Golden Trap by Hugh Pentecost Page A

he did know.
    And then Dark stood up, abruptly, a warm smile moving his mouth. I turned and saw a tall, elegant man in dinner jacket coming toward the table. It was Hilary Carleton.
    Carleton was, I suppose, in his late fifties. He moved with the grace of a fine actor. His face was ruggedly handsome, with a square jaw and firm mouth, high cheekbones, and the forehead of an intellectual. His brown eyes had a pleasant, friendly twinkle to them. His dark hair was greying at the temples. This was the “man of distinction” to end the whole routine.
    “Hello, sir,” Dark said. “Won’t you join us?”
    Carleton gave Shelda and me a polite, questioning look. “If I’m not intruding,” he said.
    “Please do join us,” Shelda said.
    Dark introduced us. “Miss Mason and Mr. Haskell. They are the public relations geniuses for the Beaumont.”
    “I trust you’ve been discreet about the secrets of the Commonwealth, Curtis,” Carleton said, smiling. He took the chair Del Greco magically produced. “Scotch and soda, and God help me, no ice,” he said to the maître d’. “Foul British habit I can’t shake,” he said to us. “But it’s one of the very few ways to keep warm in a London winter. No ice!” He looked appreciatively at Shelda. “You make this a very pleasant way to end an exhausting day, Miss Mason.”
    “Thank you, sir,” she said, obviously pleased.
    I began to wonder which of these two characters offered me the greatest threat.
    Carleton gave me a quizzical little smile. “This place is seething with rumors, Mr. Haskell.”
    “Oh?” I said innocently.
    “I quite understand if you’re not at liberty to talk,” he said. “But I’m curious.”
    “What rumors have you heard, sir?” I asked.
    “My suite is on the tenth floor,” he said. I’d failed to notice that on his card. “The place has been swarming with police. Weren’t you aware of that, Curtis?”
    Young Dark grinned. “Yes, sir, but I was sure if it was a matter of public knowledge Haskell or Miss Mason would mention it.”
    “I stand rebuked,” Carleton said.
    “There’s no reason to feel rebuked, sir,” I said. “The fact is we’re trained not to spread that kind of story. It makes the guests restless, but if you’re aware there’s no reason you shouldn’t have the facts. A man was murdered in Ten B.”
    “By Jove!” Carleton said.
    “It’s something of a puzzle,” I told him. “The man was registered in another room. How he got into Ten B we don’t know. The man who’s registered in Ten B doesn’t know who he is or why he was there.”
    “How was he killed?” Carleton asked. His frown seemed to harden his handsome face.
    “Shot between the eyes,” I said. “The police haven’t found the murder weapon or identified the man, who was registered under the unimaginative name of John Smith.”
    “Who was registered in the room?” Carlton asked.
    I tried it on for size, as blandly as I could. “Fellow by the name of George Lovelace,” I said.
    Nothing happened. The Englishman shook his head, almost imperceptibly, indicating the name meant nothing to him. “A puzzler for you,” he said.
    “The man who called himself Smith had a note of introduction from an important client of ours,” I said. “We haven’t been able to reach this man, but in a couple of hours we should know who Smith is and who might have been gunning for him.”
    “Hope you do,” Carleton said. “It’s not too comfortable to imagine a killer may be prowling around on the very floor where I’m living.” His frown relaxed. “You young people dining and dancing somewhere? I have to go to a dinner for the head of the Pakistan delegation. Bloody bore!”
    Dark’s eyes were brightly on Shelda. “I have hopes,” he said.
    Shelda was waiting for me to say something, and, reluctantly, I did. “I have been delegated to hold Mr. George Lovelace’s hand for dinner,” I said.
    “Oh, bad luck!” Dark said, not taking his eyes off