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  “Always trouble,” Lepski said and shouldered his way past the big man into the dark, shabby restaurant. “Let’s have a light.”

  Hawkins flicked on an overhead light. A woman’s shrill voice bawled down from upstairs to know what was happening. Hawkins bawled up, telling her to shut her mouth. There was silence.

  Lepski leaned on the small bar, looking at Hawkins who looked around rather helplessly. He was still stunned by sleep.

  “Do you want coffee, Captain?”

  “Nothing. You selling this dump?”

  Hawkins brightened.

  “It’s sold. That little tart from the Go-Go Club: Drena French. She’s paying me seven thousand bucks. Boy! Am I glad to get rid of it!” Seeing Lepski’s cop expression, he stiffened and asked, “Something wrong? Hasn’t she the money? I kept asking myself how a whore like her could find that amount of money, but she swore by her mother’s grave she was signing the papers today.”

  “Well, she won’t,” Lepski said. “It’s your hard luck, Jeff. We’ve fished her out of the harbour.”

  Hawkins’ big, sweaty face sagged.

  “Dead?”

  “Yeah.”

  The big man sank on to a stool. He rubbed his fleshy, work-hardened hand over his face.

  Well, that’s the way it is,” he said. “I really thought I had got, out.”

  Lepski took out his notebook.

  “Let’s have all the details, Jeff,” he said. “Right from the rime she propositioned you.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It was by the merest chance that Jonathan Lindsey was in the lobby of the Belevedere Hotel when a secretary, calling from Washington, asked for a reservation for Mervin Warren.

  Lindsey was feeling pretty satisfied. The first stage of the operation had succeeded. They now had Paul Forrester. They had his one time assistant, Nona Jacey. There were no loose ends. Silk and Keegan had done a smooth, efficient job. He had already sent a Telex to the Alcron Hotel, Prague, where Radnitz was staying, alerting Radnitz in code of the progress so far.

  Now he was waiting to hear that Dr. Alex Kuntz had been safely taken to the cave hideout. While he was waiting, he examined the Stock list in the New York Times, and it was while he was trying to decide whether or not to increase his holdings in Com Sat that he heard the receptionist talking on the telephone, say, “Mr. Mervin Warren? Yes, of course. A cuite? Yes, certainly. We’ll be happy to have Mr. Warren. Yes . . . I understand. At midday? Certainly. Everything will be ready for him. Thank you . . . you’re welcome,” and she hung up.

  Lindsey glanced at his watch. The time was ten minutes after ten. His brain worked swiftly. Folding his newspaper, he got casually to his feet. He walked to the reception desk. The tall, slim girl, wearing a neat, sky blue dress, smiled at him.

  “Good morning, Mr. Lindsey.”

  Lindsey returned her smile. Charm radiated from him, making her eyes sparkle. Lindsey had this trick. Few women could resist that suave, admiring gaze.

  “You are looking delightful, Miss Whitelaw,” he said. He had always made it a rule to know the names of the important members of the staff of all the hotels he frequented: something that baffled Radnitz who never bothered to remember anyone’s name. “That dress matches your eyes beautifully.”

  The girl laughed, delighted. What all the girls working at the hotel liked about Lindsey was his charm and his kindness. They knew he would never make a pass, never take advantage of their position. They considered him to be quite the nicest client in the hotel which was what Lindsey wanted them to think.

  “I couldn’t help overhearing what you were saying just now,” Lindsey said with an apologetic smile. “Mr. Warren is a very old friend of mine. I hope you are giving him a good suite?”

  “Oh yes, Mr. Lindsey. He’ll be in suite 875. It is the best, after Mr. Radnitz’s suite.”

  “I know it. Good . . .” Lindsey smiled, nodded and moved slowly away. He took the elevator to the penthouse suite, entered, walked to a desk and opened a drawer. From it he took a small square-shaped box. From the box he took what looked like a black plastic button. He dropped it into his pocket. Leaving the suite, he went down the stairs to the next floor and walked slowly along the corridor.

  In the Service room he found Josh, the Negro valet who looked after the penthouse suite.

  “Good morning, Josh,” Lindsey said, pausing in the doorway. “I would like to look at suite 875. Is it vacant?”

  Josh turned, his black face beaming.

  “Yes, sir . . . right now it’s vacant, but someone’s moving in after midday.”

  “A friend of mine is coming this way next month,” Lindsey said smoothly. “I just want to make sure he will be comfortable.”

  “Yes, sir. You come with me. You see for yourself, sir.”

  Lindsey followed the Negro down the corridor, waited until the Negro had unlocked the door to the suite, then as the Negro stood aside, Lindsey entered.

  He looked around the big living-room with its terrace. At one end of the room was a long, rectangular table with eight chairs set around it. This would be where Mervin Warren would hold his conferences, Lindsey decided. He walked over to the table as Josh began to pull up the sunblinds, his back turned to him. Lindsey took the black button from his pocket and his hand disappeared under the table. The adhesive back of the button ― a high powered microphone ― stuck to the underpart of the table. The movement was made so quickly that the Negro was completely unaware of what had happened.

  Lindsey casually inspected the three bedrooms, the three bathrooms, then returned to the living-room.

  “Yes, this will do, Josh. Couldn’t be better. Thank you.” A five dollar bill exchanged hands; then smiling, Lindsey left the suite and returned to Radnitz’s penthouse. Once there, he opened a closet where, on a shelf, stood a Revox tape recorder. He put on a reel of tape, then satisfied with his preparations, he walked out on to the terrace. He stood in the sunshine for some time, watching the distant helicopters circling vainly in their search for Paul Forrester.

  Mervin Warren was a tall, massively built man with a shock of white hair, a dimpled chin and alert, penetrating black eyes. He had arrived at the Belevedere Hotel at twenty minutes past noon and fifteen minutes later was seated at the head of the table in his private suite.

  Chief of Police Terrell was on his left, Jesse Hamilton of the Central Intelligence Agency on his right, Roger Williams of the Federal Burea of Investigation further down the table and Alec Horn, his secretary at the far end of the table, taking notes.

  “Well, gentlemen,” Warren was saying, “you have all read Captain Terrell’s report. I would like your conclusions. Hamilton? What do you think?”

  Jesse Hamilton, thin, balding, his eyes shrewd, his mouth revealing the determination and ruthlessness of his character said without hesitation, “This all points to a conspiracy. There are a number of facts in this report that prove that Forrester did not escape without outside help. The set-up, as Captain Terrell found it when he arrived at the sanatorium, looked as if Forrester had murdered his nurse, stolen the master key and had got away. Now we have had time to examine the report, it seems to me that the facts don’t jell with what we are supposed to believe.” He leaned back in his chair and raised a finger. “Fact one: the chair leg could not have killed Lewis. A much heavier weapon must have been used. Fact two: there were no fingerprints on the chair leg which was not wiped clean, showing the person handling the chair leg wore gloves. We know Forrester didn’t have any gloves. Fact three: the gate-man claims to have heard a car start up some time during the night. This isn’t evidence as he can’t swear to it, but it adds to the picture. Fact four: we now learn that the male nurse, Fred Lewis, was infatuated by a woman, working at a night club. Lewis went often to the Club. Suddenly this woman tells the barman at the Club that she is about to buy a restaurant. Fact five: the owner of this restaurant admits the woman made an offer of seven thousand dollars for the place. How could she find such a sum? Was
this money coming from Lewis? Did he get the money as a bribe? Fact six: both Lewis and the woman are dead. The woman is supposed to have fallen into the harbour. But did she? her head was smashed against a boat. If she had fallen naturally, could she have received such an injury? Dr. Lowis thinks she was thrown into the harbour with considerable violence. Lewis had his skull split by a very heavy weapon . . . this weapon hasn’t been found. So, looking at the evidence, I am inclined to think that Forrester had outside help and an attempt has been made to make us believe that he escaped on his own. As Forrester was our top Rocket scientist, I would say that he has been kidnapped.”

  There was applause, then Warren looked at Roger Williams, a short, lean man with thinning blond hair and a heavy sun-tan.

  “What do you think?”

  “I go along with Hamilton,” Williams said. “This is much too slick. Yes . . . I’d say the chances are Forrester has been kidnapped.”

  Warren turned to Terrell.

  “And you?”

  Terrell rubbed his unshaven jaw. Since he had left home, he hadn’t had a minute to spruce himself up.

  “I don’t know about kidnapping,” he said, “but I’m sure there was outside help.”

  Warren looked at his watch.

  “I think Dr. Hertz should be here by now. We’ll ask him in.”

  His secretary left the room. A few moments later, he returned with Hertz.

  “Come in, doctor,” Warren said, getting to his feet. He introduced each man, then waved Hertz to a chair. “It would be helpful if you tell us about how Forrester was last night. ., if he was behaving oddly and so on.”

  Hertz sat down. He looked harassed and uneasy.

  “His condition hasn’t changed since he has been with me. He is always placid, refusing to mix with anyone, scarcely speaking. He is like a man in constant shock.”

  “You had no hint that he could become violent?”

  “No . . . but that doesn’t mean he could not become violent at any moment. To put it simply, he is like a hand grenade with a faulty pin. Any kind of vibration could make the grenade explode. Both Lewis and Mason, his personal attendants, were well aware of this condition. They always approached him with caution.”

  “How do you imagine he would react once he was out in the open?” Warren asked.

  Hertz hesitated, frowning.

  “That is hard to say. However, knowing his case history, it is likely he would try to find his wife. I have always known this brooding calm of his was connected with the memory of his wife. Here could be considerable danger. If he found her, the grenade could explode.”

  Warren turned to Terrell.

  “Do you know where his wife is?”

  “She lives in a rented beach bungalow on Seaview Avenue,” Terrell told him.

  Warren thought for a moment, then got to his feet.

  “All right, doctor, we won’t keep you any longer. This affair is now out of your hands.” He smiled. “You can resume your normal duties and leave it to these gentlemen.”

  Hertz stood up.

  “I would like to say this has never happened before. I must, of course, accept responsibility . . .”

  “That’s all right, doctor,” Warren said quietly. “No one is blaming you. Thank you for coming.”

  His secretary edged Hertz out of the room. As soon as the door closed, Warren said, “We must put a guard on Airs. Forrester’s bungalow at once.”

  Terrell nodded and going over to the telephone, he called headquarters. When he got Beigler, he said, “We want a night and day guard on Mrs. Forrester’s bungalow on Seaview Avenue. Get two good men down there right away. There’s a chance Forrester might go there . . . warn them to keep on their toes.”

  Above, in the penthouse, listening to all this and recording the conversation, Lindsey grimaced. So it hadn’t been the slick, smooth operation he had planned. It seemed to be coming slightly unstuck at the seams. He reached for a boiled sweet, put it in his mouth, then sat forward in his chair as Warren began to talk again.

  Warren said, “If Forrester was kidnapped we don’t want it known. This must be regarded as Top Secret. It is still possible someone helped him to escape and he wasn’t kidnapped. It is possible he will try to find his wife. All this is something we must keep from the press. We could be lucky and use his wife as a trap to catch him. On no account is the press to be told about his wife or where she is. The press is only to be told that Forrester has escaped. In this way, if he has been kidnapped, his kidnappers will believe we don’t suspect what has happened and they will be less on their guard.” He looked around the table. “Do you all agree?”

  Terrell said quietly, “If we say Forrester has escaped, the press will naturally assume he killed his nurse. Do you want it that way?”

  “For the moment it doesn’t matter,” Warren said. “We know that it is most unlikely he did kill Lewis. All this can be taken care of when we have found Forrester. What is important is for the people who have arranged his escape to believe we have accepted the scene as they have set it.”

  “I don’t think that quite hooks up with Terrell’s point,” Williams said. “Suppose Forrester is on the run . . . hasn’t been kidnapped . . . and he reads in the papers he is suspect number one for Lewis’s killing . . . how is he going to react?”

  Terrell nodded to Hamilton. That was just the point he was making.

  Warren frowned.

  “I still think it is important that the press should believe Forrester escaped without help,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “It is better for the public not to know that this could be a major international incident.”

  Lindsey got to his feet. He thanked his stars he had planted the microphone in Warren’s suite. He must alert Radnitz. This operation was suddenly becoming complicated. He began to feel uneasy. Was the cave hideout safe enough? Leaving the tape recorder to take care of the conversation still going on, he went to the desk and began to draft a Telex in code to Radnitz.

  Sergeant Joe Beigler was once more in charge of the Detectives’ room. Jacoby, with two men, had already left to guard Mrs. Forrester’s bungalow. The search for Forrester was now out of the hands of the police. The F.B.I, and the Army had taken over.

  Beigler was handling the usual routine work, a bored expression on his face.

  Lepski was rolling at his desk, digging his penknife viciously into the battered desk top, watching Beigler, waiting for a lull. When the lull came, Lepski said, “Joe, I’m a great dick. Look at the way I handled that whore’s death. I should be up-graded. Did you see the Chiefs face when I handed in my report . . . it stood him on his ear.”

  Beigler was used to Lepski. He knew he was smart, but he also knew it would be some time before he was moved out of his Grade. Lepski was too much of a hustler . . . too publicity minded to make an early promotion.

  “Just plain dumb luck,” he said, lighting a cigarette from the butt of the one he was smoking. “All the same, Tom, you didn’t do a bad morning’s work. I wouldn’t be surprised, once the news breaks, you’ll be on the telly.”

  Lepski sat up.

  “You think that, Joe?” His lean face lit up. “Sweet Grief! That would kill Carroll! Yeah . . . you’ve got something! Me on television! My goddam neighbours would gnaw at their toe nails with envy.”

  “Of course, the Chief might decide to go on instead of you,” Beigler said, keeping his face straight. “He might say, “information from a report received . . .” You know how they word it, then no one would know our Sherlock Lepski was behind the whole denouement.”

  Lepski gaped at him.

  “The whole . . . what, for God’s sake?”

  “Denouement.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It’s French.” Beigler looked smug. Baffled by the word he had come across in a paperback, he had looked it up in a dictionary. Now, he forced the word as often as he could into his day-to-day limited vocabulary. “Don’t worry your brains, Tom. What’s a lit
tle education between a Sergeant and a 2nd Grade Detective?”

  Lepski glared at him.

  “Are you taking the mickey out of me, Joe?”

  “Who ― me? I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Yeah?” Lepski brooded for a moment, his face darkening. “But you could be right. If anyone goes on the telly it will be the Chief. Boy! Does it burn me! I do the work . . .”

  The telephone bell rang. Beigler scooped up the receiver, listened, then said, “Okay, I’ll send someone down. Yeah . . . right away,” and he hung up.

  Lepski looked suspiciously at him.

  “Not me again! I’m supposed to be on the beach with my goddam wife right at this very minute!”

  Beigler looked around the big room, deliberately staring at each empty desk until his eyes alighted on Lepski.

  “I can’t see anyone else to send,” he said. “That was the State Hospital. Olsen’s just called. Alec Sherman is ready to talk. Olsen wants to know if he should take down Sherman’s statement. Well, you know Olsen: he can’t spell. You’d better get over. The Herald has been screaming blue murder about Sherman. You get a story from him, and they will spread your face bang across the front page.”

  Lepski got out of his chair so fast, he knocked it over backwards.

  “Yeah . . . you’re right, Joe. I’m on my way. This could be my break into big time!”

  With a concealed grin, Beigler watched his hurried departure, then turned back to the mass of reports still waiting his attention. The telephone bell rang. Sighing, he reached for the receiver.

  While he was trying to soothe an agitated old lady whose cat had got wedged in a chimney, Lepski drove, with siren wailing, like a released rocket, down to the State Hospital.

  He found Detective 3rd Grade Gustav Olsen flirting with a pert, good-looking nurse in the lobby of the hospital. Olsen, vast, with a red, good-natured face, would never make a great detective, but he was sound on routine. Lepski had long ago decided he had a lump of lead in his head for a brain, but when it came to a drag-out and a beat-up, Olsen was the best man on the Force.