Time of Terror by Hugh Pentecost Page A

one,” Sprague said. “I forgot to mention there was two bottles of Coca-Cola in the order. He told Mr. Horween—though he called him Schindler—to mix a gin and tonic and two Cokes in glasses with ice and take them into the back room to the ladies.”
    “He called him Schindler?”
    “Sure. They knew our names the first time we went up there with the lunch order, Schindler and me. This guy says, ‘Schindler, you mix a gin and tonic and two Cokes in glasses with ice and take them to the ladies in the rear right bedroom. And you, Sprague, unload the wagons and put the stuff on that center table!”
    “So Horween made the gin and tonic and the two glasses of Coke?”
    “Yeah. I guess he didn’t have to be a real waiter to know how to do that. He made the drinks while I was unloading the wagons and took them down the corridor to the bedroom. The guy in the mask closed the door behind him. When I’d finished unloading, he told me to take both wagons and beat it. I told him it would be awkward for me to handle both wagons. He told me to take ’em out into the hall and he didn’t give a damn what happened to them after that.
    “‘Let Schindler bring one of ’em,’ I said. I was worried about Mr. Horween.
    “‘Schindler is going to stay here and make drinks for us,’ he said. ‘You beat it.’ And so I had no choice but to leave him there while I took the two wagons out to the service elevator and came back downstairs. Mr. Horween never did come back to Room Service.”
    “Because they spotted him for a fake and may have killed him,” Chambrun said.
    “God!”
    The office door opened and Betsy Ruysdale ushered in Lieutenant Hardy.
    Hardy had, of course, heard the news on the radio or TV about the kidnapping and the bomb threat.
    “I figured I might be seeing you sooner or later,” he said.
    He listened to a composite of all our stories, looking over the garments and the disguise things on Chambrun’s desk as we talked.
    “According to this card in his wallet his blood type is AB negative,” Chambrun said. “That’s fairly rare, isn’t it?”
    “About three percent of the population,” Hardy said. “If these bloodstains turn out to be AB negative, we have a presumption.” He held up the bloody shirt. “You have to look twice to see what may have made the wound. A tiny hole in the shirt and in the undershirt. Something like an ice pick or an awl. Something that could have penetrated deep enough to go straight into the heart.”
    The two waiters had gone and Chambrun, Hardy and I were alone.
    “The trouble is, my friend,” Hardy said in his quiet way, “there isn’t much I can do about it under the circumstances. The laboratory can go over these things. Not much chance for fingerprints except on the shoes, possibly the glasses, possibly the sweat band inside the wig. They’ll probably turn out to be Horween’s if there are any. Of course there’s a chance we might find others. Every piece of silverware, every glass, every plate that comes out of the fifteenth floor should be checked. If this Army For Justice is made up of ex-service men, there are records we can use for crosschecking purposes. But we don’t have proof of a homicide—not yet.”
    “If the blood type matches?” Chambrun said.
    “Presumption. We can presume that Douglas Horween bled. That doesn’t prove he is dead. It would be enough—all of it would be enough—to justify an investigation under normal circumstances. But tell me how I investigate? I can’t go up to Fifteen without risking harm to the girls and Miss Horn; or risk your hotel being blown up over your head. Right now, we don’t have a body, we don’t have access. Horween may be alive, but another hostage, to be used later. He may have been wounded trying to fight off Coriander and his people, which would account for the blood, the probable wound. But we don’t have any proof of death, and even if we did—” He shrugged.
    The phone on Chambrun’s desk