Bargain with Death

by Hugh Pentecost

  Carlson was sitting on the edge of the bed, bent forward as if he had a stomach ache. I reported to Chambrun what had happened at the phone booth on Fifty-ninth Street.

  “Anything else?” he asked me.

  For the first time in all the years I’d worked for him, I lied to him. Without thinking about it, I had decided to obstruct justice for a little while, at least. I told Chambrun there was nothing. The black lace things could have nothing to do with Trudy’s death, I told myself. Trudy had, for the moment, taken priority over J. W. Sassoon, I told myself.

  Chambrun put his hand on Carlson’s shoulder. “You’d better go down to my office and wait for a phone call,” he said. “You’re not any more use here.”

  “Thank God!” Carlson said, and got unsteadily to his feet.

  “Go down with him, Mark. Have Ruysdale set him up in my office,” Chambrun said. “Then make the rounds downstairs. Everyone’s been alerted. We’re still looking for Mark Zorich and James Olin—if they are two people. The maid who knows Olin by sight is stationed in the lobby.”

  “Anything new here?” I asked him.

  Chambrun was still wearing that angry, stone face. “A coincidence that may become more than a coincidence when it’s tested out,” he said. “The girl was shot with the same caliber bullet that killed Michael Brent two years ago. Ballistics may show it’s from the same gun. Since Hardy couldn’t identify the owner of the gun then, it’s not much more than a curiosity now. Get moving, you two. That phone call may come any minute.”

  Carlson and I started for the door.

  “The money, you idiots!” Chambrun shouted at us.

  We’d been prepared to leave half a million dollars lying around like old laundry. I picked up the bag, surprised that it didn’t seem heavier. I thought of half a million dollars being a mountain of gold.

  Carlson had nothing to say on the way down to the office. He still seemed to be in shock, reaching out ahead of him as he walked, like a blind man.

  Miss Ruysdale was on the job when we got there—long after her regular hours. She was always on the job when she was needed. We took Carlson into Chambrun’s office and pointed out to him which of the four phones on Chambrun’s desk was 232-6668.

  “There’s no ring, Mr. Carlson,” Ruysdale explained. “Just a little red light on the base of the instrument shows. None of the other phones will light up. They’re routed through me.”

  I couldn’t be sure Carlson heard her, took it in. He sat down in Chambrun’s chair, staring straight ahead at the wall.

  “The minute you get a call with instructions,” I said, “have Miss Ruysdale connect you with the boss.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Carlson! Are you listening?”

  He lifted his bloodshot eyes to me, and two tears ran down his pale cheeks. “You saw her!” he said. “Oh, my God!” He looked at Ruysdale. “Thank God you didn’t, Miss Ruysdale. No one should have had to see her. It will stay with me until I die.”

  Ruysdale’s answer was to go over to the sideboard and pour him a stiff slug of Jack Daniels on the rocks. She brought it back to him. “You’ve understood the instructions about the phone and what to do after you get the call, Mr. Carlson?” she asked in a matter-of-fact voice. There was no vestige of pity or sympathy. She was right, of course. All that was needed to drop him off the deep end was sympathy.

  “Johnny’s life may depend on your making sense,” I said.

  “I know,” he said dully, staring at the wall once more.

  Ruysdale and I went out to her office.

  “You better keep an eye on him,” I said. “He may not even answer the god-damned thing if the light blinks.”

  She nodded and pointed to the phones on her desk. “It shows out here,” she said. “I’ll know if he doesn’t pick up.”

  Somehow I wanted to share what was on my mind with her. She was so much wiser than most of us. But I couldn’t risk the contempt I was sure she’d feel for me for ever thinking of protecting Valerie Brent ahead of Chambrun. I didn’t tell her, and I started downstairs feeling like a noble heel.

  Valerie and Clarke were still at their table in the main dining room. I set sail across the room and they saw me coming.

  “You’re just in time to join us in a brandy,” Clarke said.

  I decided I could use one, and I sat down with them.

  “Chambrun’s chef is, as usual, super-excellent,” Clarke said.

  I looked at them, cheerful and relaxed, and realized that unless they were the prize actors of all time, they didn’t know about Johnny’s kidnapping or about Trudy. They’d left Chambrun’s office before Carlson told us about the kidnapping; they’d spent the last couple of hours having cocktails in the Trapeze and then having dinner here. If they’d known, they’d have been bombarding me with questions.

  I took a sip of the brandy the waiter brought me before I let them have both barrels. Valerie seemed to freeze where she was sitting when I got to Trudy. She didn’t need to be reminded of the similarity to Michael Brent’s murder. I mentioned the thing about the similarity of the bullets.

  Emory Clarke listened with a scowling intentness, his mobile eyebrows moving in shock and surprise as I made point after point.

  “It’s unbelievable,” Valerie whispered when I’d finished.

  Clarke cupped his hands around his brandy glass. “It’s part of a pattern that most people believe is unbelievable,” he said. “When you learn the reason for it, you’ll find it fits a pattern. What does Trudy Woodson have to do with a big business power struggle? She knew something—perhaps something she had no idea was important. Perhaps she didn’t even know she knew it!”

  Valerie’s voice was unsteady. “The thing I never understood about Michael,” she said, “was the cutting up—afterwards.”

  Clarke shrugged. “Trademark,” he suggested.

  “Whose?” I asked.

  Clarke reached out a big, freckled hand and put it down gently over one of Valerie’s. “It wasn’t meant to mean anything to you, Val,” he said, “any more than the Woodson girl’s mutilation is meant to mean anything to us, sitting here at this table. But it means something to someone.”

  “It just doesn’t make sense!” Valerie said. “Senseless brutality! Some kind of maniac, I always have thought.”

  “A signature for someone who knows how to read it,” Clarke said. He fished a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it, his eyes narrowed against the smoke.

  I took another sip of my brandy. It burned going down. I had to get to my nobility.

  “I’ve got to get back on the job,” I said, “but I have something to tell you, Mrs. Brent.”

  “Val,” she said.

  “Val.” I took another sip, put my glass down, and took the plunge. “There are some details about J. W. Sassoon’s death that haven’t been made public. Some things were found in his room—women’s things. A negligee, underwear, slippers.”

  Clarke laughed. “J.W. had himself a girl? Now that’s news!”

  Valerie didn’t laugh. Her hazel eyes were fixed on me, widened, I thought.

  “The things that were found were brand-new,” I said. “They were bought just yesterday at a place called Charlene’s Boutique on Park Avenue. Hardy has a witness who will testify that you bought them, Val. Hardy doesn’t know it yet, but this witness pointed you out to me a few minutes ago. I am supposed to tell Hardy. I—I wanted to tell you first.”

  She seemed to be about to say something, but it didn’t happen at once. Clarke was staring at her, his bushy eyebrows raised. Cigarette ash dribbled down onto his necktie, unnoticed.

  “There was a black negligee, black bra and panties, and a pair of black slippers,” I said.

  Val looked at me straight on, not faltering. “I bought exactly these things at Charlene’s yesterday,” she said.

  I felt deflated. I’d wanted her to deny it. I’d wanted her to make a liar out of the saleswoman.

  “But they were stolen from me,” V
alerie said.

  “Stolen?” Clarke’s voice was sharp.

  “It was a beautiful day,” she said. I had the uncomfortable feeling that those wide eyes were studying me, trying to guess whether I was buying. “I bought those things at Charlene’s and walked over from Park to Fifth Avenue—just across the way from the Beaumont. The sunshine was warm and pleasant. The air seemed less polluted than usual. There were flowers in the park—and children playing. Two years ago Michael and I used to sit there in the park talking about his work, and about us, and about life in general. Somehow, yesterday, I wanted to relive one of those moments. I went into the park and sat down on a bench, the package from Charlene’s beside me. I was watching some kids throwing a frisbee back and forth. I—I was thinking about Michael and the job I’d set myself to do. Then—then someone came up behind me, grabbed my package, and took off! I—I was startled. I turned round on the bench and saw a tall man racing off with my package. He was running away from me—back to me. I never saw his face—only a bright red and yellow sports shirt and white buckskin shoes.”

  She stopped, her eyes pleading with me to believe her.

  “You reported it?” Clarke asked. He was a practical man.

  “I looked around for a policeman,” Val said, “but, as usual when you want one, there wasn’t one.”

  “But you eventually found one and reported it?” Clarke persisted. He wanted her clean just as I wanted her clean.

  “No,” she said. It was almost a whisper. “I—I just didn’t want to get involved in all the red tape, Emory. Filling out a complaint, perhaps having to appear in court. I was angry, but the loss wasn’t that important.”

  “Did you tell anybody about it—yesterday?” Clarke asked.

  “Who would I tell? Why would I tell? I mean, it was an irritating thing, but not life and death.”

  “Hardy will have to make something of it,” Clarke said. More ashes fell down the front of his suit.

  “I have to tell him,” I said.

  “I understand that, Mark,” Val said. “What I don’t understand is how those things wound up in J. W.’s room.”

  “Your man in the sports shirt wasn’t a casual thief,” Clarke said. “He knew who you were, what was in the package. He intended to frame you. Had you been aware that anyone was following you?”

  “No!” Val looked at me. “You believe me, don’t you, Mark?”

  I must have been registering doubt and concern. Her story was too pat, too unprovable. “What matters is whether Hardy believes you,” I said.

  2

  I FOUND HARDY AND Chambrun still in Johnny-baby’s room. Poor little Trudy was gone, along with the Medical Examiner’s crew, who would probably cut her up some more performing an autopsy, digging for the bullet in her brain.

  I told Hardy that his saleswoman had identified Val as the buyer of the things at Charlene’s. I didn’t tell him that I’d forewarned Val or what her story was. I was still not being quite honest. I made it sound as though I’d run into the woman after I’d taken Carlson down to Chambrun’s office, not before. I didn’t say that in so many words, but since I hadn’t reported it before, they took it for granted—I thought!

  Chambrun was looking at Hardy, a tight little smile moving the corners of his angry mouth. “You expected that, Hardy?” he asked.

  The Lieutenant shrugged. “You play all the angles. Mrs. Brent is here in the hotel, out to ‘get’ Sassoon. She is the kind of woman who would shop at Charlene’s. It’s a high-class joint, expensive. It was worth checking out. Funny, but in a way I hoped it wouldn’t.”

  “There may be an explanation,” I said.

  Hardy’s tired eyes looked straight at me. “Is that what she told you?” he asked.

  I think I stammered, “Told me?”

  “You’re the worst goddam liar in the whole United States,” Hardy said, not angry.

  I didn’t dare look at Chambrun, but he was looking at me. I could feel his eyes burn. “You warned her, Mark?” he asked.

  No answer was an answer.

  “I’m not psychic,” Hardy said, still quite amiable. “The lobby is crawling with my men. They saw you talk to Mrs. Wilson, the woman from the boutique, and they saw her point out Mrs. Brent to you. You came upstairs and didn’t say anything to us. I figured you’d turned romantic and noble on us.” He chuckled. “Then I just heard you’d been talking to her in the dining room. What’s her story?”

  “She admits she bought the things at Charlene’s,” I said, still not looking at Chambrun. “She was sitting in the park with the package beside her on the bench, watching some kids throwing a frisbee, when some guy snatched the package and ran. She didn’t report it because she could afford the loss and didn’t want to get involved in all the red tape of a complaint.”

  “Could be, I suppose,” Hardy said.

  “Did she try to stop the thief?” Chambrun asked.

  I made myself look at him. “I’m sorry, boss,” I said. “I’m afraid Mrs. Brent was a little heady for me. She’s been through such a lot. I—I don’t know if she tried to stop the thief. She says he was wearing a loud sports shirt and white bucks. She says she didn’t see his face.”

  I think I expected Chambrun to point dramatically to the door, tell me to pack my things and leave the hotel forever. Instead there was the tiniest quirk of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “It’s been a rather sexy day for you, friend,” he said. “Perhaps when the children are playing with their friends again tomorrow, they might remember having seen something. It would help to confirm.”

  Hardy grinned at me. “Try to play on our team, will you, Mark?” The grin faded. “Evidently the kidnappers haven’t called back. No word from Carlson or Miss Ruysdale.” He looked at Chambrun, as if for help. “I keep trying to fit the two murders and the kidnapping into one frame. It won’t work, somehow.”

  Chambrun had turned bleak again. “Michael Brent was shot and cut up two years ago,” he said. “Tonight this girl, shot and cut up. Same method, same signposts. J. W. Sassoon wasn’t shot or cut up—killed in an entirely different way. Johnny Sassoon may have been kidnapped, may have been killed. Different technique again. It looks to me as if the Beaumont has been turned into a battleground for two opposing forces. Well—” and he drew a deep breath—“I won’t have it!”

  “We should be getting fingerprint reports back from Washington soon—the ones we couldn’t identify in Sassoon’s room,” Hardy said. “Meanwhile, there are still the two men, Zorich and Olin, to find. What do you make out of the kidnappers’ silence?”

  “Either the person Mark heard breathing into the telephone wasn’t one of them, or Trudy Woodson’s murder made some difference to them. After all, they had named her as the go-between to deliver the money. Change of plans. Who knows?” Chambrun took a cigarette from his case and lit it. “I’ll cooperate in every way I can, Hardy, but by God, I’m going to set up my own defenses here in the hotel. I have fifteen hundred guests to protect—and a reputation I cherish. Any more of this and we’ll have a mass panic on our hands.”

  The kind of panic Chambrun was talking about was likely to hit the fan the next morning when the news of Trudy Woodson’s murder leaked to the media. J. W. Sassoon’s death had been reported as a heart attack, nothing to distress any of the hotel guests. But the gory details of Trudy’s murder would have the place in an uproar.

  It was a little after nine o’clock when Chambrun and I got back to his office. Miss Ruysdale reported no in-calls on the private line. Carlson, she reported, seemed to be in a kind of trance. She had looked in on him from time to time and he just sat at Chambrun’s desk staring at the wall. Mr. Gamayel, the Iraqi, had called half a dozen times to find out if there was any news of his precious documents.

  We went into Chambrun’s office and found Carlson just as Ruysdale had described him. He didn’t seem to hear us come in. He sat staring at the wall like a man in a dream. He didn’t move until Chambrun touched him on the shoulder.

&
nbsp; “Oh, it’s you,” he said. He waved vaguely at the desk. “Nothing.”

  “What you need is some rest—some sleep,” Chambrun said.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Carlson said. “I’d see her the minute I closed my eyes. I may see her for the rest of my life. God help me, Mr. Chambrun, I’ve got to tell someone. I—I may be responsible for what happened to that child. I keep trying to tell myself I’m not. And yet—” His voice trailed off.

  “How could you possibly be responsible?” Chambrun asked very quietly. Carlson was so close to smashing into a thousand pieces he had to be handled gently.

  “It’s all so complex,” Carlson said. “I’ve spent my entire adult life working for J. W. Sassoon. It’s like operating in a maze. You walk into it, a reasonably innocent young man, and you find yourself in the center of undreamed-of complications, maneuverings, bottom dealings, power plays. It’s like a giant war game with big battles around every corner.”

  “About Trudy Woodson and why you think you may be responsible for what happened to her?” Chambrun said, still very quiet.

  “Homer Woodson, Trudy’s father, was president of one of J.W.’s companies,” Carlson said. “Woodson Tool and Die. He’s been gone for three years—lung cancer. His wife died long before that. Trudy was left alone—well off, but without any family. J. W. took her under his wing, in a kind of way. She had the run of his house. She met Johnny. I guess she’d known him long before that, but they were suddenly close. Knowing Trudy, I’d guess in-bed close. Johnny’s attractive, you know, even though he doesn’t seem to be overbright. Trudy was very modern. She didn’t want marriage, but she stuck to Johnny like glue. She made it clear he was her man.”

  “Johnny’s in serious trouble,” Chambrun said, sharper. “I think it’s important you get to the point, Carlson.”

  Carlson reached for the empty glass on the desk. I didn’t wait for instructions, but took it over to the sideboard and built him another Jack Daniels on the rocks. I brought it back to him and he took a thirsty swallow of it.

  “You must have wondered why J.W. moved into the hotel, Chambrun, when he had a comfortable house on upper Park Avenue,” Carlson said.