the sideboard replenishing a demitasse cup of Turkish coffee.
Upstairs Lovelace was in the hands of that very competent man from Homicide, Lieutenant Hardy.
“It doesn’t make sense, Mr. Chambrun,” Jerry Dodd said. “Elaborate notes and warnings. It’s like children playing cops and robbers. Can someone be kidding him?”
“There’s a dead man in Ten B,” Chambrun said. “Not kid stuff, Jerry.” The narrowed black eyes turned to Atterbury. He didn’t need to ask the question.
Atterbury consulted a registration card he was holding. “We only had house seats when this man Smith called in to reserve,” he said. When the hotel is full the management always keeps one or two singles and a suite available for special customers or VIPs who arrive unexpectedly. We call them house seats. They’re not given out to just anyone like a John Smith, unknown to Atterbury. “He had a note from Senator Maxim, asking us to do what we could.”
Chambrun’s eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. The Senator was an old customer and a big wheel. “And the Senator says what about John Smith?” Chambrun asked.
“The Senator is on his way to Honolulu for a conference with some bigshots from Vietnam,” Atterbury said. “He’ll get a wire from us when he arrives there. Meanwhile Smith is a large question mark. The cops have looked at his luggage. An attaché case contained two clean shirts, a change of underwear, and a shaving kit and toothbrush. No papers, no letters, no wallet on him. A hundred and fifty-odd dollars in his pocket. I suppose, through the FBI, Hardy may be able to check out laundry marks and that sort of thing. Takes time. I’m sorry to say Smith is a zero just now.”
Ruysdale put the fresh cup of coffee down by Chambrun’s right hand. He picked up the cup and sipped.
“This would seem to be a simple open-and-shut police matter,” he said quietly. “I want to explain to all of you why it isn’t.” He put down the coffee cup and took a fresh cigarette from his silver case. Ruysdale held the desk lighter for him. “The police in general and Hardy in particular are extremely skillful—after the fact. Whoever shot John Smith will eventually be hunted down and caught. If someone kills George Lovelace, Hardy will get him. That isn’t good enough for me. They will, perhaps, supply Lovelace with protection for a few days or a few weeks, but in the end they will give up guarding him. A matter of manpower and economics. Whoever is after Lovelace can afford to wait until the police relax. Then we will be right back where we are now.”
“It’s not good for the hotel,” Atterbury said.
Chambrun’s eyes flickered. “It’s not good for Lovelace,” he said.
Atterbury looked puzzled. The sure way to Chambrun’s good graces was to be concerned for the Beaumont.
“In nineteen forty-three,” Chambrun said, “I was involved in the Resistance in France. It was a time of many heroes, and Charles Veauclaire was one of them. He lived in occupied Paris as Karl Kessler, hobnobbing with the Nazi conquerors, and all the time passing on invaluable information to us in the underground. He lived in terrible danger, because if the Nazis discovered the truth about him he was a dead duck, and there were many Frenchmen, not in on the secret, ready to take any opportunity to knock off anyone playing it cozy with the Nazis. He was the key to a successful system of getting hundreds of British fliers back to their home base from where they could fly again against the enemy. The Germans were determined to stop this underground traffic, and they changed their defenses against it from day to day. Lovelace—or Veauclaire—was able to keep us informed of those changes.
“I remember the day he came to our headquarters, his right shoulder soaked with blood, his arm hanging useless. The Germans had finally guessed that he was double-crossing them. They were hot after him. I remember his showing me the little green and white
Upstairs Lovelace was in the hands of that very competent man from Homicide, Lieutenant Hardy.
“It doesn’t make sense, Mr. Chambrun,” Jerry Dodd said. “Elaborate notes and warnings. It’s like children playing cops and robbers. Can someone be kidding him?”
“There’s a dead man in Ten B,” Chambrun said. “Not kid stuff, Jerry.” The narrowed black eyes turned to Atterbury. He didn’t need to ask the question.
Atterbury consulted a registration card he was holding. “We only had house seats when this man Smith called in to reserve,” he said. When the hotel is full the management always keeps one or two singles and a suite available for special customers or VIPs who arrive unexpectedly. We call them house seats. They’re not given out to just anyone like a John Smith, unknown to Atterbury. “He had a note from Senator Maxim, asking us to do what we could.”
Chambrun’s eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. The Senator was an old customer and a big wheel. “And the Senator says what about John Smith?” Chambrun asked.
“The Senator is on his way to Honolulu for a conference with some bigshots from Vietnam,” Atterbury said. “He’ll get a wire from us when he arrives there. Meanwhile Smith is a large question mark. The cops have looked at his luggage. An attaché case contained two clean shirts, a change of underwear, and a shaving kit and toothbrush. No papers, no letters, no wallet on him. A hundred and fifty-odd dollars in his pocket. I suppose, through the FBI, Hardy may be able to check out laundry marks and that sort of thing. Takes time. I’m sorry to say Smith is a zero just now.”
Ruysdale put the fresh cup of coffee down by Chambrun’s right hand. He picked up the cup and sipped.
“This would seem to be a simple open-and-shut police matter,” he said quietly. “I want to explain to all of you why it isn’t.” He put down the coffee cup and took a fresh cigarette from his silver case. Ruysdale held the desk lighter for him. “The police in general and Hardy in particular are extremely skillful—after the fact. Whoever shot John Smith will eventually be hunted down and caught. If someone kills George Lovelace, Hardy will get him. That isn’t good enough for me. They will, perhaps, supply Lovelace with protection for a few days or a few weeks, but in the end they will give up guarding him. A matter of manpower and economics. Whoever is after Lovelace can afford to wait until the police relax. Then we will be right back where we are now.”
“It’s not good for the hotel,” Atterbury said.
Chambrun’s eyes flickered. “It’s not good for Lovelace,” he said.
Atterbury looked puzzled. The sure way to Chambrun’s good graces was to be concerned for the Beaumont.
“In nineteen forty-three,” Chambrun said, “I was involved in the Resistance in France. It was a time of many heroes, and Charles Veauclaire was one of them. He lived in occupied Paris as Karl Kessler, hobnobbing with the Nazi conquerors, and all the time passing on invaluable information to us in the underground. He lived in terrible danger, because if the Nazis discovered the truth about him he was a dead duck, and there were many Frenchmen, not in on the secret, ready to take any opportunity to knock off anyone playing it cozy with the Nazis. He was the key to a successful system of getting hundreds of British fliers back to their home base from where they could fly again against the enemy. The Germans were determined to stop this underground traffic, and they changed their defenses against it from day to day. Lovelace—or Veauclaire—was able to keep us informed of those changes.
“I remember the day he came to our headquarters, his right shoulder soaked with blood, his arm hanging useless. The Germans had finally guessed that he was double-crossing them. They were hot after him. I remember his showing me the little green and white
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