Deadly Joke (19 page)

“Weapon?” Hardy asked.

“I didn’t want to touch anything till you got here,” Jerry said. “But no weapon I could see.”

Chambrun and Hardy went into the room with Jerry. I stayed out in the hall with the crew man. Shaw had been enough for my stomach for one night.

“My name is Edwards, Mr. Haskell,” the crew man said.

“Sure, I know,” I said. I’d seen him around for years. He was one of the regulars.

“Jack was supposed to show up to inspect the new plate-glass windows they’ve put in the lobby shops,” he said. “When he didn’t come or answer his phone, I came down to look for him.”

“Nobody saw or heard anything?” I asked him.

“Nobody’s come forward,” Edwards said.

Chambrun and Jerry reappeared fairly quickly.

“Senseless, brutal slaughter,” Chambrun said. “Jerry’s right. We’re dealing with some kind of a madman.” They headed for the elevators and I tagged along. “Maxwell can’t be allowed to leave his suite, even with guards, until we’ve nailed this creature.”

We went up to the fourteenth floor. Jerry’s two men were at their posts outside the door.

“The Maxwells alone?” Chambrun asked.

“His friend is in there with him,” one of the men said. “Mr. Clarke.”

Chambrun put his finger on the doorbell and held it there. The door was promptly opened by Watson Clarke. His big face looked haggard.

“Oh, Mr. Chambrun,” he said.

“We’d like to talk to you and Douglas,” Chambrun said.

Clarke drew a deep breath. “Of course. But—we’ve got troubles.”

“So have we,” Chambrun said. He walked past Clarke into the suite’s living room. I thought he looked relieved to see Maxwell sitting on the couch with a drink in his hand. Maxwell looked like some dreadful cartoon of himself; I could have sworn that he was fighting tears.

“Oh, God!” he said. “Oh, God, Pierre.”

I was surprised, but Chambrun seemed not to notice the state Maxwell was in. “I have to tell you, Douglas, that we’ve had another killing,” he said. “A man named MacDonald who was my maintenance crew chief. He was beaten to death, just like Shaw. It’s pretty clear that we’re dealing with some kind of psychopath who won’t stop at anything. Until we find him, you’re not to leave this suite, even under guard.”

“What did this MacDonald have to do with all this?” Clarke asked.

“I can only guess,” Chambrun said. “He had a key to the balcony. The key is in his office now, but he may have loaned it to someone, not realizing what it meant. Or he may have been bribed, and kept still about it too long.”

“But I can’t stay here,” Maxwell said, his voice shaken. “I have to leave the hotel now, at once!”

“Impossible,” Chambrun said. “Unless you want to commit suicide.”

“Maybe I do,” Maxwell said. He reached forward and picked up a piece of paper from the coffee table. Chambrun read it, his face expressionless, and then handed it on to me.

It was a piece of hotel stationery with two lines scribbled on it in a kind of schoolgirlish handwriting.

My dear, dear Douglas:

I am so very sorry, but I can’t stand this any longer.

Grace

“She was here when Douglas went down to your office a little while back,” Clarke said. “She was gone when he got back.”

“Guards?” Chambrun asked Jerry.

“We weren’t instructed to cover Mrs. Maxwell,” Jerry said. “The guards stayed with Mr. Maxwell.”

“She’s probably gone home,” Chambrun said.

Clarke shook his head. “I’ve tried calling the house for Doug. No answer.”

“So what do you think this note means?” Chambrun asked.

“She pleaded with me over and over to give up the political race,” Maxwell said. “I thought she wasn’t rational about it and I refused.”

“Was she sober?” Chambrun asked. It sounded brutal.

“She’d had a lot to drink tonight,” Maxwell said, “but she stays in remarkable control. I mean, only if you knew her could you tell. I’ve got to find her, Pierre, to tell her I’ll do whatever she asks.”

“You can’t leave the hotel,” Chambrun said.

“I have to, Pierre!”

“You’ll force me to have Hardy place you in protective custody,” Chambrun said. He seemed without sympathy.

“Let me try to find her for you, Doug,” Clarke said. “She may be at home and simply not answering the phone. She may have gone to some friend’s. I know most of the people she might turn to.”

“For God sake, Watty, in the state of mind she’s in—”

“You can count on me, Doug,” Clarke said. “I can do everything you might do.”

“I suggest,” Chambrun said in the same unfeeling voice, “that you try to locate Diana. Ten to one she helped Grace arrange this.”

A nerve twitched in Maxwell’s cheek. “She would do anything to hurt me,” he said.

“She would do anything to help her mother,” Chambrun said. “Do we understand each other, Douglas? You’re not to leave this suite until the police tell you it’s safe.”

“I think Chambrun’s right, Doug,” Clarke said. “You won’t be doing Grace any good by exposing yourself to this killer.”

“I don’t have any choice, do I?” Maxwell said. He made a choking sound. He was fighting tears. It’s a terrible thing to see a strong man cry.

Clarke left the suite with us. “I’ll try the house first,” he said.

“And if she doesn’t answer the doorbell?” Chambrun asked.

“I have a key to their house,” Clarke said. “I’ve always been like one of the family.” He stood, frowning, as we waited for the elevator. “You really think Diana is in on this?” he asked.

“She had a date with Mark for a drink. She didn’t keep it. I suspect her mother asked her for help.”

“But she left the suite,” I said, “hours ago.”

“To make arrangements for her mother,” Chambrun said. He looked at Clarke. “It might be worthwhile checking airports, bus terminals. Grace hasn’t had time to get very far. You might intercept her.”

“It’s an idea,” Clarke said.

The down car came and the doors slid open. Chambrun made no move to board it. “I want you to go down to the basement, Mark,” he said to me. “Have Hardy post extra guards up here. Wait for me there.”

Clarke and I got on the elevator and I pressed the down button.

“Poor Doug,” Clarke said. “He’s had almost more than a man could bear in one night. I’m afraid he’ll throw in the towel on his political future. It’s too bad. We need this kind of integrity and courage; need it desperately.”

“Why is Mrs. Maxwell so set against it?” I asked.

“Alcoholism is a disease,” Clarke said, “not something you can control with will power. Grace is deeply ashamed of it, poor darling. If Doug gets into public life, it’s a secret she won’t be able to keep. I believe that’s why she’s so determined to stop him.”

The elevator stopped at the lobby floor. Clarke stepped out.

“Good luck,” I said.

“I’ll need it,” he said.

The doors closed and I went down to the basement. Hardy was standing in the doorway to the office. Inside were a photographer and a fingerprint man at work. I caught a glimpse of MacDonald’s body, covered now by a sheet. I gave Hardy Chambrun’s message and he passed along orders to one of his men. He looked glum.

“No weapon,” he said. “A hundred fingerprints, all of them MacDonald’s. Like always, nobody saw anything, heard anything. There’s a lot of traffic down this corridor to the garage, but not at this hour of the morning.”

I gave him a rundown on the Maxwell situation.

“We should have had her watched,” he said.

“There wasn’t any reason to think she was in danger.”

“It would seem that anybody remotely connected with this is in danger from this lunatic,” Hardy said. “You, me, Chambrun, anybody. This bastard is on a homicidal binge.”

I heard the elevator door open down the hall and I turned to see Chambrun approaching. He had Melody with him. It looked almost as if he was dragging her. He glanced into the little office.

“Uncover the body,” he said in a cold voice. “I want Miss Marsh to see him.”

It was a cruel thing to suggest. Hardy hesitated. Chambrun walked across the office and ripped the sheet back from MacDonald’s head—or what was left of it.

Melody screamed. She tottered away and suddenly she was clinging to me, sobbing.

Chambrun came out into the hall. He took her by the shoulders and wrenched her around so that she was facing him. “Is that enough to convince you, Melody?” he said. “Hyland has threatened you with jail. This killer doesn’t threaten. He intends to wipe out anyone who knows anything about him or his motives. You could be one. Hyland is almost certainly one. Would you rather face this than risk what Hyland has threatened you with? I can protect you from Hyland, but I can’t promise to protect you from that!” He jerked his head toward the bloody corpse. “You know something you haven’t told us. You know someone else who was on Charlie Sewall’s blackmail list. Do you want to be responsible for more deaths and maybe your own?”

“So help me God, Pierre, I don’t know any names,” she said, fighting for control. “I knew about Maxwell, but for a very special reason.”

“What reason?”

“Charlie hated Maxwell,” she said. “Most of all he hated the fact that they were like identical twins. He hated anything that made him like Maxwell. He tortured himself with it. One night when he was quite high and we—we were making love, he asked me some crazy questions. Like, how would I like to be making love to Maxwell, would I be able to tell the difference? Then he—he exploded. He said, ‘Well, I’ve got that sonofabitch over a barrel.’ He told me about the stealing and all. ‘And he’s not the only one,’ he said. ‘Barstow college has been a little gold mine for Uncle Charlie.’ I asked him what he meant, and he said there was someone else paying off just as big as Maxwell was. He didn’t say who, and after that he was tight-mouthed about the whole thing. I swear that’s it, Pierre.”

“And Hyland thinks you know? That’s why he beat you up, trying to get you to admit it? And then he told you you could go to jail for what you did know?”

She nodded. “I’m a coward, Pierre. I’m a miserable coward.” She put her head down on his shoulder, weeping. For the first time he showed something like sympathy. He touched her hair, stroked it gently. He looked at Hardy.

“Have Miss Marsh taken back to my penthouse and have her guarded,” he said.

“Right,” Hardy said.

“And we’d better pick up Hyland and have him protected. He’s almost certainly on the killer’s list.”

Chambrun vetoed Hardy’s suggestion that we telephone Hyland and warn him to stay put until he could be placed under protection.

“He’s such a devious clod that he’ll assume we’re being devious with him,” Chambrun said. “Probably run out on us. I suggest that we don’t dally, Lieutenant. Our killer has been a step ahead of us all along the way.”

We rode downtown to Beekman Place in a police car. At the apartment house Hardy instructed the uniformed driver to wait in the lobby. The building attendant refused to take us up without our announcing ourselves on the house phone. He wasn’t the man who had been there earlier. Hardy went through the business of showing his shield.

“You know if he’s in?” the lieutenant asked.

“Yes, he’s in,” the man said. “He had a caller only a few minutes ago.”

Hardy and Chambrun exchanged glances.

“Pass key,” Hardy said to the building attendant.

“I can’t do that, Lieutenant. I—”

“Pass key!” Hardy thundered at him.

The attendant went up with us in the elevator. Outside the door of Hyland’s apartment the man produced a ring of keys.

“As quietly as possible,” Chambrun said. “There is probably a killer inside there. He may let go at the first person he sees. Make noise and you may be the target!”

The man’s face broke out in a sweat. Delicately, he inserted the key in the lock. He turned it very slowly, his other hand on the doorknob, holding it steady. The door moved noiselessly inward, and the moment it did, we could hear Hyland wailing, pleading.

“For Christ sake, believe! I’ll turn over all the evidence to you, I swear. But it isn’t here. I’ll have to get it.”

“I don’t believe you,” a familiar voice said.

“I swear it! And you can count on it—I’ll never tell a soul! I promise!”

“I wouldn’t take your word for the time of day, Hyland.”

Hardy moved. He was silent and astonishingly quick for a big man. He went through the vestibule, his service revolver drawn. Chambrun and I were right behind him.

Hyland was literally crouching in the corner of the couch, his hands raised in a protesting, pleading gesture. Standing over him was Watson Clarke. In his right hand he had a short length of tire chain. He must have been taken completely off balance, but his reflexes were extraordinary. He swung the chain over his head and brought it down.

At the sight of us Hyland screamed like a woman and dove for us. It saved his life, I think. That brutal length of chain caught him a glancing blow on the shoulder—glancing, but sufficiently powerful to send him sprawling, face down, on the rug. If he had delayed a second longer, his skull would have been smashed.

Hardy was on top of Clarke. The two big men went down on the couch, Hardy on top. He had his knee on Clarke’s chest, his left hand closed on Clarke’s right wrist. His gun was pressed against Clarke’s throat.

Hyland scrambled on his hands and knees toward Chambrun. “He was going to kill me!” he screamed. “The sonofabitch was going to kill me!”

Chambrun shook off a clutching hand. “I almost wish we’d been a minute later,” he said.

“I’ll tell you what it’s all about!” Hyland promised. He sounded like a high-pitched girl. “He’s like Doug Maxwell, so high and mighty. He’s been paying to keep Charlie silent for years. I’ll tell you all about it. I’ll tell you what kind of a creep he is.”

“For God sake let me tell it!” Clarke said in a deep, angry voice. “I don’t want to hear him making filth out of it.”

I looked back at the couch. Hardy had managed to snap on a pair of handcuffs. He was standing to one side with the length of chain in his hand.

“He’s a killer, a murderer!” Hyland screeched. “He killed Charlie and Shaw. He was going to kill me!”