Murder Round the Clock

by Hugh Pentecost

  "I came as quickly as I could," he said. "I take it from the way your man Dodd slipped me up here in a private elevator that the police are waiting for me."

  "They are," Chambrun said. He wasn't the deferential hotel manager at this moment. He held trump cards in any game with the senator, and he didn't choose to be maneuvered into the image of a fawning servant.

  The senator sat down in the green leather chair by Cham-brun's desk and wiped his florid face with a handkerchief. "How much do they know?"

  "They know that Fisher was a friend of yours. That he registered here with a letter of introduction from you— which, by the way, was naughty of you, Senator. You know damn well I'd have chucked him out on his ear if I'd known he was a private detective. A slipup in routine here is all that permitted him in. The police hope you may be able to tell them what case Fisher was working on."

  "Oh, God," the senator said. "Fisher had made no notes? There were no papers or documents to answer that question for them?"

  "None."

  The senator cheered up noticeably. "Well, then," he said, "things aren't too bad. Fisher was a friend of mine—had done some work for me in the past. In the past, Chambrun. He wanted a vacation in a luxury spot, and I wrote him a letter of introduction. I have no reason to think he was working at anything connected with me."

  "The police may buy that, but I don't, Senator," Chambrun said coldly. "For certain reasons I won't go into, I can't help you in any such evasion."

  "Now, see here, Chambrun, I—"

  "You see here, Senator. A few days ago you gave a speech in the Senate condemning some defense contracts about to be awarded by the federal government to Martin Hobbs Enterprises. Martin Hobbs is a guest here at the hotel. There are half a dozen smart Washington reporters who'll make the connection without half trying. I tell you this not to try to advise you on how to handle your problems, but because I will have to point all this out to the police—if you don't. I've waited for you to get here so that you could affirm or deny the connection. You'll have to do one or the other. You can't ignore it."

  The senator nodded slowly. He took a leather cigar case from an inside pocket. He busied himself for a moment, clipping off the end of the cigar and getting it burning.

  "It's damned awkward, Chambrun," he said.

  "I'm sorry to hear it," Chambrun said. "It's damned awkward for me to have a murder in my hotel, particularly since Fisher should never have been registered here in the first place."

  "I never dreamed—"

  "I know, Senator. In my business I have to dream all the time—or be left in the starting gate."

  "Politics," the senator said. "Complex game, you know" He sounded as though he was about to deliver a lecture, and Chambrun's hooded eyes became hostile. "You smell trouble. You get a whiff of conspiracy, and you let go with both barrels, even if they're loaded with blanks. Usually everyone knows it's just politics. You call each other names in public, and then you have dinner together at night. Politics. Sometimes— rarely—you're asked to put up or shut up. This is what happened to me."

  "Over the proposed Hobbs contracts?"

  The senator nodded. "Hobbs. Young whizbang. Big reputation. But something about that kind of spectacular success, about that kind of easy money—well, it always has a fishy smell to me. I thought it was safe enough for me to take a belt at him. Part of my job—keep jabbing at the administration. But my timing was off and my information incomplete. As it developed, the contracts with Hobbs haven't actually been signed. They will be if everything is according to Hoyle, but they haven't been signed yet. The result is, I'm in the position of having either to support my charges or be too obviously guilty of rank politicking. So I hired Fisher, a competent man, to see what he could find out for me. There could have been better ways to go about it."

  "Through the proper committee investigators?"

  "Except that I'm not a member of any committee that can properly deal with this contract business. So I hired me a private boy. My political hide will be scorched, Chambrun, if it is revealed that I've personally hired a detective to investigate the administration's business dealings—scorched or nailed to the barn door."

  "Unless there is some fire where you thought you saw smoke," Chambrun said.

  The senator suddenly looked like an eager puppy dog. "There is some fire you know of?"

  Chambrun hesitated. "This much, Senator. It's something to chew on. Perhaps you started something. A proper committee is investigating. I know that directly from Hobbs's bank in San Francisco. The reason I know is that Hobbs asked me to get him fifty thousand dollars in cash on a check drawn against his account there. I wanted to make sure the check wouldn't bounce."

  The senator whistled.

  "You can add that up with Fisher's murder as well as I can," Chambrun said. "You know better than I do whether your position is a little better than you thought. So tell it your own way, Senator—but tell it. May I call Lieutenant Hardy, the detective in charge, and tell him you're here?"

  The senator stood up, blowing air like a whale. He felt a little better. "You may tell him, sir," he said. "You may also tell yourself, Chambrun, that for the second time I am deeply in your debt. Anything—anytime—you want something, ask for it."

  Chambrun's smile was thin. "Whatever I have done for you, Senator, has only been incidental to my job of protecting the Beaumont."

  Miss Margaret Hillhouse, who made herself available to the Beaumont for baby-sitting services every night except on Sundays, was having an unusually pleasant evening. At six-thirty she had reported to 7H, the Cooks' suite, where she'd been introduced to Bobbie Cook. Bobbie was a charming little girl, squirming with excitement.

  Anne Cook explained patiently what was expected of Miss Hillhouse. Bobbie was to have her private party, her supper to be brought by room service. Miss Hillhouse was to check with Bobbie by phone every half hour. Anne gave Miss Hillhouse an extra key.

  "If she doesn't answer you are to come here at once and let yourself in, Miss Hillhouse, and the party will be over. Straight to bed."

  "I'll answer, Mum!" Bobbie said.

  "At eleven—no later, mind!—you'll come in and put Bobbie to bed," Anne went on. "You'll stay here until we get back. We thought of taking in a nightclub after the theater."

  "I'll stay as late as you like, Mrs. Cook. Just enjoy yourselves," Margaret Hillhouse said.

  So Miss Hillhouse also had her supper, paid for by the Cooks, served by room service in a small sitting room on the mezzanine. She could hear the dinner music from the Blue Lagoon Room. She was halfway through the newest bestseller and looked forward to a pleasant evening of reading.

  At seven o'clock Alison Barnwell sat down at an exquisitely set table in Chambrun's office, a little pop-eyed by what was placed before her. There were cold canapes of stuffed eggs and creamed anchovies; there were hot hors d'oeuvres of crab meat Remick, sprinkled with chopped parsley; these were followed by a deliciously flavored chicken consomme, accompanied by a delicate Rhine wine; then a few mouthfuls of pheasant under glass, with a 1953 Volnay; followed by a few bites of roast veal and artichoke bottoms swimming in a puree of chestnuts, with a 1952 Chambolle; followed by a plain green salad and thin slices of toast and Port Salud cheese and an ice-cold glass of champagne; and finally a fabulous rum cake, Turkish coffee, and a warming Kummel as a liqueur. Pierre Chambrun did himself well.

  Alison leaned back in her chair, feeling like an overstuffed Thanksgiving turkey. Chambrun, who apparently dined in this fashion every night, seemed to be delighted by her obvious pleasure. He sipped his coffee, smoked his cigarette, and looked at her like a man who remembers his lost youth with a profound nostalgia.

  "Ive been so impressed by this that I've forgotten to report back on Mr. Cardoza," Alison said.

  Chambrun smiled like a sleepy cat. "I would have asked you," he said, "except that Cardoza leaves nothing to chance. He called me himself. No noticeable absences from the Hobbs party during last evening."
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  "There were comings and goings," Alison said. "And Miss Garth, the secretary, was not present at all."

  "Its a 'could-be,'" Chambrun said. "Any one of them could have visited and murdered Fisher—but there isn't the slightest proof that any one of them did. I've checked with the night staff. No one recalls anything significant. More Kummel, Alison?"

  In the Blue Lagoon, Martin Hobbs, George Webber, Don Stanton, and seven assorted guests were beginning a gay evening. On this occasion they were carefully watched by Mr. Cardoza, the captain. Hobbs and Webber each made trips to the men's room during the evening, but went nowhere else. Don Stanton left once, but only to circle around to the dressing room of Toni Blanton, the Blue Lagoon's attractive chan-teuse. He returned directly to the table from there.

  At the theater Cliff Cook laughed for the first time in days. The musical comedy lived up to the ticket agent's recommendation. Anne Cook called Miss Hillhouse during the first intermission and was reassured—Bobbie was having a ball and had dutifully answered the phone at every half hour. The Cooks decided to go to a nightclub after the theater.

  Senator Claude Farrand was on his way back to Washington, having cleared his conscience with the police.

  At a few minutes before eleven Miss Margaret Hillhouse made her way up from the mezzanine to 7H. Bobbie had been a little brisk at being interrupted at ten-thirty at the beginning of a TV program. Now, standing outside the door of 7H, Miss Hillhouse could hear the closing theme as the TV show ended. Then she inserted the key Anne had given her into the door and went in. Bobbie Cook was nowhere in the suite.

  At ten minutes past eleven Chambrun and Jerry Dodd arrived at 7H, where a frightened and tearful Miss Hillhouse awaited them. Miss Hillhouse, on discovering Bobbie's absence, had called Mrs. Carmichael, who managed the night-sitter service and who had promptly notified Mr. Chambrun.

  Chambrun's "gut ache" was acute. Everything that had gone wrong on this day seemed to have a connection with Martin Hobbs. Clifford Cook was in the process of negotiating some kind of business deal with Hobbs, and now Cooks eight-year-old daughter was missing.

  Miss Hillhouse, fighting her tears, explained disjointedly how the evening had been arranged. She'd never encountered anything quite like it before, but it had seemed reasonable enough at the time. Everything had gone smoothly. The little girl had dutifully answered the phone every half hour, including the last one at ten-thirty.

  Jerry Dodd was on the phone while Miss Hillhouse explained. The kid might be wandering around the hotel somewhere. The staff was alerted. He looked up at Miss Hillhouse while waiting for another connection.

  "Eleven o'clock was bedtime,'' he said cheerfully. "She probably didn't want the evening to end. We'll find her down in the lobby or sneaking a look at the goings-on in the Blue Lagoon. A kid like that can make a federal case out of going to bed."

  Then Johnny Thacker came on the phone, and Dodd gave orders for a careful search.

  "When do you expect the Cooks back?" Chambrun asked. He didn't feel as cheerfully optimistic as Jerry Dodd. As a matter of fact, he was deeply disturbed. He couldn't somehow swallow all the coincidences of the day.

  "They went to the theater," Miss Hillhouse said.

  "What theater?"

  "I heard them mention a musical comedy, but I can't remember the name of the show."

  Chambrun glanced at his wrist watch. Eleven-twenty. The show would be over. "Coming straight home?"

  "No, sir. They were going to a nightclub."

  "Which one?"

  "They didn't say, sir. Mrs. Cook may phone in. She did call during the first theater intermission."

  "She may not," Chambrun said. "She'll assume the child's now safe in bed and asleep. Another call would disturb her."

  Jerry Dodd came over from the phone. "If she left this floor, she'd probably go by elevator, wouldn't she? Anyone would notice an eight-year-old girl all by herself. They'll pick her up in a few minutes."

  Miss Hillhouse began to weep. "Oh, I hope so!"

  "Get hold of yourself," Chambrun said sharply. "You have nothing to blame yourself for. You followed your instructions to the letter."

  He went over to the phone and asked to be connected with the Blue Lagoon. Mr. Cardoza, the captain, answered in his low suave voice. "Chambrun here, Cardoza. About the Hobbs party. Still there?"

  "Yes, Mr. Chambrun. Still going strong."

  "Comings and goings?"

  "None, sir. Oh, the men's room, the powder room. But no one in the party has gone out into the hotel proper."

  "You're positive?"

  Cardoza sounded injured. "You told me to watch, Mr. Chambrun."

  "Sorry to be edgy," Chambrun said. "If the party breaks up, or if anyone does leave it, call me in my office or in 7H."

  "Depend on me, Mr. Chambrun."

  "I do."

  Chambrun put down the phone. "Jerry, I want someone stationed outside the entrance to the Blue Lagoon. If anyone in Hobbs's party leaves, I want to know where they go and what they do."

  Jerry nodded, but looked puzzled. "But what has that got to do with the price of eggs?"

  "I wish I knew," Chambrun said. Frowning, he picked up the phone again. "Get me Miss Barnwell at her apartment," he said.

  "Johnny?" Alison's drowsy voice said.

  "Sorry to disappoint you. Chambrun here."

  The sharpness of his voice evidently brought Alison wideawake. "I'd just dozed off, Mr. Chambrun. I thought it was Johnny calling from Palm Springs."

  "We've got new troubles here, Alison. An eight-year-old girl has disappeared. No time to give you the details, but we'd like to locate her parents. They went to see a musical comedy, then planned to go to a nightclub. If you were an out-of-towner, where would you go?"

  "El Morocco, Stork Club, Latin Quarter," Alison said promptly.

  "Thanks."

  "Can I do anything?"

  "I'd like it if you were here. If this gets out, the press will be hammering at us—at our sitter system, at our inefficiency."

  "Did someone slip up?"

  "I don't think so. It may be a false alarm. Jerry thinks the kid just didn't want to go to bed and took off on her own. I hope he's right. I have an uncomfortable feeling he's wrong."

  "I'll be there in fifteen minutes," Alison said.

  Chambrun held down the phone button for a moment and was then reconnected with the switchboard. "Jane? I want you to call three nightclubs—El Morocco, Stork Club, and Latin Quarter. I want Mr. and Mrs. Clifford Cook paged in all three places. I'll be here unless I tell you otherwise."

  Miss Hillhouse seemed to have got control of herself when Chambrun crossed over from the phone.

  "Did Mr. and Mrs. Cook have friends in the hotel?" she asked Chambrun.

  "Acquaintances," Chambrun said.

  "Perhaps one of them got in touch with Bobbie, and she went with them," Miss Hillhouse suggested.

  "I've been checking on that," Chambrun said, not explaining how. But perhaps he hadn't done as much in that direction as he should, he thought.

  He went back to the phone and talked to the operator again. Had there been any calls to Suite 7H during the evening other than the ones from Miss Hillhouse on the mezzanine? At night there were two operators to handle incoming calls and two to handle outgoing calls. The "out" operators would have handled room-to-room calls in the hotel.

  It was asking a lot of them to remember, yet they might. No one was ever put directly through to a room. A name was asked for, the room was called, the guest was asked if he wished to receive the call. Maybe they'd remember talking to a little girl.

  But they didn't.

  The repeated calls from Miss Hillhouse were all they remembered. The "in" operators could not remember any calls to 7H except one from Anne Cook about ten o'clock.

  Jerry Dodd, still hoping the child had wandered off on her own, went out to check in person. But with each passing minute, Jerry's optimism decreased.

  At twenty-five minutes to midnight
Alison appeared. Chambrun brought her quickly up to date on the evening's events, the arrangements made by the Cooks with Miss Hillhouse, the now almost vanished hope that Bobbie was "making a federal case" out of going to bed. There was a twist of pity at the corners of Alison's mouth as she listened. She could imagine Anne Cook, pushed into this rather unusual arrangement by the child, never forgiving herself if anything serious had happened to Bobbie.

  At a quarter to twelve the phone rang, and Chambrun, who answered, heard Anne Cooks frightened voice on the other end. Shed been located at the Latin Quarter. He explained who he was and what had happened.

  "Try not to be too alarmed, Mrs. Cook," he said. "It's quite possible she skipped out so she wouldn't have to go to bed. My entire staff is looking for her, and we may have her safely back in your rooms by the time you and Mr. Cook get here."

  "Oh, my God," was all that Anne Cook said.

  After-theater traffic in New York was heavy, and it wasn't until ten minutes past twelve that Anne and Cliff Cook arrived in 7H. By then even Jerry Dodd's hopes were almost nonexistent. Not a single elevator man, bellboy, or doorman had seen Bobbie Cook. There were, of course, unpatrolled fire stairs. It was not impossible for the child to have gone— or been taken—from floor to floor without being seen. You could actually leave the hotel by way of the fire stairs. The fire-stairway doors at street level could be easily opened from inside, though no one could come in from the street.

  Bobbie, accompanied by her imaginary friends, could have gotten out onto the street without being seen. It seemed to Jerry it would be a wise thing to alert the police, who could start looking for her in the neighborhood. He made this suggestion to Cliff Cook and Chambrun. Anne, accompanied by Alison, was hearing the story over again from Miss Hillhouse.

  Cook seemed dazed, but he was instantly adamant on this point. "Not the police. Not yet," he said.

  Jerry raised a questioning eyebrow at Chambrun.

  The final knot was tied in Chambrun's gut. Almost any father in Cook's place would have jumped at help from the police, insisted on it—unless he had reason to suspect a kidnapping, a word that so far hadn't even been mentioned by anyone in 7H.