1971 - Want to Stay Alive (8 page)

“Oh, nonsense!” Hedley snapped. “Why should a nut want to create a panic?”

“That’s what he is doing,” Terrell said quietly. “I’m not saying I’m right, but with nothing else to go on, and looking at the scene, this could be the motive.”

Hedley thought for a long moment, then pushed back his chair.

“I’m tired. I’ve had enough for tonight. I’m sorry I blew up, Frank. All right . . . I’ll go along with your thinking. I don’t have to tell you what tomorrow is going to be like.” As Terrell said nothing, Hedley paused as he thought of tomorrow’s newspapers, the nonstop ringing of his telephone bell and Pete Hamilton creating trouble on the 10.00 TV news. “You really think this nut is trying to throw a scare into this City?”

“He’s doing it, isn’t he?”

“So what are we going to do?”

“That now depends on you,” Terrell said. He leaned forward and knocked out his pipe in the ash tray. “Before I return to headquarters I want to know if you are still on my side.”

“On your side?” Hedley stared at him. “Of course I am!”

“Are you?” Terrell looked woodenly at Hedley. “A moment ago you were talking about me losing my job. Do you want a new Chief of Police?”

Hedley flinched.

“Why the hell should I want a new Chief of Police? If there’s anyone who can catch this bastard it’s you!”

Terrell got to his feet.

“That’s right. If there’s anyone who can catch him it’s me. So let’s cut out the panic.”

“That’s telling him, Frank,” Monica said from the open doorway. “And how he needed to be told!”

Both men turned, realising only at this moment that she had been listening all the time.

Hedley suddenly relaxed. He looked sheepish.

“Wives! You want to take her off my hands, Frank?”

Terrell relaxed too. He winked at Monica.

“If I hadn’t one of my own, I’d take you up on that,” he said. “Both of them are as good as each other.” He started towards the door.

Hedley said, hesitation in his voice, “Do you want me at headquarters tomorrow?”

“You’re always wanted, Lawson,” Terrell said, pausing. He touched Monica’s hand, then taking the elevator, he went down to face the waiting TV cameras.

***

Jack Anders, doorman of the Plaza Beach hotel, stood on the red carpet before the imposing marble portals that led into the best hotel in the City, his keen grey eyes surveying the boulevard, his big hands clasped behind his back.

Anders was a 2nd World War veteran, the holder of a number of impressive combat medals and was now a recognised character on the boulevard. He had been doorman of the Plaza Beach hotel for the past twenty years.

This was the slack time in the morning so Anders was taking it easy. In another couple of hours cars would be arriving for the pre-lunch cocktail hour and he would be fully occupied opening car doors, instructing chauffeurs where to park, tipping his peak cap to the regulars, answering idiotic questions, giving information and collecting dollar bills. None of the Plaza Beach hotel’s clients ever dreamed of speaking to Anders without parting with a dollar bill. But at this hour of 09.30, he didn’t expect any demands on his attention and accordingly was relaxing.

Police Officer Paddy McNeil, a massively built, elderly Irishman who was around to take care of any traffic snarl up on the boulevard and generally to keep an eye on the aged and the rich, came to rest beside Anders.

The two men were friends. Their friendship had grown over the years while Anders had stood sentinel in all weathers outside the hotel and while McNeil paced the boulevard and came around to the hotel every two hours to pause and exchange greetings.

“How’s your pal . . . the Executioner?” Anders asked as McNeil paused by his side. “I was listening to the radio. Got all my old dears wetting their knickers.”

“Your old dears aren’t the only ones,” McNeil said darkly. “Right now life isn’t worth living. I’m thankful to be on patrol. Except for a dozen of us old deadbeats, the rest of us are out looking for his sonofabitch. Two truckloads of men from Miami arrived this morning. So much water down a drain. What do the finks from Miami know about this City?”

“Do you think what Hamilton says is right?” Anders asked innocently. He liked needling McNeil.

“Hamilton?” McNeil snorted. “I never listen to that big mouth . . . he’s a trouble maker.” He cocked an eye at Anders. “What did he say?”

“That this killer is a homicidal maniac with a grudge against the rich.”

McNeil pushed his cap forward to scratch the back of his head.

“You don’t have to be either homicidal or a maniac to hate the rich,” he said after some thought. “I can’t say I love the rich myself.”

Anders concealed a grin. “They have their uses.”

“You can say that again. I’d like to have your job.”

“It’s not so bad.” Anders tried not to look smug. “But you have to know how to handle them. Think you’ll catch this nut?”

“Me?” McNeil shook his head. “Nothing to do with me. I’ve got beyond catching anyone. I’m like you . . . taking it easy, but the Chief will catch him. Terrell’s got a head on his shoulders, but, of course it’ll take time .”

A gleaming sand coloured Rolls drew up and leaving McNeil, Anders stepped briskly across the red carpet and opened the car door.

“Morning, Jack.” The handsome fat man who got out of the Rolls was Rodney Branzenstein. He was a successful Corporation lawyer who came every morning to see clients living at the hotel. “Seen anything of Mrs. Dunc Browler?”

“Too early for her, sir,” Anders said. “In about fifteen minutes.”

“If she asks you, tell her I haven’t arrived.” Branzenstein slid a dollar bill into Anders’ ready hand. He strode into the hotel.

While his chauffeur drove the Rolls away, McNeil moved close to Anders.

“Do you ever get sore fingers, Jack?” he asked with concern.

“Not me,” Anders said promptly, “but don’t get wrong ideas. This has taken years.”

“Is that right?” McNeil shook his head. “I’ve been pounding this goddam beat for years and no one has ever thought to slip me a buck.”

“My personality,” Anders said. “Your bad luck.”

A tiny woman with sky blue hair, her skin raddled, her aged fingers crooked by diamond rings came tottering out of the hotel.

Anders was immediately by her side.

“Mrs. Clayton!” Watching him, McNeil was startled by the look of incredulity on Anders’ red, leathery face. “Now where do you think you’re going?”

The little woman simpered and looked adoringly up at Anders.

“I thought I’d go for a very short walk.”

“Mrs. Clayton!” The concern in Anders’ voice made even McNeil concerned. “Did Dr. Lowenstein say you could go for a very short walk?”

The little woman looked guilty.

“To be honest, Anders, he didn’t.”

“I should think not!” Anders took her elbow gently and began to guide her back into the hotel. “You sit quietly, Mrs. Clayton. I’ll get Mr. Bevan to call Dr. Lowenstein. I can’t have you running around wild, now can I?”

“Sweet Jesus!” McNeil muttered and was so impressed, he crossed himself.

Some minutes later, Anders came back and rested his corns on the red carpet. McNeil was still there, breathing heavily, his small Irish eyes glassy.

“That was Mrs. Henry William Clayton,” Anders told him. “Her old man kicked off five years ago. He left her five million bucks.”

McNeil’s eyes opened wide.

“You mean that old bag of bones is worth five million bucks?” Anders frowned at him.

“Pat! You shouldn’t speak disrespectfully of the dead.”

“Yeah.” There was a long pause, then McNeil said, “You sort of shoved her around, didn’t you?”

“That’s the way to handle them. She loves it. She knows I’m the only one who cares about her.”

“Have you got any more like her in this joint?” McNeil asked. “The hotel is stuffed with them? Anders shook his head. “Dotty old people with too much money . . . it’s sad.”

“It wouldn’t make me sad,” McNeil said. “Well, I guess I’ll leave you to it. See you.” He paused, then regarded Anders. “How much did she slip you?”

Anders lowered his right eyelid in a heavy wink.

“That’s a trade secret, Paddy.”

“Man! Am I in the wrong trade!” Sighing, McNeil started down the boulevard, his big feet slapping on the sidewalk.

Lying on the flat roof of the Pelota night club, Poke Toholo watched the big police officer depart. He watched him through the telescopic sight of the target rifle.

Poke had been on the roof now for the past three hours. The four-storey building was a little under a thousand yards from the Plaza Beach hotel.

Poke had arrived there in the Buick at 06.00, a time when he could be sure there would be no one around to see him leave the car and carrying the rifle.

He was familiar with the Club: one of the oldest buildings in the City. It had a swing down iron fire escape at the rear which was considered by tourists to be a novelty and something to gape at. The climb to the roof had been made without danger or difficulty, but Poke, as he lay concealed by the low wall surrounding the roof, knew that getting down to the street again would be much more dangerous. The boulevard by then would be busy, the adjacent buildings alive with people and he risked being seen, but he was prepared to take the risk.

He looked at his wristwatch. The time now was 09.43. He again applied his eye to the telescopic sight and began to search the boulevard.

Traffic was building up. People were appearing, moving in a steady stream up and down the boulevard. Then he saw Chuck and he nodded his approval. Chuck was on time: a little early, but that didn’t matter. Chuck, wearing a clean red and white check shirt and grey hipsters, looked like any other of the young tourists who swarmed into the City at this season. He was idling along, reading a newspaper.

Poke slightly adjusted the screw of the telescopic sight, bringing Chuck’s face into sharp focus. He saw he was sweating. That was understandable.

Chuck had a tricky job to do: quite as dangerous as what Poke had to do.

Again Poke looked at his watch. Only another few minutes, he thought and shifted the telescopic sight to the entrance to the Plaza Beach hotel.

Focusing the cross hairs on Anders’ head, he satisfied himself that it would be a certain shot.

Oblivious to what was going on, Anders surveyed the boulevard, nodded to those who nodded to him, touched his peak cap to those who merited a salute and basked in the warmth of the sun.

Since the coming of the mini skirt, the bare midriff and the see-through dress, Anders’ life had become much more interesting. With approval, he watched the girls prance by. As a doorman, he relied for a living on the old, the fat and the rich, but that didn’t mean he had lost his appreciation for long legs, a twitching bottom or a bouncy breast.

Then Mrs. Dunc Browler appeared.

Anders was expecting her. Invariably at this hour she made her appearance. He gave her his best salute, his smile bright, kindly and friendly: a smile he only switched on for his special people.

Mrs. Dunc Browler was a short, stout woman in her late sixties. Perhaps the word “stout’ was an understatement. By eating five large meals a day for most of her sixty-seven years she had managed to cover her small frame with a layer of fat that would make an elephant anxious. She was one of the many eccentrics who lived permanently in the hotel. It went without saying that she was rich: just how rich no one knew, but the fact that she had one of the best suites in the hotel that cost $300 a day for the suite alone pointed to the fact that she was pretty well heeled.

Since losing her husband who she had doted on some four years ago, she had bought a large floppy bitch from the dog pound for something like three dollars and Anders considered she had been conned. Admittedly the dog was affectionate but to Anders’ snobbish eyes, she had no class.

“That dog’s mother should have been ashamed of herself,” he had said while discussing the dog with the assistant doorman.

But to Mrs. Dunc Browler, Lucy, as the dog was called was her child, her dearest possession, her friend, her companion and Anders, knowing people’s weaknesses, accepted the fact.

So when Mrs. Dunc Browler made her appearance, wearing flowing white robes that would have delighted a P. & G. account executive and a huge hat covered with artificial cherries, apricots and lemons to take Lucy for her constitutional, Anders went into his act.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he said with a bow, “and how is Miss Lucy this morning, ma’am?”

Mrs. Dunc Browler beamed with pleasure. She thought Anders was a dear man, so kind and his interest in Lucy filled her heart with pleasure.

“She’s fine,” she said. “Absolutely fine.” Directing her beaming smile down to the panting dog, she went on, “Say good morning to nice Anders, Lucy, dear.”

The dog regarded Anders with overfed bored eyes, then squatting, she made a small puddle on the red carpet.

“Oh dear.” Mrs. Dunc Browler looked helplessly at Anders. “I should have brought my darling down a little earlier . . . quite my fault.”

The carpet would have to be removed, cleaned and another installed, but this was no skin off Anders’ nose. As the old girl paid $300 a day to stay at the hotel, why should he worry?

“Little accidents will happen ma’am,” he said. “You have a fine morning for a walk.”

“Yes . . . a lovely morning. While Lucy was having her breakfast, I was listening to the birds. They . . .”

Those were the last words Mrs. Dunc Browler was to utter.

The bullet smashed through her ridiculous hat and into her brain. She sank to the red carpet like a stricken elephant.

For a split second Anders looked down at the dead woman at his feet, then his Army trained mind took over. He had seen so many men shot through the head by snipers in the past that he immediately realised what had happened. He whirled around, his keen eyes searching the distant roof tops. While women screamed, men shouted and pushed forward, while cars came to a grinding halt, Anders caught a glimpse of a man ducking out of sight behind a low wall surrounding the roof of the Pelota nightclub.