With Intent to Kill

by Hugh Pentecost

  “No one just gets a ride up here with us, Lieutenant,” he said. “No one’s been brought up here who wasn’t okayed by you or Sergeant Lawson. We brought you all up here a few minutes ago, and the last trip before that we brought up the girl and Sergeant Lawson. Before that Mr. Haskell. That’s been it for hours.”

  His cop partner agreed. “Nobody else up or down, Lieutenant,” he said.

  The two who’d been on the fire stairs were equally positive. No one at all had come or gone their way. Somehow you couldn’t listen to these four guys, each assigned to a stranger to work with, and imagine some kind of a sell-out. It just didn’t make sense.

  Hardy, up a dead-end street, wasn’t about to throw in the towel. “He could have been up here before we put the double watch on,” he said. “That was after Haskell was attacked last night and brought up here.” The lieutenant played his last card. “We’ve been convinced all along that T.C. is working for someone else. You want to come clean, Mr. Nelson?” He faced the singer. “Our anonymous caller has been trying to tell us all along that you were it. We’ve thought it was a gag. But you could have been hiding T.C. since last night!”

  “Are you out of your effing mind?” Mancuso shouted at him.

  “Keep it down, Buster,” Lawson said. He was standing right next to Stan Nelson’s bodyguard. “Maybe you better hand over that gun of yours to me.”

  “This is absurd, Lieutenant,” Stan said. “I haven’t hired anyone to do anything for me, except Butch and Johnny who are always with me. Are you still dreaming I had something against Nora Sands, hired someone to polish off her son and her? Whoever your anonymous friend is, he’s been trying to get you to look the other way, away from him. A child could read that maneuver if he had the wit to think at all.”

  “You want to charge us with something, get to it,” Johnny Floyd said. “If not, we’re getting the hell out of here. We don’t have to put up with this baloney!”

  “I think you’d better have some sort of evidence, Lieutenant,” Stan said quietly. “Johnny’s right. We don’t have to put up with this, you know.”

  The phone interrupted this exchange. Chambrun, sitting next to it, answered. “Thanks, Jerry,” he said. “Tell the new crew on the elevator to bring him up here.” He put down the phone and gave Hardy that same secret smile. “It’s my turn to go fishing, Walter,” he said. “I hope I get something more solid on my hook than you have.”

  “What are you talking about?” Hardy said.

  “We’re about to have a chance to try my best guess on for size,” Chambrun said. He got up from his chair and walked over to the front door. “Let me play it my way, Walter.” He opened the door and stood looking at the elevator alcove. I could see the indicator light blinking over the elevator door as the car came up from the lobby. It seemed to take forever. Finally the car reached the roof, the door slipped open, and the Reverend Leonard Martin stepped out into the clear.

  “Oh, there you are, Mr. Chambrun,” he said. “I got your message that arrangements have been made for Nora’s funeral.”

  “Come in,” Chambrun said.

  Martin walked in and stopped, obviously puzzled at finding a crowd there. Chambrun came in behind him and closed the door. “My message, Martin, was that arrangements had been made for a funeral, not Nora’s funeral.”

  “I don’t understand,” Martin said.

  “For your funeral, Mr. Martin, unless I’m very much mistaken,” Chambrun said.

  It was Chambrun’s old magician’s trick. I’ve seen him pull it dozens of times—the rabbit out of the hat, the lady sawed in half who walks away all in one piece. There’s a kind of irritating vanity that goes with it, but I find myself watching with my jaws hanging open like a country yokel, glancing around at others with that little-boy look of “my papa is smarter than your papa.” I could see it coming, and Hardy could see it coming. The lieutenant had been there before and he was braced for it. Chambrun would come up with a bright idea, but it was the lieutenant who would have to prove it out, make it stand up.

  The Reverend Martin didn’t buckle under the first punch.

  “I don’t think I understand, Mr. Chambrun,” he said. “My funeral?”

  “Shall I tell you or will you tell me—how it all was from the start?” Chambrun asked.

  Hardy must have given Sergeant Lawson some kind of signal, because the detective was suddenly directly behind Martin, giving him a quick frisk for a weapon. Martin twitched, like a girl being unexpectedly tickled.

  “Really, Sergeant! What did you expect to find?” he asked.

  Lawson just backed away, giving Hardy the sign that Martin was clean.

  “I could have told the sergeant you wouldn’t be armed, Martin,” Chambrun said. “Your man, T.C., is your weapon, right?”

  “I simply don’t know what you’re talking about,” Martin said.

  “Extraordinary consistency to T.C.’s patterns,” Chambrun said, as though Martin hadn’t spoken. “He evidently convinced himself a long time ago that it was safer to try that old magician’s trick of misdirection rather than to stay silent and out of sight. These anonymous phone calls that have been plaguing the police and the press are an example. ‘Don’t look my way, look at Stan Nelson and his friends.’ He’s not unlike you, Reverend. ‘I am against sin, I am on God’s side. Look somewhere else.’”

  “Are you suggesting that I—I?”

  “I’m not suggesting, I’m charging you with hiring a man to commit murder for you, Martin,” Chambrun said. “I repeat, shall I tell you how it is, or will you tell us?”

  “I don’t know this man T.C. you’re talking about,” Martin said.

  “At least you will admit to a contact with you, because there is a witness—probably several witnesses,” Chambrun said. “T.C., playing his twisted game again, gave you away. At the Private Lives Club, Reverend; T.C. came there to let you know something you needed to know. But he couldn’t resist his passion for misdirection. He chucked you under the chin, insulted you, called you names and got himself thrown out. He thought he was telling the world that he had no contact with you, that he had nothing but contempt for you. Knowing his pattern, that settled things for me. That little drama was supposed to make us look somewhere else. All it does is make me keep looking at you, Martin.”

  “If that man who made a scene with me at the Private Lives Club is your T.C.,” Martin said, “then, yes, I did, of course, see him. But that is the only time I—”

  “There isn’t time for useless denials,” Chambrun said. “I will tell you, then, how it was. For a long time you’ve needed protection from people your New Morality crusade was attacking, people in the world of pornography who wanted you off their backs. You hired a man named Tom Colson to fill that role for you. It doesn’t matter much where you found him. Maybe he came to you. He has some kind of perverted hatred for professional prostitutes. He demonstrated that here in the hotel when he worked for me. He was just the kind of monster you needed, Reverend.”

  “This is preposterous!” Martin said.

  “Your trouble, Martin, is that you cannot really read people. They are black or white to you. You talk about what an extraordinary woman Nora Sands was, but, really, she was just an attractive whore to you. Too attractive, because in the end she tempted you to—how shall I say it?—to fall off the wagon. You had a sexual passage with her.”

  “No!” Little beads of sweat had broken out on Martin’s forehead. “I tell you, Chambrun—”

  “I’m telling you,” Chambrun said. “It amused Nora to persuade you to dive off your sanctimonious platform. But she was extraordinary, a fact you didn’t really understand at all. She didn’t do it to set you up for Zach Thompson’s blackmail factory. That wasn’t her style. It amused her to prove to herself that sexual pleasure was stronger than all your high-sounding moral pronouncements. That’s all she wanted, and you showed her she was right.”

  “This simply isn’t—”

  “Oh, yes it is, Mart
in. The tragedy is that you couldn’t understand why it had happened to you. You could only think that her next move would be to expose you, make the New Morality a laughing stock, put an end to your crusade—which, I’ll concede, may be genuine enough.”

  In that crowded room you could have heard a pin drop except for the voices of the two men. There was a fascination in watching the Reverend Martin begin to crumble.

  “I don’t know where your night of delight took place,” Chambrun said. “Perhaps I should say ‘morning of delight’ because Nora wouldn’t have taken you anywhere until after the club closed. I suppose it was to one of Zach Thompson’s places. She wouldn’t have taken you to her apartment because the boy, Eddie, was there. So you assumed, when your ‘sinning’ was over, that she had evidence that would destroy you, perhaps pictures, perhaps a sound tape. She didn’t have, because, as I say, that wasn’t her style. But you had to make sure, and T.C. was more than willing to help you.”

  Martin opened his mouth as if he wanted to keep protesting, but no sound came out. He was a man looking back at a nightmare.

  “Friday night, when you knew Nora was at work, you and T.C. went to her apartment. T.C. is a genius with locks, I suspect. You got into her apartment and you began to look for the ‘evidence’ you were sure she had. You hadn’t done enough research on the boy’s habits, unfortunately. That night he had lost his key, and he came up the fire escape to get in, and you and T.C. were there. Perhaps he listened to you talking, perhaps you were threatening to silence Nora. That would be T.C.’s way of thinking. The boy heard, started to get away to warn his mother, made some kind of sound you heard. T.C. ran down inside the house, ran around the outside of the alley, and caught up with Eddie Sands as he climbed off the fire escape. Maybe the boy shouted some kind of threat at him, or maybe he just opened his mouth to yell for help. Whichever, T.C. shot him in the face.”

  Martin made a gesture with his manicured hands like someone warding off a swarm of bees.

  “You are just coming up behind T.C. in the alley when this happens. What to do? When the boy is found every contact of Nora’s will be questioned. You, who have been spending night after night at the Private Lives Club in her company, are bound to be questioned. The devious mind of T.C. came up with a better answer. The boy’s body could be planted so that someone else who had been closely involved with Nora would be involved. Stan Nelson was a perfect target. T.C. felt he could plant the body here, he knew the hotel as if it was his own home. I suspect the boy’s body was put in his car—or yours, Reverend. T.C. came here, went up to the Health Club where an old friend of his was on the evening shift. He sold Tony Camargo on something—perhaps that he could clear himself of the old charge. Tony left T.C. alone in the office and the impression of the keys was taken. T.C. had no reason to suppose his name had been put on the clipboard sheet. First misstep. He goes down to the telethon in the ballroom where the place is crowded with hundreds of screamers. He gets Stan to autograph one of those green pledge cards. Stan doesn’t pay much attention to those autograph seekers, but if he had looked right at T.C. it wouldn’t have meant anything to him.”

  “Not even Haskell’s drawing meant anything,” Stan said.

  “So T.C got his keys made, planted the autographed card on the boy’s body, waited his time. Maybe he had the body in the laundry bag or hamper, moved it into the rear service elevator and up to the Health Club on the service elevator, dumped the body in the pool, and walked away from the whole thing. When Carl Hulman found the body the next morning, and T.C. knew exactly when that would be, the anonymous phone calls began. Who else but T.C.?

  “Time passes. The next thing T.C. had to do was get back into Nora’s apartment to find the evidence you hadn’t discovered the night before. But he had to wait to silence Tony Camargo first. He knew how Tony came and went, waited for him at the basement loading platform, and finished him off. Then he raced back downtown to search Nora’s apartment. Unfortunately for her she came home before he was finished. He was onto violence in high gear. He beat her unconscious. He meant to kill her, but he had to leave before he was sure. Perhaps there’d been enough noise to rouse people in the building. He gets in touch with you, Reverend, and you go to Jane Street. You ‘find’ Nora knowing that you will find her. You play the role of honest citizen and call the police. Nora is taken to St. Vincent’s. T.C. has to be sure, he goes there too, and finds himself sitting right across from Mark Haskell in the waiting room. Mark should know him, but apparently doesn’t. T.C. takes off when Mark goes to the phone, but he knows Mark will remember, sooner or later. He hides in the linen closet on the second floor of this hotel, knowing Mark will come to his apartment sooner or later. When he does, T.C. attacks him. Fortunately Alec Watson turned up at the crucial moment. Have I left something out, Mr. Martin?”

  Martin stared, almost blankly, at the Man.

  “What was he doing up here on the roof tonight?” Hardy asked.

  “Safest place for him to hide,” Chambrun said. “Since we thought there was no way he could get up here no one would look for him here. He’s never left the hotel since he attacked Mark last night. Couldn’t risk it. We had the whole place covered like a tent.”

  “You—you cannot prove one word of this fantasy, Mr. Chambrun,” Martin said, in a shaken voice.

  Chambrun gave him a sardonic smile. “I don’t have to prove it, Mr. Martin. That’s Lieutenant Hardy’s job. But since it’s the only story that will fit all the facts, it will prove out in time. T.C. may be helpful when we talk to him, however.”

  “If we talk to him,” Hardy said.

  “We’ll talk to him, Walter,” Chambrun said. “He can’t have left the hotel. Every possible exit is covered. He came up here by way of the elevator and he left that way.”

  “No sir, Mr. Chambrun!” Welles, the elevator operator, cried out. “He never rode the elevator, I swear to that!”

  “I said ‘by way of the elevator,’ Dick; I didn’t say in the elevator. He knew, from working here, that the doors on each floor can be opened from inside the shaft. He rode the roof of the car. When it came up here he clung to grillwork inside the shaft. When the car went down he let himself into the elevator alcove. But he had bad luck. He walked right into Linda Zazkowski. She screams loud enough to wake the dead. He had to get safe in a hurry after he slugged her, and so he climbed back into the shaft. He’s gone down somewhere into the hotel by now. He’ll be found, Walter. It may take time, but he’ll be found. I suggest a quick search of the Health Club.”

  “It’s been searched and locked up,” Sergeant Lawson said.

  “Do I have to remind you, Sergeant, that T.C. has keys to those locks?” Chambrun said. “Now, I’ve got a hotel to run and Mark has to get the press off our backs.”

  Chambrun was the Cheshire cat again, and I followed him out of the elevator alcove.

  “It had to be Martin,” Chambrun said, as we waited for the elevator. “Nelson and Company would never have made those anonymous telephone calls drawing attention to themselves. Zachary Thompson is a creep, but a very shrewd creep. He would never hire a psycho like T.C. to work for him. His business is too touchy, too delicately balanced. It had to be Martin, who just didn’t read Nora Sands correctly. Poor girl, she finally paid in spades for her fun.”

  The elevator arrived, with a relief operator and a relief cop as its crew. We started down for the second floor.

  “Can Hardy prove out your theory?” I asked.

  “Trust Walter,” Chambrun said. “He’ll find the car in which Eddie Sands’ body was carried from Jane Street to the Beaumont. There will be blood in it. The poor kid bled his life away! He’ll find the bullet that killed Eddie in the alley between houses on Jane Street. He’ll find the place in which Martin was tempted to lose his virginity. Too bad, since he couldn’t resist temptation, he couldn’t have enjoyed it—instead of starting T.C. on a murder spree.”

  We left the elevator at the second floor and headed for Chambrun’s of
fice. I remember glancing over my shoulder at the linen room. The last time I’d passed it someone had been waiting there for me. I found myself walking very close to Chambrun.

  Chambrun turned the knob on his office door and found it locked. He looked irritated.

  “Ruysdale is supposed to be here,” he said.

  The handsome Miss Ruysdale was rarely not where he expected her to be. He found his office key and opened the door. Miss Ruysdale’s office was brightly lighted, but no Miss Ruysdale.

  Chambrun walked briskly to the door of his own office, opened it, and came to such an abrupt stop that I actually bumped into him from behind. I started to turn back but I was stopped by a voice inside the office.

  “Don’t try, Haskell, if you want the lady to have a head that works!”

  Miss Ruysdale was sitting in a chair, facing the doorway in which he stood. A wide piece of adhesive tape was fastened across her mouth. Her hands were apparently tied behind the back of the chair. I saw shapely ankles tied to its front legs. Betsy Ruysdale was trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, and standing just behind her, baseball cap pushed back on his head, was T.C. He was holding what looked like a cannon to the lady’s head.

  “Second safest place in the hotel,” T.C. said, his teeth bared in that arrogant smile. “Plus I need your help, Chambrun.”

  “Help?”

  “To get out of this labyrinth, of course,” T.C. said. “You’re the one person who can provide me with a one-way street to safety. I know how precious this babe is to you, friend. It didn’t take me long when I worked here to find out where you spend your leisure time, and what kind of leisure it is!” He laughed.

  “How do you expect me to go about it?” Chambrun asked.

  “You’re the one with the answers to that,” T.C. said. “It better be quick and clean, because the lady will go with me until I’m satisfied there are no tricks.”

  Miss Ruysdale’s eyes swiveled from Chambrun to me and back again.

  “If I’m going to be any use to you, Colson, I’ve got to get to the phones on my desk,” Chambrun said, sounding quite casual.