Shape of Fear (9 page)

Chambrun stood up with an unexpected impatience. “You’ve told us a fascinating story, Mr. Sullivan,” he said. “I sympathize with your personal problems. I’ve seen too many tragic consequences of the drug traffic not to be concerned about it. But I want to make my position quite clear to you. De Gaulle may topple; the French political situation may become chaotic. I couldn’t care less. And I don’t think you care. You want to clear yourself in Juliet Guard’s eyes. You’ve said that’s all you care about. Well, all I care about is getting my hands on the sonofabitch who killed Murray Cardew, a harmless, helpless old man. I want that—and peace and quiet in my hotel. If our aims take us on parallel paths, fine. If they don’t, I won’t be turned aside from my goal, no matter what happens to your romance or, for that matter, to the French Republic.” Then he laughed, and snubbed out his cigarette in the silver ashtray on his desk. “I hope that didn’t sound as pompous as I think it did,” he said.

P
ERHAPS CHAMBRUN SLEPT AFTER
that. I don’t know. It has been suggested—by Jerry Dodd, I think—that he is part horse. That he can sleep standing up with his eyes open. I know that about four o’clock that morning he sent me off to my room to get a little rest. Tomorrow would be wild as far as I was concerned. The press would be down on me for comment on Murray Cardew’s death from our management. There would undoubtedly be more pounding at me by Lieutenant Hardy and some assistant
D.A.
And in the middle of all this, Paul Bernardel and his entourage would turn up from Kennedy International Airport.

When I got to my room, I felt as though I was wound up in some sort of sticky, clutching fog. Digger Sullivan’s story was a little difficult to digest at one swallow. It certainly wasn’t our job at the Beaumont to try to break up international drug rings or try to preserve the political equilibrium of the French Republic. What concerned us was that a murderer had been able to move swiftly, silently and without leaving any trail in our hallowed halls. But the last thing Chambrun said to me before I tottered off to bed put it fairly clearly.

“Drug rings are the business of the Narcotics Bureau, Mark,” he said. “And French politics are for French politicians. But we can’t forget about either situation because they represent what’s at stake. A man may hesitate to kill for normal reasons like jealousy or revenge or greed. But there’s so much on the line here that we can’t expect hesitation. If you hear something or guess something or suspect someone, bring it to me. Don’t discuss it with anyone else. I trust me and I trust you. Period.”

“Thanks.”

“Almost every man has a breaking point, Mark. These people—the drugs and politics boys—can pay an almost unlimited price for a man’s conscience.”

“They didn’t make an offer to Mr. Cardew,” I said. “There wasn’t really time for him to decide one way or another.”

“That’s what scares me about the whole situation,” Chambrun said. “Someone was smart enough to know that Murray Cardew, without a dime in the bank, couldn’t be bought for any price. That same someone must know Sullivan like the inside of his own glove—and me and you. The sky’s the limit with them. They can meet anyone’s price, and life itself is as cheap as a nickel candy. So don’t imagine that we’re operating within the framework of a game where clever countermoves will have them backing off. They won’t back off. The pot in the center of the table is too big.”

It wasn’t easy to go to sleep with that in the middle of one’s consciousness.

But the clocks go round and round and the sun rises, and there is another day with its routines to face. One thing the Beaumont doesn’t have is its own newspaper. It doesn’t need one. Digger Sullivan had said he’d be listening for the softest whisper. The Beaumont was a world of whispers that next morning. Every one of the Beaumont’s twelve hundred employees, from the boys who removed the garbage pails from the kitchen to Miss Ruysdale, who protected Chambrun’s private office from casual intruders and, as the boss’s private secretary, shared many of his professional secrets, was whispering. I know that, as I walked into my own office shortly after nine o’clock, I felt I was living in a world of masks. Everybody had on their deadpan faces, hiding behind them their suspicions and their curiosities.

“Nice day out,” the elevator boy who took me down to the fourth floor said. I could almost hear the saliva working in his mouth as he waited for me to drop some tidbit. I didn’t.

Shelda Mason, my magnificent secretary, has a tendency to be late for work. She wasn’t that morning, and she had on the only normal face I’d seen so far. She got up from her desk as I came into the outer office.

“You can’t talk, can you?” she said.

“No. Not what you want to hear at any rate.”

“What about Mr. Cardew?”

“What about him?”

“I have his card on my desk,” Shelda said. “No family, no lawyer, no bank. Who’s going to take care of him?”

“How do you mean?”

“Funeral arrangements. A service. There must be a dozen old guys who are regulars in the Spartan Bar who’d like to attend.”

“Chambrun’s taken care of him for years,” I said. “I imagine he’ll handle that.”

“May I ask him if I can help? I liked Mr. Cardew. He made me feel that the world of the Brontë sisters had once been real. I’d like him to have something that would please him if he could know about it. Do they have any idea who did it, Mark?”

“They didn’t when I went to bed at four o’clock this morning. Go ahead and ask Chambrun. He may be relieved to have help with it.”

“Is there anything special on the docket for us this morning?”

“Paul Bernardel and his party arrive from the airport about eleven o’clock. I’m supposed to make myself available; find out if he does or doesn’t want a brass band following him around. For you, there’s that fashion show in the Chartreuse Room.”

Just the mention of Bernardel’s name produced a curious tingling sensation along my spine. He was at the top of Digger’s list of suspects.

“There’s someone waiting for you in your office,” Shelda said. “I almost forgot. Mr. LaCoste, the French Ambassador’s secretary. An early bird. He’s been waiting about fifteen minutes.”

Monsieur Jean LaCoste was a mild surprise. This was the young man who had insisted on no changes in the seating arrangements at the reception on Saturday for Bernardel. Murray Cardew had made him sound like a tough cookie. He was as queer as Dick’s hatband.

“Mr. Haskell?” he asked with a kind of petulant impatience as I walked into my office. “I’m sorry to come so early and on what must seem a rather callous errand to you.”

His English was perfect. His dark blue suit was tailored to the nines, a little too narrow in the trouser and too broad in the padded shoulders for my taste. A white silk handkerchief peeped out of the left sleeve of his coat. His shoes were a dark blue suede. His hair was black and slicked down with some kind of strongly perfumed dressing. “Greasy kid stuff,” I thought. His mouth was small, the lips red and pouting.

“We are but
enormously
shocked at the Waldorf,” he said.

Does the Waldorf tell the Beaumont, I wondered.

“As you may know, Mr. Cardew was a
close
friend of Monsieur Delacroix’s.”

“I believe they used to play chess together,” I said.

“Like
fiends!
” LaCoste said. “Monsieur Delacroix had a real affection for the old gentleman. He is most upset. Most upset
indeed.
He would be here except for the diplomatic necessity to meet Monsieur Bernardel on his arrival. I was requested to ask you if there was anything
we
can do to assist in making the arrangements.”

“Mr. Chambrun can answer that better than I,” I said. “I’m not sure a great deal of thought has been given to it yet. The body is in the hands of the city medical examiner.”

“A great pity. A great shock!” LaCoste said. His limpid black eyes met mine squarely for the first time. “Have the police come to any conclusions?”

“I haven’t heard,” I said.

“Naturally you’re not at liberty to talk freely,” he said. It was really another question.

“We’ve been told nothing here,” I said.

“I must have been one of the last people to talk to him,” LaCoste said. “Did you know that he’d called the Ambassador only a few minutes before his death?”

“Yes, I knew that.”

“He wanted to speak to the Ambassador, but Monsieur and Madame Delacroix were at Philharmonic Hall with Monsieur and Madame Girard who are guests of yours here.”

“I knew that, too,” I said. “This promises to be a pretty rough day for me, Monsieur LaCoste. You had some special reason for wanting to see me?”

“Yes. And as I told you, a bit on the
callous
side. It’s in regard to the reception to be given for Monsieur Bernardel on Saturday. The seating arrangements were a jouit project of mine and Mr. Cardew’s. He had, I believe, completed the seating plan, meeting our diplomatic requirements. Now it all devolves on me. Mr. Cardew explained to me that you would be in charge of having the place cards made and the seating lists printed. I am
praying
that those lists have already been turned over to you.”

“Your prayer isn’t answered,” I said. “I talked to Mr. Cardew about the lists yesterday, but he hadn’t turned them over to me yet.”

LaCoste made a despairing little gesture with his well-manicured hands. “Then how do I get them? I suppose the police have impounded all of his possessions.”

“Is that such a disaster, Monsieur LaCoste? You must have copies of the guest list.”

“I have. But the seating arrangements!” He shook his head. “Mr. Cardew was a genius at that sort of thing. Do you think the police might let me have a look at his seating charts? They can’t have any bearing on his death. I mean, my dear Haskell, who was to sit where can’t be thought of as a motive for murder.”

“I’ll see what I can do for you, but I don’t promise anything,” I said.

“I should have remembered when the police were talking to me last night,” he said, “but I was so
distressed
by their news. And trying to remember just what Mr. Cardew
did
say to me on the phone.”

I tried not to look curious.

“Of course it was nothing,” LaCoste said. “Mr. Cardew asked for Monsieur Delacroix. I told him the Ambassador was at a concert and would probably go on to some night club later. He—he sounded agitated.”

“It seems he was fresh out of luck last night,” I said. “First he tried to get our manager, Mr. Chambrun, but he was at the theatre. Then he tried the Ambassador, but he was also out. Then he got me, but I was delayed in going to his room. If I’d been ten minutes sooner …” I shrugged. I wasn’t divulging any secrets. All that was in the morning paper.

The black eyes were on me, steady again. I was beginning to make a slow re-evaluation of Jean LaCoste. In spite of his campy manner there was a diamond-hard underlayer.

“And he never got to tell you what was on his mind?” LaCoste asked.

“No,” I said. I’d done enough talking. “He just asked me to come to his room. I got there too late to be of any use to him.”

“Well, I’ve taken enough of your time,” LaCoste said. “But I’ll be in your debt for
life
if you can get the old man’s seating chart for me. The reception must go on, you know.”

He gave me a little bow from the hips and left. I walked over and opened a window to get rid of the smell of his hair dressing. The telephone on my desk rang, and I picked it up.

“Gent named Kroll to talk to you,” Shelda said.

“Put the gent through,” I said. I wondered if the Germanic Herr Kroll had gotten any more than a free supper out of Lily Dorisch last night.

“Mr. Haskell?” His voice came through, harsh and clipped. “I believe you are in charge of public relations here at the hotel.”

“That’s right, sir,” I said.

“I wish to convey certain matters to you,” Kroll said. I was getting the same bellboy treatment I’d gotten from him and la Dorisch the night before.

“Convey away, Mr. Kroll,” I said, not eager to be polite.

“In regard to the arrival of Monsieur Bernardel in a short time,” he said. “He will have been interviewed at the airport. He wishes nothing here at the hotel. No reporters. No pictures. He will be taken directly from his car to his suite. I have already registered for him. We want no releases on his comings and goings from your office. Not today. Not in the future—without the personal approval of Monsieur Bernardel. Is that all quite clear?”

“Quite clear, Mr. Kroll.”

“It would be regrettable if the hotel should try to make news copy out of Monsieur Bernardel.”

“You’ve made it quite clear, sir,” I said.

“I trust so.” And click! No “thank you.” No “goodby.”

I went out into the reception room and told Shelda to handle anything that came along. I was going up to check in with Chambrun.

“Lunch in the office?” she asked.

“It’s a little early to plan,” I said.

“Where shall I meet you?” she asked blandly.

“Meet me for what?”

“You can’t be a clam forever, you stinker,” she said.

Chambrun looked as fresh as if he’d had twelve hours sleep. He wasn’t alone but Miss Ruysdale had waved me in. It seems he’d called for me while I was on my way. He was at his desk, a cup of Turkish coffee at his elbow.

With him were Mrs. Veach, our chief telephone operator, and Jane Prindle, a pert, snub-nosed redhead who was one of her switchboard girls. Mrs. Veach is a large, bosomy, motherly-looking woman who presides over her domain with rigid efficiency, tact, and down-to-earth sophistication. With an estimated eighty percent of the Beaumont’s guests cheating on their respective husbands and wives, the handling of incoming calls and messages requires a cynical awareness on the part of the switchboard girls of the ins and outs of hundreds of private lives. Mrs. Veach and her staff didn’t make mistakes. They handled well over a thousand calls a day without getting the wrong people connected with each other.

There was an amused sympathy in Chambrun’s eyes as he glanced at me. I guess I looked as sleepless as I actually was. I said hello to Mrs. Veach and Jane Prindle.