The Right Jack

by Margaret Maron

  He looked familiar to Sigrid, but she couldn't remember which busboy he'd been among the several on duty during the cribbage tournament. Besides, hes eemed to have been strangled with his own tie and his face was not a very pretty sight.

  There was no pulse, of course, and his skin was cool to the touch.

  Sigrid straightened up. "Who is he?"

  Molly Baldwin had stopped weeping and now looked as if she were going to be sick. "I don't know," she whispered.

  "Madame Ronay?"

  "Forgive me. Lieutenant. There are so many and he is-" She also seemed queasy and smiled gratefully when Haines Froelick took her arm and drew her aside.

  "Could be Quincy Johnson's nephew," offered one of the maids with trepidation.

  Madam Ronay forced herself to look again. "Ah, pauvre petit. C'est possible."

  Sigrid herded everyone to a front table, handed Alan Knight her note pad, and curtly ordered: "I'm going to phone headquarters. Please take their names and addresses and don't let anyone leave or enter this room until I get back."

  Lucienne Ronay began to expostulate about the need to call her public relations agent and channel the flood of badp ublicity this second death was sure to undam.

  There would be plenty of opportunity for that later, Sigrid told her crisply. "If you and your people cooperate, perhaps we can keep a lid on most of the sensationalism."

  "But of course we will cooperate," said Madame Ronay, drawing up at the very suggestion that she and her staff would do otherwise.

  Sigrid left them, remembered which alcove held a telephone booth, and summoned help from headquarters. Afterward, she went back to the Bontemps Room and plucked Mr. George from the midst of his duties. He tried to object but Sigrid knew the magic words. "Madame Ronay," she murmured and Mr. George trotted along like a little lamb.

  Outside the d'Aubigne Room, she paused. "A little earlier, I heard you ask where Johnson was. Is that one of the busboys?"

  "Sure, why?"

  "When did you last see him?"

  The little steward frowned. "I don't know. About break time, I guess. 'Bouta n hour ago? He and Ms Baldwin were talking in the passageway outside the service door. Why? What's he done?"

  "What makes you think he's done something?"

  "You asking questions. La Reine wanting to see me. It's about Johnson, isn't it?"

  "Yes. A body's been found. One of the maids thinks it might be your missing busboy. I'd like for you to look and tell me if it's Johnson."

  The steward opened his mouth to protest, but nothing emerged.

  Wordlessly he followed her past the table where his employer sat, her two hands folded on the tabletop, a large sapphire ring glowing on her right hand. Sigrid pointed to the body and said, "Is that Johnson?"

  "Oh my God!" the steward moaned. "Who's gonna tell Miss Quincy?"

  "Come here, George," ordered Madame Ronay from the front of the room. "Do you say this is Quincy Johnson's nephew? Pernell, est-ce-qui?"

  "Yes, Madame, the steward answered faintly. "She was so proud of how goodh e's been doing. I was going to speak to you about him tomorrow, recommend a bonus for the kid."

  "Bonus?" Madame Ronay asked sharply. "Pourquoi?"

  "Because of the way he kept his head Friday night. After the explosion, he's the one who grabbed that extinguisher and rushed over and put out the fire before it could spread. A few minutes more and you'd have had to replace not just the carpet, but part of the paneling, too."

  "You should have told me this before." Lucienne Ronay's graceful blonde head drooped sadly. "Hélas! Now it is too late forever for me to reward him."

  She drew a deep breath and began to function like an executive again. "Someone must be sent to tell Miss Johnson. Who, George?" Her ring flashed blue fire as she pointed to him. "You?"

  "Not me," said the steward even before Sigrid could voice her own objection to letting him leave the hotel just yet.

  "Hester Yates is downstairs. She and Miss Quincy are real good friends. You want me to send her?"

  Both looked at Sigrid…

  "This is permitted. Lieutenant?" asked Madame Ronay.

  "In a moment," said Sigrid. "First, I'd like to hear everything you can remember about Pernell Johnson's movements today. What he did, who he talked to. If you would be patient a few minutes longer, Madame?"

  Lucienne Ronay nodded graciously, turning the sapphire ring with her restless fingers.

  Haines Froelick cleared his throat. "What about me, Lieutenant? Is it all right if I look around for my cousin's schilling?" He gestured hesitantly toward the back of the large room, to the corner where Zachary Wolferman had died.

  "I'm afraid not," she replied. "Nothing can be disturbed till after our crime scene crew has had a chance to examine things. I'll tell them to keep an eye out for it."

  "Then perhaps I should leave now," he said and Sigrid thought she detected relief in his face, as if she'd saved him an unpleasant task by her denial of his request.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Froelick, but I'll want your statement as well as the others."

  "My statement. Oh my dear young lady, I've no statement, I assure you."

  "What we need will only take a few minutes," Sigrid said. "After we've talked to Mr. George. Perhaps you and Madame Ronay-?"

  Lucienne Ronay took the hint and wafted Froelick across the room to a loveseat upholstered in peach-colored silk beneath a large gilt-framed painting that easily fell within Nauman's Cool Ship parameters.

  "All our paintings here are originals, Mr. Froelick," Sigrid heard the Frenchwoman murmur. "One of the finest ateliers in Europe is under contract with us."

  Molly Baldwin sat wrapped in mute misery at one end of a long table while Vassily Ivanovich glowered at her from the other end. At a nearby table, just out of earshot, Sigrid and Alan Knight listened as Mr. George informed them that Pernell Johnson had come on duty at eight o'clock, as prompt and efficient in his work as always.

  The steward was a small black man of ramrod posture, receding gray hair and a penchant for fussy details. Sigrid soonl earned that he had approved of Johnson and had interested himself in the youth's progress at the hotel. "That boy had a real future here, Lieutenant. He was a hard worker like his aunt. I know he might have gotten in a little trouble down in Florida, but up here he was one of the good ones. Never messed with liquor or dope or none of that stuff as far as I ever heard."

  " Florida?" sked Alan Knight.

  "Trouble?" asked Sigrid. "Miss Quincy told Hester Yates and Hester Yates told me and now I'm telling you, but nobody else. And certainly not Madame." He removed a crumb of cigarette tobacco from the table. "Not many boys that don't have a brush with the law 'fore they get grown. You know that. He and another kid stole some hubcaps or something down there and his grandmother, Miss Quincy's mother, shipped him up here to get him away from that stuff."

  Sigrid remembered now: the thin youth with the soft drawl who'd brought her a glass of water the day before. A helpful person, eager to please, and, accordingt o Mr. George, a 'noticing' worker.

  "Some of 'em can't see a thing that needs doing till you tell 'em. Johnson did, always. Dirty glasses and ashtrays didn't pile up around his stations. Somebody look around for a glass of water, cup of coffee, Johnson was right there."

  A noticing kid.

  Had he noticed something Friday night, Sigrid wondered, and been incautious enough to let the wrong person know?

  If so, Mr. George seemed unaware of it. According to him, Pernell Johnson had been as puzzled as everyone else as to how the cribbage board was rigged and planted.

  Yes, he said, Pernell had been one of his helpers when the long tables were covered with snowy linens on Friday afternoon. After supper, Pernell was among the busboys who came in when the service door was unlocked at seven o'clock and he had been in and out while the Graphic Games people put the finishing touches on the tables and Ms. Baldwin and Madame Ronay made a final check of the room.

  Madame had approved everyth
ing exceptt he ashtrays. Instead of the heavy cut glass, she called for the lighter pressed glass which were easier to clean and, admitted Mr. George, less expensive to replace if any of the contestants had sticky fingers; so there had been a scurrying five minutes to change the ashtrays and then the doors were opened at seven-thirty and if Pernell Johnson had noticed anything suspicious after the room began to fill with five hundred cribbage players, Mr. George hadn't heard of it.

  "Who changed the ashtrays at Table 5?" she asked.

  The steward's brow furrowed. "I think it was Johnson."

  Except for that, Mr. George's testimony was virtually a repeat of what he'd told them yesterday. It confirmed what each of the busboys had said as well. If Pernell Johnson had held anything back, no one had picked up on it. They would have to question the staff again, of course.

  Sigrid returned to this morning.

  Mr. George and his crew had stocked the hospitality table with urns of hotc offee and trays of light pastries at eight-fifteen. Play began at eight-forty-five. Almost nothing distinguished this morning from yesterday. Coffee and pastries again this morning, to be followed again by coffee, soft drinks, mixed nuts, and crudités in the afternoon. Pernell had performed as efficiently as ever, with nothing to make his movements remarkable.

  There was a break for the cardplayers at ten-thirty.

  "No matter how we try to corral them, they wander all over the hotel during the breaks," said Mr. George. "The service doors are clearly marked for staff only, but there're always a few that duck out that way. It's a little shorter to the restrooms. Johnson could have been around during the break, but I don't remember seeing him." He turned in his chair and his voice carried to the next table. "Like I said before, the last time I definitely remember seeing him was about ten-twenty-five, talking to Ms. Baldwin here."

  Molly Baldwin looked startled. "Was that Pernell Johnson? I didn't know. I was warning him about the ash stands in the lobby."

  Sigrid held up a forestalling hand. "Please, Ms. Baldwin, hold your comments for now until we can take your statement."

  But Mr. George had nothing more to add. Ten-twenty-five was the last time he had seen Pernell Johnson.

  Alan Knight had been quietly taking notes throughout the interview and he detained Mr. George with one question: "Where in Florida did Johnson live before he came north?"

  " Miami, I believe," said the steward. Ivanovich gave an interrogative rumble,

  ***

  They released Mr. George with the request that he tell no one about Johnson's death except Hester Yates. Madame Ronay told him to send Yates up to Harlem in one of the hotel's cars and to instruct the driver to put himself at Miss Johnson's disposal for the rest of the day.

  As he left, several crime scene technicians entered with satchels and cameras. Theyl ooked around the opulent ballroom with quizzical eyes. "Lieutenant Harald? We heard you've got a body for us."

  Sigrid conferred with them briefly and as they began their professional routine, she returned to question Haines Froelick. The elderly club man continued to doubt if he could help them. He had arrived at the hotel about ten-forty-five that morning and came upstairs as the tournament break was ending.

  Seeing the players stream back and forth from the left hall off the landing, he had become confused and thought at first that they were still using the room in which the explosion had occurred. He had even entered the Bontemps Room and almost walked its full mauve and purple length before he realized his mistake. As he left by the rear door, Mr. Flythe was calling for order. He had wandered through the back halls thoroughly muddled for several minutes-making a brief stop at one of the men's rooms, he added, with a faint air of courtly embarrassment, avoiding Sigrid's eyes, and eventually wound up back at the main landing again. It wast here that he remembered how he and his cousin had turned right at the top of the grand staircase on Friday night, not left.

  He finally reached the red and gilt d'Aubigné Room at perhaps ten past eleven, he told them. No, there was no one inside.

  "Were the lights on?" asked Sigrid.

  "Why, yes. Not as many as now but enough to see that the room was empty. I began to walk back and forth across the floor, working my way toward the rear, when it occurred to me that perhaps I should not be here without permission, so I went back out to the landing to see if I could find someone who could tell me if the schilling had been found, or if anyone minded my looking."

  "And all this time, you saw no one?"

  "Not in here. There were a few people passing back and forth at the foot of the stairs down in the main lobby-guests, of course-but I wanted a member of the staff and I couldn't seem to find one until I crossed the landing and recognized this young lady from Friday night. I hado nly begun to inquire of her when you joined us."

  Sigrid glanced at Alan Knight. He had entered a list of times on her note pad and was now doodling clock faces across the bottom of the sheet.

  "Have you any questions, Lieutenant Knight?"

  "Thank you. Lieutenant Harald," he replied gravely. "Mr.Froelick, when you first opened the door to this room and looked in was the service door back there open or closed?"

  "Closed," Mr. Froelick answered without hesitation.

  "You didn't see the body under the table?"

  "I didn't get that far."

  "And no one was over on this side of the landing either time you came along the hall?"

  "Quite deserted, I assure you."

  Knight returned to his doodling. "No more questions from me."

  Sigrid thanked Mr. Froelick and said he might leave, adding that they would appreciate his discretion for the time being.

  "You won't forget about Zachary's schilling, will you?" he asked anxiously. "The funeral is tomorrow."

  Sigrid promised they would not and Froelick made his adieux to Lucienne Ronay as if he were leaving a garden party that had unfortunately been rained out. Sigrid watched him thoughtfully. Was the courtly Mr. Froelick, she wondered, truly as color-blind as his account would appear to make him?

  20

  WHILE the forensic technicians photographed and made a minute examination of the body and its immediate surroundings, Sigrid and Alan Knight continued with their questions at the front of the room. They tried to send Vassily Ivanovich back to the tournament but the big Russian refused to be dislodged. "First I am speaking to Molly," he growled stubbornly. It was obvious to all that a têta-à-tête with Ivanovich was the last thing Molly Baldwin wanted. Or perhaps the next to last thing. She did not appear anxious to converse with her employer either and was patently relieved when Ivanovich was exiled to the loveseat and Madame Ronay was summoned for her testimony.

  The volatile Frenchwoman moved lightly to the table and smiled up at Lieutenant Knight as he held her chair, but it was an automatic gesture. Her heart didn'ts eem to be in it. Her lovely face had begun to. show signs of strain and was pinched around the mouth and eyes.

  "What is happening here?" she asked them sadly. "Cette bombe Friday night. At first I can think this is a crank. Someone who hates my poor Maintenon or who wants to make some big statement about the politics in his country, but this! Ce Petit Johnson? Non!"

  "No," Sigrid agreed. She rested her elbows on the tabletop with her fingers tented together and watched Knight's pen poised over the note pad as she gathered her thoughts. "Tell us please, Madame, of your movements this morning. When did you arrive on this floor? What did you see or hear?"

  "When did I arrive? The first time it is perhaps ten or fifteen minutes past ten. On Sundays I am very lazy, you understand. I sleep late and I do not rush straight to my office below. It is a good day to poke around, to look in supply closets, to check the kitchens, to make certain all is as it should be, comprenez-vous?"

  They nodded. Interviews with the staffy esterday had given them both a clear idea of La Reine's ways. Not a reign of terror exactly, but something more akin to l'ancient régime intimidation, surprise inspections and unexpected appearances at the m
ost awkward moment.

  "So I enter through there," she said, indicating the service door. Her right hand flashed with diamonds almost as large as the sapphire on her left finger.

  Knight had sketched a rough floor plan of the area and he showed it to them now.

  The grand staircase rose to a wide landing, at the rear of which were a bank of three elevators and the two wide halls leading off in either direction. On one side of the elevators was an inconspicuous door marked 'No admittance,' which opened onto another spacious landing with two more elevators, a large one for freight and another for staff, that used the same shaft as the passenger elevators out front.

  A maze of corridors led to various storerooms, pantries and the service entrances of both the d'Aubigné and Bontemps rooms.

  "How very clever you are," Lucienne Ronay told him. With a pink-enameled fingertip, she traced her route this morning.

  "First, I come down on the staff elevator here, then I go through the halls here. I see no one on this side."

  "Were the lights on?" asked Sigrid.

  – "No, and this makes me très agitée. I turn on lights as I come and then I push open that door là, I see all is as before. You have said we may begin to repair the damage and yet no beginning has been made! I look at all that must be done and then I come out the front door-"

  "Was it locked?"

  "Oui. I must turn the knob and push the buttons so. And before you ask, I will tell you that I left the door unlocked."

  Again her polished fingernail touched Knight's sketch and her rings glittered.

  "I come along the corridor here, and go down the stairs to Miss Baldwin's office, but she is not there. Someone says she is upstairs at this card tournament, so back I come."

  "Immediately?" asked Sigrid. "About ten-thirty?"

  "Perhaps. People are coming from the Bontemps Room as I ascend the stairs. I look through the room, but no Miss Baldwin. I speak to Mr. George about a doughnut I see on the floor and then I give up and go to my office and try to concentrate on letters my secretary has left for me to sign, but my mind will not."