Chapter 6

“We want two Xerox copies of the questionnaires,” Lucille told Mr. Ready.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible. These are held in the strictest confidence.”

“Ten dollars?”

“Far more confidential than that.”

“Harvey, give Mr. Ready fifteen dollars, and that is as high as we go—the very last penny.”

I took three five-dollar bills out of my pocket, and he had the copies made, and we went downstairs to the lobby, where I said to Lucille, “This has got to stop.”

“What, Harvey?”

“You know damn well what. So go back to that damn Donnell branch of the New York Public Library where you belong.”

“You don’t mean that, Harvey.”

“Now. I damn well do,” I said fiercely.

“Oh, Harvey, you shouldn’t talk tough, because it’s like when that absolutely improbable fat man called you a shamus—”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” I said.

“What is exactly what you mean?”

“I mean you undercut my confidence. I mean you hit right to the heart of the whole problem of my masculinity. Do you think this is an easy world to be a man in? No, sir. Never.”

“Harvey, I don’t mean to.”

“Maybe you don’t mean to. That doesn’t change the essential fact. How old are you?”

“Harvey, you know how old I am, and I think it’s very humiliating for you to bring it up all the time.”

“Very well. Twenty-nine years. And unmarried. Maybe that’s why, and it’s all very well to talk about humiliation, but how do you suppose I feel? I always wanted to be a film director and instead of that I’m an insurance dick, but I am supposed to be the smartest one in town. How do you think I feel? Do you know what you’ve been doing to me all day?”

“No, not really.”

“Humiliating me.”

“But I’ve been trying to help you,” she said, quite horrified.

“You know how you could help me? Go back to your job.”

“Harvey, I am on sick leave, and you know that I do care for you, and I am only trying to help a little, and it’s just utterly insane to imagine that I have one tenth of your understanding and know-how, and I don’t see what harm it does if I trail along—”

“Look, kid,” I said to her, trying to be kind and understanding, “I know how you feel, but this can be a very dangerous job, and you have to keep on it. We should be at the Ritzhampton right now.”

“But of course they’re gone, Harvey, so there’s no need to rush.”

“How do you know they’re gone?”

“Just because it’s the most obvious thing in the world, Harvey, and if you—”

I stared at her, and she swallowed her words and said, “All right Harvey. We go to the Ritzhampton, right now, and I apologize and I am sorry, and please don’t make me go away because I am having more fun than I ever had since I was a little girl and I put my little sister Stephanie’s yellow braids into black ink while she was sleeping—”

“You did that?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I hated Stephanie.”

“Why did you hate her?”

“Because she was so damn good.”

“Come along,” I said, and we walked up Madison to the Ritzhampton. I half-suspected that they were one of the company’s clients and when a phone call confirmed that they were, I introduced myself and Lucille to Mike Jacoby, the hotel security officer.

There is nothing very colorful about Mike Jacoby, who took his courses in police-psychology, criminology and hotel management at New York University; except that for a city boy who was born in the Bronx, he has covered himself with a remarkable veneer of international cool. He also has a mustache and has his suits made to order. He was very cooperative—perhaps because he couldn’t take his eyes off Lucille—and he dug up the count’s registration in a matter of minutes.

While I was looking at it, he whispered into my ear, “What’s her name?”

“Cynthia Brandon.”

“Not her. The gal you’re with.”

“Lucille Dempsey.”

“You in love with her?”

“Why, what the hell has that got to do with anything?”

“I just asked a civil question. I want to know how deeply you are involved.”

“Why?” I demanded. I had passed the registration card over to Lucille, who was studying it carefully now. Then she took the file and began to go through it. Jacoby stared at her as if he had never seen a woman before.

“Because I want to marry her.”

“Just like that? You never met her before, but you want to marry her.”

“If I had met her before, I would have married her. I been waiting for a woman like that.”

“I’ll ask her,” I said.

“Just be careful how you put it.”

“Lucille,” I said, “Mr. Jacoby here, he thinks he is immediately in love with you and he wants to know whether you will marry him?”

“No,” she replied. “But thank you, Mr. Jacoby. You know, there are two registrations for Count Gambion. And it’s funny,” she said to me, “that here this fellow registers openly at this hotel and your Lieutenant Rothschild and that clever Sergeant Kelly you were telling me about, they don’t appear to know one blessed thing about it. Do they?”

“I guess not,” I agreed.

“I would call that pretty poor police work, wouldn’t you, Mr. Jacoby.”

“You mean you would not even think of me in terms of marriage? Flatly—just like that?”

“Yes, but you musn’t take offense. I mean, if we ran a branch of the Library System the way the police department seems to operate, we would never know where any book was.”

“Lucille,” I said. “The police department had no reason to inquire here—”

“The first one,” Lucille said, “is for the Presidential suite. What about that, Mr. Jacoby?”

“Well, it’s an excellent accommodation. You have no feeling about me?”

“We’ll talk about that some time. How large, Mr. Jacoby?”

“Dining room, living room, three bedrooms, kitchen, pantry.”

“How much?”

“Four hundred dollars a day.”

“Oh, no. I don’t believe it.”

“Oh, it’s not unreasonable. In the Carlyle, I believe they get even—”

“For crying out loud, Lucille,” I began, but she went on smoothly, “And it never made you suspicious? A Count Gambion de Fonti appears and is able to pay that kind of ridiculous price for a few furnished rooms?”

“My dear Miss Dempsey,” Jacoby said, “we only get suspicious when they don’t pay. Really, you look at the whole matter rather oddly, if I may say so.”

“Or sensibly. It’s all a matter of one’s point of view, isn’t it. Now here on this second card, he registers as Count Gambion de Fonti and wife—for the Bridal Suite. Why did he have to register again?”

“That’s a rule of the house.”

“Let me see that!” I exclaimed. It was dated on Monday, exactly one week ago.

“And how much is the Bridal Suite?”

“Lucille, what difference does it make?”

“I should think it would make a difference, and even if it doesn’t there’s such a thing as a normal curiosity by someone who has a normal desire to be a bride even if not on these premises in this particular Bridal Suite.”

“Three hundred and sixty dollars a day,” said Jacoby. “Why should I be suspicious?”

“What on earth would you do with a girl like this?” I asked him.

“I’d figure something out. No, excuse me, Miss Dempsey. I don’t mean it just that way, and he’s cockeyed when he says I have fallen in love with you at first sight. All I mean is that I would like an opportunity to know you better.”

“The name Cynthia Brandon rang no bells, did it, Jacoby?”

“Should it?”

“No. Not at all. She only happens to be the daughter of one of the richest men in America, namely E.C. Brandon.”

“Elmer Cantwell Brandon?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, she certainly got married quietly,” Jacoby said.

“You mean they actually lived here—in the Bridal Suite?” Lucille exclaimed.

“Overnight anyway.”

“And then?”

“They checked out.”

“Well, of course they checked out,” Lucille said matter of factly.

We went into the records for a forwarding address, but there was none. We questioned the doorman, and out of him we squeezed the probability that they took a cab to Kennedy Airport. He was not sure. Almost sure, but not quite.

“Just who is this Count Gambion de Fonti?” Jacoby wanted to know.

“He’s a hoodlum,” I said, “so if you get any wind of him whatsoever let me know.”

Then he tried to date Lucille again, and finally she gave him her telephone number. As we walked away from the hotel, I asked her, “Now, why on earth did you do that?”

“He was so insistent.”

“He’s a jerk.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about, Harvey.”

“Who’s worried?”

“You’re angry.”

“I’m not angry—I’m just a little edgy about having you trailing all over the place with me.”

“Do you want me to go, Harvey?”

“At this point, what I want seems to be absolutely academic.”

“Anyway,” she said, “I like your job. It’s more fun than mine. I mean, it’s just so lovely to have a job where there isn’t a stitch of work to do and your time is absolutely your own.”

“Now what do you mean by that?”

“Harvey, you’re angry again.”

“Work—my God, I work my butt off for that lousy insurance company.”

“Of course you do, Harvey,” she said.