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

  "Some time before Saturday night's performance."

  "You cover pop music for your magazine?" I asked. "Like every other reporter in the field, you must be curious about Toby March —what he really looks like."

  Denny grinned. "I tried to catch him off base a dozen times," he said, "but he plays his game behind that mask really close. I never came near getting an unguarded look at him."

  I couldn't tell him Chambrun's theory about March. It was his story to reveal when he chose.

  "When Pasqua called you to make a lunch date, did he sound as if he was in any trouble?" I asked.

  "No!" Denny almost laughed. "Full of beans. Excited about a New York opening. They hadn't done any place in New York before. The Beaumont was a dream spot."

  "Mentioned no quarrels with anyone?"

  "Nothing at all like that. If he knew there was something up around the corner, it certainly wasn't bothering him very much," Denny said.

  "So, later, he just came unexpectedly face to face with it," I commented.

  "Those English kids?" Denny said.

  I guess my face darkened. "Seven of them are alive and safe—on their way home," I said. "Four of them didn't make it. British government sent an air-force plane over to pick them up."

  "But who freed them? The cops? Scotland Yard?" Denny asked.

  "Chambrun," I said.

  "Oh, wow! That's a story well want."

  "You'll have to get it from him," I said.

  So much for Frank Pasqua's lunch date. Nothing that helped. I tried to pry a name out of Denny—someone who might be close to Toby March and his troupe.

  "Staying hidden is the name of March's game," Denny said.

  "Some reporter who had done him a favor?" I asked.

  "We all gave him the best break possible in the press."

  "Pasqua was buying you lunch at the Spartan Bar. You must have been near the top of his life," I said.

  "We started working on the same newspaper when we were first out of college. Our friendship had nothing to do with his success with Toby March. Not that I wasn't pleased for him that he had latched onto a real star. But we weren't friends because of it. It dates way back," Denny told Maggie and me.

  "One of the things that is hard to understand," I said, "is that three people, very close to Toby—the girl he lives with, for God's sake, Colonel Watson, who took care of him in the hospital, Pasqua, his closest associate, all claim they can't say what he looks like without that mask."

  "Don't forget," Denny said, "none of them knew him before the accident that destroyed his face. Millicent Huber and Watson were working in the hospital when he was brought in. He went to Frank Pasqua, his agent, when he was ready to leave the hospital and had already started the mask routine."

  "It doesn't matter what he looked like before the plastic surgery. What does he look like now?"

  Denny grinned at me. "I have seen him without the mask," he said.

  "For God's sake, man, describe him!"

  "I was having a drink with Frank in a bar in Phildelphia where we'd had one of our meetings. 'You've seen him,' Frank told me. 'He just walked by!'"

  " 'Where?' I wanted to know."

  "Frank just shook his head. Tart of my job is to keep his looks a secret,' he told me."

  "So you saw him but you didn't see him," I said, "but Frank knows what he looks like?"

  "Obviously."

  "And he'd keep that secret, no matter what."

  "To the grave," Denny said. "March knew he could be counted on all the way."

  "To the grave is just where his loyalty may have taken him," I said.

  Denny and Maggie Hanson both looked shocked. "You think—?" he asked.

  "It's one of the theories that has been kicked around," I said. "Claridge, the Scotland Yard inspector who was killed, had come over from England because he thought March had something to do with the abduction of those British kids."

  "Oh, wow!"

  "He got into March's suite, 17C, and waited for him to come up from the show in the Blue Lagoon. But Frank Pas-qua appeared first. He had an adjoining room to March's, and the hotel had fixed it so he could have access to March's suite. He came up to his room after the show—about two-thirty, was seen by our security. He went into 17C and there he finds a complete stranger, who turns out to be a Scotland Yard inspector. For the first time he hears that March may be involved with a kidnapping."

  "What good will the kidnapping do March?" Denny asked.

  "Three million bucks, and freedom for some Iranian terrorists. That meant all the legal investigation was pointed at Iran. Except Inspector Claridge's. When March turned in about three-thirty, he found Pasqua and Claridge waiting for him. Claridge lowered the boom and tried to make an arrest. March was ready for him, fought him off, killed him with a fireplace iron."

  "And Frank?" Maggie Hanson asked in a shaking voice.

  "Somebody was badly beaten in 17C," I said, "and bled like a stuck pig. It could have been Frank, it could have been March."

  "Why would Toby attack Frank?" Maggie asked.

  "Because Frank suddenly guessed the truth about Toby, and the eleven young hostages. He probably didn't know, though, that at least two of them were dead — a girl raped and slashed, a young man butchered like a fresh piece of meat. Tell me, Jack, would Frank Pasqua protect his friend against punishment for that kind of horror?"

  Jack Denny looked as though I'd knocked him unconscious. "Never," he said. "He would keep a secret, a professional secret like what March really looks like, but cover for him in at least three murders—because, according to you, Claridge was lying there dead at their feet. I don't think he would have covered up for his own mother in such a situation. He hated physical violence. Even though March was his bread and butter, I'm certain he'd have turned him in."

  "So I'm afraid you both have lost a cherished friend," I said.

  "But why would March remove both bodies from his room?" Jack asked.

  "There must not even be a whiff of a connection between March and the hostages. Claridge would provide that whiff. March must have been shaken by his dying friend. He took Frank away to give himself time to think about what to do with him," I replied.

  "What to do?" Maggie asked.

  "Finish killing him or letting him be found somewhere away from 17C," I said.

  "But the blood was going to attract attention to 17C," Jack Denny said.

  "He thought he had plenty of time to get to that," I said. "He had to move two grown men with people already up and around. Claridge was dead. He could be dumped in the basement—and was. Frank, I think, was still alive. March had to get him somewhere to care for him or kill him."

  "Oh, my!" Maggie said. "But what about Frank's phone call to you, Mr. Haskell?"

  "One of March's patented imitations," I said. "And it would stop us from looking for Frank. That unfinished business' routine was supposed to make us expect that Frank would show up when he finished doing something that was giving him pleasure."

  Jack Denny squared his shoulders. "But this is all 'maybe,' isn't it?" he asked.

  "Come up with something that fits the facts better," I suggested.

  Neither one of them spoke. Maggie began to cry softly. I wanted to get back to Chambrun and tell how the new information I had discovered led to some pretty grim conclusions.

  I was standing out in the lobby, looking around at what I think of as my world, although surely it was Chambrun's; it was invented by him, made to work by him.

  But it hadn't been working in the last hours. There had been at least five murders: the four British hostages, Inspector Claridge, and possibly Frank Pasqua. And conceivably Toby March, if the facts turned around and, unlikely, Pasqua turned out to be the villain. And there was Betsy Ruys-dale — Chambrun would give his own life, quickly and freely, to save her from death or torture.

  Maggie Hanson had taken off for her apartment in Greenwich Village. "I simply can't accept the fact that Frank has been murdered," she
told me. "I would know it! I would feel it." And so she left to wait for him to call her where he knew he could find her.

  Jack Denny also departed. He had his job as a reporter to get rolling.

  Guests circulated around the lobby and into the various bars and lunchrooms. Among them, as invisible as if he weren't there, could be Toby March!

  I decided to go find Chambrun and share some thoughts I had with him. I doubted my ideas would be startling revelations, though. He would, normally, be miles ahead of me, of any of us.

  I took the service elevator up to Chambrun's office on the third floor. I knew Betsy wasn't going to be there, but I suppose I had some secret hopes. The person who was there, though, really surprised me.

  Colonel Archibald Watson was sitting in Chambrun's chair. On the desk, in front of him, was the gun I had seen him carrying when they rescued the British kids. As I walked in, he reached for it. Then he smiled at me and drew back his hand.

  "I agreed to stay here while Chambrun went up to his penthouse," he said. "We know someone is gunning for him, and we don't want anyone setting up an ambush while he is away."

  "What about an ambush in the penthouse?" I asked.

  "Jerry Dodd and a couple of his men went with him." He grinned at me. "Are you Toby March, sir?"

  I didn't smile back. "You saw that carved-up boy," I said. "It's not easy to think of that as a funny question."

  "Sorry," Watson said, "but that masked marvel has got us all acting a little crazy."

  "Nothing on Betsy?" I asked him.

  "No, I'm sorry to say," Watson said.

  "No one has reported seeing her leave the lobby with a woman?" I asked.

  "Seeing Betsy moving around with a possible guest isn't likely to attract special attention," Watson said.

  "What did Chambrun need up in the penthouse?" I asked.

  "Change of clothes, I think," Watson said.

  I reached for the phone on the desk and dialed the penthouse. It rang several times before Chambrun answered. I felt relieved.

  "I was worried about you," I said, "finding Watson here."

  "With Betsy missing, it seemed to me that Watson, a man with a gun, was the best way not to find someone waiting for me when I came back," Chambrun said.

  "What about Jerry Dodd or some of his men?" I asked.

  "We're running out of men to look for people, and Watson likes action. Ill be down in a few minutes. Jerry's up here with me. Nothing to worry about."

  "British kids gone?" Watson asked, when I hung up the phone.

  "Supposed to be. I don't know for certain," I said.

  Watson pointed to the phone as I put it down. "He's still convinced March is the villain of the piece," he said.

  "But you're not?" I asked.

  Watson shook his head. "No way. I know Toby. It's just not in the book for him to be it. Those kids saw those Iranian bastards butcher, rape, and kill. It was never just one man."

  "One man in charge," I suggested.

  "Can't Chambrun ever be wrong?" Watson asked.

  "Not since I've known him."

  "He should run for President," Watson said.

  After a few minutes, one of Jerry Dodd's men came into the office. He looked around. "No one hidden in the closet?" he asked.

  "Joke time again," Watson said.

  Then Chambrun came in, looking his usual healthy, vibrant self. "Thanks for covering for me," he said to Watson. "No snoopers?"

  "Haskell's been your only visitor," he said as he got up from the desk. "Ill go wander around."

  "Why?" Chambrun asked.

  Watson turned at the door and gave Chambrun an exasperated smile. "A man shoots at you on the roof, and misses killing you by the width of a hatband, and escapes."

  "So?"

  "So you know that action isn't finished. Why surround yourself with security? Why enlist me to guard your office? The terrorists who had those kids aren't going to give up. They still want three million dollars and their people freed."

  "No judge or court in the world is going to free those four men we arrested with the hostages," Chambrun said. "Seven eyewitnesses to four murders!"

  "But if they take you, there will be no problem about the money, and you should have influence enough in high places to get their compatriots released."

  "I wish I were that important," Chambrun said, smiling.

  "It doesn't matter whether you are or not," Watson said. "They think you are!"

  "So he comes after me, wearing his mask — ?"

  Watson gave a sort of helpless shrug of his shoulders. "I wonder about your obsession with your Toby March theory," he said. "Is it that you can't bear not to have startling theories that differ from any normal one? This is still an Iran-oriented ball game. They want the people the British are holding. They want the four men we are holding turned loose. They never let down their friends. The British kids appeared to be sure-fire. You come next," Watson said.

  "So why do you mingle among the people in the lobby?" Chambrun asked.

  "It must be obvious that I might be helpful. I speak their language. I might hear someone talking, I might recognize a face. I knew some of the higher-ups pretty well. I could get lucky." He shook his head. "Why should I be concerned with protecting you? Because I wouldn't like to see anyone else get the drawn-and-quartered treatment those British kids got. If I had a chance to stop it, my conscience wouldn't let me not try."

  "And you are convinced it's not Toby March?" Chambrun asked.

  "Not Toby March alone, obviously. Those four guys who were holding the British youngsters make it certain that, if it is Toby March, he's not working alone."

  "But Toby March doesn't have anything against me," Chambrun said. "I just gave him the best job he ever had. Two weeks in the Blue Lagoon."

  "If he owes Iranian terrorists, hell pay the price. He wants to live, I'm sure. You don't live if you cross those people."

  "So I haven't crossed them," Chambrun said.

  "You outwitted them. You found and freed the British kids. You're going to pay, they tell themselves, one way or the other. Ill see you around."

  Watson looked at me. "Don't let him laugh this off, Haskell. It's not kid stuff. You know that. You've seen it."

  I turned to Chambrun when the Colonel had gone. "He makes some sense," I said.

  "I agree," Chambrun said, "but that doesn't erase Toby March from the scene. Toby March has been in charge of this operation for the terrorists from the beginning; from the original heisting of the British kids."

  "Why would he bring them here to New York?"

  "Obvious. He had an appointment here as a musician. If he didn't show up for it, it would just about wipe out his musical future. He had to have the hostages where he could keep his finger on them. Then the whole thing went sour when I got into the act, throwing suspicion on him, and I had to be added to his targets. Watson's gone out there to listen for some Iranian voices. There is another sound he might hear— Toby March's voice."

  "He doesn't know what he looks like, but he might know what he sounds like?" I asked.

  "So might a lot of others around here," Chambrun said. "Millicent Huber, March's musicians, Frank Pasqua, if he's alive."

  "But would any of them turn him in if they spotted him?" I asked.

  "Not likely," Chambrun said. "Whatever are the true facts about March, one is quite certain. He manages to instill a special loyalty in his friends."

  "And a share of three million bucks, if you're right," I said.

  "And where is he going to get three million dollars?"

  "From you, if you're his next victim," I said.

  "I wish I knew how to raise three million dollars for me," Chambrun said. "If I knew how, I'd have done it long ago."

  "You know perfectly well that if you disappeared and a demand for that much money was made for your return, there would be no problem finding it." And I meant it.

  "So now?" I asked.

  "We wait for someone else to make a
move," he said.

  A break in the fog came sooner than we could have expected, and in a far more unpleasant way. A certified letter for Chambrun, delivered by a carefully identified post office employee. The letter laid it on the line, unhappily.

  Chambrun:

  You can only avoid this for a very short time. The stakes are still the same-three million dollars in British pounds, and our four men you recently arrested. What you will get in return is Miss Ruysdale. I may tell you, she isn't enjoying what is happening to her now. Later will be worse.

  There was no signature.

  Chambrun brought his fist down on his desk. His face was suddenly the color of parchment. "I was hoping against hope this wasn't the way it would happen," he almost shouted. He turned to Lieutenant Herzog, who had come up with the man from the post office. "Ill do what I can about the money, Lieutenant. See what you can do about getting those four creeps released from jail."

  "Let me warn you, Chambrun, the chance of getting that to happen is smaller than you can imagine," Herzog said.

  "Not to save a woman's life? Not for Betsy?"

  "I think it would take an order from the President," Herzog said.

  "Then ask him!"

  "So what do we have?" Herzog asked. "Miss Ruysdale was seen walking out of the lobby with a woman."

  "Which may have no connection whatever with this," Chambrun said, shaking the typewritten letter in the air.

  "That could have been some ordinary hotel business," Herzog said. "March and company caught up with her later."

  "He hasn't shown up or communicated with us, has he?" Chambrun's voice was loud and unsteady. Betsy was the closest person in the world to him. "Get all his people here, will you, Lieutenant. The four musicians, Watson, and Miss Huber. They may be able to tell us something about his habits that would give us a lead. Betsy has been gone less than an hour. March had to write this letter after she was taken, get it to the post office, get it delivered. Betsy can't be too far away."

  Herzog left to find the people Chambrun wanted to see. I couldn't decide whether I'd be more useful staying with Chambrun or joining in the roundup, I had a feeling he was torn between not wanting to be alone and showing his emotions, even to someone close like me.

  The four young musicians were the first of March's group to be brought to the office. Their first concern was for March. Would he show up for tonight's performance? Their jobs, their bread and butter, depended on that. They had nothing of any use to us. They had no social contact with March whatever. They worked with him on musical arrangements and nothing else. They didn't even have a drink with him