The Asian Mantrap

Five

From the top of Nob Hill ships passing through the Golden Gate were visible through a thin veil of persistent fog. The warmth of the mid-afternoon sun would soon clear away the remaining mist. The doorman of the Fairmount Hotel greeted me on the steps. I surrendered my bag to a gangling youth wearing an ill-fitting bellhop’s uniform.

There’s something serene about the lobby of the Fairmount. Though redecorated a number of times, remnants of the lobby’s original quiet elegance remain. Despite stiff competition from the newer Mark Hopkins across the street, the Fairmount had lost none of its appeal for the affluent, genteel segment of society.

The desk clerk didn’t know me, but he treated me as though I was a major stockholder in the company. A tag pinned over his coat pocket identified him as Mr. Whitner, Ass’t. Mgr. He gave me his full, courteous attention. I was the only person checking in at the time. He addressed me by name as soon as I had written it down on the registration card. He had developed the knack of reading upside-down penmanship. “We have a nice single on the tenth floor, bay side, Mr. Carter. Will that do?”

“Fine,” I agreed.

He turned around to remove the key from the rack of pigeonhole room boxes covering the wall behind him. “What room is occupied by General Martin?” I threw at his back.

“He’s in 824,” was the reply. “Not at the moment, though. His key is gone. Would you like to leave a message?”

“Do you expect him back today? I understand he’s been in and out.”

“Now that you mention it, I haven’t noticed him around for a couple of days.” A look came over his face as though he had forgotten something. “Would you mind waiting a moment?”

Mr. Whitner disappeared behind a partition. The mechanical clatter of accounting machines beyond the wall marked the area as the billing department. Mr. Whitner returned wearing a smile. “I’ve checked. General Martin is keeping his room.” He was relieved. Keith Martin hadn’t skipped out. “His bill to date was paid up just yesterday,” Whittier added.

“In person?” I wanted to know.

Whitner didn’t answer at once. He seemed to be debating whether he should answer at all. My questions were becoming too pointed. His tone turned evasive. “I have no way of knowing. I would presume so. The account was paid with a personal check taken in by one of our cashiers on the morning shift.”

I broke off my probing. I thanked Mr. Whitner and turned away from the reception counter. The bellboy gathered up my key. I followed him into the elevator. He hummed to himself on the way up to the tenth floor. We detoured around a housekeeper’s cart in the hallway. After opening the door to Room 1022 and going through the ritual motions inside, the lad left humming a lively tune. I had tipped him generously. He’d remember me if I needed some answers from him later.

The call to Hawk couldn’t be delayed much longer if I wanted to catch him at the office, but there was something I wanted to do first. Seeing the pushcart in the corridor suggested the move.

I took the self-serve elevator down to the eighth floor. The maid, a stout, middle-aged Chicano woman, was working in Room 856. She was using a vacuum sweeper, but shut it off when she saw I wanted to speak to her. The machine was back in operation in less than a minute. The answer she gave to my question was useful, but it didn’t satisfy me.

The pay phones in the lobby were as safe as any for what I had to say. Even though my conversation with Hawk would be fairly straightforward, he didn’t like getting long distance calls that went through a switchboard.

Ginger accepted the collect call and Hawk came on immediately. The exchange between us went pretty much the way I expected. Hawk brushed aside the details and the consequences of my run-in with Layton and Wyler. The fact that interference had developed so soon disturbed him. Someone in Washington had broken silence. It had to be an intentional breach of trust. Hawk questioned Layton’s claim that Martin was remaining out of sight voluntarily. Because our plans to go after Martin had been penetrated so rapidly after getting under way, Hawk concluded that a person or persons in Washington didn’t want Martin back. He assured me that he was going to start digging around back there for some answers.

I told him I could use the help. I also agreed that there were plenty of people who would just as soon not see Martin in Washington again, although my slim evidence gathered so far suggested that Martin was in no hurry to return. “Martin isn’t using his room at the Fairmount,” I explained, “although he’s hanging onto it.”

Hawk questioned my source.

“The maid that does the rooms on the eighth floor. Martin hasn’t slept in his bed for the past six days.”

“Then he’s sleeping in someone else’s bed. That should be easy for you, Nick. Find the girl!”

Before hanging up, Hawk gave me the name of the Bank of America vice president who would expidite an alternate set of credit cards and replenish my cash supply. His voice was beginning to rasp toward the end. He’d been smoking too many of those horrid cigars.

I went out and stood on the steps under the drive-up portico. The doorman glanced over. “Cab, sir?”

“In a moment,” I replied, but made clear my intentions by getting a pair of one dollar bills ready for a tip. That left me with a last, lonely five for the cab. “I’m trying to catch up with General Martin whom I hoped to meet here. He’s a guest of the hotel, too. About my build, broad-shouldered, sandy hair with a square jaw?”

“I know who you mean,” the doorman replied, eyeing the bills.

“Does he generally use taxis to get around?”

“Only the first day. After that he had a rental car.” He saw that his answer was a disappointment to me. “I can describe it,” he added quickly. “The car wasn’t one of your standard rentals like Avis or Hertz. It was a green Ford Granada from one of those cheapie independents over on Van Ness.” He paused, thinking. “Yeah, I remember. It had a bumper sticker advertising the company. Dime-A-Mile, that’s it.”

I reached out. The money changed hands. The doorman palmed it out of sight with the expertise of a stage magician. A short bleep from his whistle summoned a cab. As it moved forward I asked, “Did you ever see anyone in the car with General Martin?”

“Just once. Matter of fact, the last time I noticed either the car or General Martin. He came out of the hotel with Miss Stevens and they drove away together.”

“The woman — Stevens — is she registered here?”

A corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile. “Not quite.” He moved closer. “She’s in business for herself, but not in the hotel. We don’t permit anyone to work the premises, but we do allow a couple of special girls to meet our male tenants here. We try to accomodate all of our guests’ needs. The girls have to take them to their apartments.” He spoke faster when he saw my growing interest. He didn’t know it had nothing to do with my wanting to use the services of a call girl. “You’re not dealing with your run-of-the-mill stable stock, you understand. They’re professional model caliber and... ah... charge the same kind of prices. It’s strictly private, though, and real first-class merchandise.”

I recognize a sales pitch when I hear one. “Could you arrange an appointment for me with Miss Stevens?”

“As soon as possible,” I added from the edge of the seat while he bent over, open door in hand.

“This afternoon?” he asked, eyebrows arched. I nodded. “When will you be back, sir?”

“I’ve got to go to the bank and run another errand. I’ll call in a half hour or so.”

Following a visit to the Bank of America, my next stop was the Dime-A-Mile car rental office. My first impression upon seeing the shoddy appearance of the office, set up in an abandoned Phillips service station, was that Dime-A-Mile featured automobiles which were candidates for demolition derbies. The gum-chewing, acne-faced teenager on duty pushed the contract form at me to fill out. I wondered if the kid could write. I put down my driver’s license information from memory. The cash advance payment for two weeks use of a car and the Fairmount Hotel address apparently negated the requirement to show a valid driver’s license. I added an extra five dollar bill to the pile and asked about the car Keith Martin had rented.

The record was easy to find. Few Dime-A-Mile cars went long without some trouble being reported by the renter. The car was still out. It must be running and in use — a fact that seemed to be a surprise to the attendant. He had no idea where the car might be. He suggested checking with the operator of the Fairmount Hotel parking garage. His boss wasn’t worried. Like myself, Martin had made a good-sized cash deposit based on the highest daily rate. The advance would cover the next four days.

While the car was being topped off with gas, I used the phone. I could hear nearby street traffic in the background when I was connected with the Fairmount doorman. “The lady says she doesn’t normally accept afternoon clients, Mr. Carter, and she has an evening engagement. She will see you, however, provided your visit is concluded by six o’clock.”

Learning that the girl was not tied up told me that Keith Martin hadn’t moved in with her. She had seen him, though. It was going to cost plenty just for me to question someone who had gotten more than a fleeting glimpse of the elusive general. I asked for and got Miss Stevens’ address. It was on Fulton Street close to the San Francisco College for Women.

The building was an imposing, new high-rise apartment. I had to stare into a TV camera and identify myself to get in. A remote control unlocked the street level entrance. A haughty-looking male receptionist in the posh lobby gave me a critical visual examination as I walked past him to the elevators. A smooth ride carried me up to the fifteenth floor. The strains of Schubert’s Entr’acte No. 2 in B-flat coming from an overhead speaker kept me company.

I tread noiselessly down a wide corridor with thick pile carpeting underfoot. One of a pair of wide apartment doors opened to my ring. I stepped into a room worthy of a frontispiece position in an illustrated copy of Arabian Nights. A foyerlike entry way was bathed in soft, amber light. The tile floor was patterned in large black-and-white squares, so highly polished that the grillwork of the gold-painted wrought iron room divider beyond was reflected in the mirrorlike surface.

Through the grillwork I looked upon a sunken living room half the size of a regulation tennis court. Except where covered by black tufted throw rugs, its matching black-and-white checkerboard floor reflected a sparkling, heavy crystal chandelier overhead. The entire decor in the two spaces consisted of stark white and jet black contrasts enriched by gold accents. Displays of Moorish swords, shields, pennoned lances and beautifully framed prints of Arabian stallions lined the white walls. Handcarved ivory pieces and decorative brass pitchers containing fresh white flowers adorned oversized ebony end tables. It was a room planned to please the eyes of men.

So was the sight of Melissa Stevens.

She was a beautiful, olive-skinned girl whose Greek ancestry was evident in her large, dark eyes. Her well-groomed black hair glistened with highlights even under the subdued lighting of her luxurious apartment. Her full, crimson lips were as eye-catching as her remarkable thrusting breasts. The low-cut, richly embroidered caftan she wore showed ample expanse of flawless skin.

“You are Nick,” she said for a starter. “Please come in.” Her voice was throaty. It had a strong, distinctive accent which I recognized immediately. She turned and stepped down into the living room.

“Would you rather call me Nikko?” It came out ‘Neekko.’ She stopped dead in her tracks. When she spun around, a look of pleasant surprise on her face, I spoke again in her native tongue. “Apo pyo meros stin Elladha iste? Thessaloniki?” I’m not as proficient in Greek as other languages, but I can make myself understood.

“Dhipla!” she replied brightly. Her delighted smile showed white, even teeth. “To khoryo mu eenay Kozani.”

I’d never been to that part of Macedonia, but I knew all northern Greek villages were of the same mold. Once started, the intrigued girl rattled on. After five minutes, I was comfortably seated in a white upholstered chair, a cut-crystal glass of ouzo in my hand, and a lot of personal information about Melissa Stevens in my head. Her true name was Marika Stephanopoulos. She was in the United States on a visitor’s visa. Expired, I found out. She didn’t mean to let that slip out. She was really an illegal alien in hiding. I didn’t think she was aware of the consequences. If the law ever got onto the way she was making a living, she’d have bigger trouble than just facing a prostitution rap.

That gave me the lever I needed. Switching back to English, I told her I worked for the government. A frightened look filled her luminous eyes. “Don’t worry, Melissa. I’m not interested in making trouble for you. I want to know about a man you saw here a few days ago. His name is Keith. Keith Martin.”

“Yes. Him I remember.” The words came out fast. “A handsome man. Like a gladiator.” She sighed. “A disappointment, that one.”

I had to ask. “You mean he couldn’t—?”

“He didn’t want to. He was here all night. Sitting up, I think. He told me to go to bed and leave him alone.”

“He must have been preoccupied to ignore you,” I said as a sincere compliment.

“I tried to be nice,” she explained. “I make the bed ready and put on the short see-through nightie that shows me off, but he only looks once and waves me away. Sometime in the night the phone woke me up. He had already answered it. He said the call was for him, but all he did was write something down on the back page of my date book and hang up.” She gestured toward a stylish white writing desk trimmed with delicate gold pinstriping.

I put my glass down and walked toward the desk. “He made some telephone calls. How many?”

“Just two. Maybe more after I was asleep. One was long distance. He dialed a lot of numbers before he stopped.”

“Did you hear any of the conversations?”

“A little, but not enough to tell what was going on. The one call he talked like someone was going on a trip. He was getting information about travel schedules. I didn’t listen well.”

Sitting down at the writing desk, I thumbed through a spiral bound appointment book that lay next to an ornate French-style telephone. Patrick had a lock on Tuesdays at 9 P.M. Michael was booked every Friday evening at 7:30 for the next three months. I turned to the back of the book. The last page was missing. Tufts of paper clinging to the curved wire binding marked where it had been. There were indentations on the inside of the back cover where a ball-point pen had borne down on the impressionable surface.

I turned on the desk lamp and tilted the book to catch the light. Faint numerals were discernable. A telephone number. I shifted the book about, trying to see other dim grooves. Melissa stood close to my chair, looking over my shoulder. “I saw him write just the one time... in the book. Then he tore out the page. For a... how you say... stratygos... he acted very strange.”

The Greek word she used meant general. Hookers generally are given first names only and most customers prefer to keep it that way. “How do you know he was a general?”

“Yes. General. That’s the word. I read it, but don’t remember. It was written out. On his check.”

“You take checks?” The world’s oldest profession was certainly becoming modernized. I wondered if she accepted credit cards too?

“For him it was a favor. He paid me, like everyone, in dollars for nothing. I owed him something. He give me check for the hotel. Yesterday, when I go there to meet someone, I give check to cashier lady. Right at top of check is printed his name and address. Also his rank of general with some numbers to identify him. I remember because I see he lives in Virginia in a town with a Greek name... Alexandria.” She said it proudly.

The first three numbers scratched on the back cover of Melissa’s date book were 479. A schematic diagram in the front of the phone book showed that this exchange served communities in and around San Rafael-Novato. For some reason, it was important for Keith Martin to contact someone living there. With a bit of luck I’d find out who it was.

I dialed the 479 prefix, then added the 3715 that I could make out under the strong light from the desk lamp. The telephone was answered by a woman after the second ring.

I brought my voice up from well back in my throat. “Hello. Marianne? This is Mark, Jean’s husband, calling from San Diego. Has Jean arrived yet?” All the elements of security and appeal to human emotions were in the message. The safety of a long distance call... a married man looking for his missing wife. Her curiosity should be piqued.

A good sign would be hesitation from the other end. There was. Then, “I believe you have the wrong number.”

I had to be quick. “Isn’t this 479-3715?”

“Why, yes. But I’m not Marianne. San Diego? Are you sure you dialed the right area code?”

Another substantiating answer was needed. I had looked it up, just in case. “Four-one-five?” I said hopefully.

“That’s right for San Rafael.”

A hit.

I waited now, keeping my fingers crossed.

“Who were you calling?”

Strike out.

I was tempted to come straight out with the name Keith Martin, but that was too risky. If he was there, or the woman had a way of reaching him, he could slip away again. She’d cut me off if I made my probing too pointed. The conversation had about run its course. “Isn’t this Marianne Tyson at nine-sixty-five Grand Avenue?” I invented a likely San Rafael address, hoping she’d tell me hers. It was a long shot.

It missed.

“I’m sorry. You have the wrong party. Ask the operator to help you.” She didn’t give me time to reply. The replaced receiver sent a click over the line.

Melissa saw me out. Before leaving, I’d made a point of suggesting that she engage a lawyer to advise her on immigration laws. One slip, I reminded her, and she’d be on her way back to the tobacco fields of Kosani.

I think she was a little sorry to see me go. But she didn’t offer me a discount. I paid the full amount — top dollar for top talent — willingly.

It was money well spent.

Because of Melissa Stevens, I was one step closer to coming face-to-face with Keith Martin.