Murder Round the Clock

by Hugh Pentecost

  Chambrun waved to the buffet. "Make yourself a drink, Jacques," he said to his friend. He watched Furneaux go to the buffet and pour himself a stiff brandy. "When you mentioned the X cut on the mans face, Jacques and I were startled," he said. "We have just come from a dinner of former French Resistance fighters. Back in those days there was a Gestapo butcher who used to carve Xs on the faces of our men whenever he caught them, blinding them in the process."

  "Same thing here," Hardy said. "You know Garber from those days?"

  "Not by sight or by name," Chambrun said. He glanced at his friend Furneaux.

  "Not by name," Furneaux said. "Of course I haven't seen him here."

  Marcel Durant, as you will have guessed, was French. He

  had been with the hotel for many years, a top waiter in his time. His gradual crippling had removed him from the dining room and Grill Room staffs—he no longer could move quickly enough. He had been reassigned to room service, where the functioning was more leisurely. He had a craggy, deeply lined face, and his eyes looked red and tired as he came into Cham-brun's office.

  "Monsieur Chambrun," he said in a husky voice, ignoring the rest of us.

  "You've had a distressing evening, Marcel."

  "It was horrible, monsieur," he said.

  "Take your time, Marcel, and tell it to me from the very beginning."

  "I'll do my best, Monsieur." Marcel took a deep breath. "An order came to room service—dinner for two in 14B. Vichy-soisse, roast veal, baby peas with onions, potatoes au gratin, a tin ordinaire. The dessert was to be ordered later. Dinner was to be served at eight o' clock."

  "And you were prompt?

  "To the minute, monsieur."

  "Good. Proceed, Marcel."

  "I rang the doorbell, and Herr Garber opened the door for me, and I wheeled in the wagon."

  "You had served Garber before?"

  "Oh, yes, monsieur. Herr Garber often dines in his suite. Very polite, generous tipper. Never tries to hurry me, for which I am grateful. He generally asks for me."

  "So you wheeled in the wagon?"

  "Yes, monsieur. Herr Garber was not alone. There was a very beautiful young lady with him. She was sitting on the piano bench, watching me as I came in. You will remember there is a small spinet in 14B."

  "Yes. Had you ever seen this young lady before?"

  "No, monsieur. She was very beautiful, as I've said, twenty or twenty-five years younger than Herr Garber."

  Chambrun glanced at Hardy. "You've found this young woman?"

  "Not yet," Hardy said.

  "She was gone when I found the body, monsieur," Marcel said.

  "You found the body?"

  "Yes, monsieur. When Mrs. Kniffin let me into the room—"

  "Please, Marcel," Chambrun interrupted. "Tell me the story in sequence."

  "Yes, monsieur. Herr Garber told me where to set the table. While I was doing so, the telephone rang, and Herr Garber answered. He spoke in what I suppose was German. I do not understand German. He seemed very agitated. When he put down the receiver, he turned to the young lady and spoke to her in French, which of course I did understand. It is a man I must see/ he said. 'It is urgent. Will you mind waiting in the bedroom, cherie? Unfortunately, this man knows both you and your husband, at least by sight.' And so the young lady—"

  "You and your husband,' he said?" Chambrun interrupted again.

  "Yes, monsieur. His exact words. So the young lady hurried into the bedroom, and Herr Garber turned to me. 'I'm afraid the dinner must be delayed, Marcel,' he said. 'Will you be good enough to take it away and call me in half an hour? If the dinner cannot be kept warm and palatable, you will replace it with a fresh order. I will, of course, pay twice.' So I wheeled out the wagon, monsieur, and took it back down to the kitchen."

  "So?"

  "About twenty minutes later a call came to room service asking for me. It was Herr Garber. He said that his friend did not care for the wine he had in the room and would I bring him a bottle of Saint Cristobel, '57. Of course I said I would."

  Chambrun's eyes widened. "Saint Cristobel, '57? That's what he asked for?"

  "Yes, monsieur. So I took up the wine and Herr Garber answered the door and took it from me."

  "You didn't see into the suite—who was with him?"

  "No, monsieur. He said I shouldn't call for another half hour, that the dinner must now be replaced. When I called he would tell me exactly when to serve."

  "Go on, Marcel."

  "In a half hour I called 14B. There was no answer. I neglected to tell you, monsieur, that he had given me a ten-dollar tip when I first arrived with the wagon. My time was up, but I wanted to earn the tip, so I stayed on. In about ten minutes, I called again. No answer. And so, monsieur, I went up to the fourteenth floor and to the door of 14B. There was obviously a gay party going on inside, monsieur. Someone was playing the spinet, and they were playing an old French song and singing. The lady was singing, too. You remember the song, monsieur, 'Alouette, gentil' Alouette, Alouette, je te plumerai."

  Chambrun had that frozen look. "I remember," he said.

  "I rang the doorbell, monsieur, but nobody answered. So, not wanting to interrupt till I was wanted, I went back down to the kitchen. I kept calling at intervals, monsieur, without getting an answer. From my first visit to the room with the wagon until I became genuinely distressed must have been almost an hour and a half. I went back upstairs and listened outside 14B. There were no sounds now. I went to look for Mrs. Kniffin, the housekeeper. I was concerned—the dinner would be spoiled—the second dinner!

  "If they had left, forgetting the dinner, I would remove the soiled glasses and the empty wine bottle. Mrs. Kniffin was unwilling at first. She had received a call from Herr Garber asking her not to send the maid to turn down the bed—the maid goes to turn down the beds at nine, as you know, monsieur. But in the end I persuaded her to let me into the suite. We could always apologize. So Mrs. Kniffin let me in with her key—and there he was, dead, bloody, that great X cut on his face."

  "And no young lady?"

  "Nor anyone else, monsieur."

  Chambrun put out his cigarette and sat silent.

  "The elevators are self-service at that time," Hardy said, "so no one saw a young lady leave that floor. Jerry Dodd is checking, but so far no report on her or on the visitor who phoned at eight."

  "The visitor who phoned at eight is clearly the murderer," I said. "He'd have been as inconspicuous as possible. Garber's card indicates he had a penchant for call girls. If the girl Marcel saw was such a girl, shed take off in a hurry. Being found there would be bad for her business."

  Chambrun's eyes turned my way, and I thought he must hate me the way they glittered. "'Unfortunately this man knows both you and your husband, at least by sight/'

  He turned to the waiter. "Marcel, you would know this young lady if you saw her again."

  "Oh, yes, monsieur. Dark, svelte, very young, very attractive."

  "You heard Herr Garber talk in German on the phone to his unexpected guest but you did not, of course, hear the guest's voice at that time. When you brought the Saint Cristobel, '57?"

  "No, monsieur."

  "Later, when you heard them singing 'Alouette'?"

  "I cannot be sure, monsieur. The girl was singing and one of the men. It was very loud, very gay. I couldn't say if it was the guest or Herr Garber. It was—how shall I say?—like a comic act?"

  "Is there anything else of consequence that comes to your mind, Marcel?"

  "No, monsieur."

  "Thank you, Marcel. Will you wait downstairs again, please," Chambrun watched the old man go, and Chambrun's eyes narrowed to slits.

  "Fingerprint men are going over the suite," Hardy said. "There are wine glasses and an empty bottle of wine—this Saint Cristobel, '57. In the bedroom were several cigarette butts stained with lipstick. The girl must have touched something. The girl puzzles me." When Hardy is puzzled, he looks like a baffled St. Bernard. "She was in the bedroom
when Garber's unexpected guest arrived—hidden there because the guest would know her by sight and might tell her husband. She hides there, but later she joins the party, singing that French song. After that someone cut Garber to pieces with what could have been a carving or butcher knife. Had the girl left before that? If she was still there when it happened, why did the killer let her live? Unless she was, all along, the killer's accomplice."

  "That occurred to me," Chambrun said. "To make sure that Garber would be where they wanted him to be, she had agreed to a date with him. According to his card he liked young women, though usually they were professionals and not other men's wives." Chambrun lit a fresh Egyptian cigarette and leaned back in his chair, his eyes almost shut. "What do we know about the killer?" he asked softly.

  "Nothing," Hardy said.

  "Oh, come, Hardy, we know a great deal. At least four things. First, he speaks German. Garber wouldn't have spoken to him in German on the phone unless the killer was also speaking German. Garber spoke to the girl in French, which presupposes she was French—or that she was more familiar with French than English. Second, the killer was a man of rather special tastes. He asked for Saint Cristobel, 1957. There are not two places in New York where Saint Cristobel is stocked. It comes from a vineyard in southern France. I discovered it some years ago, was entranced by its bouquet and flavor, and arranged to have a case delivered to me here each year. It is not ordinarily sold commercially. The vineyard owner keeps it for his friends. He produces only a small quantity each year. You are a connoisseur of wines, Jacques. Have you ever heard of Saint Cristobel?"

  Furneaux smiled. "Yes. I have had it here with you, Pierre. But nowhere else."

  "So our killer had knowledge of an almost nonexistent wine," Chambrun said. "Third, he knows something about hotel routines. I have to assume it was he who called Mrs. Kniffin and asked her not to send the maid to turn down the bed. And fourth, it is possible he plays the piano. And doesn't it strike you as odd that these two German-speaking gentlemen should be enjoying themselves with an old French folksong?

  "So we know this about our killer; he is a German-speaking wine connoisseur who knows the hotel routines and plays the piano, particularly the old French classic Alouette.' Suggest anyone to you, Mark?"

  "No," I said. "Should it?"

  Chambrun's smile was a tight little quirk at the corners of his mouth. "I speak German, along with several other languages. I am not only a wine connoisseur, I have special knowledge of an obscure wine—Saint Cristobel. I know the hotel routines better than anyone else in the world. I play the piano, as you very well know" He turned to Furneaux. "In the black days, when we could afford to be noisy, Jacques, do you remember that I played the piano?"

  "Yes."

  "And do you remember what song we sang most often when there was a group of us together?"

  Furneaux seemed to have trouble swallowing. "Alouette," he said.

  "To add to the case against me," Chambrun said, "I obviously have access to a hundred carving knives and a hundred butcher knives." His smile became a real smile as he looked at the scowling Hardy. "Open-and-shut case, friend? A wild set of coincidences? Well, my blood is not running cold with anxiety. You see, I know something you don't know, Hardy. I know I didn't kill Erich Garber. Fortunately, I have an ironclad alibi. I was with Jacques, here, and our friends from the Resistance days from seven o'clock until I walked into this office a little while ago. You will swear to that, won't you, Jacques?"

  "Of course. And so will a dozen others," Furneaux said.

  "Is that good enough for you, Hardy?"

  "Don't be a damned fool," Hardy said. "Sure it's good enough."

  "It shouldn't be," Chambrun said, his voice harsh. "One thing we haven't discussed is the possible motive. I told you that the X carved on Garber's face was a shock to Jacques and me because that was what a Gestapo butcher did to our friends back in the days of the Resistance. If Garber turns out to be, and I daresay he will, an ex-Gestapo man—if he was one of those X-makers in the old days—I would have a motive, and my alibi would be worthless. Jacques and my other friends would lie their heads off for me if I told them I was bent on following the Biblical precept of 'an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.' So my alibi is no good."

  "What the hell do you want me to say to that?" Hardy asked.

  "I want you to say that obviously it was meant to look like me," Chambrun said. "I want you to say that you realize as you head toward the truth someone will remind you of these incriminating facts about me. But let me cheer you up, my friend. I can provide an alibi that will stand up. Jacques and my friends might lie for me, but not the manager and the waiters in the restaurant where we dined tonight."

  "So stop playing games with me," Hardy said, nevertheless sounding relieved.

  "I can tell you one thing more about the killer. He is someone who knows a great deal about me—about my habits, my tastes, my talents. Someone who has known about me for thirty years—back to the black days of the Resistance." Cham-brun's smile remained, a sort of Cheshire-cat smile. "Just one thing went wrong with the killer's plan to implicate me."

  "Your alibi," Hardy said.

  "In a way." Chambrun turned to me. "How many evenings do I spend away from the hotel, Mark?"

  "Three or four a year," I said.

  "Quite so. The killer had every reason to suppose I would

  be here in the hotel, moving about as I do every night. He set it up and unluckily for him he chose one of the rare occasions when I was away from my bailiwick. So now we proceed, Hardy. You always say that detective work involves checking, checking, and rechecking until the truth becomes obvious."

  Lieutenant Hardy is a dogged cop. He takes hold of a case by the hind leg, and he holds on for dear life, checking, checking, rechecking. Jerry Dodd, chief of security at the Beaumont, is by comparison mercurially dogged. He grabs hold, lets go, attacks from another point, lets go, until someone cracks under the pressure.

  Jerry is a mad chain-smoker, and he paced up and down Chambruns office listening to the Great Mans summing up of the case. Hardy had gone off to his dogged work of checking fingerprints, checking on Mrs. Kniffin, the housekeeper who'd gotten the call from 14B, checking the restaurant where Chambrun had dined—the last at Chambruns insistence.

  "So you make sense, or you're just building something up to irritate us," Jerry said to Chambrun. He is one of the few people on the staff who can speak his mind to the boss without bothering to be polite or careful. "Let's start at the top. Who is there in the hotel that fits the bill of speaking German, knowing your blasted special wine, knowing the routines— oh, to hell with listing it all. Who knows the hotel, you, and your habits of thirty years ago?"

  "No one I know of."

  "Because anyone could speak German without your knowing about it. Did you know I speak Japanese? Well, I do— never mind at the moment how it happens. Half a dozen maitre d's, room service waiters, and chefs know that you drool at the mention of Saint Cristobel. No secret that. Anybody could play the piano. Ever hear me on 'The Darktown Strutters Ball'? There are a thousand employees in the hotel who know that the maids turn down the beds at nine o'clock unless otherwise instructed. Anyone living in the hotel, any employee has access to carving knives. It would take a year to check out all the possibilities."

  "Please don't drop your ashes on my Turkish rug, Jerry," Chambrun grumbled.

  "They're good for the rug," Jerry said impatiently. "There's just one phase of this we can narrow down. Who knows you used to play and sing 'Alouette' for your Resistance pals in 1943? That touch is just a little too elaborate, and it may hang somebody."

  "I wish I had an answer to that," Chambrun said.

  "Maybe it's not so hard as it looks," Jerry said. "This hotel is teeming with French chefs and French waiters and French chambermaids. You're a sucker for your native people. And you're a kind of hero they grew up on, most of them."

  "You make me sound like the world's grandfather," Chambru
n said. "I was twenty years old in 1943."

  "And except for confusing things you're not a hell of a lot of help right now. That girl Garber was out to make could solve this for us, but unless Hardy comes up with fingerprints, or unless she's stupid enough to show herself to Marcel again, we can—we will have to—forget about her."

  "So it would seem." Chambrun looked sleepy.

  "So let's begin with Erich Garber. Was he a Gestapo man in the days they were carving Xs on dead Frenchmen's faces?" Jerry said. He started for the door and stopped. "How many of your old Resistance friends attended that dinner tonight?"

  "There were eighteen of us," Chambrun said. He nodded his head like a schoolteacher who is pleased with a precocious pupil.

  "They can alibi you—but can all of them be alibied?" Jerry looked from Chambrun to Jacques Furneaux, who had been silent in the corner all this time.

  "Some of us arrived late," Furneaux said. "I was one of them."

  "What kept you?"

  "I work for the French delegation to the United Nations," Furneaux said. "I was held up decoding messages from the Foreign Office."

  "What time did you get to the dinner?"

  "About ten o'clock. That's why I came back here with Pierre. We'd had almost no time to talk of the old days."

  "Garber was presumably dead by ten o'clock," Jerry said. "You can prove you were at the UN?"

  "I didn't say I was at the UN," Furneaux answered quietly. "I was working in my own apartment—alone."

  "No alibi?"

  "No alibi," Furneaux said. "And to save you time, I fit most of Pierre's points. I speak German, I know about Pierre's fondness for Saint Cristobel, I can play the piano. I don't know the hotel routines, but I have stayed here. I could have remembered that a maid turns down the beds every night."

  "Go home, Jacques," Chambrun said, smiling. "If they decide to arrest you, I'll let you know."

  "So you want to make a joke of it!" Jerry Dodd said and stormed out of the office.

  The lime was creeping on toward morning. Chambrun had taken £ few minutes to change out of his evening clothes and into a looie-Htting tweed suit. He must have drunk a gallon of his poisonous Turkish coffee and smoked a box and a half of his Egyptian cigarettes. He sat behind his desk, his eyes hooded. I could almost hear his mental machinery revolving, but I had no idea what it was producing.