The Black Door by Collin Wilcox Page A

he held up two fingers. His voice was low and cold.
    “I’ll take exactly two more questions.” He pointed for the first one.
    “Where will Mr. Grinnel be staying, Captain? What hotel?”
    “I have no idea. I understand, though, that his secretary arrived in town shortly after one P.M. and made the arrangements.”
    “What’s your current theory, Captain? What direction is your investigation taking?”
    Larsen sighed, tired now, and finally impatient with us. “I’ve found that theories don’t mean much without facts,” he said. “We’ll work like we always have, checking every conceivable aspect of the case, and every conceivable combination of facts. Then we’ll double check, and then we’ll probably start all over again. Somewhere along the line, we’re hoping something’ll turn up. It usually does.” He rose to his feet, once more calm and self-possessed. “That’ll have to be all for now, gentlemen. We’ve covered everything. If you want, I’ll schedule another briefing for tomorrow, same time, same place. Unless, of course, we get a break in the meantime.”
    There were the ritual protests and the ritual pleas for more information. But the three detectives were leaving the lineup stage, and many of the newsmen were already out the doors.
    Larsen’s news briefing broke up just before five o’clock. I made for the first phone, called the city desk, and was told that Grinnel had arrived and was en route to the Fairmont. An apprentice reporter had been assigned to bird-dog Grinnel and his entourage, awaiting developments.
    “Have a drink and a steak,” the city editor advised. “Take a vacation. Phone in again around seven-thirty.”
    “Thanks,” I answered dryly. “Is the steak on me or the expense account?”
    He thought about it. “Put it on, and I’ll okay it. That’ll get it to the business office, anyhow.”
    “Thanks again.” I hung up and caught a bus going the few blocks downtown. I had two double martinis at my favorite bar, and then a New York steak at my favorite restaurant. By seven o’clock, I’d returned to my favorite bar for an after-dinner cognac.
    By seven-thirty, though, I’d started to wonder about developments in the Grinnel case. For all I knew, the case could have been broken in the last hour, even the last few minutes. Making my way a little unsteadily to the phone booth, it occurred to me that, after all, I was at least a fair facsimile of a crime reporter, even without ashes down the front of my vest, or cynicism tugging at the muscles of my face.
    I had to wait almost five minutes for the city editor. I was told that he was talking with someone about the Grinnel murder, and I was considering the possibility of a second cognac when my superior’s voice suddenly sounded.
    “Steve?”
    “Yes. What’s up?”
    “Well, nothing, really. Nothing much new, anyhow. Grinnel got in town, and is staying at the Fairmont. The governor’s suite, no less.”
    “That figures.”
    “Yeah. Now, here’s the rundown on him. He’s traveling with a secretary and a bodyguard. The secretary, a woman, arrived in town about one P.M. and arranged for the accommodations, including a limousine and driver. About four, Grinnel and his bodyguard arrived in Grinnel’s private plane. They were met by the secretary, in the limousine, and Grinnel’s son, Bobby. The four of them—Grinnel, his son, the secretary, and the bodyguard—went immediately to the Fairmont. Two cars of police met them at the airport: a detective cruiser and a squad car. They escorted Grinnel’s car to the Fairmont.”
    “Who was in the cruiser; do you know?”
    “No.”
    “Well, it doesn’t matter. Go ahead.”
    “They got to the Fairmont about five and went right to their room. They didn’t give any interviews. However, at about five-thirty, Grinnel’s secretary appeared in the hallway to announce that, at ten tomorrow morning, Mr. Grinnel would receive the press and make a statement. Then, a few