Gilded Nightmare (9 page)

“It was arranged for in advance,” Helwig said. “The authorities recognized that the Baroness was in need of a bodyguard.”

“Goddamned gun laws,” Hardy muttered.

“You’re evading my question, Herr Helwig,” Chambrun said. “Is it possible that Heidi Brunner killed the dog and that Masters punished her for it? An eye for an eye, despite my insistence that we be allowed to handle things?”

“The Baroness instructed him to the contrary,” Helwig said. “You heard her.”

“The Baroness is a woman. She could have changed her mind.”

“I would swear to the contrary,” Helwig said.

“What kind of passport did Masters come into the country on?” Hardy asked.

“He’s an American citizen,” Helwig said.

“Three cheers for the red, white, and blue,” Hardy said. “I think I’d like to talk to that guy in a hurry.” He headed for the phone on Chambrun’s desk.

“Please,” Helwig said, “don’t have him brought up here until I have returned to the Baroness’ suite. I don’t want her left unprotected.”

“You don’t trust the police?” Hardy asked.

“I’ve learned to trust no one in this world but myself, Lieutenant,” Helwig said.

“But you left the Baroness to come here without protesting.”

“I trust Masters,” Helwig said. “I trust him because I know how to destroy him, and he knows I know how,” Helwig said. “No one else.”

“Go back to the suite and send him down here,” Hardy said.

“Wait!” Chambrun said. “You might save us a lot of evasive answers, Herr Helwig, if you told us just how Masters happened to become a part of the Zetterstrom household.”

Helwig hesitated, fumbling for his silver cigarette case. “He was an American prisoner of war back in 1943 or ’44,” he said. “General Zetterstrom—the Baron was a general, you know—was in charge of the prison camp where Masters was held. Masters—well, he traded favors for favors.”

“A stooly?” Hardy asked. “He squealed on the other prisoners, right?”

“He was a kind of voyeur,” Helwig said.

“What the hell is that?” Hardy asked.

“I imagine he enjoyed watching people being tortured,” Chambrun said. “I know the breed. How often did he bring false charges against a fellow prisoner just for the pleasure of watching him punished?”

Helwig’s stony mask of a face didn’t alter. “Often, I imagine.”

“The Baron must have been fond of him,” Chambrun said. “Birds of a feather—.”

Helwig shrugged. “The Baron offered Masters a job after the war. Masters accepted and came to the Island.”

“Where they could torture people without interference,” Chambrun said. “People like Bruno Wald.”

Helwig’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t speak.

“So Masters has been a part of the Zetterstrom picture for more than twenty years?”

“Yes.”

“Did he never leave the Island in all that time?”

“Oh, he left frequently. When the Baron wanted business transacted for him in Europe.”

“Murder business? There must have been a lot of people who had to be kept quiet.”

Again no answer.

“Is it possible Masters was in New York the day Bruno Wald died?” Chambrun asked.

“The day he committed suicide?”

“The day he died,” Chambrun said.

“I would have to check my records,” Helwig said. “I don’t recall that he was away from the Island at that time.”

“But he may have been?”

“I’d have to check my records.”

“Is that what you have on Masters, Herr Helwig? The proof that he cut Bruno Wald’s throat?”

“You are a very expert inventor of fairy tales, Mr. Chambrun.”

“I just wondered,” Chambrun said, and turned away to stare moodily into his demitasse.

“Send Masters here,” Hardy said.

Helwig gave the room a polite, heel-clicking little bow and was gone.

“God!” Hardy said. “What kind of people are we dealing with?”

“People out of a nightmare,” Chambrun said.

The nightmare expanded at that moment. The red button on Chambrun’s desk blinked, and Ruysdale, unruffled as always, answered.

“Peter Wynn has just walked into the lobby,” she reported to us. “Jerry wants to know if he is to be allowed to go up to the Zetterstrom suite, or if you want him.”

“I want him,” Hardy said. He turned to Chambrun as Ruysdale instructed Jerry. “Brief me on this one, Chambrun.”

Chambrun shrugged. “An uncommonly large number of men prefer to have their needs gratified by prostitutes,” he said. “That’s why it’s one of the oldest professions. But the woman who wants sex without romance is something of a rarity. Charmian Zetterstrom is evidently that rare type. You’ve heard the Bruno Wald story. I suppose Mr. Peter Wynn is well paid for his stud services. He apparently doesn’t find the work irksome.”

“Looking at the Baroness, it’s hard to believe,” Hardy said. “She looks so fresh. Not jaded, if you know what I mean.”

“Looking at the Baroness makes it hard to believe many of the things we know to be facts about her,” Chambrun said.

I was surprised by the appearance of Peter Wynn when Jerry brought him into the office. It wasn’t just his clothes. The Carnaby Street styling had been abandoned. He was wearing an ordinary charcoal-gray business suit with a blue turtle-neck sweater for a shirt. Only his long red hair would have made him look any different from any young man on the street, and in this day of long hairdos, nobody to look at twice. The thing that really surprised me was the fact that his eyes were red-rimmed, and he looked as if he’d recently been crying. His face was screwed up in the expression you’ve seen on a small child’s face when he’s fighting tears.

“Mr. Wynn has been out for a walk—for several hours,” Jerry said in his dry, professional voice. “He hadn’t heard about Miss Brunner’s murder till I told him.”

“Oh, God, poor Heidi,” Wynn said, and tears welled up into his eyes. “You’ll have to forgive me. I was terribly, terribly fond of Heidi.”

“Doesn’t it beat all hell?” Hardy asked the room at large. “Whenever you have a possible suspect in a murder case he never has an alibi. He was ‘just out for a walk.’ God, how people walk when there’s a crime being committed. No one ever sees them and can support the alibi. I don’t suppose anyone saw you, Wynn?”

“This is the first time I’ve ever been in New York,” Wynn said.

“All right, let’s have your version.”

“Version of what?” Wynn asked. I realized he had the faint hint of a British accent. Not broad. More like ordinary, good standard stage speech.

“Your several hours of walking,” Hardy said.

“We just arrived this afternoon, as you know,” Wynn said. “We were to have dined in the Grill Room here at the hotel. Then there was the nastiness about Puzzi. Charmian was badly shaken by it. She canceled out on the dinner. So I was free. As I say, I’d never been in New York, so I thought I’d walk around a bit, take in the theatre district and Broadway, with its lights and all. That’s what I did. I understand it isn’t what it used to be, but it’s still pretty extraordinary from a stranger’s point of view.”

“We’re glad you liked it,” Hardy said, drily. “What time was your next obligation to the Baroness?”

“Obligation? I don’t follow.”

“Surely a little thing like a murder wouldn’t interfere with the Baroness’ sex life,” Hardy said.

Wynn’s eyes widened. “Are you suggesting—?”

“Oh, come off it, Mr. Wynn. You know what I’m suggesting. Your job. If she was so upset about the dog, didn’t she need your comforting touch?”

“I think I rather resent that,” Wynn said. “Just what do you think my job is?”

“Gigolo—or should I spell it for you?”

“You damned idiot!” Wynn said. Then he laughed. “Oh, Lord, that is rather funny, you know.”

“What’s funny?”

“Because there is just a grain of truth in it.”

“I should be grateful for that, I suppose,” Hardy said.

“I am paid to act as a public escort for Charmian,” Wynn said. “But pay attention to the word ‘public,’ please. She doesn’t like to appear at any sort of public gathering, even in her own home, without a male escort. It keeps her from being the odd woman at a dinner party, for example. It protects her from the many men who look at her with dollar signs in their eyes. I suppose people have thought my job went farther than that, but it doesn’t—hasn’t ever.”

“So, when she decided not to eat in the Grill you were at liberty to take a walk?” Hardy said. He sounded as if he hadn’t believed a word of Wynn’s story so far.

“Yes.”

“You say she was shaken up by the ‘nastiness’ about the dog?”

“Of course. She was terribly fond of the little fellow.”

“And this Heidi girl, did she enjoy being a nursemaid to a pooch?”

“What do you mean, nursemaid?”

“She carried him into the hotel when you arrived,” Chambrun said. “She was obviously responsible for him.”

“But that was just today,” Wynn said. “Coming from the airport. Actually, Puzzi had the run of the Island, of the house there, and would have had the run of the rooms here. No one particularly had charge of him. Charmian actually fed him herself. He was very much her dog.”

“So the Heidi girl didn’t hate the dog enough to kill it?” Hardy asked.

“Good God, no!”

“Mr. Chambrun thought she might, and that the Baroness had ordered her killer-boy to inflict a little rough justice.”

“Utter rot,” Wynn said, his voice unsteady.

“Then who hated the Heidi girl enough to kill her in cold blood?”

“It’s unbelievable,” Wynn said. The tears were close again. “I’ve heard about the uncontrolled violence in this town, but I never believed”

“It’s a hundred to one the same person who killed the dog killed the girl,” Hardy said. “Who hated her that much?”

“No one!” Wynn said. “She was a sweet, kindly, almost totally unsophisticated child. She was born on the Island, you know. This was her first trip away from it in all her life.”

“So if she had an enemy he must have come from the Island,” Hardy said. “What about you, Wynn? Did you hate her for some reason?”

“You bloody fool!” Wynn said, his voice rising. “Heidi was my girl. We were planning to be married here in New York. It wasn’t possible on the Island—no way to make it legal, no priest, no legal machinery. Tomorrow we planned to apply for a license.”

“How did the Baroness feel about that? She would be losing her male escort.” You could tell Hardy suddenly smelled a motive.

“Charmian was delighted for both of us,” Wynn said. “She’d agreed to stand up with Heidi when the time came.”

“Was Killer-boy interested in Heidi?” Hardy asked. “Had she given him the brush?”

Wynn’s wide eyes stared past Hardy at the blue Picasso on the wall. “Oh, my God!” he whispered. …

If I were to say that John Masters reminded me of Sean Connery, the actor, you would immediately get the impression that there was something romantic about him. Physically, the actor and the bodyguard were alike—slim, tall, muscular, dark, with anything but a baby-face. Masters’ wide, thin mouth seemed always ready for a smile that didn’t quite come. His eyes were a pale blue and unbelievably cold. I can’t quite explain it, but I got the impression of a hunter constantly stalking a prey. There was no such thing as physical fear in him, I thought. I could see that he might be attractive to women, and particularly to a woman like Charmian Zetterstrom who, according to all accounts, would enjoy the sadistic techniques of a man like Masters.

His clothes were obviously custom-tailored, and there was genius involved in the cut of his jacket, which I knew concealed a gun harness.

“Gentlemen,” he said. And then he spotted Ruysdale in the far corner of the room; he gave her a slight, mocking bow. “And Mademoiselle,” he said.

He might be American, but there was the faint quality of the professional Irishman in his speech; cultivated, not a thug.

“I want to see your gun,” Hardy said, without preamble.

Masters’ potential smile remained potential. His hand moved quickly inside his jacket. I saw that his fingers were neatly manicured. But he didn’t produce his gun. Instead, he came out with a thin, alligator-skin wallet. He flipped it open and showed it to Hardy.

“My permit to bear arms,” he said.

“I didn’t ask for your permit. I asked for the gun,” Hardy said.

Masters’ smile was still a shadow in the background. He produced the gun, a black, shiny automatic, spun it around by the trigger guard, and handed it, butt end outward, to the Lieutenant. Hardy took a handkerchief out of his pocket, wrapped it around the butt end, and dropped the gun in his pocket.

“Now, just a minute,” Masters said, quietly.

“The butt of a gun would make an excellent tool for smashing in the skulls of dogs and women,” Hardy said. “I’d like the police lab to look at it.”

“You’re joking,” Masters said. His hands hung at his sides and I could see he kept flexing his fingers.

“The Lieutenant rarely jokes in the face of murder,” Chambrun said.

Masters turned his pale eyes toward the Florentine desk. It was quite obvious he considered Chambrun more formidable than the Lieutenant. Perhaps he was remembering that Chambrun had faced him down earlier that day in the lobby.

“I like a man who doesn’t flinch in the face of danger,” Masters said. “Did you know that gun of mine was hair-trigger ready when you walked into it this afternoon?”

“I knew it wouldn’t be fired by accident,” Chambrun said.

“How right you are.” Masters turned back to Hardy.

“Just what is it you want to ask me, Lieutenant? I don’t like to be away from the Baroness for too long. Is it possible you believe I might have killed Puzzi and the girl?”

“It crosses my mind,” Hardy said.

“Or at least the girl,” Chambrun said. “ ‘An eye for an eye—.’ ”

“Ah, yes. The Baroness’ impulsive reaction to the news that her little dog had been slaughtered.”

“So?” Hardy said.

“So I was instructed to forget that outburst. I forgot it.”

“Let’s go back to that time,” Hardy said. “Chambrun brought the news about the dog. What happened after he left?”

Masters shrugged. “We considered the question of who might have done it.”

“Conclusions?”