Odor of Violets, Baynard Kendrick [best short novels .txt] 📗

there. Now go up and get that man and bring him down again.”

“I don’t have to take such talk,” the elevator boy muttered as he slammed the door.

Five minutes later he was back down again.

“Where is he?” asked the night clerk.

“How do I know?” The boy stared back defiantly. “He’s not up there.”

“Not up where?”

“Where I took him,” the boy explained impatiently. “On the twenty-fourth floor.”

“Oh, is that so?” The clerk turned to the switchboard, plugged in Maclain’s apartment, and rang the bell.

After a couple of minutes of continuous ringing on the clerk’s part, the elevator boy inquired with a jocular air, “Well, what did he say?”

“I’ll show him,” the clerk said nastily between his teeth. “He can’t come into this hotel and just disappear.”

He walked out from behind the desk and went to the lobby door.

“Mike,” he told the doorman, “get a cop. A burglar just came in here.”

“Sure,” said Mike. “Where is he?”

“How the hell do I know?” the night clerk demanded. “That sap Thomas took him upstairs and let him off at the twenty-fourth floor. He’s probably started up there and is working down. Don’t let any vans back up here, load, and drive away.”

The doorman put a whistle to his lips and whistled shrilly. A taxicab swept up to the curb and stopped.

“Beat it!” said Mike. “I’m trying to get a cop.”

“I’ll send you one.” The cab driver gave a loud Bronx cheer, and pulled away.

“You could phone,” the elevator boy reminded the clerk when he returned to his desk.

“That’s why you’re an elevator operator instead of a night manager.” The clerk dipped his pen in the ink and threw a blob on the floor. “Well-run hotels don’t have police cars screaming up to the doors.”

“No,” said the elevator boy. “They whistle for taxis to carry their burglars away.”

“You go to hell!”

An officer, wheezing slightly, lumbered in through the front door.

“I’m sorry,” the clerk told him, “I didn’t mean you.”

“Where’s the burglar?” the cop demanded.

“Ask the elevator boy.” The clerk turned back to his transcript. “He took him up to the twenty-fourth floor.”

“Come on,” said the cop efficiently. “I’ll have him in the wink of an eye.”

3

Arnold C. Cameron waited on the twenty-fourth floor until the elevator had dropped from sight before he stepped into the private lift close by and pushed the button which took him up two flights more. There he rang the bell on Maclain’s penthouse door. There was no answer, and after a short wait he took a leather key holder from his pocket, selected a key, and opened the door. A night light burned dimly in the small reception room. Cameron went into Maclain’s office, turned on soft indirect lights concealed in the molding, and stood still for a while appraising the furniture and equipment. His gray eyes opened a shade wider at sight of the Ediphone.

He took a few soft-footed strides and sat down in Maclain’s chair. There he adjusted the transmitter by moving the needle back to zero, let it down on the record, and turned it on.

He sat immobile until Maclain’s voice said: “If you find anything suspicious, get in touch with Colonel Gray. Tell him that I’m more important than anything for the moment, and to keep an eye on me.”

He clicked off the record and put his elbows on the desk. Resting his chin in cupped hands, he stared at the telephone. The number on the dial was Susquehanna 7-0039, Ext. 2.

Cameron puckered his lips, pushed back the chair, and swiftly began to go through the desk drawers. In the top one on the left-hand side he found another phone. He dialed a number with automatic precision and leaned back in the chair.

After a few rings someone answered and Cameron said, “Jack, it’s me. The barge is loaded with women and children and it’s about to go down. They moved too fast for us. Sometime between nine and ten o’clock they snatched Maclain and a girl.”

The listener’s voice broke in, crackling insistently over the phone.

Cameron said, “Sign off for once, will you, and listen to me. The girl’s name is Cheli Scott, a visitor at The Crags. She was driving Maclain in to the Hartford Post Office. They must have been held up on the road. Police found her deserted car.”

“Where are you now?” the voice demanded peremptorily.

“I’m in Maclain’s office,” said Cameron with a patient sigh. “I highballed it down here to see if I could find something that would give me a lead. Maclain sent a message down to New York by his chauffeur several hours ago. It’s on a record. Hold tight, and I’ll play it to you over the phone.”

He picked up the recording mouthpiece from the combination Ediphone and after a couple of tries succeeded in shutting off the Capehart and making the mouthpiece talk into the phone.

When Cameron put the telephone receiver to his ear again, the voice said excitedly, “That’s a pretty kettle of stew. Where does this Bonnée come into the picture?”

“I don’t know, do you?”

“No.” The voice became icy and authoritative, snapping out orders over the phone. “Everything’s set for a round-up from here to the coast tomorrow night—Christmas Eve. Any tip-off now and a whole year’s work is undone. Maclain’s been let down cold. He thinks he’s being protected, and he isn’t. Get back up to Hartford as fast as you can haul it, and see what you can do.”

“And what about the House of Bonnée? I might dig up something there.”

“They’ll have to wait until tomorrow night. I’ll include them in the show.”

“But Maclain’s been kidnaped,” Cameron protested. “He’s carrying around a lot of information. God knows what they’ll do.”

“I don’t care if they snatch Jim Farley and nine Cabinet members,” the voice barked back. “You let that House of Bonnée alone!”

“All right,” said Cameron, “but it strikes me that the House of Bonnée is my only chance of ever finding out where they’ve taken him.”

“I’m giving you orders,” said the voice. “Let the