Read Online Deadly Joke by Hugh Pentecost - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Hugh Pentecost
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Turkish coffee, which is always brewing there. He cupped the brandy glass in both hands for a moment, savoring its aroma. Then he sipped and put it down.
“I believe in Maxwell,” he said. “I don’t believe he framed young Tennant, no matter how much he hated him for what he’s done with Diana. Did you meet Tennant?”
“See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil,” I said.
“I know you promised Grace,” he said. “But obviously you went to get Diana for her. Which means that she knows where Diana lives and has kept it a secret from her husband. Did you meet Tennant?”
“Let’s say I have met him,” I said.
“Do you think he was here in the hotel tonight?”
“I don’t think either of them were,” I said.
“But they knew what was going to happen—Charlie Sewall’s joke?”
“Diana told you that.”
“Did you bring them news?” he asked.
“How do you mean?”
“Did they know that Sewall had been shot?”
“It seemed to be news,” I said. “They were shocked, I think.”
“If they knew it was Charlie, and Charlie was their friend, then we have to count them out,” Chambrun said. “Unless—” His eyes narrowed.
“Unless what?”
“Unless it was meant to be Charlie,” he said. “Unless it wasn’t a mistake.”
“But Diana and her boy wanted Charlie to pull off his joke,” I said.
“So they say.”
We weren’t able to go on with it because Hardy arrived. He looked beat. He was carrying a manila folder which he put down on Chambrun’s desk.
“May be some help,” he said. He opened the folder. On top of a stack of papers was a photograph. I moved around to get a look at it. It was a picture of Charlie Sewall in the lobby, without his pants, smiling. Flanking him were two men in white tie and tails. One of them was totally obscured by a folding opera hat which he was holding up to his face, obviously to avoid the cameras. The other was turned back to look at Sewall, so that all we had was his profile. It was a youngish face, contorted by laughter.
“Either of you know him?” Hardy asked.
I didn’t.
Chambrun shook his head. “There isn’t enough of the face,” he said. “Only the jaw line, dark hair.”
Hardy pushed the photograph aside. “We have a preliminary report from ballistics,” he said. “The medical examiner got the bullet out of Sewall’s chest. They guess it’s a foreign-made gun, probably a 6.5 millimeter Walthers, German make. Same kind of gun some people think was used to assassinate Bobby Kennedy.”
“Hard to come by?” Chambrun asked.
“No. I could name you a dozen gunshops where they can be bought. It’s a handgun, very accurate if you know how to use it.”
“You need to find the gun before you can match the bullet to it,” Chambrun said.
Hardy made a sour face. “The ability to match a fired bullet to a gun is considerably exaggerated,” he said. “Sometimes you can, sometimes not. More often not—not well enough to have it stand up in court as evidence. It would be happy coincidence if we found the owner of a P-38 Walthers, but we might not make it stick as the one.”
“And it was fired from the mezzanine balcony?”
“No question.”
“Which means the killer had a key to the locked doors.”
“Or a magical lock-pick,” Hardy said.
“Which doesn’t exist,” Chambrun said.
“Right.”
The red light blinked on Chambrun’s phone. He switched on the squawk box again.
“Chambrun here.”
“Karl Nevers here,” a tense voice said. “The pickets have broken through the police lines, sir. Like hundreds of them. They’re tearing the place apart, Mr. Chambrun.”
It was bedlam downstairs. Hundreds of kids, boys and girls, were churning about, screaming and yelling. I could hear glass smashing. It seems that some of them had charged the front entrance and the cops had concentrated there. It was a decoy, because the main force had come in the side entrance, charging down the corridor of shops, breaking glass
“I believe in Maxwell,” he said. “I don’t believe he framed young Tennant, no matter how much he hated him for what he’s done with Diana. Did you meet Tennant?”
“See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil,” I said.
“I know you promised Grace,” he said. “But obviously you went to get Diana for her. Which means that she knows where Diana lives and has kept it a secret from her husband. Did you meet Tennant?”
“Let’s say I have met him,” I said.
“Do you think he was here in the hotel tonight?”
“I don’t think either of them were,” I said.
“But they knew what was going to happen—Charlie Sewall’s joke?”
“Diana told you that.”
“Did you bring them news?” he asked.
“How do you mean?”
“Did they know that Sewall had been shot?”
“It seemed to be news,” I said. “They were shocked, I think.”
“If they knew it was Charlie, and Charlie was their friend, then we have to count them out,” Chambrun said. “Unless—” His eyes narrowed.
“Unless what?”
“Unless it was meant to be Charlie,” he said. “Unless it wasn’t a mistake.”
“But Diana and her boy wanted Charlie to pull off his joke,” I said.
“So they say.”
We weren’t able to go on with it because Hardy arrived. He looked beat. He was carrying a manila folder which he put down on Chambrun’s desk.
“May be some help,” he said. He opened the folder. On top of a stack of papers was a photograph. I moved around to get a look at it. It was a picture of Charlie Sewall in the lobby, without his pants, smiling. Flanking him were two men in white tie and tails. One of them was totally obscured by a folding opera hat which he was holding up to his face, obviously to avoid the cameras. The other was turned back to look at Sewall, so that all we had was his profile. It was a youngish face, contorted by laughter.
“Either of you know him?” Hardy asked.
I didn’t.
Chambrun shook his head. “There isn’t enough of the face,” he said. “Only the jaw line, dark hair.”
Hardy pushed the photograph aside. “We have a preliminary report from ballistics,” he said. “The medical examiner got the bullet out of Sewall’s chest. They guess it’s a foreign-made gun, probably a 6.5 millimeter Walthers, German make. Same kind of gun some people think was used to assassinate Bobby Kennedy.”
“Hard to come by?” Chambrun asked.
“No. I could name you a dozen gunshops where they can be bought. It’s a handgun, very accurate if you know how to use it.”
“You need to find the gun before you can match the bullet to it,” Chambrun said.
Hardy made a sour face. “The ability to match a fired bullet to a gun is considerably exaggerated,” he said. “Sometimes you can, sometimes not. More often not—not well enough to have it stand up in court as evidence. It would be happy coincidence if we found the owner of a P-38 Walthers, but we might not make it stick as the one.”
“And it was fired from the mezzanine balcony?”
“No question.”
“Which means the killer had a key to the locked doors.”
“Or a magical lock-pick,” Hardy said.
“Which doesn’t exist,” Chambrun said.
“Right.”
The red light blinked on Chambrun’s phone. He switched on the squawk box again.
“Chambrun here.”
“Karl Nevers here,” a tense voice said. “The pickets have broken through the police lines, sir. Like hundreds of them. They’re tearing the place apart, Mr. Chambrun.”
It was bedlam downstairs. Hundreds of kids, boys and girls, were churning about, screaming and yelling. I could hear glass smashing. It seems that some of them had charged the front entrance and the cops had concentrated there. It was a decoy, because the main force had come in the side entrance, charging down the corridor of shops, breaking glass
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