by Ben Benson
There were four girls working at the desks. One of them was Iva Hancock. She was looking at me anxiously. I smiled back at her. At a larger desk in front of the railing sat a stout, middle-aged, gray-haired woman.
I showed her my State Police identification folder and asked for Mr. Raynham.
She studied the folder and said, “I’m Mrs. Whitcombe, Mr. Raynham’s personal secretary. You may talk with me about any business you have with Mr. Raynham.”
“I have business only with Mr. Raynham, Ma’am.”
“He’s very busy.”
“So am I, Mrs. Whitcombe.”
She frowned and tapped the desk with her pencil. Then she stood up abruptly, went to a door to the side, opened it and went in. The door closed. I waited. Iva Hancock was looking at me with a puzzled expression. The three other girls in the office were casting glances at me above their typewriters. The door opened and Mrs. Whitcombe came out. The typewriters began to clack more rapidly.
“You may go in,” she said, holding the door open for me. I went through into the room. The door closed behind me.
The room was large. In a corner, near a window, was a big rolltop desk, a shiny brass spittoon beside it. The draperies at the window were the red velvet with the gold-tasseled tie-backs. An old-fashioned black leather tufted couch sat on the other side of the room.
The man seated behind the desk was very fat. His head was almost completely bald, his eyes small and pouched. He had small, round lips. He was dressed in fawn silk slacks and a beige Italian sports shirt.
“What do you want?” he asked. His voice was slightly amused and curious. “Come over here.”
I went over to him. He did not get up from behind the desk. Neither did he ask me to sit down.
“Mr. Raynham?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m inquiring about a missing person.”
“Chanslor?”
“Yes.”
“Your Captain Dondera called about him. Then a Lieutenant Archambaud came here to see me last night. I told them both I don’t know any Kirk Chanslor. I never heard of him before. So what do you want, Trooper?”
“We understand he’d been hanging around the hotel the past few weekends.”
“So?”
“So now he’s disappeared, Mr. Raynham.”
“That’s too bad.” Raynham spread his hands. “I know nothing about it. Why do you come to me?”
I looked at the fine old hunting prints on the oak-paneled walls, then back at Raynham. “The boy was interested in gambling.”
“I still say, ‘So what?’”
“There’s always the possibility that his disappearance had something to do with his hanging around here.”
Raynham pushed his chair back and stood up abruptly. I could see now that he was very short. Only about five feet one. He looked ridiculous, like an overinflated beach ball. But I knew he was not ridiculous. “How?” he asked.
“I think Chanslor was looking for gambling in the hotel.”
For a moment his face became red. Then he chuckled. “What gambling? Why don’t you put your uniform back on and go back to chasing speeders? If there was some gambling around here—and I don’t say there is—you think you could ever stop it?”
“It’s against the law,” I said.
He looked at me pityingly, shook his head, and motioned to the chair beside his desk. “Sit down.”
I sat down. He moved back down into his chair and leaned forward. He said, “Now let me tell you this. I run one of the best hotels on the Cape. A clean operation. Only the finest clientele. Before I bought the Mount Puritan I went all over the world studying hotels. You know what the policy of the best hotels was? Everything for the guest. You cater to the money people, the spenders. Give them the best. Spare no expense. They’ll pay for it. No big hotel has got to do anything illegal to make money.”
“You know nothing about the gambling here?” I asked doggedly. “I’d like a yes or no answer, not a trip around the world.”
He laughed and took a small aluminum tube from his shirt pocket. He opened the top and brought out a short, pale cigar. He lit it, puffed for a moment, then said, “Up on the second floor I’ve got a soundproof room. In there we’ve got ten roulette wheels, a hundred slot machines, a hundred poker tables. We’ve got blackjack, chuck-a-luck and faro. We got a big horse parlor with direct wires to every track in the world. And when somebody welshes on a bet, we slit their throats and throw them out the window. Go take a look out back. We’ve got bodies stacked up like cordwood.”
“I’m splitting a gut laughing,” I said.
He smiled. “What’s the matter with you, boy? Somebody ought to explain the facts of life to you. Don’t you think that the Treasury, the FBI and the state cops watch me all the time? I couldn’t raffle off a turkey without that dictator, Captain Dondera, knowing. He’s been waiting five years to grab me for something. But he can’t find nothing. This is a very high-class hotel. You think these important people would come here if I was running some kind of clip gambling joint?”
“Then let’s talk about the guests,” I said. “They gamble among themselves.”
“I’ve been patient with you, kid,” he said. “Don’t get me sore. I run a very respectable hotel. I pay my taxes and social security and insurance. I pay top money for help. Every employee of mine has references and I just don’t put the references in a drawer. I check every one of them. You’ll find no grifters here, no con men. I run them out of here so fast and hard that they never come back again. I’ve got a security staff of four men because I can’t rely on the police to watch my hotel. Four men. The chief house officer is an ex-cop named Jack Bellanca and he’s the only good cop I ever knew. He can make any thief who tries to walk in here.”
“You’ve done a lot of talking, but you’ve said nothing about the gambling.”
“No gambling, kid. Not for money. My guests play cards, but as far as I know they play for fun.” He laughed again. “Now you go prove different. You can’t. To pull a raid you need a warrant and the number of the hotel room, and you have to catch them gambling for money. Now if you could do all that, kid, you’d be pretty good. So you’re better off trying to take care of the traffic on Route 6. And you can tell that to Dondera, too.”
“I still want to know why Chanslor was hanging around here.”
“Who said he was? You got proof?”
“I’m looking for the proof. Chanslor knew a girl here.”
“What girl?”
“A waitress named Connie Ossipee.”
“Ossipee?” He took the cigar out of his mouth and looked at the wet tip. “What did he think he could find out from a waitress? Wait a minute.” He stretched his arm out and pressed a button on the intercom on his desk. “Hey, Mrs. Whitcombe. Bring me the employment files. The name is Ossipee.”
He glanced over at me and blinked his small eyes. “Two hundred people working here. I don’t remember all the names. But this girl, Ossipee, attracted my attention.”
Mrs. Whitcombe came in carrying a large fat Manila folder with the tab O on it.
“Bessie,” Raynham said to her. “You remember we hired a girl named Constance Ossipee. A blonde girl?”
“Yes, Mr. Raynham. She’s one of our waitresses.”
“Let me see her file,” Raynham said.
Mrs. Whitcombe opened the folder. Her forefinger deftly flipped one page after another. Her finger stopped. She pulled out two sheets of paper that were stapled together. She handed them to Raynham.
He took out a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses. “Constance Ossipee,” he said. “Home is Utica, New York. Twenty-two years of age. High-school graduate. References: one very high-class hotel in Kennebunkport, Maine; two in Miami Beach; one in the Adirondacks. I guess in the summer she works north, in the winter south. You know the girl?”
“No,” I said. “But I’d like to speak with her.”
He glanced up at an old-fashioned wall clock. Its swinging
pendulum was visible through a small glass door. He moved his shoulders. “The girl’s on her own time until half-past four. Bessie, call her at the dorm.”
Mrs. Whitcombe went out. I sat and waited. Raynham puffed methodically on his cigar. Outside I could hear the faint cries and the splashes from the big swimming pool.
There was a clicking sound and Mrs. Whitcombe’s voice came through the intercom. She said, “Miss Ossipee’s roommate says she went out right after the lunch hour. She hasn’t returned yet. Is there any message, Mr. Raynham?”
Raynham looked over at me without removing the cigar from his mouth.
I said, “I’ll be back to see her.”
As I stood up, Raynham said, “Hold on a minute.” He spoke into the intercom. “Get Bellanca here.” He swiveled his chair half-around toward me. “Next time you come here, you see Bellanca, not me. Don’t waste my time. I’m a busy man.”
I didn’t say anything.
“You be nice to Bellanca,” he said in a slightly derisive voice. “Maybe he’ll find the boy for you. Jack’s a smart guy. That’s why he’s working for me. I don’t find too many smart cops to hire.”
“I’ll wait outside,” I said.
“You do that,” he said. “And you know what? I don’t like you either.”
I went to the door, opened it and went out. I passed through the anteroom. Iva Hancock looked up from her typing. I made no sign of recognition as I went outside.
I stood in the lobby near the desk. One of the clerks glanced at me, then went back to work. Five minutes went by.
A man came toward me. He was a large, red-faced man of about fifty-five. His hair was black and thin, with gray temples. He wore a wrinkled blue cord summer suit and an open-throated white shirt. His large nose had tiny purplish broken capillaries in it.
“You Lindsey?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m Jack Bellanca.” He put out his hand. I took it. It was large and moist. “Mrs. Whitcombe said you’re a trooper and you’re looking for a missing kid.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“I’ll tell you what. Let’s go into the Gay Nineties Lounge where we can talk in peace.”
I followed him across the lobby. There was a pair of old gas street lights. Between them was a pair of swinging doors. We went through.
There was a long walnut bar. A brass rail ran along the bottom of it. Behind the bar was a bartender. His hair was parted in the middle and slicked down. He wore a large handlebar mustache, sleeve garters on his shirtsleeves, and a big white apron. A huge gilt-framed painting was on the wall behind him. It was of a reclining voluptuous nude woman. There was one waitress in the room. Her hair was done up in a pug. Her shirtwaist had balloon sleeves. She wore an ankle-length skirt and high-button shoes.
“What do you think of it?” Bellanca asked. “Chet Raynham always is a stickler for the real thing.”
I looked around at the old trimmings. “I see he is.”
“This is a genuine copy of an old New York bar,” Bellanca said. “Chet didn’t spare any expense.” He signaled the bartender. “Joe, a gin and tonic. What’ll you have, Lindsey?”
“Nothing, thanks.”
“Kind of early in the day for you?”
“Yes.”
“How about some cold, fresh-squeezed orange juice?”
“That’ll be fine,” I said.
The bartender went back to make the drinks. Bellanca said, “I got me a nice setup here.”
“If you enjoy working for a guy like Raynham.”
“You mean because I was a cop?” He rubbed his big nose with his fist. “He’s legitimate now.”
“All right,” I said. “Have you see Kirk Chanslor around here?”
Bellanca shook his head. “Lieutenant Archambaud was asking me. I don’t remember noticing the kid around.”
“Friday night?”
“Friday night. Any night. I don’t remember him. And I don’t remember ever seeing Connie Ossipee with him.”
Our drinks came. Bellanca took his up eagerly, raised his glass in salute and drank deeply. I sipped the orange juice. It was cold, freshly squeezed and tangy.
“What about the gambling, Jack?”
“No gambling here. Dondera would fall on us like a ton of bricks.”
“Among the guests, Jack.”
Bellanca smiled wryly. “What do you expect me to say?”
“The truth.”
“What’s it going to mean?”
“I’m interested in finding a missing person. You want to talk off the record, I’ll listen.”
“Sure, there’s gambling among the guests.” He finished the gin and tonic and pushed the glass along the counter toward the barman. “But no house gambling. You’ve got my word on that. Nothing at all. Chet Raynham is no fool. Nobody can outsmart him. He knows it and he lets you know it. One of the smartest guys I’ve ever known. He runs a clean operation. The sharpies don’t come here. We know all the pros and we don’t let them in. No cold-deck boys, no mechanics, no strippers. All cards and dice have to be bought at the newsstand here. Very strict rule. That way no phony stuff can be rigged in. Raynham has his own monogram on the dice. He has his own secret mark on the cellophane jacket of each deck of cards.”
“You mean he allows crap games?”
“No, no dice games allowed. The dice are for the backgammon games. The old ladies like to play with the monogrammed dice and take them home as souvenirs.” He leaned toward me and I could smell the liquor on his breath. “It makes the old girls feel a little wicked having Chet’s own dice. Get it?”
“Just card games then?”
“That’s right, kid. Big crap games give a hotel a bad name. Cards are all right. Cards are refined.”
“Some big games?”
“Yeah. There’s some big games. You know. Why should I try to kid you? Poker, blackjack, gin rummy. Guests only, and no rough stuff. Like I said, all cards have to be bought at the newsstand. You go examine them if you like. We make sure the cards are straight and no pros sit in on the games. After that the guests are on their own. We can’t stop guests from gambling. Cops know that. All we can do is keep it clean.”
“How big are some of the games, Jack?”
His second gin and tonic came. He picked it up and looked at me apologetically. “I don’t usually have a couple so early in the afternoon. But I’ve been off my feed the last couple of days.” He took a draught and set the glass down. “I have some friends at your GHQ in Boston. State cops I’ve known a long time. Hell, if I can’t do a favor—” He looked at the bartender and his lips barely moved. “I understand,” he said softly, “that one man lost seven thousand bucks last weekend. Another, three grand. One check for eleven hundred went through the Sachem National Bank.”
“That’s a lot of money,” I said. “What game?”
“Poker. Stud poker.”
“Who were the victims?”
He smiled sadly. “Please, Lindsey. Don’t spoil our good friendship. I’m sticking my neck out as it is. Raynham is tough. He’s a cop hater and he rides me a lot.”
“I don’t see anybody twisting your arm to work here.”
“The money is good. I need the money, kid. Anyway, the guests can afford it.” He blinked his obsidian eyes. “I don’t like to give advice, Lindsey. Most people don’t like it.”
“Go ahead. I can always learn.”
“Okay,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong now. But I wouldn’t try too hard to find anything on Chet Raynham. I’ve known him to make a phone call in the middle of the night and have somebody real important jump out of bed to do him a favor.”
“Now you scare me, Jack.”
He smiled very sadly. “Probably not. You’re too young. You’re probably single. No money worries. You won’t scare worth a damn. When you get older and you have a family and big expenses, you get cautious, kid. Even a little worried.” He let his breath out slowly. “But you’ll find nothing on Chet Raynham. He
’s running a straight operation.”
“I heard he was quite a punk in his day.”
“He was. He outlasted most of the others. A lot of those guys killed each other off. He don’t need that stuff any more. He’s made his pile, see? He’s got all the dough he needs. He’s also got a daughter named Marsha and a son named Richard. Marsha wants to go to Wellesley and Richard wants Princeton. For that, he’s got to have respectability. He don’t want no Ivy League college turning down his kids. His kids have to have the best of it. You understand? That’s why he’s strictly legit.”
“Nothing moral about it.”
“Raynham’s got no morals, kid. He’s being practical, that’s all. You’d be surprised at the ritzy people he invites here as his guests. Everything on the house. And you’d be surprised that a lot of them take up his invitation. He’s respectable now, kid. That’s straight.”
“I believe you,” I said. “Will you do me a favor, Jack?”
“Sure. Up to a point. You’ve got to remember I work for the man. I take his money.”
“I saw Connie Ossipee’s picture in the employee folder. Just a snapshot of her. Bring it here and let me take a good look at it.”
“Sure.” He finished the drink with one large gulp and went off.
I looked around. The bartender was filling some glass jars with pickled pigs’ feet and pickled eggs. The waitress was putting place mats down on the tables. There was nobody else in the room. On the walls were signs with old-fashioned lettering. There were the Delmonico Special and the Diamond Jim Fizz and pictures of foaming steins of beer.
Jack Bellanca came back, his leather heels clattering on the black-and-white checkerboard tile floor. He handed me a small, glossy print snapshot. I studied it. It was a passport-type picture that usually cost about three for a dollar. The face was round and the chin was good and firm. There was a small oval mole on the left side of her face near the mouth. Her underlip protruded a little and, I thought, gave the face more character. The nose was straight and a little longish. The blonde hair was becoming to the rest of her. From the photo I couldn’t tell if it was dyed or not.
I passed the picture back to Bellanca. “Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate it.”
