The lobby of the International Arms Hotel sprawled spacious and reservedly elegant—pearl gray sculptured carpeting three inches deep, pecan-paneled walls studded with copper-framed seascape oils—exquisite originals, every one. There were low-hanging crystal chandeliers the size of beach umbrellas, thick-cushioned blue velour sofas and chairs, highly polished leather-topped genuine Philippine mahogany tables strewn with copies of Fortune and the Wall Street Journal, huge beige-shaded brass lamps, and heavy bronze pedestal-type ashtrays. And there was silence, the silence of reverence—the International Arms and its trappings demanded it.
Lockington spotted the desk, a massive hand-tooled expanse of hardwood half the size of a river barge. It was manned by a complement of five: a quartet of slim, dark-haired young ladies, all attractive, all clad in bluish gray tailored business suits and crisp pink blouses, all sporting white chrysanthemums on their left-hand lapels, all wearing plastic smiles, all under the command of a portly, balding man with haunted eyes and a nervous tic in his right cheek. He was fifty or so, he wore a brass-buttoned powder blue coat and his chrysanthemum was red—the badge of authority, Lockington figured. He lumbered back and forth behind the counter, riffling through sheafs of paper, answering telephones, issuing instructions, an impressive figure who reminded Lockington of a uniformed circus bear.
Lockington, approaching the desk, suddenly remembered that his walk had been a hot and thirsty ordeal. He changed course, veering sharply to port and through the swinging louvered doors of the lobby lounge, the Never-Never Room, according to the discreetly recessed blue neon sign above its entrance. It was a dim, quiet, cozy cove with a large horseshoe bar, three white-jacketed bartenders, and music—distant whispering strings playing “Santa Lucia.” He slid onto a comfortable high-backed leatherette bar stool, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the toned-down lighting of the place. Rufe Devereaux might be present, Lockington thought. Bars had been like magnets to Rufe—he’d never been able to pass one.
A bartender approached and Lockington ordered a Martell’s cognac with a water wash, scanning the Never-Never Room with a practised eye. There were fifteen or more customers scattered around the bar and none of them was Rufe Devereaux. The cognac arrived, the bartender swooping up Lockington’s five-dollar bill, nodding curtly, spinning on a heel, and marching away, never to return. Lockington registered the Never-Never Room as a place not conducive to the art of serious drinking, estimating that a man could run through upwards of fifty dollars before getting a buzz. There were those who had that kind of money and there were those who didn’t. Lockington was one of those who didn’t.
He polished off his five-dollar Martell’s at a gulp, leaving his seat to return to the lobby and the desk. One of the trim, prim young ladies breezed to the counter, her smile frozen in place, her dulcet voice devoid of inflection. “May I be of assistance, sir?” She reeked of efficiency.
Lockington said, “Yes, ma’am, I’ve been calling to reach a friend who was scheduled to register here last night, but you have no record of him. Would you run a check on that, please?
She stepped to a computer. “Certainly, sir. The name of the party?”
“Devereaux—Rufus Devereaux. That’s D-E-V—” Lockington pulled up short. She was staring at him as if he’d crawled from under a flat, mossy rock, her eyes widening perceptibly. Instinctively, Lockington glanced down at his fly. It was zipped. When he looked up, the girl was gone, having scurried to the far end of the desk to confer with Rear Admiral Fluttervalve. The conversation was brief and subdued, the admiral throwing a furtive squint in Lockington’s direction before picking up a white telephone to punch a single button and speak tersely. Lockington shuffled around for a time, lighting a cigarette, soaking up the plush atmosphere of the International Arms, wondering what the hell the delay was all about. He felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder and he turned to see a horse-faced, lantern-jawed man in a baggy tweed suit. The man grinned, shoving out his hand. “Lacey Lockington, you beat-up old wardog, how’ve you been?”
Lockington’s Devereaux-welcoming smile was fading. He knew this one from up the road a piece—Webb Pritchard, an eager-beaver cop who’d brown-nosed his way from traffic detail to detective rank. They’d never been close or anywhere near it. Lockington hadn’t liked Pritchard. He couldn’t recall his reason for that but he still didn’t like him. They shook hands. Pritchard’s grip was a clammy, limp-wristed thing. He said, “I understand that you’re trying to locate Rufus Devereaux.”
Lockington nodded. “You know Rufe?”
Pritchard shook his head. “I wouldn’t know Devereaux from Mahatma Gandhi.” He snickered, indicating that he’d appreciated his own line.
Lockington said, “Well, Devereaux will be the one who ain’t wearing a bed sheet.”
Pritchard said, “Devereaux—he was with the Agency, wasn’t he?”
“Yeah, last I heard. What’s with the past-tense stuff—did he quit?”
Pritchard took Lockington by the arm, leaning toward him, lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper. “Uhh-h-h, Lacey—Devereaux’s dead.”