"How could they call you?"
"Why, the note!" Miss Thomas said. "The note Bobbie left for them."
Chambrun's silver cigarette case snapped open. He took out one of his Egyptian cigarettes and slowly lit it. "There was no note, Miss Thomas."
"But she left it there—on the table by the door!"
"There was no note, Miss Thomas."
"It must have fallen on the floor—under a chair, or blown away or something," Miss Thomas said. "Oh, dear, I hope they weren't too worried."
"They were worried, Miss Thomas," Chambrun said coldly. "Suppose you tell us exactly what happened tonight."
"Why, I met Bobbie in the drugstore this afternoon," Miss Thomas said. "She was having an ice cream soda. I'm very fond of children. We struck up a conversation. She told me she was going to have a private party for—for imaginary friends tonight while her parents were at the theater. She asked me to come. I—well, it seemed like a charming idea."
"So you went, without discussing it with Mr. and Mrs. Cook?"
"She wanted to keep it a secret," Miss Thomas said. "You
know how children are. And besides, Mr. Chambrun, I'm doing my level best to avoid publicity, as Miss Barnwell knows."
Alison, still in something of a daze, thought that if Miss Thomas wasn't an actress she was wasting her talents.
"So each time room service came to 7H, you hid," Chambrun said.
"Of course I didn't hide!" Miss Thomas said, sounding genuinely indignant. "By the purest coincidence I happened to be in the bathroom each time, freshening up."
"Ah, yes, by the purest coincidence. And then, after ten-thirty, you brought Bobbie up here—by way of the fire stairs. Why? Why not the public elevator, Miss Thomas?"
It came out smooth as oil. "You may think it curious, Mr. Chambrun, but at my age I still like to play with dolls. I have a rather unusual collection, and I always carry some of them with me when I travel. I thought it would amuse Bobbie to see them."
"And the fire stairs—seven flights of them?"
"She thought it would be fun."
"And it didn't occur to you to notify the baby-sitter that you were bringing Bobbie up here?"
Miss Thomas looked at Chambrun as though he wasn't quite bright.
"There was the note," she said.
"Ah, yes, the note. The note now mysteriously missing. So, after Bobbie had seen the dolls, you just kept her here?"
"Naturally I thought Mrs. Cook would call when she got in. We didn't expect them till three or later. The child wanted company, but she was tired and fell asleep. So I've just been waiting."
Chambrun nodded slowly. "Let's wake her and see how things check," he said.
He turned abruptly and went back into the bedroom. He put his hand gently on Bobbie's shoulder. "All right, baby," he said.
She stirred, opened her eyes, looked up at him, was puzzled for a moment, and then she gave him a sleepy smile.
"Hello, Mr. Chambrun." She looked past him to the door where Miss Thomas, Alison, and Jerry Dodd were watching. "Gee whiz, Laura, I must have gone to sleep."
"You did, darling," Miss Thomas said. "Something happened to the note we left, and your mother's been worried about you."
"Gee, Mum will kill me!" Bobbie said. "I thought maybe we should have called Miss Hillhouse."
"You had fun tonight?" Chambrun asked.
"It was cool!" Bobbie said. She sat up. "Oh, dear, I hate to leave you, Mignonette." She picked up a small doll from the pillow. "Isn't she terrif, Mr. Chambrun?" She tilted the doll forward, and it made a small wailing noise and real tears came out of its eyes.
"You can have Mignonette if you like, Bobbie," Miss Thomas said.
"Oh, gee, Laura, really, truly?"
Chambrun gave Miss Thomas a look of frank admiration. "You know, Miss Thomas, it may actually stick," he said.
"Stick?" Miss Thomas asked coolly.
"Your story," Chambrun said. "It's a beaut!"
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean. I've told you exactly what happened. Bobbie will tell you the same."
"I'm sure she will," Chambrun said. "Magnificent—nothing short of magnificent."
"There's one thing I don't quite understand, Mr. Chambrun," Miss Thomas said. "If you didn't find the note, how did you happen to come here looking for Bobbie?"
Chambrun chuckled. "I know. That must be puzzling you no end, Miss Thomas. It shows how the best laid plans of mice—and all that. You see, we'd already spotted you for a phony, Miss Thomas. Please don't look outraged. It doesn't become you, and you haven't overdone a single thing so far. As I say, we spotted you, and we were interested. The bellboy
who brought you up here yesterday reported you had something live in one of your suitcases. We've tried very hard to find out what it was, without breaking and entering.
"Then, a few minutes ago, I happened to be looking in a toy store window downstairs. I was reminded that, when certain toys, especially dolls, are tilted one way or another, they make wailing or whining noises. That made me think of you, Miss Thomas. It might explain what the bellboy heard. But what would a grown movie star be doing with dolls? It suddenly occurred to me that dolls might be used to entertain a little girl who was not where she was supposed to be.
"Now don't protest, Miss Thomas. I've already told you I think your story may stick. You're just unlucky, and I'm lucky. I played a hunch, and it turned out to be a bull's-eye." He turned to the child. "All right, Bobbie. Thank Miss Thomas for your lovely evening, and then we have somewhere to go."
He walked through into the living room, beckoning to Alison. "Will you phone the hospital, Alison, and put Mrs. Cook out of her misery?"
"Of course."
"Then take Bobbie over there. Explain to her on the way what's happened to her father."
"Yes, Mr. Chambrun—but I still don't get it. Do you think she was really working for Hobbs?"
"Up to her ears," Chambrun said drily. "Cook was supposed to do just what he did to get Bobbie back—offer to sign the contract. Then it would turn out that Bobbie was all right— nothing wrong except that the 'note' got lost—the note that Miss Thomas palmed after Bobbie had written it. But Cook wasn't supposed to accuse them publicly of kidnapping. After that they couldn't go through with it as planned, and Webber took out his anger and frustration on poor Cook."
"So they get away with the whole thing!" Alison said, indignant.
"Maybe not," Chambrun said. "Not if my luck holds."
At a quarter past three in the morning, Chambrun, Jerry
Dodd, and Lieutenant Hardy of Homicide knocked on the door of Room 803. It was opened promptly by George Webber. He had clearly expected someone else. He had taken off his dinner jacket, but he was still wearing the trousers and dress shirt, with a plaid cummerbund and a matching tie.
"Oh, it's you, Chambrun," he said. He glanced curiously at Lieutenant Hardy.
"May we come in?" Chambrun asked.
"Sure," Webber said.
"You know Jerry Dodd, our house security officer? And this is Lieutenant Hardy of the New York police." Chambrun didn't mention Homicide.
"I know you want to talk about that row downstairs," Webber said. His smile was cold. "I lost my head, I guess. That damn fool Cook walked up to our table in the Blue Lagoon and in front of a dozen people accused us of kidnapping his child. I blew my top. But it surprises me that Cook would make it a police matter. He knows I can wipe him out with a defamation suit."
"Mr. Cook hasn't made an issue of it," Chambrun said. He had taken a small black bottle top from his pocket, and now he tossed it up and caught it, over and over, as he talked. "I'm making the issue, Mr. Webber. We don't like violence in the Hotel Beaumont."
Chambrun continued to toss the black top up and down. "The kidnapping charge by Mr. Cook was unfortunate, Mr. Webber. The little girl has been found and is safely back with her parents."
Webber's eyes suddenly had the dead, cold look of tiny ice cubes, opaque, unreadable. Ch
ambrun tossed the bottle top up and down, up and down.
"You're not interested in knowing where the little girl was found, Mr. Webber?" Chambrun asked.
"I couldn't care less," Webber said. "For Mrs. Cook's sake, I'm glad she's safe. So just what is it you want of me, Mr. Chambrun?"
"I'm losing my touch," Chambrun said with a wry smile. "I wanted you to ask me what I'm playing with." He held up the bottle top.
"All right, Mr. Bones," Webber said, "what is it?"
"It is the cap from a medicine bottle I found in the disposal unit in your bathroom."
"What of it?"
Chambrun held the top to his nose and sniffed gently. "I suggest it is the top from a bottle that contained a solution of strychnine, which was poured into a drink in Room 1208 last night, resulting in the untimely death of Mr. Paul Fisher, a private detective who was investigating the affairs of Martin Hobbs Enterprises."
Lids narrowed over the ice-cube eyes. "You're kidding," Webber said. "I heard about this man's death, but I had no idea it had any connection with us."
Chambrun sniffed the bottle top and continued. "I can visualize you making a deal, agreeing to the blackmail, and then fishy about your contracts with the government. Perhaps that you didn't have certain patents of Mr. Cook's that you had represented yourselves as owning? You can see why Lieutenant Hardy is interested in this cap from a bottle that may have contained strychnine and why it should have found its way into your disposal unit.
"It's bad luck for you, Mr. Webber. Whatever we may have suspected, we couldn't have proved a thing but for the unlucky chance that this cap didn't go down the chute along with the bottle. What happened? Did Fisher get the goods on you and then try to blackmail you? That's about the only thing that fits the picture of his being willing to have a drink with you."
Chambrun sniffed the bottle top and continued. "I can visualize you making a deal, agreeing to the blackmail, and then having a drink on it. You make the drinks. Bottoms up! It would have to be bottoms up, wouldn't it, Mr. Webber, because strychnine has an extraordinarily bitter taste."
Chambrun sniffed the bottle top again.
Webber turned and moved slowly over toward the bureau. Sometimes iron control is more of a giveaway than hysterical protestations. Slowly Webber opened the top bureau drawer and started to reach into it.
"Just leave it where it is, Webber," Hardy said sharply.
Webber jerked around to find himself facing Hardy's drawn police special.
"Get it, Jerry," Hardy said.
Jerry Dodd went over to the bureau, reached in the drawer, and brought out a compact black automatic.
Not a muscle moved in Webber's face, and when he spoke it was in a cold, matter-of-fact voice. "The whole thing has been a big gamble," he said. "We had to take it because the stakes were colossal. I had the pleasure of seeing that damn blackmailer die in agony. Haifa million bucks he wanted, and he thought I would fall for it. I only wish I'd had the chance to pour one for Senator Farrand. You're right, the taste is bitter, and it contracts the spinal cord like a steel spring. It's absolute torture for a moment. Yes, I sure wish the senator could have felt it too."
Chambrun sniffed the bottle top again. "You've forgotten one thing about strychnine, Mr. Webber. It's odorless." He tossed the black top into a waste basket by the bureau. "That was from a mouthwash bottle you evidently discarded."
Webber's face was a stone mask as Hardy snapped on the handcuffs.
Chambrun drew a deep breath. "Like you, I gambled— with the bottle top. Gambled with it because the stakes were, as you said, colossal. Human lives. They're not toys, Webber—never forget it." the norm sounds like a broken piston in Jack Benny's Maxwell.
My job is public relations director for the Beaumont. The first item on my day's routine is to go to Chambrun's office on the second floor at precisely nine-twenty-two to discuss the problems of the day. Miss Ruysdale will have preceded me at precisely eight-forty-five. At precisely nine Monsieur Fres-ney, the head chef, will have brought the breakfast.
Fresney prepares the breakfast menu so that the day begins for Chambrun with, hopefully, a pleasant surprise. At precisely nine-twenty-two Chambrun will pour his second cup of American coffee and light his first Egyptian cigarette of the day. As I walk into his office, he will glance my way, his eyes twinkling in their deep pouches, and offer me some wry comment on the day's problems that starts things off on a cheerful level.
On this particular morning there was no witticism, no "Good morning." The great man sat behind his carved Florentine desk, drumming his fingers. His eyes had that baleful look of a hanging judge that appeared only when things had gone very wrong.
I glanced at his tray. The breakfast steak was only half eaten. God help Monsieur Fresney if the beef had not been absolutely perfect. Chambrun was, I saw by the ashtray, on his third cigarette. I glanced at my watch, wondering if in some fashion I had mistimed my arrival. No, it was now nine-twenty-two and a half.
"Something wrong?" I asked him.
"You have an amazing capacity, Mark, for overlooking the obvious," he said. "For the first time in ten years, Ruysdale is late!"
If there is an indispensable member of Chambrun's staff, it is Miss Betsy Ruysdale. She's hard to describe. Chambrun has many requirements in a personal secretary. She must be efficient beyond all conceivable specifications. She must never dream of an eight-hour day or any regular working hours. She must be chic, but not disturbing. Chambrun doesn't want the male members of his staff mooning over some doll in his outer office. She must eternally anticipate his needs without waiting for orders.
By some miracle Miss Ruysdale manages to meet all these requirements. Her clothes are quiet, but smart and expensive. Her manner toward the staff is friendly, touched by a subdued humor, but she draws an invisible line over which no one dares to step. She is clearly all woman, but if she belongs to some man, his identity is a secret that no one has penetrated. We tell ourselves it can't be Chambrun. Or can it? He neuters her by calling her "Ruysdale"—never Miss Ruysdale or Betsy. Her devotion to him is unquestionably total, but questionably romantic.
Her absence, even her tardiness, on this or any other morning is unthinkable. Only a disaster would account for her absence.
"Would you like me to call her apartment?" I asked.
"That was naturally the first thing I did," Chambrun said. "No answer."
Miss Ruysdale's apartment is only four blocks from the hotel. Neither a subway tie-up nor a traffic jam could account for her failure to appear on time.
"Are you sure she didn't mention being late this morning when she went home last night?" I asked.
"My dear idiot!" Chambrun said. He reached for an appointment pad on his desk. "I'd like you to stand by, Mark, in case Ruysdale doesn't appear very soon. At approximately eleven o'clock, a special French delegation to the United Nations is due to arrive from Kennedy Airport. Paul Lourier has asked me to greet them personally. I know some of them from the black days. If Ruysdale has not arrived, you will take my place and apologize for my absence."
"Of course."
"You will explain that Lourier also cannot be on hand, because of an emergency meeting of the Security Council."
"Ruysdale will show up," I reassured him.
He stared at the empty coffee cup in front of him. This was the point at which Ruysdale usually handed him the first cup of Turkish coffee. The coffee maker was not in evidence on the sideboard. I couldn't help out with that.
Chambrun had referred to "the black days." I knew what he meant. He'd been born in France, but had come to this country at a very early age. During World War Two, he'd returned to his homeland to fight in the French Resistance. It had been a grim time in which many of his friends had died at the hands of the Nazis. Among those who had been close to him in those days was Paul Lourier, now on the staff of the French ambassador to the United Nations.
Lourier had an apartment on the twentieth floor of the Beaumont and he and Chambru
n spent what little social time they had in each other's company. Lourier was a relaxed, charming, cultivated gentleman with prematurely white hair and expressive black eyebrows. He and Chambrun had a deep fondness for each other. There were evidently others coming in this special delegation at eleven who had been close to Chambrun and Lourier in "the black days." They would be entitled to special courtesies.
"She would phone if she could," Chambrun said, bringing me back to the present. "I've called the local police precinct. No one has been taken ill on the street—no accident between here and Ruysdale's apartment. Jerry Dodd is going over the hotel from basement to penthouses."
Jerry Dodd is what we call the "house officer" at the Beaumont, head of our security setup. The Beaumont has its problems like any other hotel—the deadbeats, the drunks, the expensive call girls, the cantankerous complainers, the professional hotel thieves who never get caught and the amateurs who always get caught, the suicides, the heart attacks suffered by elderly gentlemen in the rooms of young ladies who are not their wives. And on at least three times so far in my time as public relations director—murder. The hotel is like a small city, and what happens in a small city happens in the Beaumont.
"She's got to be all right!" Chambrun said.
I was startled. I'd never heard him sound helpless before.
Jerry Dodd discovered certain aspects of Miss Ruysdale's daily routine that none of us had been aware of before. Her efficiency was such that the machinery hadn't been visible to any of us. It seems that each morning at eight-thirty she entered the Beaumont through the basement entrance to the kitchen where she paused to cast a critical eye on Monsieur Fresney's breakfast preparations for the Great Man. Then she proceeded by the service elevator to the lobby and the reception desk. There Mr. Atterbury, chief desk clerk on the day shift, handed her a list of the new registrations and the checkouts that had taken place since his departure the previous afternoon, plus any special mail addressed to Chambrun. These items were carried to the second floor and her desk in the outer office. She then picked up the phone and called Mrs. Veach, chief telephone operator, reported that she was "in business,'' and asked for any messages left for the Great Man—or by him.
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