importance to the Beaumont!
“Sometime tomorrow morning, Miss Veronica Trask and her secretary are arriving from the coast for a stay with us.”
“I know,” I said.
Chambrun’s face softened. “In the old days she was a regular guest of the Beaumont’s. She had a very special kind of glamour that we’ve come to miss.”
I grinned. “I just told Shelda that I’ve been in love with her for twenty-five years,” I said.
Chambrun gave me an odd little smile. “I was in love with her,” he said. “If by any chance, because of this other uproar, I’m not able to greet her and Miss Miller, the secretary, myself, I want you on hand, Mark. The treatment should be warm, cordial, and, at the same time, royal.”
It was then I told him about Shelda’s ‘coincidence’—Norman Terry’s suicide on the same day that Doris had called Gary Craig from somewhere to say that she was in bad trouble. Chambrun never brushes anything off without giving it a proper evaluation.
“I know what your Miss Mason felt,” he said. “Whenever tragedy and Teague are even remotely connected, you wonder. Let us say I think it would be a good idea not to push the possibility under the rug. When Veronica gets here, I’ll ask her about Terry. She’ll know more about his death than has appeared in the press. Tell your Miss Mason I bow to her intuitive gifts.”
At five minutes to eleven that night, I was waiting in the main lobby, near the reception desk, for the arrival of the “army.” I’d heard so much about Teague in the last twelve hours that I must confess I felt a kind of excitement as I waited. There had been a telephone call from Kennedy Airport at about twenty minutes to eleven. The jet from Los Angeles had arrived on the button and Emlyn Teague and his four friends had disembarked in full view of Lieutenant Hardy’s watching detective. That seemed to eliminate one possibility. None of them could have been in this part of the world when Jeremy Slade had been shot. That piece of information didn’t do anything to improve Doris Standing’s position.
At two minutes past eleven, five people whom I’ll never forget swept into the lobby, followed by the doorman and two bellboys loaded down with hand baggage. There was no possibility of missing Emlyn Teague, as Craig had told me.
He was wearing a fawn-colored camel’s-hair coat, and an olive-green Alpine hat with a bright-red feather in it. There was a white carnation in the lapel of his coat, and a white silk scarf, worn Ascot fashion, at his throat.
Beside him was a girl—who had to be Barbara Towers—wearing an unbelievable sable coat and a small sable toque on her ash-blond head.
Behind them, like gangsters out of a Warner Brothers’ movie of the thirties, were three men, all in dark coats, dark hats, wearing black shirts with white foulard ties.
Teague walked straight to the desk, and he was smiling. There was a kind of malicious delight in it.
“I am Emlyn Teague,” he said to Karl Nevers. “I believe you have accommodations for me.”
“Of course, Mr. Teague,” Nevers said. He consulted a slip of paper. “You are in 1204. Miss Towers is in 1612. Mr. Maxwell in 609. Mr. Delaney in 1421. Mr. Jerningham in 1019.”
“That, of course, will not do at all,” Teague said. “We want to be all together on the same floor.”
I moved in beside him, wearing my best smile. “We’re glad to have you with us, Mr. Teague,” I said. “Unfortunately these arrangements are the only ones we can make. Your reservations came in so late. Of course, your party can shift around in those rooms anyway you choose.”
“Who are you?” he asked. His eyes were a curious pale-amber color. I kept looking at him in spite of the almost overwhelming erotic perfume that emanated from the girl in waves.
“I’m Mark Haskell, in charge of public relations,” I said.
“I’ll talk to Chambrun, please,” Teague said.
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” I said.
“Sometime tomorrow morning, Miss Veronica Trask and her secretary are arriving from the coast for a stay with us.”
“I know,” I said.
Chambrun’s face softened. “In the old days she was a regular guest of the Beaumont’s. She had a very special kind of glamour that we’ve come to miss.”
I grinned. “I just told Shelda that I’ve been in love with her for twenty-five years,” I said.
Chambrun gave me an odd little smile. “I was in love with her,” he said. “If by any chance, because of this other uproar, I’m not able to greet her and Miss Miller, the secretary, myself, I want you on hand, Mark. The treatment should be warm, cordial, and, at the same time, royal.”
It was then I told him about Shelda’s ‘coincidence’—Norman Terry’s suicide on the same day that Doris had called Gary Craig from somewhere to say that she was in bad trouble. Chambrun never brushes anything off without giving it a proper evaluation.
“I know what your Miss Mason felt,” he said. “Whenever tragedy and Teague are even remotely connected, you wonder. Let us say I think it would be a good idea not to push the possibility under the rug. When Veronica gets here, I’ll ask her about Terry. She’ll know more about his death than has appeared in the press. Tell your Miss Mason I bow to her intuitive gifts.”
At five minutes to eleven that night, I was waiting in the main lobby, near the reception desk, for the arrival of the “army.” I’d heard so much about Teague in the last twelve hours that I must confess I felt a kind of excitement as I waited. There had been a telephone call from Kennedy Airport at about twenty minutes to eleven. The jet from Los Angeles had arrived on the button and Emlyn Teague and his four friends had disembarked in full view of Lieutenant Hardy’s watching detective. That seemed to eliminate one possibility. None of them could have been in this part of the world when Jeremy Slade had been shot. That piece of information didn’t do anything to improve Doris Standing’s position.
At two minutes past eleven, five people whom I’ll never forget swept into the lobby, followed by the doorman and two bellboys loaded down with hand baggage. There was no possibility of missing Emlyn Teague, as Craig had told me.
He was wearing a fawn-colored camel’s-hair coat, and an olive-green Alpine hat with a bright-red feather in it. There was a white carnation in the lapel of his coat, and a white silk scarf, worn Ascot fashion, at his throat.
Beside him was a girl—who had to be Barbara Towers—wearing an unbelievable sable coat and a small sable toque on her ash-blond head.
Behind them, like gangsters out of a Warner Brothers’ movie of the thirties, were three men, all in dark coats, dark hats, wearing black shirts with white foulard ties.
Teague walked straight to the desk, and he was smiling. There was a kind of malicious delight in it.
“I am Emlyn Teague,” he said to Karl Nevers. “I believe you have accommodations for me.”
“Of course, Mr. Teague,” Nevers said. He consulted a slip of paper. “You are in 1204. Miss Towers is in 1612. Mr. Maxwell in 609. Mr. Delaney in 1421. Mr. Jerningham in 1019.”
“That, of course, will not do at all,” Teague said. “We want to be all together on the same floor.”
I moved in beside him, wearing my best smile. “We’re glad to have you with us, Mr. Teague,” I said. “Unfortunately these arrangements are the only ones we can make. Your reservations came in so late. Of course, your party can shift around in those rooms anyway you choose.”
“Who are you?” he asked. His eyes were a curious pale-amber color. I kept looking at him in spite of the almost overwhelming erotic perfume that emanated from the girl in waves.
“I’m Mark Haskell, in charge of public relations,” I said.
“I’ll talk to Chambrun, please,” Teague said.
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” I said.
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