Johnny Killain stepped briskly from the narrow service elevator into the after-midnight half-darkness of the Hotel Duarte's main lobby. He took in the lean, slope-shouldered man in the Burberry topcoat standing by the registration desk and nipping through a stack of mail Vic Barnes, the night front-desk man, had handed him. Then, from his bell-captain's desk between the passenger elevators, Johnny glanced out through the foyer's glass doors to the chill rain drenching Forty-fifth Street. A cab was pulled in to the curb, and Paul Sassella was jockeying airplane luggage from its trunk. Johnny was barely in time to hold the door as the stocky Swiss entered the lobby loaded down with bags. Paul was Johnny's right-hand man on the night shift.
The man in the expensive topcoat turned around as he heard Paul set the bags down behind him. “Supposed to be summer when I got back here,” he said accusingly. His harsh voice echoed in the hushed lobby.
“Calendar says it's summer,” Paul replied mildly.
“Damn the calendar. My bones say it's not.” The lean man returned to his mail, his temples silvered in the desk light. A finely meshed network of wrinkles crosshatched his sharp features, and dark pouches bagged prominently beneath his eyes. A facial tic fluttered his left eyelid at irregular intervals. Johnny watched the worn, haggardly weary face as an envelope was separated from the pile, held up to the light and squinted at.
“Zurich this time?” Paul inquired into the little silence.
“Not Zurich.” The worn-looking man grimaced as though at a bad taste. “Langnau. And Mumpf. Dickering for a high-grade lot of movements.” He stuffed the single envelope into a topcoat pocket and turned again to look at Paul. The metallic voice rose jeeringly. “How come you're not behind a desk on the Wilhelmstrasse, chasing the almighty dollar with the rest of your no-good compatriots?”
“For business you need the hard head. Mine is soft,” Paul said placidly.
“A soft-headed Swiss? They don't make any. For a franc or a hundred thousand, they're a bunch of wheelers and dealers.” The balance of the mail was slapped together on the marbled counter. “Once I had a hard head myself. Lately I've begun to wonder.” The lean man passed a hand tiredly over his eyes. “I didn't used to mind these night flights like this.” He looked at Vic behind the desk. “I'm expecting someone.” Vic nodded. Vic was a sturdy, middle-aged man in a clerk's black alpaca jacket. His thinning hair was combed straight back from a high forehead, and his round, cheerful features appeared glossily waxed, emphasizing his high color.
“Ungodly hour, but it can't be helped,” the worn-looking man continued. He looked at Paul. “I know the kitchen's closed, but could you find me a sandwich after you've dumped that stuff upstairs? And a pot of coffee?”
The stolid Paul nodded. “Take me a few minutes.”
“Just so I get the rumble out of my belly before I sack in. I'll leave the door open in case I'm in the shower. And shoot my company right on up, will you?” He crossed the lobby to the nearer elevator, and Paul stooped for the bags.
Behind Johnny his phone rang, and he reached for it. “Bell captain, Killain.”
“Tommy's got trouble in the bar, Johnny.” Urgency strained the night telephone operator's soft voice. “He just called me.”
“Okay, ma,” Johnny replied soothingly. The operator, Sally Fontaine, was a slender, brown-eyed sprite whose quick smile had the happy faculty of fusing ordinary features into pleasing winsomeness. Johnny spent a considerable amount of his time in provoking the appearance of Sally's smile. “What'cha doin' in the mornin'?”
“Darning my socks. Will you get in there? Tommy sounded worried.”
“Tommy's always-” Johnny shrugged as Sally broke the connection on him. He propelled his bulk across the lobby floor to the swinging doors beneath the stairs that led to the mezzanine. He pushed through them in time to see the pint-sized bartender, Tommy Haines, back quietly away as, across the bar from him, a burly arm was raised threateningly from amidst a tight little knot of men.
Johnny's pale eyes narrowed. His high-cheekboned, weather-bronzed craggy features went taut and hard beneath his rough, blond hair. He moved forward swiftly, his long-striding shuffle a muted whisper on the lounge carpet. From behind the group he deftly turned a shoulder and eased himself into the bar between the arm-raiser and his intended target. “You happen to have a spare quart of ginger ale, Tommy?” he asked lightly.
Heads turned in unison. Flushed, irate faces stared blankly at his snug-fitting bell captain's uniform. The silence lasted only an instant. “-'t th' hell out've m' way,” the scarlet-faced arm-raiser grunted sullenly at Johnny. “- show thish stupid-” He tried to glare around Johnny at the man Johnny's body was shielding.
“Sure thing,” Johnny said without looking around, and stayed where he was.
“Well, move, damn it!” The man put a beefy palm against Johnny's shoulder and shoved. He looked surprised when nothing happened. In the back-bar mirror, Johnny watched appraisingly as the arm tensed itself to shove again. The man hesitated as bloodshot eyes focused upon Johnny's several-times-broken nose and the surplus of chest and shoulders beneath the twenty-and-a-half-inch neck. He snorted loudly, and drew back his arm. Johnny turned smoothly, reached in for a firm hand-hold on the belligerent's belt buckle and jerked upward. The man's heels came six inches off the floor. His arms thrashed in furious balancing movements, and his upper body weight tilted him slowly backward until he was counterbalanced by the hard pressure of Johnny's knuckles in his middle. The scarlet face first purpled, then drained to a dirty gray.
Johnny glanced over his shoulder to a noncombatant on the rim of the staring group. “Almost closin',” he said conversationally. “How about one for the road, an' a fresh start tomorrow?” He gently set the man dangling at the end of his arm back upon the floor, and the man grabbed for the edge of the bar with both hands.
“I've had mine for the road,” a voice said suddenly. “And, if the rest of these guys haven't, they're on their own.” Deliberately the speaker detached himself from the group and moved down the bar.
The knot of men around Johnny dissolved as though taut strings had been cut. In slow motion, they drifted away from him. Tommy sprang into action, and the register ding-dinged merrily. The lounge quieted after the muffled, shamefaced good-nights.
Tommy came back from the register nervously wiping his hands on his apron. “Man!” he exclaimed feelingly. “Friends, mind you, and in another second they'd have been all over the floor. Sometimes this sauce I pour-” He shook his head dubiously. “Thanks, big man. I couldn't have handled it without a bungstarter.” He slapped a double jigger down on the bar and dexterously raised and lowered the bourbon bottle over it.
“First tonight,” Johnny acknowledged, and tossed it off. He shook his head as Tommy held up the bottle again inquiringly. “Work's the curse of the drinkin' class, boy.” He nodded in response to Tommy's bottle salute, and returned to the lobby in time to see Paul Sassella's entrance from the foyer with a napkin-covered tray. The well-dressed couple at the desk with Vic registered in the same glance.
“Oh, Paul,” Vic called. “That for Ten-twenty-six? So are Miss Philips and Mr. Faulkner here,” he continued at Paul's affirmative nod. “And Paul-Sixteen-oh-four just called down for her car. Stop off and convince her what time of night it is, will you?”
Johnny barely repressed a smile. 1604 was Miss Loretta Gorman, an elderly spinster given to positive opinions and erratic impulses. Eccentric was the word for 1604. She would listen to the calm, level-headed Paul sometimes when none of the rest of the staff could get through to her. At the thought Johnny stepped forward and relieved Paul of the tray. “I'll take this up along with his visitors,” Johnny said. “You get Miss Loretta straightened out. I don't want her startin' in on me on that phone tonight.”
“Sure,” Paul agreed amiably, and took the second elevator. The couple at the desk followed Johnny onto the first car, and he examined them from the corner of his eye as they passed behind him.
Mr. Faulkner was a slim, tense, worried-looking man, immaculately dressed. Despite the lateness of the hour, he appeared freshly shaven. He wore heavy horn-rimmed glasses that helped to strengthen a sensitive, mobile face. His sleek dark hair was parted with exactitude, his nose was delicately shaped, and his mouth was small and prim. The two-hundred-dollar suit Mr. Faulkner wore was a little too much of a good thing, Johnny decided. It came very close to effacing Mr. Faulkner.
The girl was a fish from another rain barrel. No clothes would ever succeed in effacing Miss Philips. She was a striking redhead, the highlights auburn and the burnished mass a deep, coppery tone. She wasn't tall, but even a side-of-the-eye inspection of the softly rounded expansive-ness displayed with assurance in a trim suit brought the expression zaftig to Johnny's mind. A tree-ripened peach, he thought. Her features were serviceable without detracting at all from her more spectacular assets, blooming with health and lightly dusted with golden freckles.
“I hope this isn't a mistake, Gloria,” Faulkner remarked petulantly as the elevator rose. Johnny thought that if the piping voice were pitched three notes higher it would be a whine.
“If there's been a mistake, it's not mine,” the girl said coolly. “I wonder if Claude can say the same.” She glanced at Johnny as Faulkner would have spoken again, and he remained silent. Johnny anchored the cab and led the way down the corridor to 1026. The importer's door was ajar, and Johnny knocked and entered, skirting the bags scattered on the floor.
“What is it?” the importer's voice called through the open bathroom door.
“Food,” Johnny announced. “An' visitors.” He moved forward to deposit the tray on a small table. From the bathroom he thought the importer said something he couldn't hear clearly. The sound of the gunshot took Johnny completely by surprise. He whirled, then reversed the movement of his arms as the coffeepot on the tray skidded wildly.
Gloria Philips reached the bathroom door first, but Johnny was a short stride behind. With the tray still in his hands he looked down over the girl's shoulder at the loosely sprawled body in the pale blue dressing gown. A black automatic lay beside an outstretched clawlike hand, and a widening scarlet pool crept over the white tile. A powder-burned hole indented a silvered temple.
Johnny pivoted again at a strangled sound from behind him. Mr. Faulkner sagged against the door frame, white-lipped and shaken as he peered down owlishly at the body on the floor.
“Snap out of it, Ernest,” the girl said quietly. “Call the police.” She moved around Johnny out into the bedroom, and he could see no change in her expression at all.
Ernest Faulkner wrenched himself forcibly from the doorway and tottered inside to the telephone.
Seventy-five minutes later, Johnny finished telling his version of the story to Detective James Rogers in the mezzanine lounge. Since he had known Rogers for some time, the telling went quickly. The slender, sandy-haired detective tapped his notebook thoughtfully in the palm of his hand when Johnny had finished. “No chance of it being anything but suicide, Johnny?”
“I heard him,” Johnny said positively. “Just before he pulled the trigger. I was closer to the bathroom door than either of the other two. You can wrap it up, Jimmy.” He looked at the notebook. “Who's this Faulkner?”
“The deceased's lawyer.”
“An' the girl?”
“Secretary to the U.S. representative of a Swiss manufacturer from whom the importer had been buying.”
“A business call? At this hour of the mornin'?”
“So the lawyer claims.” Detective Rogers shrugged. “I told him to be over at the precinct house in the morning at ten and get it on the record. Not that it really matters. You'll have to come over, too, to sign a statement.” He slapped the notebook against his palm with an air of finality and pushed it into a jacket pocket. His glance at Johnny was sardonic. “Why don't you rename this place Hacienda Dolorosa or something appropriate? We've taken more stiffs out the back door here than from any hospital the same size.”
“If you can't boost it, don't knock it,” Johnny told him as they walked to the stairs. He accelerated at sight of Paul beckoning to him from below. “See you in the mornin', Jimmy,” Johnny said, and ran down the stairs.
“Phone call for you at the desk,” Paul informed him.
“Okay. You call Dominic an' Steve?”
“They're on the way in now.”
“Put 'em on the elevators when they get here. Keep yourself available. A thing like this makes a lot of extra legwork.” He crossed to the desk and picked up the dangling phone. “Killain.”
The receiver gave him the first eight bars of Edelweiss, off-key. “Come on over, Johnny,” the phone said in his ear.
“You stripped your gears, man? At three in the mornin' you better bait that hook a little.”
The heavy voice sounded surprised. “You don't usually seed much excuse to cut out of there. This is Dameron. Come on over. You'd be surprised at the bait I've got.”
Dameron was Lieutenant Joseph Dameron of the New York City Police Department, and Detective James Rogers' immediate superior. “I know who it is, Joe,” Johnny said patiently. “No one but you could scramble sharps an' flats in Edelweiss like that. You don't need to see me tonight just because a permanent leaked his brains out on the bathroom tile with a thirty-eight.”
The voice in his ear sharpened. “My people there?”
“Come an' gone. Jimmy's got us booked for ten a.m. at your emporium. That's not why you called?”
“It's not. Come on over. I'm at the office.”
“You must've anyways raided a stag to brisk you up like this at this hour. You reviewin' the evidence?”
“Skip the comedy, Johnny. A friend of yours is here. And never mind asking who it is. I've told you three times how to find out. Too bad you don't have any curiosity.” The click of the broken connection sounded in Johnny's ear, and he grinned sheepishly as he hung up. He knew that Dameron had been perfectly safe in hanging up the phone, and he knew that Dameron knew it, too. He went to look for Paul.
Johnny knew he shouldn't leave now. It would be a dirty trick on Paul. Not that Paul wasn't used to it. The night shift at the Hotel Duarte was an elastic affair. The Duarte had no night manager or security officer. It had Johnny. The management's unspoken but tacit approval buttressed his informal regime. Over the years, Johnny had demonstrated that his operating style matched the neighborhood's. He had a free hand, and he and the management both thought well of the arrangement.
En route to the switchboard to have Sally find Paul, Johnny detoured to the registration desk. “Say, Vic-did you call Ten-twenty-six to let him know those people were on the way up?”
The round-faced Vic looked defensive. “No. You heard him say yourself to send them right on up.”
“I heard him say send someone up. I'm wonderin' if he got who he expected.” Johnny tugged at an ear lobe. Even surprised by the devil himself, 1026 would still have had to have that automatic conveniently in a dressing-gown pocket. “No, I guess not,” Johnny said vaguely, and moved on down to the switchboard. “Paul gone out, ma?”
“He's upstairs with the detective sealing up that room.” Sally's warm brown eyes rested on his face. “Was it bad upstairs?”
He shrugged. “'Bout what you'd expect.”
He could see her repressed shiver. “He wasn't a very likable man, but it's awfully-awfully sudden.”
“I'll buy that,” Johnny agreed. He scowled at the desk light. “Does a man order a sandwich an' a pot of coffee before he falls on his sword?” He looked in at the slender girl beneath the headphone. “He get any phone calls after he came in tonight?”
“Not a one, Johnny.”
“Well, he thought he had a reason, guaranteed. The hell with it. Look, tell Paul I'm gonna be out a while, will you? I'm-” He paused suddenly. Into his mind, unbidden, leaped the memory of the worn-looking man at the registration desk separating one envelope from the stack of mail and stuffing it into his topcoat pocket. Could it have been something in that letter that had so suddenly pushed the importer over the dam?
Sally was watching his face. “What is it, Johnny?”
“Just my big nose itchin', I guess.” He slapped both palms down on the little wooden gate that separated them, with a report that made Sally jump. “New record on the turntable, ma. Come on upstairs in the mornin', huh?”
She tried to ignore the added color in her cheeks. “You overwhelm a girl with the delicacy of your invitations, sir. The apartment's not good enough for you? I don't like skulking around upstairs. And I've got clothes drying, and ironing to do-”
“If you're lookin' for a sales' talk, ma, I got no time. Hell with the ironin'-you come on up. Consolidated Friction, Inc. is about to declare a stock dividend. I wouldn't want you to miss it.”
“If I miss it, can they declare it?” she inquired pertly.
“It'd be a problem,” he admitted. “You be there.” He turned to leave. “Tell Paul.”
“About Consolidated Friction?”
“Not unless I'm there to watch you tell him.” Sally made a face at him and waved him away. In the foyer he was glad to see the rain had stopped. On the sidewalk, his shoulders hunched involuntarily against the damp bite of the night air. Damn chilly for late June. Probably noticed it more after the warmer weather they'd been having, he decided. At his arm wave a cab rolled down from the corner.
On the short ride he speculated again upon the reason for the importer's sudden suicide. He shrugged it aside. Who could figure why people did the things they did?
He paid off the cabbie in front of the familiar weather-beaten old red brick building. Two black Cadillacs stood at the curb, each appearing half a block long. Johnny trotted up worn white steps and, inside, turned left on oil-darkened wooden floors.
The desk man nodded before Johnny could speak. “He's waitin'. Second-”
“-door on the left,” Johnny finished for him. In the hall he noticed two calm-faced black robes seated on a bench. Two more were strolling the upper corridor. Somebody must have caught the black pill, Johnny thought uneasily. He knocked twice on the second door on the left, and entered. In the concentrated glare of the goose-necked lamp on the cluttered desk he watched Lieutenant Joseph Dameron's solid bulk rise from the depths of his swivel chair. The expression in the frosty gray eyes and on the apple-cheeked blunt features beneath the steel-gray hair was noncommittal. “H'ya, Joe,” Johnny said. “What the hell's the-”
The lieutenant flung out* an arm in the manner of a magician calling attention to the rabbit emerging from a hat. “His Eminence,” he announced warningly. “Cardinal Lucian Alerini.”
Johnny's eyes switched left to the beamingly florid moon face of a massive, bald-headed man in flowing dark robes. “Kiki!” Johnny exclaimed, and was enveloped with a rush in a rib-crunching bear hug. Instinctively Johnny's hands came up.
“Easy!” Lieutenant Dameron rapped at him apprehensively.
Unheeding, Johnny punched joyfully at a forearm that felt like a fireplace log. “Kiki! What're you doin' here?”
“Business!” a big voice boomed in Johnny's ear. The hard arms rocked him from side to side before releasing him, and then the cardinal stepped back to look at him more closely. “Not one iota have you changed, Johnny. Which cannot be said for the rest of us,” he mourned, running a hand over his bald pate, down the left side of which ran a livid scar. The dark eyes were merry. “You remembered, eh?”
“Remember? I hope to tell you I remember.” Johnny leveled a finger at the huge figure, six-four and well over two hundred fifty pounds. “Like the night at Reggio Calabria? When the lousy st-”
“Language, language!” Lieutenant Dameron intervened hastily. “Watch it, will you? His Eminence doesn't-”
“Eminence?” Johnny interrupted. “You're a cardinal now, Kiki?” His eye caught the flash of the ring, and he grinned. “So the only rope-climbin' bishop in captivity's a cardinal? Gettin' down to the bottom of the barrel, aren't they?”
The big churchman's resonant roar of laughter rattled the windows. “Exactly what I said!”
“Will you kindly show a little respect?” the lieutenant asked Johnny in anguish. “His Eminence-”
“His Eminence knew us when, Joe,” Johnny interrupted again with a grin. “You under the delusion he didn't know where you got the information that time at Foggia when you an' the little widow-” “Will you shut up?”
“It makes a man feel young again to look at you, Johnny.” The cardinal's rumble cut in smoothly behind Dameron's rasp. The big man sounded wistful. His English was flawless, but formal. “How many days and miles removed from our last meeting on the cliffs, my friend? Yet a look in the mirror mornings keeps the memory green.” Once more he lightly touched the savage-looking scar on his head.
Lieutenant Dameron cleared his throat heavily. “His Eminence wants to talk to you,” he said sourly to Johnny. “Seriously.” The lieutenant didn't look too happy about it, Johnny thought.
“I asked Joseph to call you,” the cardinal affirmed. “I have a favor to ask.”
Johnny nodded. “A l'instant.”
The beaming smile flashed again. “Merci. It's good to know the attitude's as little changed as the man.” The moon features turned serious. “I know I give you no news when I say that, in the bad days we remember, there was much looting of property, including the church's. Some has been recovered, but a great deal has not. Some stolen articles had commercial value, almost all had museum value, but to the church there were other values than the lira that could be realized from their disposal.” “You mean they had a history,” Johnny said.
“A very long history, in some cases. But to the mutton: I recently learned the name of a man of conspicuous talent in the management of such disappearances in those days. I'm assured that this man personally supervised the removal of one item in my charge for the recovery of which I would gladly receive the duplicate of this.” His hand went again to the scar. “The man is in this city.”
“He is? Joe's gonna snatch him for you?”
“I'm here primarily on ecclesiastical matters,” the cardinal said obliquely. “The other is a private project, and not simple. The stolen item has the status of an objet d'art. Even when found after all this time there's the question of proof of original ownership, of jurisdictional latitude and longitude, of the statute of limitations, of the availability of witnesses, of many, many other things. You follow?”
“I follow,” Johnny replied grimly. He glared at the man behind the desk, and Lieutenant Dameron turned a dull red. “You came to Joe, an' he fluffed you off.”
“Now listen, Johnny-”
“You haven't heard the special point of the story.” The cardinal overrode the lieutenant's abortive protest in the bland manner of the born diplomat. “I said the man is in the city.” He paused for emphasis. “The man is at your hotel, Johnny.”
“At the Duarte?” Johnny rubbed his hands together briskly. “Well, what are we waitin' for? Tell me his name an' I'll run back over there an' shake the fillin's outta his back teeth.”
“You'll do nothing of the kind,” Lieutenant Dameron said coldly. “This is an extremely delicate matter.”
“Delicate!” Johnny snorted. “They ought to call you Delicate Dameron. The rightest guy you ever knew comes to you for a favor, an' you dump him. Well, you can butt out, right here. If you'd been gonna handle it officially, I'd never have heard about it. Since you're not, just what the hell makes you think you can keep a hand on the steerin' wheel?” He turned to the cardinal. “Kiki? What's his name?”
The churchman looked steadily at the lieutenant, who turned red and looked away. “I'm sorry, Joseph,” the cardinal said quietly. “This is important to me.” He looked at Johnny. “The name is Dechant.”
“Dechant?” Johnny echoed. “Claude Dechant?” The cardinal's nod was gratified. “You know him?” “I knew him,” Johnny replied gloomily. He spread his hands wide in a gesture of resignation. “Claude Dechant committed suicide at the hotel two hours ago.”