Walking Dead Man (20 page)

Chambrun turned his eyes, the eyes of a hanging judge, on Potter. “But you would know how, wouldn’t you. Potter? You were a secret messenger. You knew many of the ins and outs of George’s functioning. You probably knew much of the story Cobb told Cleaves. How was it? Didn’t you want to wait for the film? You set George and his people up, here in my hotel, as a target for his would-be killers. You even told them how I could be used to raise money for them. Is that how it was?”

Potter grinned. “I wish I’d thought of it,” he said.

Chambrun glanced at his watch again. “In just half an hour Battle is leaving for home. In fifteen minutes you’ll be holding your press conference, Mark. Is it arranged for?” He glanced at Miss Ruysdale.

“In the Crystal Dining Room,” she said.

“I’m supposed to get a statement from Battle for the press,” I said.

“I’ll go with you,” Chambrun said, giving me an odd smile. “As for you two, Cleaves and Potter, the lieutenant should place you under arrest as material witnesses. If anything happens to George Battle before he gets out of Hardy’s jurisdiction, you would both be charged with conspiracy to commit a very fancy homicide.”

Potter’s smile had frozen a little. “You disappoint me, Mr. Chambrun,” he said, “After all these years of dealing with George Battle you seem to overlook the fact that nothing that happens in his life is ever what it appears to be. If I saw him dead, I wouldn’t believe it.”

Mike Maggio was waiting in Miss Ruysdale’s office when Chambrun and Hardy and I went out there. With him was a little man with a taxi driver’s license pinned to his cap.

“Fred Tenaccio,” Mike said. “He’s the driver you wanted, Mr. Chambrun. He remembers driving Shelda—Miss Mason.”

“Where to?” Chambrun asked.

“LaGuardia,” the little man said. “That’s where she told me to go, that’s where I took her. Good tipper, that doll.”

“Were you late? Traffic problems?”

“Easy rolling,” the driver said. “She said she had to catch a seven-ten plane. We were there twenty minutes to. No problem.”

“Then why didn’t she take the plane?” I asked Chambrun.

“She wasn’t allowed to,” he said.

“Maybe I ought to go out there,” I said. “Maybe she was taken ill. She could be in the airport hospital.”

“No chance,” Chambrun said. “Ruysdale, give Mr. Tenaccio a hundred dollars, please.”

“Gee, Mr. Chambrun, just for answering two questions?” Tenaccio said. “You don’t owe me nothing. Glad to be useful.”

“Never question your luck, Mr. Tenaccio,” Chambrun said. He turned to Hardy. “You’ll cover the point I suggested?”

“On my way,” Hardy said.

I didn’t ask what the “point” was. There was a heavy iron lump in my stomach. Shelda had been wide open for some kind of attack, if I read Chambrun correctly. How bad could it be? She’d been at the airport, with hundreds of people all around. I wanted to call out there; find out from someone if anything unusual had happened between twenty of seven and seven-ten. Chambrun didn’t seem concerned. We went out into the hall and took an elevator to the seventeenth floor.

In 17B there were all the signs of eminent departure. Luggage was stacked near the door. Butler and Gaston were dressed for travel. George Battle was sitting on the couch, his big black overcoat and floppy black hat resting beside him. And Maxie Zorn was there, looking very happy.

“Mr. Zorn and I have come to an agreement about the film,” Battle said.

“The author is agreeable?” Chambrun asked.

“Every man has his price,” Battle said. “The author will be agreeable. Have you arranged for the press meeting, Mr. Haskell?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“I’ll handle that for you, George,” Chambrun said. “I can keep them busy for as long as is necessary. Your two Cadillacs will be at a side entrance at exactly eleven-ten. Jerry, you’ll take Mr. Battle down on the service elevator and out the way we discussed.”

“Right,” Jerry Dodd said.

“You won’t have to go through the lobby, George,” Chambrun said. “No chance of any encounters. Jerry will ride shotgun along with Butler until you reach your boat. After that you’re on your own. But then you have your own little army on the yacht, don’t you? So no problem then.”

“No problem at all,” Battle said. “Thank you for everything, Pierre. God knows I wish I hadn’t brought you so much trouble.” He stood up and held out his hand to Chambrun.

“You’re not concerned with whether we catch our murderer, George?” Chambrun asked.

“I’m concerned,” Battle said, “but I prefer to be concerned at a safe distance.”

Chambrun shook the outstretched hand and then glanced at his watch. “I’d better get down to the gentlemen of the press,” he said. “Jerry, get this caravan started at exactly eleven.”

“Right,” Jerry said.

“Good-by, George.”

“Good-bye, Pierre. I trust it won’t take too long to get your penthouse livable again.”

“I’ll manage, George,” Chambrun said. “It’s a big hotel.”

We left. Out in the hall I pressured him as we waited for an elevator. “Don’t we do anything about Shelda?” I asked.

He turned and put a hand on my shoulder. “Try to trust me, Mark,” he said. “I don’t really know why you should, because I’ve been so slow, so stupid. But let me assure you that if it is possible to do anything for Shelda, it’s being done.”

“There must be something I can do,” I said. I felt desperate. “I don’t think you know what it’s like, not knowing, not doing anything to help her.”

“I think I know,” he said. “But if I’m right, Mark, Shelda’s in this trouble because she’s trying to protect you. The best thing you can do for her is to stay out of trouble.”

“Protect me from whom?” I asked.

“Someone she knows is a killer,” Chambrun said.

The Crystal Dining Room is on the lobby level, its entrance on the south side of the lobby, adjoining the Blue Lagoon, the Beaumont’s night club. When Chambrun and I arrived there, the place was jammed with reporters and cameramen. There was even a TV camera set up. The boys and girls seemed delighted to see someone a little more colorful than Mark Haskell. Chambrun had always been good copy.

He walked to the far end of the room where there was a small raised platform. For banquets this platform was used for a speaker’s table. A speaker system was set up there. Miss Ruysdale had left nothing undone. Chambrun mounted the platform and held up his hands for silence. I looked at my watch. We were two or three minutes later starting than we had promised.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Chambrun said, “may I have your attention, please. I’m going to give you a very complete and detailed story of what’s been going on in this hotel for the last thirty hours. If I’m to do that, I would like to ask that you do not interrupt me with questions until I’ve come to the end. It’s not a simple story, and if you interrupt with questions before I tell it all, you’ll be frustrated by the confusion that will result. If I seem to be withholding something, or not explaining it to your satisfaction, bear with me. When I’ve finished, I promise not to cut the question period short. Satisfactory?”

There was a chorus of approval.

“So the beginning was yesterday a little after five o’clock. Mr. George Battle arrived here at the hotel, accompanied by his personal staff, which consisted of a man named Allerton, his valet; a Dr. Cobb, who was his personal physician; Edward Butler, who is his bodyguard; a man called Gaston, who is his personal chef; and his secretary, Shelda Mason, who is a former employee here at the Beaumont. You don’t need a dossier on Mr. Battle. It’s in all your morgue files. You do know that he is the owner of this hotel, and an old associate of mine, dating back to long before I held my present job.

“It had been arranged that Mr. Battle and his staff should stay in a penthouse on the roof which belongs to me. I moved, in advance, into other quarters. Mr. Battle has been frequently described as an eccentric; his precautions in travel, his food taster, his special bodyguard and special doctor, what is literally an armed fortress that he lives in in France. People classify this as neurosis, hypochondria, God knows what else. Let me assure you that Mr. Battle’s fear of being attacked, personally, is entirely legitimate. No man who wields his kind of power is ever safe from the revenge of small men and counterattacks from other powerful groups. It was not, therefore, simply to satisfy a neurotic whim that we took extraordinary precautions to protect the penthouse from approach from outside. The one elevator that goes to the roof had one of our security men stationed on it along with an operator. We had three-men patrolling the roof outside the penthouse. Inside was Edward Butler, Mr. Battle’s bodyguard, armed and on the alert. There is a fire stair exit from the penthouse vestibule. It was locked on the inside. No way to get in without being seen and stopped.

“Mr. Battle went to bed about nine o’clock. He was tired from his trip. About ten he woke, certain that someone was in his room. He assumed it was either Dr. Cobb or Allerton, his valet. He switched on the bedside lamp and found himself facing a man wearing a stocking mask, who was pointing a gun at him. The man fired, the bullet entering the headboard of the bed about six inches from Mr. Battle’s forehead. The man in the mask then cried out and ran away through the bathroom.

“Now let me tell you what the setup was inside the penthouse. Butler, the bodyguard, was sitting in a chair, backed up against the door of the bedroom. He was armed and awake. He had previously searched the apartment and knew there was no one in the penthouse except the people I’ve mentioned. He swears that no one went into the bedroom. The minute he heard the shot, he pushed aside his chair and ran into the bedroom. Mr. Battle was huddled in bed, pointing to the bathroom, through which the man in the mask had escaped. Now the man in the mask could have gotten away without being seen by Butler. It’s just possible he could have gotten out on the roof. Our men out there had also heard the shot and were rushing in to find out what had happened. The man in the mask could have gotten out, but at this moment, feeling certain that nobody goofed, neither I nor the police are able to tell you how he got in.”

There was a rumble from the news people, but Chambrun held up his hand. “Remember, questions later.” He smiled at them. “Enter the police and the District Attorney’s office. Mr. Battle was in shock, and Dr. Cobb reported he had given him a sedative that would knock him out for several hours—at least until morning. He couldn’t be questioned. I went down to my office. About eleven o’clock I received a phone call—through my secretary—saying that Mr. Kranepool, the assistant
D.A.
wanted me back in the penthouse. I left my office and found myself confronted in the corridor by an armed man wearing a stocking mask. At gun point I was taken out of the hotel to an address about three blocks from here.”

The rumble started again. This was news.

“I was placed in a chair, my wrists handcuffed behind me, adhesive tape placed over my mouth, and left alone. I didn’t know then what I know now, of course. There was a phone call to the penthouse demanding ransom—one hundred thousand dollars. Mr. Battle arranged for it. Mark Haskell was designated by the kidnaper to deliver it. He did, and I was released. That was a little after ten this morning.

“I came back to the hotel and while I was trying to get cleaned up and into fresh clothes, mail was delivered to the penthouse for Mr. Battle. This mail was delivered to a detective on the elevator by a man he assumed was a hotel employee. The elevator operator assumed he was a detective. The detective handed the mail to Lieutenant Hardy in the penthouse. There were half a dozen business letters and what looked like a greeting card. Allerton, the valet, took the mail into the bedroom. Mr. Battle was in the bathroom. Allerton called to him and told him there was mail, and evidently a birthday card. It is Mr. Battle’s birthday. Mr. Battle told Allerton to open the card. He did, and the place blew up, killing Allerton, injuring Butler, who was in the room, and Mr. Battle, who was cut by flying glass in the bathroom.

“That, gentlemen and ladies, was all for a while. Then, late this afternoon, Dr. Cobb was found dead in his room. You understand we had been forced to move Mr. Battle to another suite because of the bomb damage. Dr. Cobb suffered from an acute emphysema and his death seemed to be from natural causes, except that we discovered that the oxygen cylinder which might have saved his life had been emptied by someone.

“That is it, ladies and gentlemen. I should add that, not surprisingly, Mr. Battle doesn’t feel very safe here and he is already on his way back to France.” There were groans from the press. Chambrun smiled at them. “Any questions?”

That brought a laugh, and a dozen hands were raised. My friend from the
News
was in there first, as usual.

“You say you can’t tell us how the masked man got into the penthouse. You must have a theory.”

“I have a theory,” Chambrun said. “Hardy had a theory. He thought it must be someone already in—Cobb, Allerton, Butler, Gaston. They were all searched, literally down to their skins, for the gun, the mask, any proof of that theory. Nothing.”

“But you said Butler had a gun?”

“Not the one that fired the shot into the headboard,” Chambrun said. “Wrong caliber.”

“And your theory, Mr. Chambrun?”

“Ah, yes. My theory.” Chambrun paused because there was a disturbance behind him. Through the swinging door from the Crystal Room’s kitchen came Jerry Dodd, walking briskly, head down. He was followed by Battle, muffled in his overcoat and hat, and Butler and Gaston. They were a few yards in when Jerry stopped, a look of comic surprise on his face.

“Jesus, Mr. Chambrun, I didn’t know you were using this room!”

It was so broad I almost laughed. Jerry was lying in his teeth.

Battle gave the reporters a startled look and turned to retreat. There was no place for him to go because Mike Maggio and two bell boys were in the doorway, blocking it with luggage.

“My dear George, I’m so sorry,” Chambrun said. “I neglected to tell Jerry we were using this room to see the press.”

Jerry looked at me and winked.