Murder round the clock : Pierre Chambrun's crime file Read online

  Good Samaritan or of a hanging judge—a man who can be charmingly European or bruskly American—a man who will not tolerate the slightest deviation from superb service or established routine, whether it is a minor complaint from a transient guest or—murder.

  There have been two major changes in the setup at the Beaumont since that first novel and the first short piece. A faceless Miss Proctor has been replaced as Chambrun's secretary by the marvelously efficient Betsy Ruysdale, secretary supreme, referred to by Chambrun as "my right arm" and rumored to be a great deal more than that to him in their private lives. I cannot report on the truth of that rumor because what I may know about it has been told to me in confidence.

  The second important change involved Alison Barnwell, public relations director, who married her young man, and they both left the hotel to open their own country inn somewhere in New England. Mark Haskell took over as PR man for the hotel, and it is through him that all the subsequent novels and short pieces were recorded.

  I am asked if the Beaumont is based on the Plaza, the Pierre, the Ritz? I knew all of those hotels years ago, but none of them is as real to me now as the Beaumont. I know every bar, restaurant, nightclub, private dining room, ballroom, the hospital space, health club, linen closet, storeroom, the kitchen, the wine cellar, the machinery that operates elevators, air conditioning, and every other detail of the life there. It is just as real to me as my own home after more than twenty years. I hope you will come to know it as well as I do and feel as at home there as I do.

  Hugh Pentecost

  MURDER

  ROUND

  THE

  CLOCK

  Murder Deluxe

  Between the hours of four-thirty and seven A.M. the lobby of the Hotel Beaumont, New York's top luxury hotel, presents a picture that would be unfamiliar to the thousands of rich people who swarm in and out during the other twenty-one and a half hours of the day. It is a little like catching a Hollywood glamour girl preparing for an appearance, in the hands of a masseuse, face smeared with creams, hair done up in pin curls. It is unpardonable to catch her—or the Hotel Beaumont—in such private disarray.

  During those secret hours the Beaumont is torn apart and put together again. An army of cleaners, both men and women, bear down on the lobby, the bars, the restaurants, the ballroom, with vacuum cleaners, brass and glass polishing equipment, electrically driven trash wagons, dusters on long poles for cleaning the magnificent chandeliers, old-fashioned buckets and mops. The lights are dimmed, as on a stage after a performance.

  The windows of the swank shops off the lobby, displaying jewels, furs, extravagant women's clothing, and a costly nonsense of toys and small gifts, are dark. The mink-draped man-nikins in the store windows stare out blankly at the wall-to-wall green carpeting in the entrance halls and lobby, now being curried like a million-dollar race horse. The whole process is carried out with grim precision, beginning precisely at four-thirty in the morning and ending on the dot of seven, with the Beaumont finally stepping out into public view like the Hollywood star stepping before the cameras—shining, glittering, spotless, and smelling rich.

  The young woman who arrived at the Beaumont's Fifth Avenue entrance at four-forty-five that morning should have known better. The doorman's attitude said as much, as he unloaded five suitcases of varying sizes, all new airplane-type luggage, from the girl's taxi. The girl was slim, red-haired, immaculately dressed in a dark-green woolen suit. Her handbag and shoes were dark-brown alligator. Though it was gray-dark outside, the girl wore large, black-lensed sunglasses.

  She had paid off the taxi before she got out. She swept by the doorman, and carrying one of her suitcases she walked briskly down the long corridor toward the lobby, past the endless mirrors that multiplied her dozens of times, past the glowering cleaning women who resented her intrusion, and up to the reservation desk, where Mr. Carl Nevers, night reservation clerk, gave her his pleasant, professional smile with one eyebrow raised in mild question.

  "Do you have a bedroom-living room suite?" the girl asked.

  "You have a reservation, miss?" Nevers asked. His quick eye had caught the naked ring finger on her left hand.

  Scarlet lips gave him a hard smile. "Do I need one?" And before Mr. Nevers could protest, she had spun the registration folder around and signed the top card in a bold hand:

  Laura Thomas Hollywood, California

  The Beaumont was "home away from home" for most Hollywood celebrities, as well as for foreign diplomats, the remnants of the world's royalty, and the special worldwide society of the richer-than-rich.

  Carl Nevers knew every regular customer of the Beaumont for the last ten years, by name if not by sight. He had never heard of Laura Thomas, either in his job or in the gossip columns he read daily to keep abreast of stage, screen, and society—or what now passes for society, which is really a sort of "celebrity register." He glanced at the rest of the luggage the doorman had put down in the center of the lobby; he looked at Miss Thomas appraisingly but not discourteously. He had to make the right decision—or Pierre Chambrun, the resident manager, would have him by the ears the next day.

  "I think we can take care of you, Miss Thomas," Nevers said suavely. "Suite 14B."

  An invisible signal passed between him and the night bell captain, who appeared at Miss Thomas's elbow. The bell captain took the brass key Nevers put down on the shining mahogany surface.

  "Will you be staying with us long, Miss Thomas?" Nevers asked offhandedly.

  "Three or four days," she said crisply. "I'm not exactly certain."

  Johnny Thacker, the night bell captain, slim and wiry, managed four of the five suitcases like a juggler—the girl insisted on carrying one herself. The two disappeared into an elevator.

  The Beaumont's face-lifting went on. Carl Nevers stared at the bold signature on the registration card. "Laura Thomas." There were so many new young starlets on the coast that it wasn't too odd he hadn't heard of this one. But lone women were a problem at this hour—five o'clock in the morning. Often they didn't belong here and shouldn't be admitted. In these days it was hard to tell a call girl from a duchess. If you turned down a duchess, Chambrun would flay you alive; if you admitted a call girl preparing for an assignation with somebody's husband, Chambrun might easily fire you. The public relations office would know who Laura Thomas of Hollywood was, so Nevers made a note to find out as soon as Miss Barnwell, the public relations director, arrived at nine-thirty.

  A few minutes later the elevator door slid noiselessly open, and Johnny Thacker reappeared. He came over to the desk.

  "Who's the babe?" he asked.

  "Laura Thomas," Nevers said casually, watching Johnny from beneath lowered lids.

  "Who's Laura Thomas?"

  "You don't know?" Nevers asked, hiding a sudden qualm.

  "Don't know and don't care. Five-buck tip. Hollywood?"

  "Of course," Nevers said, feeling suddenly more confident. Call girls are far too practical to give five-dollar tips.

  "Something funny," Johnny said.

  "Funny?" Nevers's qualms returned.

  "She got something live in one of those suitcases—the one she was carrying herself."

  "Live!"

  "I could hear it whining," Johnny said.

  "In a closed suitcase?"

  "Yeah. I mean you don't carry a dog or a cat in a closed suitcase. But she's got something in there—something that whines."

  "I'll make a note to have the housekeeper check," Nevers said nervously.

  The Beaumont didn't bar dogs or cats—the rich often insist on having their pets with them. Ther
e had been more than one monkey, many myna birds, and the current movie Tarzan had appeared with a baby leopard on a chain.

  But something live in a closed suitcase? Yes, it would definitely have to be checked.

  At seven o'clock one of the operators in the telephone office on the third floor plugged in Room 1208 and rang steadily. There was no answer. She jiggled the button on and off. She glanced at the slip in front of her. It was a list of morning calls—calls to wake people. "7:00 a.m. Fisher, 1208." She put her finger on the button and held it there.

  Mr. Fisher didn't answer.

  Obviously Mr. Fisher had wakened under his own power and was already gone from his room. But the Hotel Beaumont never left anything to chance. The operator called the housekeeper on the twelfth floor and asked her to knock on Mr.

  Fisher's door. The housekeeper checked back a few minutes later. Mr. Fisher had hung out his Do Not Disturb sign.

  "You'd think he'd cancel his call," the operator said.

  She had other seven-o'clock calls to make, so she forgot about Mr. Fisher.

  At eight o'clock Miss Laura Thomas, wearing a beige wool suit, a mink stole, and her large black sunglasses, and looking as if she'd had a good eight hours' sleep, emerged from an elevator into the Beaumont lobby and walked out onto the street. A block away she entered a drugstore and went to a phone booth in the rear. She dialed a number from memory.

  "Hotel Beaumont," a voice said. "Good morning."

  "Room 803, please," Miss Thomas said.

  "One moment, please."

  Miss Thomas could hear the phone ring, and then a man's voice answered—a cold, hard voice.

  "Webber here."

  "George? Laura."

  "You're not calling from the hotel?"

  "Of course not. Corner drugstore, as per instructions."

  "Everything go smoothly?'

  "Like a Swiss watch. The Hollywood plane was on time. I waited for it at the airport and then came in on the bus with the regular passengers. How does it look?"

  The man's voice was cold and angry 7 . "Our Mr. Cook is stubborn," he said. "We give him today, and if he still holds out, we put an armlock on him. Call me around four o'clock— from outside—and I'll have some answers for you."

  "Don't I see you before then, George?" It was a kind of pouting, flirtatious question.

  "You don't," the man said without emotion. "Not until this thing is played out. Now go back to the hotel and make like a movie star."

  At eight-thirty that morning the Beaumont's room sen ice provided breakfast for three in Suite 7H. The room service waiter was tolerantly aware that Mr. and Mrs. Clifford Cook and their eight-year-old daughter, called Bobbie by her father, were not accustomed to the luxuries and niceties of the Beaumont's service. Coffee was served in an automatic electric percolator, which kept it piping hot and never over-brewed. A small toaster came with the service. Mr. Cham-brun, the resident manager, who was a noted gourmet, had been known to say that he would listen to explanations if someone was accused of stealing a five-dollar bill from a guest's bureau, but he would fire anyone who served the blotting-paper-type toast familiar to hotel breakfasters.

  The child, Bobbie, had selected a different breakfast each morning of the three they'd been in 7H. The first morning it had been cereal with a sliced banana, a boiled egg, toast, and milk—probably the same kind of breakfast she had at home. The second day she'd experimented with a chicken liver omelette. Today it was creamed chipped beef.

  Mrs. Cook stayed with juice, toast, and coffee. Mr. Cook had started with juice, ham and eggs, toast, marmalade, and coffee. The second day he'd gone to a lamb chop. Today it was kidney stew.

  The tips were modest, written in on the checks, but this was made up for in part by a cheerful, friendly approach to the waiter. Nothing high-hat or phony about the Cooks. Smalltown New England was the waiter's expert diagnosis.

  On the third morning Mr. Cook didn't seem quite as cordial to the waiter as he had been on the other days. He seemed distracted, hardly aware of the waiter's presence. He looked as though he hadn't slept too well. He was a tall, angular man in his middle or late thirties. Sort of a young Abe Lincoln, the waiter thought. Mrs. Cook, a pretty blonde, seemed worried about her husband and was overgrateful to the waiter. Bobbie ran around the table, lifting the silver covers, giving a shrill cry of dismay when she saw what her father had ordered.

  "Daddy! Kidney stew for breakfast!"

  The waiter gave the little girl a solemn wink and retired.

  Bobbie Cook laughed delightedly and sat down hurriedly at her place. "May I begin, Mum?"

  "Of course, darling," Anne Cook said. She was watching her husband, who was standing by the windows looking down over Central Park. She finally moved over to stand beside him and put her hand on his arm.

  "Cliff?"

  He seemed to pull himself back from some distant place and looked down at her with a small, sad smile. He said, "Today is it, you know."

  "I know"

  "Would you like to be able to live in a place like this for the rest of your life, Anne?"

  "Of course I wouldn't, Cliff."

  "Or a house just about anywhere in the whole United States?"

  "Cliff, I want you happy."

  "The best schools for Bobbie? Fancy clothes? Luxuries?"

  "I want you happy," Anne said doggedly. She frowned. "I don't really understand, you know. We're doing fine as things are. If you say 'no' how will that be changed?"

  A deep frown creased the man's forehead. "I'm not sure," he said. "Hobbs and his man Webber aren't used to having anyone say 'no.' They play it two ways—Hobbs all charm, Webber all menace. Maybe it's just a game designed to frighten me; maybe they really would bite back. My credit made sticky, distribution made next to impossible. There are ways—plenty of ways."

  "If they can make millions out of the patents, Cliff, why can't you? That's what I don't see."

  "Capital," Cook said. "They have it, and I don't. No matter where I raise it, I'll have to cut someone else in. So why not Martin Hobbs?"

  "Why not?"

  "It's childish, Anne, but I just don't like him. I just don't want to be in business with him. I don't trust him."

  "Then say 'no,'" she said.

  "You're willing to risk it?"

  "Of course."

  He bent down and kissed her gently on the cheek. "Thanks, baby," he said.

  "Stop smooching, you two," their eight-year-old daughter called to them. "Your breakfast is getting cold."

  Mr. Pierre Chambrun, resident manager of the Hotel Beaumont, was a small, dark man, stocky in build, with heavy pouches under dark eyes that could turn hard as a hanging judge's or unexpectedly twinkle with humor. Chambrun had been in the hotel business for thirty years and had risen to the top of the field. Mr. George Battle, owner of the Beaumont, lived on the French Riviera all year round, presumably counting his money, which never came to an end.

  Pierre Chambrun ran the Beaumont without interference or even consultation with the owner. He was the Beaumont. French by birth, he had come to this country as a small boy, and now he thought like an American. His training in the hotel business had taken him back to Europe; he spoke several languages fluently; he could adopt a Continental manner to suit an occasion, but the Beaumont was an American institution, and Chambrun kept its atmosphere strictly American.

  Chambrun never ate lunch. As resident manager his services were called on most frequently between the hours of eleven and three—people with complaints, people with special problems, members of the staff confronted by one difficulty or another, outside interests using the hotel for parties, fashion shows, special conferences. The arrivals and departures of celebrities, notables, and the just plain rich required his personal attention. Though there were, special departments and department heads for handling the intricacies of travel arrangements, publicity tie-ins, and general bowings and scrapings, Chambrun was always close at hand for the emergencies.

  He had a gi
ft for delegating authority, but he was always ready to take the full responsibility for "touchy" decisions. He could make such decisions on the instant, and after thirty years in the business, he could tell himself without vanity that he'd never made a delicate decision he later felt to have been an error. A few of them had proved wrong or unworkable, but faced with the same facts again he would make the same judgment.

  At precisely nine o'clock each morning he ate a hearty breakfast in his office on the second floor. The office looked more like a gracious living room than a place of business. Chambrun's breakfast consisted of juice or fresh fruit in season, lamb chops or a small steak or sometimes brook trout or a Dover sole, toast in large quantity with sweet butter and strawberry preserve. And coffee—coffee that he went on drinking all day: American coffee for breakfast followed by Turkish coffee, sipped in a demitasse until bedtime. At seven in the evening he ate an elaborate dinner especially prepared to meet the requirements of a gourmet's palate.

  Chambrun never looked at the mail and memoranda on his desk until he came to his second cup of coffee and his first Egyptian cigarette of the day.

  The memoranda from the night staff usually involved familiar problems requiring tact as well as iron discipline. Despite its reputation as the top luxury hotel in America, the Beaumont was confronted with many of the same problems as lesser establishments. There were always the drunks, the deadbeats, the call girls—the most expensive in New York, but nonetheless call girls—the endless cantankerous guests, the suicides, the heart attacks suffered by elderly gentlemen in the rooms of young ladies not their wives, the whims of elderly dowagers with far more money than they could count, the oddities like the Moslem gentlemen who had insisted on having the bed removed from his suite so that he wouldn't be tempted to sleep anywhere else but on the hard parquet floor.

  On this particular morning, his breakfast finished, Chambrun sipped his second cup of coffee and inhaled deeply on his cigarette. He glanced at the list of late arrivals. His eyes stopped at the name of Laura Thomas, Hollywood, California. It rang no bells with him.