Murder Goes Round and Round: A Pierre Chambrun Mystery Hardcover Page 13

  after a show, wherever they were playing. What kind of a man was he? They really couldn't say. He was a brilliant musician, a perfectionist, but what he was like as a man was a mystery to them. A man in a mask. Nothing to reveal any emotion of any kind. He'd never mentioned friends in New York or anywhere else except once; there had been an explanation of Millicent Huber. She'd been a nurse in the hospital where he'd had his plastic surgery done. They'd become close. That was all.

  The Scotland Yard inspector arrived as Chambrun was finishing his fruitless questioning of the young musicians.

  "Herzog has just told me about Miss Ruysdale," he said. "I can't tell you how sorry I am, Mr. Chambrun."

  "If that would help, I'd thank you," Chambrun said, his voice bitter.

  "I may have some help for you in a little while," the inspector said.

  "A little while isn't soon enough," Chambrun said.

  "One of the doctors who did the plastic surgery on March in the London hospital is on his way here. He must have a history on March, and probably a description of him before and after the operation."

  "That would be something," Chambrun conceded. "But when will he get here?"

  The inspector glanced at his wristwatch. "About an hour," he said. "Can you meet any of the terms in the letter?"

  "The money, possibly," Chambrun said. "Freedom for four murderers is something else again. Would your government do anything about the terrorists they are holding?"

  "I doubt it," the inspector said. "It isn't their style to give in to blackmailers."

  "Probably not mine, either," Chambrun said. "It's easy to be strong when the person in danger doesn't mean anything to you."

  "You must have some friends with influence who could appeal to them," the inspector said. "Over the years, you must have done favors for people who can wield some influence."

  "Like giving someone a special suite, or a special, imported bottle of wine, or tickets to a theater that is reportedly sold out. Would they help Betsy because of things like that?" Chambrun asked.

  "You won't know till you try," the inspector said. "That's where I think you should be headed. When Dr. Cuyler gets here, I'll bring him directly to you."

  The inspector left us. Chambrun sat at his desk, pounding down on it with both fists. "I just sit here, doing nothing, while God only knows what that bastard is doing to Betsy."

  "I've been thinking of Judge Norton," I said. Judge David Norton was on the court of appeals. About a year back, his son had been arrested on a drug charge. Chambrun had helped prove the boy innocent and provided information that led the police to the real criminal. I had heard the judge tell Chambrun that he owed a debt that he might never be able to pay. He might be helpful now getting four killers released.

  "He will only tell me how sorry he is that he can't maneuver us around the law," Chambrun said.

  "Worth a try?" I asked.

  Chambrun reached out a hand to me. "See if you can locate him. Tell him what the score is. I'll be here, trying to raise the money."

  Chambrun was going to try to be ready to give in to the blackmailer, or blackmailers, if he had to, for Betsy's sake. He must be feeling, I thought, pretty much the way the parents of those British kids had felt when they got the same kind of demand. You stand tough until someone you love is the target.

  As I left his office, I saw him slip that pistol into his jacket pocket. If it came down to it, he was ready to kill for Betsy.

  I had been very close to the situation when Chambrun helped Judge Norton with his son's problem. The day was over and the judge would probably be at his club, having supper and drinks with friends. I called him there, and he sounded heartily cheerful when he answered.

  "Hi, Mark. Nice to hear from you. You around here somewhere? I'll buy you a drink."

  I told him I was at the hotel in New York. "Chambrun has big trouble and could use your help," I said. "It's too complex for me to explain on the phone."

  "Take me forty-five minutes to get there," Norton said. "Tell Pierre I'm on my way."

  I had hoped and expected he would answer that way. Lieutenant Herzog came into my private office. "You have any idea where Colonel Watson and Miss Huber might be?" he asked. "They are not in the colonel's room, and no one has seen them about."

  "They were going to wander around," I said, "looking for some sign of an Iranian presence."

  "So we don't know where to look?" Herzog asked.

  "I don't know, certainly."

  I joined Chambrun to let him know Judge Norton was on his way. He looked relieved.

  "The money is going to be possible," he said, "but getting it in British pounds is not so simple before tomorrow."

  "They'll know that," I said.

  "You mean, March will know that."

  "You're still convinced about him?"

  "Positive," Chambrun said.

  If Judge Norton had been operating on a time schedule, he couldn't have been more accurate. It was just forty-seven minutes after our phone conversation that he walked into Chambrun's office.

  They greeted each other warmly. Then Chambrun began to tell him what had been happening.

  "I know about the British kids," Norton said, "and that you rescued them. Bravo!"

  "Now it is another situation and far more personally painful," Chambrun said. He went into the story about Betsy and the blackmail letter.

  The judge's face darkened. "How are you supposed to get the money to them?" he asked.

  "Earlier instructions," Chambrun said. "We turn the four Iranian killers loose, give one of them three million dollars in British pounds, and wait for them to keep their word and turn Betsy free."

  "I can guess why you sent for me," Norton said. "Some way to free those killers?"

  Chambrun nodded.

  The judge shook his snow-white head. "You are about as likely to get an order for that as you are to land a date with the President's lady," he said.

  "But Betsy-?"

  "Let me think a minute," the judge said. "The prosecutor who gets those four men, involved in the murder of those English kids, electrocuted will become a national hero. The man who signs an order to set them free will be hooted out of American politics. I know if I had the power to sign an order that would set them free, I wouldn't sign it."

  "Not to free Betsy?"

  "I'm afraid not, Pierre. Those English parents are entitled to justice, too."

  "So thanks for nothing," Chambrun said angrily.

  "I didn't say I wouldn't help, Pierre," the judge said. "Now suppose," he continued, "it was decided to move those four murderers who are being held, from where they are now, to another jail. And suppose in the process of the move they escape?"

  "They wouldn't move them without an army," Chambrun said.

  "I know," the judge said. "But before they were moved out of the jail, they could be left alone together in a room somewhere. According to the accounts I've heard, you have a man who speaks their language."

  "Colonel Watson," I said.

  "He could be gotten in to see those criminals, and tell them what to expect and what to do, when and how."

  "That means someone guarding the prisoners has to play it your way," Chambrun said.

  "I know," the judge said. "But for Betsy, he might be willing to look careless, and not callous."

  "But who will that person be?"

  "That's where I may be able to help," the judge answered.

  "Have your colonel ready, and when I learn what he has to know, hell have to be ready to move quickly."

  "Count on it," Chambrun said. "But I don't understand how you can wangle this, David."

  "English connections," the judge said. "They will ask me to represent them in some aspect of the case. I will need the prisoners moved to some place where I can work with a translator. We lose them in the process."

  "How good a chance is there that it will work?" Chambrun asked.

  "Better than you ought to believe, I suppose," the judge said, smili
ng. "I think you can assume that Betsy will be safe until you fail to produce for them, which can't happen until tomorrow."

  "Those bastards raped one of the English girls," Chambrun said.

  "I may sound unfeeling to you, Pierre. It's nasty to think that might happen to Betsy, but if she comes out all in one piece, can it matter to you? She'll be the same Betsy, just as true and faithful to you as she's ever been. Hang tight in there, friend." And the judge turned and left.

  "Find Watson," Chambrun said to me.

  "I was looking for him when I thought of the judge," I said. "Watson is apparently still in the lobby."

  "There is no need for him to keep looking for Iranians," Chambrun said. "While they have Betsy, we can't lift a finger against them."

  "Do you really think they'll set her free if you come through with what they are asking for?"

  "He shook his head slowly from side to side. "Who can say for sure?" he said.

  The office door opened, and our Scotland Yard friend came in, accompanied by a nice-looking middle-aged man with smartly barbered blond hair. He was introduced to us as Dr. Cuyler, the surgeon from the London hospital.

  "Sudden trip, Doctor," Chambrun said.

  "As you Americans say, 'You can say that again,'" Dr. Cuyler said.

  "We are getting to know your hospital well," Chambrun said. "We already have two of your alumni here —Colonel Watson and Millicent Huber."

  The doctor's face hardened. "Ill be glad to see Watson," he said. "He walked out on us without any notice. He had a responsible job, and we had no chance to replace him before his sudden exit."

  "You were involved in the surgery on Toby March?" Chambrun asked.

  "I assisted the head surgeon," Dr. Cuyler said.

  "Can you give us a physical description of him?"

  "Six feet tall, well-muscled body, talented musician."

  "You've heard him perform?"

  "Not what he's doing now," Dr. Cuyler said, "the imitations that have made him famous. When he was recovering in the hospital, he used to get to the piano in the recreation room. He had been performing all over Europe and Asia; not famous, but busy. His face was such a mess, he knew he couldn't appear in public anymore.

  " 'Ill pretend to be someone else,' he said. And then he started to do an imitation of Frank Sinatra. It was amazingly good. The next time I saw him, he had bought a mask. He did a Bing Crosby for me. He had it made, I knew."

  "But what did his face look like?" Chambrun asked.

  "At that time, it was a butcher's counter. When he could be released, he still had no face that could be recognized by a close friend. The Huber woman had fallen in love with him in the process of caring for him. She left the hospital with him when he left. To care for him, help him get going."

  "She and Watson came over here to be present at his opening here in the hotel," Chambrun said. "The Beaumont was a top date for him. If you saw him now, could you identify him?"

  "Perhaps if I could examine his face closely, I could see where skin grafts took place, and I'd know."

  "You may get that chance," Chambrun said, his voice grim. "He's somewhere not too far away. I think I know where."

  "Chambrun!" I said.

  "I'm afraid I've been slow on the uptake, Mark," Chambrun said. "He's been right in my hands and I let him slip through. Now he's got Betsy."

  The office door opened and Colonel Watson and Milli-cent Huber came in.

  "Herzog said you have been looking for me," Watson said. "Something new," he said. "Some way to find Miss Ruysdale."

  "Something like that," Chambrun said. "This is Dr. Cuy-ler. I suspect you know him from your old hospital in London."

  "I don't know this man," Dr. Cuyler said.

  "Why, this is Colonel Watson," Chambrun said.

  "The devil he is!" Dr. Cuyler said. "I've never seen this man before."

  "Of course he hasn't, has he, Toby?" Chambrun said.

  I looked around, expected to see someone else in the room. Chambrun was looking directly at Watson —and he had called him "Toby."

  The man I knew as Watson moistened his lips. "You flipped your lid, Chambrun?" he asked. He didn't quite sound the way he had before. His British accent seemed to have thinned out.

  "I should have guessed quite a while back," Chambrun said. "A television studio has been trying to prepare a show based on the Beaumont, and they were looking for an actor to play Pierre Chambrun. They sent me half a dozen tapes of a show called 'Magnum P.I.' There's an actor who plays an Englishman. I think his name is John Hillerman. The Englishman's name is Higgins. It's that voice you have been using as Colonel Watson, isn't it, Toby? Only a fluent imitator could have copied that voice so perfectly."

  "You must be off your rocker, Chambrun," the man, whoever he was, said.

  "I've been off my rocker not to have identified you from the start," Chambrun said.

  "Can you prove all this, Mr. Chambrun?" the Scotland Yard inspector asked.

  "I think Dr. Cuyler can prove it if he gets a close look at Toby's face."

  Cuyler took a step forward.

  "Stay away from me, Doc," the man said. His hand crept toward his pocket. Chambrun was quicker. His pistol was aimed directly at March. It had to be March if Chambrun said so.

  "You have three matters to settle, March," Chambrun said.

  "Where is Betsy? What happened to Colonel Watson? What happened to Frank Pasqua? And if Betsy isn't returned in one piece, you are going to die more painfully than you can imagine."

  "Take it easy, Mr. Chambrun," the inspector said.

  "There comes a time when you don't take it easy," Chambrun said, "when you are dealing with a monster."

  March turned and started for the door. Chambrun fired his gun. March must have heard the bullet go past his ear before it buried itself in the door.

  "I never miss except on purpose, March," Chambrun said. "Let's take a quick look at things."

  March turned slowly back. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.

  "Before your accident, you were performing in Iran," Chambrun said. "You were persuaded to take charge of their hostage-taking plans."

  "Why would he get involved with this terrorism," I asked, "when he was already making a small fortune as an entertainer?"

  "Maybe he got to like the taste of blood," Chambrun said. "Is that how it was, March? Three million struck me as an odd amount, but now I think I understand it. One million to his terrorist allies, one million to Miss Huber, and the third million for himself. Is that how it was to be, March?"

  March just stared back.

  "That brought you back to England," Chambrun continued, "to handle the taking of those eleven British kids. You must have had to communicate with your Iranian partners. The real Colonel Watson overheard or discovered what you were up to, so he is dead. I suspect Scotland Yard will find his body at the bottom of the Thames. Then you came over here to fulfill your musical obligations. The hostages were brought here, with a small army to keep watch for you. Inspector Claridge found out the truth sooner than any of the rest of us. He died, and Frank Pasqua witnessed his killing. He had to die, too, even though he was your close friend. Where will we find him? In the East River or the Hudson? Now, Betsy is either where I think she is, or you are a dead man!"

  "Where do you think she is?" March asked.

  "The one place where you were sure we wouldn't look. The house down the street where you held the hostages. We went over it from roof to basement, so you think we have no reason to go back there. Is that where she is, March?"

  "This whole fairy tale is going to make you a laughingstock," March said.

  "You want to tell me, Miss Huber? You lured Betsy out of the hotel so some of March's boys could take care of her."

  Millicent Huber was crying, shaking her head from side to side.

  "The only thing there will be to laugh at is your body and Miss Huber's body riddled with bullets," Chambrun said to March.

  He turned to me. "Find
Herzog, Mark. I want him and three or four men to go with me down the street." Chambrun looked at the inspector and said, "I trust you to hold this man here."

  "I don't have any authority to — "

  "You have the authority of one caring human being,"

  Chambrun said. "Do you have a gun? Give him your gun, Mark. You're not going to need it."

  Chambrun and I went down to the lobby, where we found Herzog and told him the score. He got four of his men and we headed, almost running, down the street to where the young British hostages had been held.

  "If she's guarded, we're out of luck," Herzog said when he tried the locked door, "if we make any noise."

  There were no lights visible in the house.

  "I live in a world of locked rooms," Chambrun said. "You think I can't open a lock quietly?" He took his penknife out of his pocket. There was some kind of tool on it in addition to the blades. In a matter of seconds, the front door to the house was open. No lights on inside. No sound of any kind.

  Chambrun reached out and felt along the wall, found a light switch, and the room was illuminated. It was the room where the British hostages had been held and butchered. It was empty now —except for Betsy.

  Chambrun uttered a little cry of relief. She was propped against the wall, eyes wide open, a gag over her mouth, her arms tied behind her, and her legs tied at the ankles.

  Chambrun ran to her. I stood with the four cops by the door. Chambrun knelt and took the gag from her mouth.

  "Millicent Huber," she said. "She told me there was something wrong in one of the ladies' rooms, and when she got me there, she pulled a gun on me."

  "Don't worry, love," Chambrun said. "She's under arrest, along with Toby March."

  "You found him? How?"

  "I got smart, almost too late," Chambrun said. "Colonel Watson is —or was —Toby March."

  "Oh, my gosh!" Betsy said.

  Chambrun untied her wrists and ankles and then he took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly on the lips. She pulled back after a moment, and looked at me and the cops over his shoulder.