Free Walking Dead Man by Hugh Pentecost

routine not running normally. The lobby seemed perfectly normal now, and yet it felt wrong. I suddenly realized what it was. At all times, no matter what the problems the complaints, the irritating confrontations with irritating guests to whom you had to be polite, the fashion people, the society mothers demanding perfection for their “coming-out” daughters, the press agents for important people and for people who wanted to be important, there was the inner assurance that no problem was too tough to solve because God was in his heaven—on the second floor—and all was right with the world. Now God wasn’t there, and not even Betsy Ruysdale could fill the void. The Captain wasn’t on the bridge; the coach had left the team to improvise its own game plan. I knew, as Jerry and I took the elevator to the fourteenth floor, how much we depended on Chambrun, and that the simple knowledge that he wasn’t there made us—or me at least—feel curiously incompetent.
    Outside the door of Richard Cleaves’ room I glanced at my watch. It was a quarter past two. He’d probably be in bed, very much annoyed by our intrusion.
    He wasn’t in bed, but his annoyance was electric. He opened the door and stood looking at us, black glasses hiding his eyes. He was wearing slacks and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular, tanned arms. He reminded me a little of George Peppard, the actor.
    “Yes?” he said. A cold voice, a hostile voice.
    “I’m Dodd, the hotel’s security officer,” Jerry said. “This is Mr. Haskell, the hotel’s public relations director. We’d like to talk to you, Mr. Cleaves.”
    “Not tonight,” Cleaves said. He started to close the door, but Jerry’s foot was in the way. The hall light glittered against the black glasses. “Get your foot out of the door, Dodd, unless you want it broken.”
    I was mildly amused. I’d seen Jerry handle belligerent drunks twice his size. The aggressive Mr. Cleaves wasn’t going to intimidate him. There’s something enjoyable about watching a little guy handle a big guy.
    “I can get a cop down here in about five minutes to arrest you,” Jerry said, “or we can talk nice and friendly.”
    Cleaves made a right judgment. He didn’t try to break Jerry’s foot. “What is it you want to talk about?”
    “An attempted murder, possibly two,” Jerry said.
    I thought I’d try something direct. “We know something about your history, Mr. Cleaves.”
    “If you do,” he said, “you know I regret George Battle didn’t get it right between the eyes.”
    “And what do you hope has happened to Chambrun?” Jerry asked, his foot still in the door.
    “What has happened to him?” Cleaves asked.
    “That’s what we’re here to ask you.”
    I was watching his face. It’s hard to guess what a man is thinking when you can’t see his eyes, but I could have sworn he was surprised. There was a little intake of breath, a little twitch at the corners of his bidden eyes.
    “You’ve hooked me, gentlemen,” Cleaves said. “Come in and tell us what you’re talking about. He stepped back from the door.
    “Us” turned out to be David Loring and the glamorous Miss Angela Adams. Cleaves had a sitting room-bedroom suite, and the actor and his lady were sitting on a couch, side by side. On a coffee table in front of them were a variety of bottles—Scotch, vodka, brandy. There was an ice bucket, glasses, a couple of the Beaumont’s silver stirrers. Ash trays were full. I saw Jerry take that all in.
    “How long have you been here, Mr. Loring?” he asked.
    “Just a minute,” Cleaves said. “You don’t have to answer any questions, David. This is just the house dick.”
    It’s strange to meet someone like Loring whom you’ve seen a hundred times on the screen. You feel as if you knew him and you don’t know him at all. His one-sided little smile was familiar, the way he cocked his head to one side was familiar, the very direct look in his dark blue eyes was