CHAPTER 18 - LEPROSY AND LOBSTER
The
pre-banquet cocktail party was in a large hall adjacent to the Grand Salon. It
wasn’t large enough. The room was jammed and there were too few bar stations to
accommodate 700-plus people. The hotel wait staff did an admirable job of
circulating canapes through the milling throng without, as far as Scarne could
tell, dropping any platters. He roamed through the crowd and sampled a few of
the hors d’oeurves. All were lukewarm, regardless of whether they were supposed
to be hot or cold. He decided that assassination by salmonella was a real
possibility. Maybe that was why Quimper was skipping the cocktail party.
At 7 P.M. the
bars closed down and the several widely spaced doors to the Grand Salon opened.
Attendees, many of whom Scarne was sure never even managed to get one drink,
started filing out and looking for their tables.
Safeguard
Security arranged for Scarne to have a seat in the front of the ballroom at a
table just right of the spot on the dais where Quimper would be during the
banquet. Karen and Nick Dennen were at a similar table to the left a few feet
away. Hotel security, other Safeguard agents and probably, Scarne thought, a
couple of plainclothes N.Y.P.D. cops guarded the stairs leading up to either
side of the platform. If there was a threat, he suspected it would come right
up the middle aisle and he, Karen and Dennen could intercept. He thought it unlikely
anyone could sneak a bomb into the banquet, but one never knew. If that was the
case, he would probably be blown to hash along with everyone else.
Karen and her
“date” had an advantage. They had two sets of eyes and could pretend to be
engrossed in each other, thus limiting conversational distractions from others
at their table. Scarne was flying solo and had to contend with the other nine
people at his table, all seemingly interested in explaining how wonderful their
books were. Fortunately, no one in his group had discovered that he was a “book
critic” and he passed himself off as just another thriller writer. After he
said that his novel,
The Leprosy Killer
, was based on a true story he
had heard while doing court-ordered community service in a Hawaiian leper
colony, he was left out of the conversations. No one asked him to pass the
butter, either.
Quimper made
his entrance at 7:30 amid a respectful buzz from the audience and was quickly
escorted to his seat on the dais. He gave the crowd a hearty wave and sat down
after greeting the others on the elevated platform. Scarne looked at the
program under his plate. The other six people sitting with Quimper were also
authors. He recognized two of the names from having actually read their books,
which he liked. All were previous winners of various awards presented at the
Killerfest and Scarne made a mental note to take the program home. If the other
authors were anywhere as good as the two he knew about, he might enjoy their
thrillers.
The salads on
the tables were already plated and people began eating. After a while waiters
started roaming through the room with the main course, a surf and turf with
grilled vegetables. Scarne looked at the dais. A waiter was serving Quimper,
with a Safeguard agent standing directly behind him. Scarne was hungry. He
quickly ate his filet mignon and politely asked his tablemates if anyone wanted
his lobster tail. With his leprosy comments fresh in their minds, there were no
takers.
Then it was
time for the awards ceremony and Quimper’s speech. One of the authors on the
dais, a woman, got up and went to the small podium at its center. She
introduced herself. A fairly well-known author, she had been the previous
year’s recipient of the Raymond Chandler Award, the Killerfest’s signature
award. She was one of the two authors Scarne had read, and specialized in
forensics. She knew her stuff.
She introduced
everyone on the dais but Quimper and gave a brief rundown of their
accomplishments. Finally, she got to Quimper.
“Tonight’s
honoree and guest speaker needs no introduction,” the woman intoned solemnly.
She then
launched into a mind-numbing five-minute introduction that seemed to list every
book Quimper had his name on and every award he had been given. Unlike Khan,
Quimper seemed content to listen to every word describing how wonderful he was.
Finally, she paused, and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this year’s
Raymond Chandler Award, the great Sebastian Quimper.”
Amid
thunderous applause Quimper rose majestically from his seat and went to the
podium, where the woman handed him a large crystal bowl, which he held up for
all to see and then placed on the table near him. Then he turned to the
audience and regally quieted everyone with a wave of his hands.
“I want to thank
the World Thriller Writers for inviting me tonight and honoring me with its
prestigious Raymond Chandler Award. I have been fortunate to have some of my
novels compared to his.”
Quimper smiled
modestly at the resulting applause. Scarne was quite sure none of his books had
ever been compared to those written by the brilliant Chandler.
“As many of
you undoubtedly know,” Quimper continued, “I have been the target of threats
from misguided factions in the Islamic world. Many people urged me not to
attend so public an event. To think that I, or any serious writer, would be
deterred from speaking in public by a group of fanatics is an absurd notion.”
That line brought a louder round of applause. “What do they think I am made of?
Have they not heard of our cherished right of freedom of speech? The day that
someone forces me to stop writing is the day that I die!”
The audience
erupted, with many people standing. Scarne looked over and made eye contact
with Karen Porcelli, who mouthed the word “bullshit.” They both knew that
Sebastian Quimper, defender of literary freedom, had basically stopped writing
his own books years earlier. If it were not for the impending merger between
Schuster and Albatross, Scarne was sure Quimper would already be holed up in a
bunker somewhere surrounded by armed guards and willing women.
Quimper spent
the next few minutes extolling the U.S. Constitution, the Bill of Rights and to
Scarne’s amazement, the Magna Carta. He finally sat down without ever
mentioning Ralph Arhaut, who had taken a skewer through the throat for writing
From
Here to Tehranity
.
***
After the
banquet, Quimper and the other authors on the dais repaired to the bar that had
become the unofficial watering hole for the conference. They occupied a small
table in the corner, while dozens of other banquet guests crowded the long oval
bar. Karen Porcelli and Nick Dennen sat at a small high top a few feet away.
Scarne knew that Kenyon and another agent had been working the doors since the
banquet ended. They could have stopped anyone who looked suspicious or out of
place from entering. It wasn’t perfect security, but then nothing, until
Quimper was safe in his room, was.
Occasionally
one of the attendees at the bar gathered the courage to approach the author
table, usually for an autograph. All the writers, even Quimper, who naturally
got the most requests, signed. He actually seemed to be having a good time.
At one point a
smartly dressed blond walked into the lounge. She was very beautiful and most
of the men, and some of the women, cast glances at her. When she reached the
bar two men quickly made room for her and vied for the privilege of buying her
a drink. Scarne heard her laughing. After a few moments she excused herself and
walked toward Quimper’s table. Scarne followed her. Porcelli and Dennen spotted
her as well. When she reached the table the conversation among the authors
ceased. She began talking to the group, including Quimper. The men at the table
were obviously entranced. They all stood. Scarne couldn’t blame them. She
reminded him of the actress Diane Kreuger. She was carrying a program from the
conference and she passed it around. Everyone at the table signed it, Quimper
last. She thanked them, shook Quimper’s hand and went back to the bar. A few
minutes later, she left. Scarne drifted to the door and watched her go through
the side entrance of the Bascombe, where she got into one of the cabs in the
taxi line. He went back to the bar.
The informal
post-conference party broke up around 11 P.M. and Scarne and the Safeguard
people escorted Quimper back to his room.
“I liked your
speech, Sebastian,” Karen Porcelli said, with just the barest hint of irony.
“What about
you, Scarne,” Quimper said. “Did you like it?”
“It made me
want to reenlist.”
Quimper
briefly looked angry, but then smiled.
“It’s what
those poor bastards wanted to hear.”
“You didn’t
mention Arhaut,” Scarne said.
“Who?”
“Your
co-author of
From Here to Tehranity
. The fellow killed in Pennsylvania.”
“Oh, yes. A
pity. Should probably have given him a posthumous plug. I think he wrote
another book, too. Not much of a writer, as I recall.” Quimper yawned. “I’m
beat. Can’t wait for you people to tuck me in. These fucking conferences are a
pain in the ass.”
CHAPTER 19 - CROWNING ACHIEVEMENT
It was, Sebastian
Quimper had to admit, one of the greatest sexual experiences in his life. And
that was saying something.
“I’m
starving,” the woman said, looking down at him. “Would you mind if I ordered
something from room service?” She smiled wickedly. “You will need all your
strength. You haven’t experienced anything yet.”
Good Lord, he
thought.
“Anything you
want, Eleanora.”
She climbed
off him and went into the living room of the suite. Instinctively he looked
down at his groin to see if he had sustained any damage. The woman had the
fastest hips he’d ever experienced. He was relived to see that he was intact.
As he breathed a sigh of relief, he could hear her on the phone. Then she came
back to bed.
“We have 20
minutes,” she said and leaned over, taking him in her mouth.
“I can’t,” he
gasped. “Not so soon.”
But he could,
and did. A minute later there was a knock on the door.
“Room
service.”
“I have to go
to the loo,” she said. “Will you let them in with the food?”
Quimper threw
on a robe and padded to the front door of the suite. As instructed by his
security people, he looked through the peephole. A man in a hotel uniform was
standing in the hallway with a cart. Behind him was one of the Safeguard agents
he knew. He opened the door and stepped back as the two men entered. The waiter
wheeled the cart next to a table by the window. Manhattan glittered 34 stories
below. Quimper noticed that the guard kept his eye on the waiter and had his
jacket open. He could see a gun in a shoulder holster.
Lifting a
bottle from a bucket on the bottom rung of the cart the waiter asked, “Would
you like me to open the champagne, sir?” It was a Bollinger Blanc de Noirs
Vieilles. “Excellent choice, if you will permit me to say, sir.”
At $600 a
bottle, Quimper knew, it had better be. But after what the woman had just done
to him, he’d have bought her a case of the damn stuff.
“Just open
it,” he said. “I’ll pour later.”
“As you wish.”
The waiter
popped the cork as a delicious aroma began to fill the room.
“What am I
eating?”
The waiter
lifted the lid on the huge silver platter on the cart.
“Specialty of
the house. Crown Roast of New Zealand Lamb. Accompanied by mint jelly, roasted
potatoes and grilled asparagus.”
The waiter
replaced the lid with a clang.
“Aren’t you
going to carve it for us?”
“The lady
insisted that she be permitted to do the honors.”
The waiter and
the guard exchanged looks. Quimper had the disheveled look of a man who had
already received quite a few honors from the lady in question. After they left,
Quimper went back into the bedroom. Eleanora came out of the bathroom, still
nude.
“Wait for me
in bed,” she said, walking out to the living area.
“Aren’t we
going to eat?”
“I have a
surprise for you,” she said.
This is one
crazy lady, he thought. But her surprises were worth it, so he did as he was
told. A moment later she wheeled the food cart into the bedroom.
“I’m going to
serve you.”
While
Sebastian Quimper loved sex, most women to him were merely a means to an end,
outlets for his randiness. Physical attraction was secondary to availability. He
avoided conquests at both ends of the spectrum, weight-and-age-wise, but as
long as his bedmates weren’t, as he often put it to his male friends, “running
in a claiming race at Aqueduct,” he was ready to go. Most weren’t even
bedmates, since Quimper preferred a quick joust on the nearest couch or, if a
suitable one wasn’t available, the floor. He rarely saw their bodies, since his
partner of the moment shed only enough garments to make the act comfortable and
he usually just unzipped his fly. In the case of overnight assignations, of
course, it was different. Then, he tried to find a woman whose nakedness he
could appreciate. The woman now standing before him at the side of the bed was
stunning, a veritable blond goddess. Ice blue eyes, small straight nose, wide
mouth. Oh, that mouth. High, taut breasts with pink nipples still hard, flat
stomach that flowed down to a small tuft of pale hair. Long, shapely legs.
Incredibly, he started having an erection! The woman saw it and laughed. I
can’t, he thought. I’m literally drained. There can’t be anything left.
She picked up
the large carving knife by the platter. Thank God, Quimper thought. I could use
some sustenance.
“Aren’t you
going to put something on?”
“I don’t want
to get blood on my clothes while I’m carving,” she said.
***
Vendela took a
long, hot shower. Before she left Quimper’s suite she studied her handiwork and
then, using her smart phone, took some pictures in the bedroom. The media would
probably never use them. Well, maybe Al-Jazeera. And they would undoubtedly
find their way to YouTube. The mere fact that they existed would negate any
attempt at a cover up by the mainstream press. Not that she thought her
handiwork could be suppressed. The appropriate phone calls to news outlets
would also help.
She left the
suite and walked over to the elevator. The guard gave her a questioning look.
“I assumed you
were staying for the night.”
“I’m not sure
that’s any of your business.”
“I’m sorry,”
he stammered. “It’s just that you ordered such a big meal.”
Vendela
thought of the scene she’s just photographed.
“I lost my
appetite.”
***
The
low-scoring Yankee game Scarne was watching in his room went into extra
innings. It was one of those rare pitchers’ duels, which in the modern era
meant that both teams used a dozen hurlers, that normally put him to sleep. But
he was uneasy, and it had nothing to do with the Bronx Bombers stranding a man
on third with only one out.
Something
wasn’t right. Quimper reportedly always scored a groupie or agent at one of
these conferences. I bet the bastard is planning on slipping out. Would he be
crazy enough to try to avoid his watchdogs? He called Karen Porcelli.
“Is there any
way Sebastian can get by your man upstairs?”
“Not a chance.
Why?”
He told her
what he was worried about. She laughed.
“Maybe he
forgot to bring his Viagra.”
“From what
I’ve seen, he doesn’t need any,” Scarne said, and related how Quimper had left
a meeting for a “quickie” in the next room at his mansion.
“The son of a
bitch,” Porcelli said. “I hope his dick falls off. But he’s still in his room.
I’m at the bar. Why don’t you come down? Meanwhile, I’ll call my guys on
Quimper’s floor and tell them to be extra vigilant.”
When Scarne
got to the bar he found Karen sitting at a table with one of her crew. The one
named Mike, Scarne recalled. They were drinking club soda. He ordered a coffee.
It was just after midnight and the place was almost deserted.
“Mike just
finished his shift,” Porcelli said. “He says Quimper hasn’t budged from his
room all night. I told his replacement to make sure he doesn’t.” She pointed at
his coffee. “Won’t that keep you up?”
“One cup
doesn’t seem to bother me.” He yawned, and laughed. “See. I won’t have any
trouble sleeping.”
“I doubt if
Quimper is having any trouble sleeping,” the other man said. “He looked beat
when I saw him.”
Scarne and
Porcelli looked at him.
“I thought you
said he didn’t come out of his room,” Porcelli said.
“He didn’t. I
saw him when the room service waiter brought in the food.” He saw their
expressions. “Don’t worry. I recognized the waiter and I watched him the whole
time. Quimper looked like he had been through the wash cycle at the laundromat.
That woman must have been something else.”
Scarne put
down his coffee.
“What woman?”
“The
good-looking blond he was talking with here after the reception. You saw her,
Karen. She was wearing a blue dress that you said must have cost a grand.”
“Silk chiffon
dress, ruched bodice with crisscross detailing?”
“If you say
so. All I know was that she looked hot in it. I don’t blame Quimper from
zeroing in on her. Scarne, you must have seen her, too. She was one of the
groupies who went over to talk to him and the other writers. He must have met
her earlier, maybe at the dinner or something, because he obviously knew her.”
“I remember
him talking to a blond. I even followed her out of the hotel. She caught a
cab.”
“Yeah,” Mike
said. “He probably set something up for later. She showed up around 9 P.M.
upstairs. Had a key to the Penthouse floor. Said Quimper gave it to her.”
“And you let
her in,” Scarne said.
“Sure. I
called him first, of course. Told him her name. Eleanora something. He
confirmed that he’d slipped her one of his keys. But I still kept her at the
elevator until he stuck his head out the door. You should have seen the smile
on his face. I mean, she was one good-looking woman.”
“You should
have called me,” Porcelli said.
“Why? You said
Quimper liked the ladies and always had one stay over at these things.” Mike
became defensive. “All she was carrying was a small purse. And I asked to check
it. Felt dumb about that. Said it was a house rule or some such bullshit. She
didn’t mind, even though I could tell that Quimper was pissed.”
Porcelli
relaxed. Scarne still felt uneasy. The fact that the woman was a blond bothered
him. Of course, there had been dozens of blond women at the conference.
“Do you think
she’s a hooker, Mike,” he asked. That would ease his mind somewhat.
“Nah. I doubt
it. Like I said. I saw her at the conference a couple of times. That’s not how
hookers operate. And she spoke too well for a hooker. Slight accent. German,
I’d guess. But you could tell she had class.”
“Some of the
top call girls are putting themselves through graduate school,” Scarne said.
“And many of them are over here on green cards.”
“What’s
bothering you,” Karen asked.
“Let’s give
him a call,” Scarne said.
“And interrupt
him in the middle of something?”
“You’ll
probably wake him up,” Mike interjected. “The woman left a while ago.”
Scarne was on
his feet and moving quickly toward the elevators, Karen Porcelli not far
behind, punching a number into her cell phone. Mike caught up to them just as
they got into the elevator.
“What the hell
is the matter?”
“He’s not
answering,” Porcelli said, her voice constricted. “Maybe he’s asleep.”
“Call your
man,” Scarne ordered. “Tell him to go in.”
“Shit! I can’t
get him. Reception in these elevators sucks.”
“Never mind.
We’re almost there.”
The three of
them piled out of the elevator, startling the guard on duty. He followed them
as they ran to the door of Quimper’s suite. Scarne started pounding. Nothing.
“Open it!”
Down the hall,
the door to the suite where the rest of the Safeguard team was staying flew open.
Nick Dennen looked out. Mike produced a key card and the door to Quimper’s
suite clicked open. Scarne led the way into the living area, which was
deserted. The other man headed toward the bedroom.
“Oh, Jesus!”
Scarne and
Porcelli pushed past him. He was looking at the bed. He had drawn his gun.
After they saw what he was staring at, they also drew theirs.
“Check the
bathroom,” Karen Porcelli snapped.
Mike kicked
the door to the bathroom open.
“Bathroom’s
clear,” he shouted.
The other
Safeguard agents, in various stages of undress but with their weapons in their
hands, piled into the suite.
There was a
food cart next to the window a few feet from the king-sized bed. A note of some
sort was leaning up against a covered platter. A bottle of champaign was
sweating in a frosted silver bucket. But all eyes were on the bed and the wall
behind it. Someone had scrawled “Allah Akbar” in red above the headboard. No
one thought it was red ink. A comforter on the bed covered a mound. No one was
under any illusions what the mound was. And no one seemed anxious to pull back
the spread. So Scarne did.
“Holy Mother
of God!”
It was Mike.
Karen Porcelli merely gasped.
A naked man
was splayed on his back. There was so much blood it reminded Scarne of the
famous horse-head scene in
The Godfather.
But this tableau went the
movie one better. Quimper’s neck ended not with his head but with what appeared
to be a Crown Roast.
As if in slow motion
everyone’s eyes turned to the big platter on the food cart. Scarne slowly moved
toward it. He could hear Karen trying to take in enough air to remain calm. He
bent to read the note:
“HE QUIT WHEN
HE WAS A HEAD”
Scarne grabbed
the handle of the platter’s cover, his gorge rising in his throat.
“Oh, God,
don’t,” Karen said in a strangled voice.
He lifted the
top.