Dead of Night

Chapter twelve: Doorway to death

In the killercycle draymas, the criminal is just a stupid-though-crafty rat who eventually gets caught by the steel-trap mind of the detective. Nobody but the snoopersleuth is permitted to have a mind like a steel trap. Everybody else wanders around in a daze suspecting obviously innocent parties, until snap goes the trap of the mastermind. I wish I could operate like that sometime.

However, most of the criminals security men deal with are slick articles. Key workers, who hang around the information desk until they spot a guest’s name and room number, wait for him to go out, then step up, ask for his key, and go up and rifle his room; corridor cats who prowl along until they see an open door with a maid racking up, then boldly walk in and make like they’re the guests; crooks like that aren’t so stupid.

In the case of 21MM, anyone who could get into a guarded suite, murder the guard, and get away without being seen or heard, was a cool and calculating head. Auguste didn’t fit the picture.

Neither did it seem reasonable that a waiter who had the nerve to go up against a cleaver-equipped chef would be the sort to stab any man in the back. And even if Auguste had gone berserk, he’d never have returned to the scene of his crime and blandly admitted he was looking for the weapon he’d misplaced.

But if Hacklin waltzed him downtown to one of those high-pressure tête-à-têtes, by the time it was discovered the stains were only steak gravy, it’d be too late to repair the bad publicity. So I aimed at sidetracking Hacklin long enough to switch Auguste downstairs, get the truth out of him without scaring him out of his wits.

He hurried across the Crystal Room, straight for us. Armand tugged at my sleeve, trying to get my attention.

“Meestair Vine, Auguste—”

“Don’t melt your mustache, Armand.” By the speakers’ table, at the far end of the raised platform, I saw a blond crew cut and a white tie with Roy Yaker’s genial puss sandwiched in between. He was being buttonholed by an individual who had his back to me; the other man wasn’t wearing tails or tux. All I could make out clearly at that distance was the sparkle of a ring on his right flipper. It shone like a star sapphire.

I rattled the key I’d taken from Edie, lowered my voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Hacklin, here’s something more to the point than any waiter’s sleeve.” I half turned as if to keep Armand from overhearing; all I was after was to make Hacklin twist around, away from the oncoming Auguste.

“Where’d you get that?” Hacklin reached for it.

“Took it away from a sizzle sister down in the Steeplechase Bar just now.” I let him have the key. “A Miss Edie Eberlein. Claimed the key was given to her by Tildy Millett.”

“Yuh? You hold her?” The D.A.’s man was interested, all right.

Auguste bustled up. “Mister Fine, I am told—”

I waved him away. “See I’m busy, Fessler? Ask Tim Piazolle about it!”

“But Mister Fine, Mister Piazolle, he—”

“I’ll talk to you down in my office, Fessler.” I ignored him, turned back to Hacklin, who was observing Auguste suspiciously. “I didn’t have any charge against this zizzer, so I couldn’t hold her. But she was with Tildy Millett’s manager, gent name of Keith Walch. Thought you might want to question him.” Auguste raised his eyebrows and his shoulders, drooped the corners of his mouth, gazed at Armand, turned on his heel, walked away with his arms bent at the elbows, palms upturned.

“Walch, huh.” Hacklin decided he had no call to inquire into my business with any waiter named Fessler. “Where’s he?”

“Over there.” I pointed. “Talking to the big bucko in the soup and fish. Big lad’s name is Yaker. He’s running this kaffee klatch. Lanerd was to speak at the dinner.” If Hacklin inferred that I’d trailed Walch up to the Crystal Room, why should I have set him straight?

“Walch might know where his skater is.” Hacklin was mollified. “But put the clamps on that waiter, hear? We sent the coat down to Broome Street for tests. If it turns out the same type blood as Herb’s, I want five minutes with that son of a bitch before I turn him in downtown.” He stalked toward Yaker and Walch.

Armand puffed out his cheeks, blew out his breath with a soft hissing.

“Armand,” I said. “You are dumb.”

“M’sieu?” He patted his toupee, agitated.

“Deaf. Dumb. Blind. You know nothing about nothing.” I knuckled him gently in the short ribs. “N’est-ce pas?”

“Ah-ho!” His eyes became very round. “That is how it is, that way?”

“Just like that.” I went out to the check-off room, through the serving-pantry, into the banquet kitchen where the smell of quail Montmorency and sweetbreads Emile made me realize it was about the time I’d have been eating a frankfurter, if I’d gone to the Garden.

Tim wasn’t around. Neither was Auguste.

When the service car dropped me at the third and I went into my office, they were both there.

Tim had to explain why he’d missed Auguste up in the banquet kitchen. Auguste insisted on relating how he had learned “Mister Fine” was looking for him, how he’d hastened to locate me soon’s he knew I wanted him.

I told Tim what I wanted him to do about the maids, bellmen, porters, electricians, waiters, and valets who might have been on the twenty-first within the last four hours. Then I took Auguste into my private cubby.

Boiled down, what he said was that he’d served early dinner for Miss Millett, guest, and maid. Around six, that was. Vichysoisse, sole bonne femme, bifteck bearnaise, salade avocado, pêche Melba, café. He was especially careful with the order; Miss “Marino” took care of him excellently in the matter of lagniappe.

The guest had been Roffis. With the guard there had been not exactly trouble, but an argument only. “What was the matter, Auguste?”

“The filet, it was the finest, well aged and exzellently charcoaled, but this boozhwah claimed it was tough, sztringy. I do not tell him he is probably not uszed to such tender cuts, but this I think to myzelf. Iz not the firszt time we disagree about the meals, Mister Fine.”

“Any other arguments at the table?”

“Szome talk about a fisit from Mister Lanerd’s wife — diszagreeableness, pozzibly. Nikky, the maid, she was angry about it. Miss Marino did not szeem so angry, thoughtful only. Roffis, he did not expressz opinion.” About seven, they finished. Auguste began to take tables away. After the meal, Miss Marino had gone into her bedroom with Nikky. Roffis took his time about finishing his dessert, razzed Auguste some more, went into his room.

As Auguste was clearing away, Miss Marino had come back to the living-room. Then the maid had returned, too. Both appeared to be upset. While Auguste was busy rolling the hot-table out into the hall, Roffis had re-entered the living-room. He exchanged a few words in an undertone with Miss Marino, hurried into the girl’s bedroom. This was something Auguste had not seen him do before, on any of the occasions when the waiter’d been in the suite.

When Auguste got out to the corridor, began stacking dishes on the tables, he noticed the door to Miss Marino’s bedroom was slightly open. He paid no particular attention to this. But a minute later, after he’d made another trip to the living-room and back to the corridor, a man rushed out of the bedroom, bumping into him, nearly upsetting the hot-table.

He had seized Auguste’s arm to steady himself, hurried away down the corridor before Auguste realized it wasn’t Roffis.

Auguste hadn’t seen the man’s face clearly, partly because he’d been bending over and had been rattled by the unexpected encounter, partly because Auguste, though extremely shortsighted, couldn’t wear his glasses on duty. The Plaza Royale doesn’t go for spectacled waiters.

So he couldn’t describe the man. All he had actually seen was a vague blur of a face. All he could say for sure was the man wore a light suit, cream-colored with chocolate checks, something a Londoner might possibly sport.

He couldn’t give more than the fuzziest description of the man. Medium height. Average build. Neither especially light or dark. Indeterminate age. He was certain it was a man. That was about all he was sure of.

Auguste had taken his tables along to the service elevator and thought no more about it. It was “quite pozzible, yes,” that this nondescript individual had wiped a hand on Auguste’s sleeve.

I’d gotten to the point of explaining to Auguste that in all probability he’d had his hands on a murderer — or the other way round — when there was a pounding on my door.

And Hacklin’s voice demanding admittance.