his voice."

  "There is a theory that it might have been Toby imitating Frank."

  "Why on earth?"

  "To throw us off," I said. "Somewhere here in New York, both Toby and Frank must each have had more than one good friend. We need to find those friends, Maggie."

  "You don't understand," Maggie said. "For more than a year now they've been playing different cities all over the world. You don't settle down to close friendships when you are on that kind of roller coaster."

  "But Toby is famous now. People everywhere must be trying to get their hooks into him. The best way to reach him is through his close friend and associate, Frank."

  "The important thing is the press," Mag
gie said. "You don't have to send for them. They are in your hair the minute you hit town. They are in your hair from the very first."

  "Is there any one reporter who is close to Frank?" I asked.

  "Jack Denny. He is the entertainment editor for Nightlife Magazine. I understand they once worked together on a mid-western newspaper."

  "Let's see if we can get in touch with Denny at Nightlife" I suggested. I pulled Maggie into the registration booth and asked information for Nightlife's number. There was a prompt answer when I dialed the number given to me. I asked for Denny. There was no eagerness to connect me with him until I identified myself as the public-relations man for the Beaumont. A moment later, I was talking to Jack Denny.

  "Frank and I used to work together in Cleveland," he told me. "I have been listening to the radio and watching television for hours. What's going on, Haskell?"

  "I hoped you could tell us," I said.

  "Frank called me before the show went on at the Beaumont," Denny said. "We made a date to get together today. I've been wondering if he'll keep the date."

  "Wait for him," I said. "If he shows, hang onto him until I get there. Tell him I'm bringing his girl with me. Where are you to meet?"

  "The Spartan Bar."

  "I can be there in five minutes," I said.

  "It will take me nearer a half hour," Denny said. "I'm on my way."

  I guess I don't have to say that Pasqua didn't show up for their meeting.

  Karl Nevers, the headwaiter at the Spartan Bar, knew Jack Denny as an old and friendly customer. "He holds many of his interviews here," Karl told me.

  "Is there a table reserved for him?"

  "Yes. Jack Denny reserved a table and told me a Mr. Pasqua was to be his guest."

  Maggie Hanson and I waited at a corner table for the reporter. He was as good as his word — a little less than half an hour had passed when Karl brought him over to the table.

  "I wasn't coming," Denny said, "after what I'd heard on the radio. I knew Frank wasn't going to show, whatever his problem is."

  Denny was a slender, athletic-looking man with an attractive suntan. He looked about forty, I guessed. I introduced him to Maggie.

  "When did Pasqua make his lunch date with you for today?" I asked him.