Murder Is Served Page 4

  The lesser captains bowed slightly to André Maillaux, and the greater captains bowed also but permitted themselves a gently breathed “M’sieu,” one to each. To these, André nodded; he said, “Good morning, Henri” to one and, “Good morning, Armand” to the other. He spoke without accent to his staff, and usually in English. To the patrons, who naturally expected it, he spoke the easier words in French and the others in accented English. André, who was a man of intelligence, precision of mind and well-established instincts, had no difficulty in remembering, and reproducing, the accent he had brought to the United States twenty years before, from Paris. He gave attention to such details, and to others.

  William, who was greater than the greatest of the captains, who was only lesser than André could not have been distinguished from any other good-looking man in his early forties who happened to be wearing striped trousers in a deserted restaurant at eleven-thirty in the morning. He was sitting on a stool of the customers’ bar, off the foyer, conversing with Hermann, the head bartender, their conversation being partly professional and partly social. Hermann drew himself up slightly when André, near the end of his progression through the dining room, approached the bar. He said, “Good morning, Mr. Maillaux.”

  William slid from the bar stool, his striped trousers instantly assuming the drape of trousers perfectly disciplined by their occupant, and said, “Morning, André.”

  “That Nick,” André said, without preliminary. “He continues to speak Italian to Fritzl. It is possible—it is even probable—that he does so within earshot of the patrons. I am distressed, William.”

  A shadow of reciprocal distress crossed the face of the maître d’hôtel. William shook his head; he made soft clucking sounds.

  “I know,” he said. “I have spoken to him. He promises. It appears that he forgets. It is, of course, true that he is Italian, and that Fritzl is Hungarian and—”

  “At the Restaurant Maillaux there are no waiters who are Italian,” André said. “There are no waiters who are Hungarian. All are French. If they speak among themselves, they speak in French. Many of the patrons can tell when waiters are speaking in French and when in Italian. It is a flaw, William. A serious flaw. It is undermining.”

  William, who had come from England two years after André had come from France and had an accent in English, French and, when he chose to speak it, German, which was completely unidentifiable, nodded agreement and permitted his face to show pain.

  “I have explained,” he assured André. “I have said, ‘At André’s we are all French.’ I have said this in English, Italian, German, Polish and even, on occasion, in French. They all know. Even the busses.”

  “A bus does not speak,” André said. “That is understood.”

  The thought of busses appeared to cause him pain. “Not even to another bus,” he said. “That I cannot permit. You will arrange it, William.”

  “O.K.,” William said. “You’re the boss.”

  “Naturellement,” André said. He looked at the slim white-gold watch on his wrist. He compared it with the discreet clock behind the bar. He motioned toward the coatroom.

  “He has arrived?” André said.

  “Early,” William told him. “You said early, Hermann?”

  “At ten-thirty,” Herman said. “A few minutes after. I had just arrived.” He nodded. “It is my day to check the bar, you understand,” he said. “To prepare my—requisition.” He paused momentarily before the last word, and said it with a certain care.

  “For lunch also, then,” André said. “It is—” Now he hesitated. William looked at him. “Admirable,” André finished. “An admirable example.”

  André looked at his watch again, and noted it was nearing noon.

  “Soon,” he said, “they will begin. The visitors. The little ones. You will see to them, William. I shall consult.”

  William merely nodded, this time. Daily, at a few minutes before noon, André presented to William the task of taking care of the “little ones”—the odd people, the tourists, the hesitant explorers of the great world, the people who thought noon was a time for lunch at the Restaurant Maillaux in East Fiftieth. Among them there were none who could merit attention from André Maillaux himself, who could merit even a glimpse of André Maillaux himself. Even William was beyond their deserts. One of the greater captains would have done as well. Who were they to know the difference? There was, however, an issue of noblesse oblige.

  William did not return to the bar stool. He walked to the head of the three wide steps which descended from the bar to the main dining-room and looked out over what was, for the time, his domain. The tables were set; the waiters were waiting, the bus boys were inconspicuous; the captains, minor, were circulating slowly; the captains, major were at their stations, Henri a little to the right, Armand a little to the left. All was in readiness. William returned to the foyer, realigned the bar stool which he had imperceptibly disturbed, and looked at the clock behind the bar. It was now five minutes past noon. The little ones were late; there had been a time, only three weeks ago, when two of them had appeared at eleven-thirty. Noblesse oblige had been under strain.

  When he left William in command, André Maillaux crossed the foyer to the cloakroom and disappeared within it. Cecily Breakwell, the advance guard of the hat-check girls, was sitting down. She stood up and said, “Good morning, sir,” as she had at about this hour each day for the past two weeks. André looked at her and said, “Good morning, my dear,” as he had each day except the first, when he had said, “What is your name, my dear?” and had not, so far as she could tell, listened at all to her reply. He was, Cecily thought, a funny little man. He looked so foreign.

  André Maillaux would not have been displeased by this, nor would he have been surprised. If he did not look foreign—distantly foreign, foreign at several removes—there would have been a failure in technic, and that was inconceivable. It took doing, after twenty years, particularly for a man not physically of a type. Not tall, to be sure, a little plump, but there it ended. There nature ended and art began, the delicacy of art. It had taken skill to find a tailor who could, without ever overdoing it, without any suggestion of burlesque, give to André’s clothes the faintest suggestion of a Parisian cut—of, in effect, a reformed Parisian cut. It had taken considerable explanation, a good many years ago. One of André’s minor worries was that this admirable tailor would not prove of long life, that the explanation would have some day to be repeated. “The effect,” André had said, those years ago, “the effect, you perceive, it should be that I make every attempt not to appear French, that I pattern myself—you perceive?—after the Americans. But that the clothes, these admirable American clothes, unavoidably—you perceive?—take on the appearance of the boulevards because it is I who wear them.” He had looked at the tailor, almost as if he were a busboy undergoing final examination before being graduated, and had been stern. “It is subtle, no?” André Maillaux, building toward success, had said. “You perceive, yes?”

  The tailor had perceived; for fifteen years he had continued to perceive. “An artist,” André thought to himself each time he ordered new clothes, of that special dark gray so difficult to obtain, “a fellow artist.” It pleased André to see that others appreciated this; that his friend the tailor had also prospered. Perhaps, André had long thought, they might achieve world fame together—the most admirable tailor, the greatest restaurateur, of the habitable world. (The habitable world was not, to André, very large.)

  It was no slight trick to remain permanently foreign in any part of this world, particularly for a man of no physical idiosyncrasy and with a marked aptitude for languages. The retained accent, the artfully tailored clothes, the barbering, these were essential, but these were only the costuming of the part. “He even walks like a foreigner,” Cecily Breakwell thought, watching him recede through the coatroom. “It’s funny how you can tell.” André would have been pleased had he been able to overhear that thought; here, he would h
ave realized, was a tribute to an art purely personal. The walk, the gestures, the use of the eyes, the inflection of the voice—these were of André, of André only. Even now, after many years, André Maillaux sometimes invented a new gesture, at once Parisian and personally idiosyncratic, to make himself more perfect, more perfect as the impeccable proprietor of the greatest restaurant in the world. There was little of planning, of diligence, of ingenuity, which André Maillaux was not ready, and for that matter able, to contribute to make that dream a reality.

  Cecily Breakwell watched M. Maillaux walk, like a Frenchman, down the length of the cloakroom and leave it by a far door. Cecily sat down again, but almost at once got up. The first of the little ones appeared; she helped him off with his overcoat, took his hat, smiling welcome with all of her small, pert face. You could never tell who might come to the Restaurant Maillaux, or what might be the effect of her charm, her youth, her piquancy, on some guest who was looking for just that, who had almost, perhaps, decided not to produce that delightful little play because nowhere, in no casting office, had he found just the girl, with just the charm, the piquancy, for the leading part. And here, where he would least expect it, he would come upon the girl, drudging with hats and coats as Cinderella drudged at whatever menial tasks Cinderella drudged at. (Cecily was not very precise on this.) And then, Cecily thought (sitting down again, since this did not seem to be the man), he finds out I am really a college girl, just filling in here—between parts, really—and—

  “Please, miss,” a new patron, who also did not look like a theatrical producer, “I’d like to leave my coat, huh?”

  André Maillaux was in the office suite, by that time. The new suite, added to the restaurant during extensive alterations the summer before—the alterations which had expanded, and in so much changed, the Restaurant Maillaux.

  Enlargement of the main dining-room, conversion of the second-floor dining-rooms, had left no place for the offices, just when the offices, also, needed enlargement. That had been solved by renting the premises next door, in which a dress shop had just failed. The show windows had been painted over and the forepart of the space was used now for storage. In the rear, the offices of André Maillaux, Inc., had been partitioned off. Various passages connected the offices with the restaurant itself, all of them inconspicuous. The one through the coat-room led into the receptionist’s offices, which also could be reached from the street, through a passage beside the storeroom, without entering the restaurant itself. M. Maillaux emerged into the reception-room and said, “Good morning, my dear” to Gladdis Quinn, who said, “Good morning, mess-sere,” a form of address at which M. Maillaux no longer winced. Now he merely nodded toward one of the doors opening off the reception-room, and raised his eyebrows. Miss Gladdis Quinn nodded also, and smiled.

  André went, with quick, light steps, to the door, opened it without knocking and, as he opened it, spoke cheerfully, “Mon cher Tony,” he said. “I come to—”

  Then, abruptly, he broke off. Then, in a tone Gladdis Quinn had never heard him use, in a voice suddenly higher in pitch, strangely loud, M. Maillaux said, “My God!” Almost at once he said, in a voice nearer his own, “Mon dieu!” Then he went through the door he had opened and Gladdis Quinn, without thinking about it, got up from her desk by the switchboard and hurried, almost ran, behind him. When she got to the door and looked into the room M. Maillaux had entered, she screamed.

  The man sitting at the desk was dead. He was very bloodily dead, collapsed forward on his desk. The top of the desk seemed to be almost covered with his blood. There was a knife sticking out of his neck on the left side, so that only the black wooden handle showed. She saw all this, looking past M. Maillaux, who was standing near the desk, a little to one side, and seemed to be swaying slowly. He looked around at her and his eyes were wide and seemed to be popping out.

  “It is murder!” he said, and his voice was high and shrill. “Someone have killed my friend!”

  Pamela North hooked her leopard jacket close about her, shivered in anticipation, and emerged from Charles’ into Sixth Avenue. She began to beat her way south and to know the familiar resentment against an unnatural phenomenon. On the east side of Sixth Avenue between Tenth Street and the south side of Eighth Street, the winter wind always blows against you. It does not matter which way you go, uptown or down, the wind is in your face. A northwest wind is in your face, a northeast wind takes your breath away, a wind from the south buffets you head-on although you are walking with it. It had, Pam thought resentfully, something to do with the old Jefferson Market Courthouse. Pam looked at the courthouse with animosity. She looked up at the clock on its tower. The clock informed her, smugly, that it was twenty minutes after ten. Pam had looked at the clock in Charles’ as she walked under it, coming out, and knew that it was actually about ten minutes after two. The wind blew dust in her face and her eyes watered. She put her head down, held on to the leopard-skin hat, and burrowed through.

  She passed two newsstands and, blurrily, saw big headlines on afternoon newspapers. She felt the instinctive alarm which large headlines inevitably arouse in city dwellers of the atomic age and, at Eighth Street, stopped, braced against the wind and bought a copy of the Sun. (Jerry could read Sokolsky when he got home, so discharging in a single burst, against a worthy object, all the pent-up animosity of the day.) The Sun’s headline said: “A. J. Mott Found Slain at Office Desk.” So, Pam thought, tucking the newspaper under her arm, that’s all. No atoms today. She fought on against the wind.

  When she reached the apartment, she tossed the newspaper on one of the beds and left it there while she put her face back on, while she told Martha to have steak for dinner, but to call up for it instead of going out, and while she said hello to Martini and the kittens, Gin and Sherry (which was gradually being translated into Chérie). Martini climbed on her lap and looked devotedly into her face, stroking her chin with a soft paw, and the kittens, excited by her return, dashed from the living-room into the bedroom. It was only when Pam heard them tearing paper that she remembered to wonder who had been killed in an eight-column line. She went into the bedroom. Sherry had burrowed under the newspaper and Gin was scratching her way through it toward her sister. Pam rescued the newspaper, dropped the kittens on the floor and read the headline again: “A. J. Mott Found Slain at Office Desk.” She ignored the banks of the headline and read the beginning of the story.

  “Anthony J. Mott, II, son of the president of the Greystone Bank and Trust Company, and himself widely known as a financier, was stabbed to death today as he sat at his desk in the office of André Maillaux, Inc., operators of the restaurant of that name at—East Fiftieth Street. Mott recently purchased a controlling interest in the restaurant company.

  “The body was found shortly after noon by M. Maillaux, founder of the restaurant and one of its chief owners. He had gone to consult with his associate on routine matters.

  “M. Maillaux opened the door of Mott’s office and, as he did so, called a greeting to him, according to a receptionist in the office. But the greeting was stopped on his lips by the sight of Mott’s body. It was sprawled across the desk and bleeding had been profuse. The knife with which the financier had been killed was still in the wound, in the left side of the neck. According to the police, the weapon was one of the restaurant’s steak knives.

  “Death had—”

  Pam North interrupted herself. She went out into the living-room and through it to the kitchen, carrying the newspaper in her hand.

  “Oh, Martha,” Mrs. North said, “on second thought, I think we’d rather have fried chicken tonight; if you’d just as soon?”

  “Yasum,” Martha said, politely. She was making a cake and had no time for discussion. Pam returned to the living-room, scooped up a kitten for company, and returned to the news account.

  “Death had taken place within the past hour or hour and a half, according to a representative of the Medical Examiner’s Office, who said also that Mott must have lost cons
ciousness within seconds after he was stabbed.

  “According to the receptionist, Gladys Quin, 23, of—East 180th Street, the Bronx, Mott, who was about 37 and lived at—Park Avenue, had entered his office some time after 10 o’clock this morning. So far as she knew, he had had no visitors until Maillaux entered his office shortly after noon. According to the police, however, there are two other exits from Mott’s private office, both leading to corridors from which either the street or the main dining-room of the restaurant can be reached. It is assumed that the assailant used one of these methods to enter and leave the office.

  “Similar exits exist from Maillaux’s office, giving any assailant a wide choice of avenues, the police say.

  “Deputy Chief Inspector Artemus J. O’Malley, in charge of Manhattan detectives, is in personal charge of the investigation. He is being assisted by precinct detectives and detectives of the Homicide Squad under Acting Captain William Weigand. Inspector O’Malley said—”

  Pam stopped at that point, because one of the cats, presumably Gin, who had been on top, had removed the rest of the column, together with several adjacent columns. So far as Pam could tell, after a search of the bedroom, Gin had then eaten it.

  Thus prevented from sharing Inspector O’Malley’s thoughts, Pam North looked to see which kitten she had scooped and, finding it Gin, told the little cat that it should be ashamed to eat Inspector O’Malley. “Indigestible,” Pam told the small cat, which looked at her in surprise and then began to purr loudly. It then looked around, found that it had been deserted by its mother and sister, and began to wail, also loudly. “Funny little thing,” Pam said, letting it go. “I—”

  And then, belatedly, it struck her. Mott. Anthony J. Mott, II—but that would be Tony Mott! The Tony Mott! The night club Tony Mott, the play backer, the marrying Tony Mott—in short, the entirely fabulous Tony Mott. No wonder he required an eight-column line to do justice to this last, still fabulous, front-page appearance. Well, Pam thought inadequately, well, for heaven’s sake! I was thinking about him only—when was it? Something reminded me of Tony Mott only the other—And then, for the second time, she was struck, remembering. And she reached for the telephone.