“There was a Beethoven symphony on the stereo system. Chambrun’s prints on it.”
“He—he always plays music when he’s alone,” Ruysdale said.
“So it comes down to this,” Lewis said. “He announced to the switchboard that he was going to bed, but he didn’t. He went out on his own, or he was persuaded by someone to go out in a nonviolent fashion.”
“At the point of a gun is not nonviolent,” I said.
“That’s only a supposition, Mr. Haskell. We have no way of knowing that’s so. How big a ransom would you say kidnappers might ask, Miss Ruysdale?”
“Mr. Chambrun is moderately well off,” Ruysdale said, “but the owners could go very high.”
“And would they?”
“I think,” Ruysdale said, “Mr. Chambrun is more valuable to their investment than the real estate.”
“Mr. Garrity assures me they’ve received no demand of any kind,” Lewis said.
Ruysdale and I looked at each other, helplessly. No one had received any demands.
“One last thing,” Lewis said. “There’s a private elevator leading up to the penthouse?”
“It’s one of a regular bank of elevators that goes to that wing of the hotel,” I said, “but it is only used by Chambrun, or one of us going to the penthouse to see him for some reason.”
“‘One of us’?”
“Miss Ruysdale, Jerry Dodd, the security chief, and sometimes I use it if the boss sends for me.”
“If Chambrun wanted to leave the hotel, unseen, he could take that elevator down to the basement, couldn’t he?” Lewis asked. “There must be ways of getting out to the street without encountering anyone, if you know your way around.”
“The boss certainly knows his way around,” I said.
“That elevator, according to Hardy,” Lewis said, “was found at the penthouse level. Suggesting that he didn’t use it to go down.”
“It would be simple enough for someone to make it look that way,” I said. “You ride the car down to the basement. When the doors open, you press the penthouse button, holding the doors open, and step out. The doors close, the car shoots up to the roof again. I’ve done it many times, not necessarily from the basement, you understand. I’d go to see the boss, he’d send me to see someone on one of the lower floors. I’d use the private elevator, go down to the tenth floor, say, and do what I told you; send the car back up to the penthouse so it would be there when the boss wanted it.”
“So the elevator tells us nothing,” Lewis said.
“I don’t see that it does,” I said.
Lewis shook his head, “There’s been an all points bulletin out on him since early this morning,” he said. “He’s not a movie star, but thousands of people must know him by sight. Thirty years of traffic in and out of this hotel. Not a word from anywhere that anyone has seen him.”
“He isn’t circulating where anyone would see him,” Ruysdale said, “or he would have been in touch long ago.”
Lewis nodded. “I don’t like to be a purveyor of gloom,” he said, “but there is nothing about this so far that suggests a classic kidnapping-for-ransom. An enemy? A revenge for something? Some kind of nut? A discontented dishwasher?” When neither of us commented he said: “You seem to have had enough violence here today to last for a lifetime.”
It looked as if there were a million dollars worth of flowers in the main ballroom. As I’ve said, the women looked spectacular. Shirley and I danced a little, but we weren’t enjoying it as much as we should. People kept stopping us to ask me questions about the murder. A little before midnight the drummer in the band that was playing gave with a long roll that presaged an announcement.
Out onto the bandstand came Claude Duval, his bald head glittering in the light from the crystal chandeliers. He was wearing a turtle-neck shirt, a gaudy plaid sports jacket, and black glasses. This was in marked contrast to the black and white ties, the evening gowns and jewels. Before he could speak, his name went around the room like a grass fire, and people started to applaud. Finally they were willing to listen.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I’m sure that most of you know that your ball committee and the hotel management have graciously permitted me to shoot a portion of my new film here, tonight.”
Applause.
“Janet Parker and Robert Randle will join the dancers on the floor followed by a movie camera. It is my hope that all of you will keep dancing, as though nothing unusual was happening. It will only interrupt your pleasure for ten or twelve minutes. In that time there will be unusually bright lights focused on the actors and on those of you on the fringe of the action. I hope you will not look startled or blink your eyes. In a few months you may be seen on screens all over the United States and Europe.” He laughed. “I’m sure you wouldn’t enjoy seeing yourselves making funny faces. Thank you for your indulgence and for taking part in this adventure.” More applause. He evidently had something more to say. “I’m happy to tell you that the producer of my film Strategies is making a very generous contribution to the Cancer Fund as a way of expressing his thanks to you.”
They handled it very well. The band began to play again, and after two or three minutes, the rubber-tired camera moved out onto the floor. Blinding lights focused on an area around it, and into that light came Janet Parker and Randle, dancing together. I hadn’t been aware that they’d put in an appearance until they danced into camera range. A murmur of delight swept the room and the dancing couples crowded in on them.
Duval’s voice came over some kind of loud speaker. “Please, ladies and gentlemen. Please! Don’t focus your attention so noticeably on the actors. They are just another couple at a ball. We will stop the music for just a moment and then start again.”
The music stopped. Makeup people rushed onto the floor to be certain the actors were okay. I saw a man blot at perspiration on Robert Randle’s face with tissues. The lovely Janet Parker nodded and smiled at someone she knew, and then she caught sight of me. She smiled and her lips moved. I couldn’t hear what she said but she made it quite clear. “Thanks!”
I hadn’t done anything for her. If she was thanking me for keeping Mayberry out of her hair, her thanks belonged to Chambrun, one of his last acts before he disappeared.
The music started again and Shirley and I danced, self-consciously avoiding any interest in the two actors in the camera’s eye. Eventually the music stopped and the dancers applauded the music as they would in a normal break. The two actors slipped away, surrounded by film people, and this time the applause was louder and for them. Garrity had been right. The ball guests had been delighted with the diversion.
Half an hour later Janet Parker and Randle were seated at a table in the Trapeze Bar which is located on the mezzanine above the lobby. Everybody in New York seemed to be trying to crowd into the bar which wouldn’t hold over a hundred people seated at tables. Some of Jerry’s people, pulled off the search for Chambrun, had to, physically, bar people from forcing their way in. This scene took longer to shoot, because it involved dialogue between the actors. In addition to the cameras were microphones, hung from a boom located over their heads. Duval was very much involved in this. He talked with the actors, backed off, signaled to the camera and light people. The actors would begin the scene, which was inaudible to Shirley and me, located at the far end of the room. Duval would rush forward, waving his arms. There was something wrong with the take. More talk to the actors and the camera man, more refreshing of makeup by the experts. There were at least ten takes before Duval, now the star of the evening from the onlookers’ point of view, was finally satisfied.
I remember glancing at my watch. It was after two A.M. Chambrun had now been missing for twenty-four hours.
Shirley and I drifted away toward my apartment. It was not a night for love. Shirley understood that love-making, even sleep, were not in the cards for me.
“I’d like to stay in your apartment in case you need me,” she said. “I brought a change
of clothes when I thought something else was on the schedule.”
“It would be nice to know you’re here,” I said.
Ruysdale was on my mind. She was living in a private hell, I knew. I changed out of my evening clothes into a sports jacket and slacks, kissed Shirley, and went off down the hall to Chambrun’s office.
Ruysdale was there as I knew she would be. I was shocked by her appearance. She looked like a ghost of herself. She was sitting at Chambrun’s desk, the telephone only inches away.
“In case he calls,” she said, and I knew she no longer believed it was going to happen.
“You’ve got to get some rest,” I said. I tried to make it sound light. “There’s another day coming and we have a hotel to run.”
It was the wrong note for her. That was always Chambrun’s phrase in times of trouble—“a hotel to run.” Tears welled up into her eyes.
“The filming went well,” I told her. “I think Garrity was right. It took people’s minds off the Kauffman thing.”
“Hardy has nothing,” she said in a dull voice. “He’s traced down people who called Laura Kauffman during the evening, three or four who went to Twenty-one C to see her. All business about the ball. There were calls from outside he isn’t able to check. Mayberry went to see her, but we know that. He went to try to get her help in persuading Pierre to change his mind about the filming. Duval talked to her on the phone, same objective. Mayberry, who saw her, says she was fine, everything perfectly normal. Duval says she sounded undisturbed. He had never met her or seen her, only the phone call, so his testimony doesn’t mean much. There’s a gap between the time Mayberry left her and found Pierre waiting in the hall, and an hour and a half later when Jim Kauffman found her. No one appears to have talked to her in that time. No phone calls. Elevator operators don’t remember anyone unusual going to twenty-one. One of them remembered taking Jim Kauffman up, at about twenty to one. By the time Kauffman left two of the elevators were on self-service. He got one of those when he left. Whoever got to Laura managed it without attracting any attention.”
“Coming or going,” I said.
Ruysdale nodded. She covered her haggard face with hands that shook.
“You’ve got to get some rest,” I said. “I’ll stay here by the phone.”
“Perhaps the couch,” she said. “If you’ll stay—”
Chambrun has a dressing room and bath that opens off the office. I went there and found a topcoat hanging in his closet. I brought it back, persuaded Ruysdale to lie down on the couch, and covered her with it. Then I took up the post at the desk, the telephone at my elbow.
I watched Ruysdale and, after a few restless moments, mercifully, she slept.
I slept too, after a while, my face buried on my arms on the desk. We’d all had just a little more than we could take. I was awakened by Ruysdale pushing me roughly away from the phone. There is no bell, only a little red light that blinks. She had seen it in her sleep.
“Miss Ruysdale speaking,” she said. And then she cried out in a loud voice. “Pierre!”
I had the brains to switch on the squawk box on the desk so that I could hear the conversation.
“Ruysdale, listen to me very carefully,” Chambrun said, his voice cold and flat
“Pierre, are you all right? Where are you?”
“Listen to me, Ruysdale. There’s no time for explanations. Are you listening?”
“Yes, Mr. Chambrun.” She was suddenly the efficient secretary. “Mark is here with me, listening on the squawk box.”
“In my penthouse there is the wall safe,” Chambrun said. “You have the combination to it.”
“Yes.”
“Now listen carefully,” Chambrun said. “In that safe is a time bomb, set to go off at nine o’clock”
I glanced at my wrist watch. It was a few minutes after eight. We had slept for about four hours, for God sake. Sunlight was pouring through the office windows.
“You are to call the bomb squad. Tell them they have less than an hour. You’re not to do anything yourself, Ruysdale. You could blow yourself and the top of the hotel to pieces.”
“Pierre! Where are you?”
“Somewhere in the wilds of New Jersey,” Chambrun said. “No chance for me to get there. Now, move, Ruysdale!”
“Pierre, are you all right?”
“That is a laughable question,” Chambrun said, and hung up.
Buy Death After Breakfast Now!
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1975 by Judson Philips
Cover design by Biel Parklee
978-1-4804-4634-2
This 2013 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
www.mysteriouspress.com
www.openroadmedia.com
EBOOKS BY HUGH PENTECOST
FROM MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
AND OPEN ROAD MEDIA
Available wherever ebooks are sold
Otto Penzler, owner of the Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan, founded the Mysterious Press in 1975. Penzler quickly became known for his outstanding selection of mystery, crime, and suspense books, both from his imprint and in his store. The imprint was devoted to printing the best books in these genres, using fine paper and top dust-jacket artists, as well as offering many limited, signed editions.
Now the Mysterious Press has gone digital, publishing ebooks through MysteriousPress.com.
MysteriousPress.com offers readers essential noir and suspense fiction, hard-boiled crime novels, and the latest thrillers from both debut authors and mystery masters. Discover classics and new voices, all from one legendary source.
FIND OUT MORE AT
WWW.MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
FOLLOW US:
@emysteries and Facebook.com/MysteriousPressCom
MysteriousPress.com is one of a select group of publishing partners of Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
Open Road Integrated Media is a digital publisher and multimedia content company. Open Road creates connections between authors and their audiences by marketing its ebooks through a new proprietary online platform, which uses premium video content and social media.
Videos, Archival Documents, and New Releases
Sign up for the Open Road Media newsletter and get news delivered straight to your inbox.
Sign up now at
www.openroadmedia.com/newsletters
FIND OUT MORE AT
WWW.OPENROADMEDIA.COM
FOLLOW US:
@openroadmedia and
Facebook.com/OpenRoadMedia
Time of Terror Page 25
