Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 101, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 610 & 611, March 1993

A Statesman’s Touch by Robert Barnard

With seven Edgar nominations to his credit, Robert Barnard must be placed with the leading crime writers of our day. Publishers Weekly called his recent novel Fatal Attachment “another gem.”

“Mais c’est incroyable!”

The hotel manager looked down towards his beautifully shod feet with an expression more of distaste than of disbelief. The head porter, who had summoned him, thought to himself that if you find a trickle of blood seeping under the door of one of the bedrooms into the corridor, it is not altogether surprising to discover a corpse behind the door, or to find that the corpse was murdered. But, as an intelligent man, he held his peace.

“It’s that man Radovan Radič,” said the manager, his mouth twisting as he looked down at the body with the gaping wound between its shoulders.

“A Bulgarian, wasn’t he?” the porter asked.

“Serbian, I believe. But Serbian, Bulgarian, Hungarian — they’re all the same. Brutes!” He looked around the spare, ill-furnished room, one of their cheapest. “I only know of this creature because the police were around asking about him last week.”

“Illegal resident?”

“Worse, much worse. Apparently he was a thoroughly unsavoury character. All sorts of activities, including blackmail. He had been touting letters from Marie of Romania.”

“Ah — to Prince Stirbey?”

“No, not that old story. Something more recent. They thought it possible he was an agent of the King of Serbia, but on balance they thought he was acting for his own ends. I was all for throwing him out onto the street at once, but the Sûreté begged me not to. Here they could keep an eye on him, they said. I wish now that I had insisted, but when the Sûreté begs...”

“Of course. In our position one obeys. Who have we in the hotel tonight?”

“Ah, that is the question.”

It was indeed. The Hotel George IV, formerly the Imperial, situated on the Avenue Decazes, had carved for itself a minor but vital role in the diplomatic comings and goings of that year 1919, the year of the Peace Conference. Paris was awash with kings, statesmen, and mere politicians, not to mention the attendant diplomats, secretaries, and the inevitable newspapermen. Behind the ceremonial and the open negotiations there mushroomed encounters of a more personal nature. The George IV catered, discreetly, for any assignation, whether political, romantic, or frankly sexual, that the participants wished to keep from the gaze of the public or of rival statesmen. The hotel’s system of backstairs access and private corridors was unrivalled in the French capital, and the manager was formidably discreet. He already regretted the renaming of the hotel, which had been done in the hope of profiting by a confusion with the new and magnificent George V. The hotel had found a quite different and much more lucrative identity, and would have benefited from a more anonymous name. That very morning an English visitor had commented cheerily that the only connection George IV had had with France had been his delusion that he led the allied troops at the Battle of Waterloo. The manager’s demeanour had been glacial. It was the height of bad taste to mention the Battle of Waterloo in Paris.

He now enumerated the hotel’s more sensitive guests, strictly in order of rank.

“The King of Spain is in Suite Fifteen with a woman who is not his mistress.”

“Madame Grigot would raise hell if she knew.”

“Quite... Alfonso XIII — such an unlucky number. I’m surprised his mother chose the name.”

The head porter caught his drift.

“Spain remained neutral during the course of the war,” he remarked.

“Very profitably neutral. His Majesty was a noncombatant, at least on the field of battle... I think, you know, that we need take no special steps where His Majesty is concerned.”

The head porter nodded sage agreement.

“Then there is the President of the United States. He is in Suite Seven with the Prime Minister of Italy.”

“There is no question of—?”

“No, no. Out of the question. The president has no such inclinations. Mrs. Wilson would never allow it. They are engaged in extremely sensitive discussions concerning Italy’s new borders in the Tyrol. They will have to be informed.”

“Of course.”

“And then there is the Prime Minister of Great Britain...”

“Ah yes. Mr. Lloyd-George.”

The head porter of the George IV naturally managed “George” more or less in the English manner, but “Lloyd” came out as “Lo-id”. He was, nevertheless, extremely familiar with the name.

“Yes. With a most attractive woman of a certain age. I escorted them personally to Suite Twelve, his favourite suite. The prime minister’s patronage is of course an honour to the hotel...”

“Naturally.”

“Though it is not an honour we can proclaim...”

“Except discreetly.”

“Exactly. We proclaim it discreetly. Mr. Lloyd-George must of course be told before the police are summoned... Who else? The Belgian ambassador, the Latvian chargé d’affaires, the Australian foreign minister, all with ladies. They can be informed. For the rest, diplomats, members of various parliaments — they must take their chance. We will inform them if we can, but before too long, for our good name, we must summon the Sûreté. Mon dieu! They said they wished to keep an eye on him! What an eye!”

And leaving the head porter on guard outside the door, with instructions to inform any curious guests that there had been an unfortunate accident, the manager bustled off in his stately fashion to alert his guests.

In Suite Fifteen, the young dancer whose name was unknown to him lay under the King of Spain and thought rapturously that it really was something, to be pleasured by a king. The pleasure was undisturbed by any call from the hotel management.

In Suite Seven, the President of the United States of America put down the telephone and rose.

“Mr. Prime Minister, this has been a most interesting and productive meeting, and we have made real, very real progress, but I regret that it must come to an end.”

The president’s interpreter, who looked like a Mafia boss but who was in fact a Harvard professor, rose to his feet, but the Italian prime minister remained seated and looked petulant.

“But Mr. President, I wish to protest about Merano—”

“I’m afraid that there has been a murder in the hotel. Some scruffy little Balkan muckraker. It would greatly harm me in the American press if it were thought that I were making secret deals — coming to unofficial understandings — with a foreign power. No doubt the Italian press feels similarly strongly.”

It didn’t, but the Italian prime minister got to his feet.

“Of course. And my king is very touchy about his prerogative in matters of foreign policy.”

“Ah, I think I have met your king. A very small man, I seem to recollect.”

“But touchy accordingly. You are right, Mr. President: we should be gone.”

“Why don’t you stay, Giuliano? You could go through what we’ve already agreed on. No scandal in your being here.”

And the president and the prime minister opened the door onto the backstairs corridors and scuttled out. In minutes they were in two taxis which the manager had summoned for them, speeding back to their respective hotels.

In Suite Twelve, the British prime minister was more relaxed than the American president.

“Yes, I’m alone.” He flicked his tongue around his lips. His companion for the night had just returned from her maid’s room, and had said with a coquettish smile: “Ten minutes!” He could hardly wait. “The lady is preparing herself,” he told the manager.

“Mr. Lloyd-George, I am desolated to have to tell you that there has been a murder—”

“A murder? In this hotel?”

“Yes indeed. A Balkan adventurer of the most dubious kind.”

“A Balkan adventurer? Do you mean a gigolo?”

“No, no. A Serbian with a criminal bent. Perhaps it is best for you not to know the details.”

“Perhaps it is.”

“So I wondered whether you and the most charming lady would wish to... remove yourselves from any intrusiveness on the part of the police?”

“Hmmm... You have not yet called the police?”

“No indeed. I informed you first, Mr. Prime Minister.”

“Obliged to you. Hmmmm. I have a certain... experience in handling tricky matters of this kind.”

“Your statesmanship is known to all, sir.”

“Leave it with me for ten minutes or so. I may be able to advise you how to handle this. Suggest something to... to safeguard the reputation of the hotel.”

“Of the hotel, of course, Mr. Prime Minister.”

In his office on the ground floor of the George IV, the manager fumed at the well-known hypocrisy of the English. To pretend that he was thinking of a solution to the hotel’s crisis, when all he wanted from the period of grace was — what he had come for in the first place. How truly perfidious was Albion!

In Suite Fifteen, the nameless young dancer, once more under the King of Spain, was deciding that it was even more extraordinary than she had thought, being pleasured by a king.

In Suite Seven, Professor Giuliano, master now of a luxurious suite, wished he could have taken advantage of the well-known freedoms of the Hotel George IV. But with police in the offing that was hardly on the cards. With a sigh he returned to the maps of Southern Europe that had been occupying his master and his guest. He took hold of the carafe of barley water that Mr. Wilson had been drinking, then changed his mind and poured a glass of the prime minister’s French champagne. As he sipped, he looked down at the maps on the desk and a new expression came over his face.

In Suite Twelve, Mr. Lloyd-George took up the phone.

“Mr. Manager? Suite twelve here. Now, you said this Johnnie was Serbian, did you not?”

“Yes, Mr. Lloyd-George. What I believe we are now to call Yugoslavian.”

“Well, we shall see about that. But it’s a good point. Got any of his fellow-countrymen on your staff, have you? Or anyone else from the Balkans? Very quarrelsome people, the Eastern Europeans. Or even a North African might do.”

“I believe there is someone in the kitchens — let me see, I think there is somebody from Croatia.”

“Capital. Part of the new kingdom.”

“I seem to remember he is one of the meat chefs.”

“With the skills of a butcher, then? Even better. I wouldn’t mind betting his passport is not in order.”

“It does often happen that people will work for less if we... turn a blind eye.”

“Quite. Well, offer him a good sum of money — what’s a thousand pounds in francs? — and tell him to disappear.”

“Ah, you mean—?”

“It will be unimaginable riches to him. He’ll take himself off and become a rich man in his own country. You don’t need to do anything more. Tell the police he’s disappeared, and they’ll jump at it. Crime solved, with no effort. Suspicious foreigner — everyone’s happy. They won’t trouble anyone else, if the solution’s handed to them on a plate.”

“I do believe, Mr. Prime Minister, that you’re right.”

“Of course I am. And there’ll be no scandal attached to the hotel. We all want that, don’t we? Let me know how things go.”

As he put down the phone, the door to the bedroom opened, and a vision in rustling silks swept through.

“My dear!” said Mr. Lloyd-George appreciatively.

The men from the Sûreté behaved in a way that at first bordered on the surly.

“This is the man Radič,” said the inspector, looking at the body on the floor with disgust.

“It is. I wanted to throw him out.”

“We told you to keep an eye on him.”

“You said that you would keep an eye on him.”

“That’s what we meant. My Clod! With this man’s record it could be anyone — and possibly one of the highest in Europe. Or of course one of their hirelings...”

“It occurred to me—” began the manager.

“Yes?”

“Did you not say that the man was possibly in the pay of the King of Serbia?”

“It was one of the possibilities.”

“And has he not recently proclaimed himself king of a country called Yugoslavia?”

“Lord knows. Who understands what goes on down there? I have an idea you’re right.”

“It is a very quarrelsome part of the world...”

“They’re always at it. Love, war, love, war.”

“It is, after all, where the late conflict began.”

The inspector nodded sagely.

“It is. If the archduke were alive today, so would a hell of a lot more people be.”

“Exactly. So I wondered if someone of one of the other nationalities that the king has annexed to his new kingdom, perhaps in a quarrel with this unsavoury character...”

The inspector considered.

“You have someone from the region staying in the hotel?”

“Staying here? Heavens above, one was enough! It is, I believe, a poverty-stricken hole. But in our kitchens...”

“Ah. Someone without papers, no doubt.”

The manager gesticulated.

“His papers seemed in order—”

“Who is this man?”

“He is one of the assistant meat chefs — a lowly position.”

“I think we must talk to this man. What nationality did you say he was?”

“I believe Croatian.”

“Who knows where these places are? But it is down there somewhere. Lead on, Mr. Manager.”

Preceded by the manager, the policemen trooped along dingy corridors, up staircases and then more staircases until they came to a long, low attic which served as a sort of dormitory for the lower members of staff. Watched surreptitiously by Turkish, Portuguese, Bulgarian, and Algerian eyes, silently beseeching that their papers not be asked for, fearful of being sent back from the squalor that they lived in to the greater squalor they had come from, the little army marched nearly the length of the dimly lit room.

“Ah, see!” said the manager, greatly surprised. “He is gone!”

The bed was neatly made. From the rough cupboard beside it all trace of the occupant had been removed.

“This, evidently, is our man. Come, Mr. Manager, and give us all the details on him that you have.”

The little army turned, walked the narrow space between the rows of beds, and began the long trek down to the manager’s office. As the door to the attic closed, there could be heard a great sigh of relief in several languages.

In Suite Fifteen, the admiration of the nameless dancer had gradually turned to rage. This was too much! How many times was it now? She had lost count. Bang, snore, bang, snore, bang, snore. She felt like a leaky bicycle tyre. This was being treated like a common prostitute. And at the end, she wouldn’t even get paid, probably. Come the dawn and it would be, “Adieu, ma petite,” and that would be that. Le roi le veut. Well, she’d had enough. What had been an honour had become a tedious hassle. Fortunately, the king was now in a snore phase.

She got up, but before she put her clothes on she peeped out the door. The first things that met her eye were the backs of two stalwart gendarmes bearing something covered with a sheet away on a stretcher. Turning her head, she saw two more gossiping at the other end of the corridor. Police in the hotel! An inconspicuous departure would be quite impossible. She sighed. Better stick it out.

On the bed, the snores lessened in volume. The king stirred.

In Suite Seven, Professor Giuliano contemplated his handiwork. The map the president and the prime minister had worked on lay to his left hand, a red line stretching halfway across the thigh at the top of the leg of Italy, breaking off when their work had been interrupted. The new border between Italy and the defeated Austria. At Professor Giuliano’s right hand was a duplicate map, unused in the negotiations, on which he had drawn a new red line, mostly identical, but which now veered north at a crucial point, to put on the Italian side Merano and a rich area of Alpine villages, woods, and grazing lands. He took the map on his left and the suite’s heavy table lighter over to the grate and set fire to a corner. When he was satisfied it was entirely burned, he went back to the desk and poured himself another glass of champagne. Being born in New York did not mean he was not still a patriotic Italian. He smiled with professorial self-esteem: it was a brilliant stroke, worthy of his father, the Mafia boss.

As the first rays of dawn struck the Avenue Decazes, the phone rang in Suite Twelve. The British prime minister had always impressed on the manager that, should anything of importance arise, he should always be rung. “If I am busy, I simply don’t answer,” he had said. Now he was already dressed and in the sitting room, while his companion completed her morning toilette in the bedroom.

“Mr. Prime Minister?” said the manager. “I thought I should tell you that, thanks to your brilliant suggestion, everything went like a dream.”

“Glad to hear it. All it needed was a touch of statesmanship.”

“The police accepted absolutely my interpretation of the unfortunate event and the man’s disappearance.”

“Of course they did. Less trouble.”

“The man will by now have evaporated, and the case is in effect closed.”

“Splendid.”

“The police have now left the hotel, and you and your charming guest can leave without arousing any impertinent curiosity.”

“Excellent. I think I hear her coming now. Call two taxis, will you?”

The door from the bedroom had indeed opened, and sailing through, dressed for her morning activities, came the lovely woman of a certain age who had shared the prime minister’s night. He gazed at her appreciatively: splendid figure, regal carriage, gorgeous clothes and hat. Odd to think of her as granddaughter of that dumpy little woman. She, like him, would from now be caught up in the great public events of the time. He saw the reddish-brown tip of a hatpin poking through the too-small evening bag: typical of her and her kind always to be prepared for an emergency!

“I’ve just had a call from the manager,” he said. “The emergency’s over. The police have gone.”

“Excellent,” she said. “I have a very full morning of engagements. Civil of him to let you know.”

“Naturally he did,” said Mr. Lloyd-George, swelling to his full adiposity. “I advised him how to go about things.”

“I do love a clever man.”

“And I am the Prime Minister of Great Britain.”

She paused before disappearing through the door.

“And I am Marie of Romania.”