Trevayne by Robert Ludlum Page A

requesting the paging of his wife and the answer seemed much shorter than on the first call. But Trevayne knew his impatience was heightened when he was angry. Perhaps that was it.
    And yet, if that were so, why didn’t it seem longer?
    Not shorter.
    *   *   *
    “Yes, sir! Yes, sir! The description is the same! She sat right there!”
    “Then where
is
she?”
    “Her husband, sir! Her husband took her upstairs to their rooms!”
    “
I’m
her husband, you goddamned idiot! Now,
tell
me!” Trevayne had the waiter by the throat.
    “Please, sir!” The waiter screamed, as most of the Palm Court turned in the direction of the loud voices, heard above the punctuated strains of the violin quartet. Two Plaza house detectives pulled Trevayne’s hands away from the pleading waiter. “He said they had rooms—a suite upstairs!”
    Trevayne threw the arms off him and raced to the desk. When one of the detectives came up behind him, he did something he wouldn’t have thought he was capable of doing. He slammed his fist into the man’s neck. The detective fell backward as his fellow officer withdrew a pistol.
    Simultaneously, the frightened clerk behind the desk spoke hysterically.
    “Here, sir! Trevayne! Mrs. A. Trevayne. Suite Five H and I! The reservation was made this afternoon!”
    Trevayne didn’t think about the man behind him. He ran to the door marked “Stairs” and raced up the concrete steps. He knew the detective followed; the shouts came at him to stop, but he refused. It was only necessary to reach a suite at the Plaza Hotel marked “Five H and I.”
    He pushed his full weight into the corridor door and emerged on the thin rug that bespoke of better times. The doors in front of him read “Five A,” then “B,” then “Five C and D.” He rounded the corner and the letters stared him in the face.
    “H and I.”
    The door was locked, and he threw himself against it. It gave only slightly under his weight. Trevayne moved back several feet and slammed the heel of his foot against the lock area.
    It cracked, but did not open.
    By now the winded, middle-aged house detective approached.
    “You goddamn son-of-a-bitch! I could have shot you! Now, get away from there or I
will!
”
    “You will
not!
My wife’s in there!”
    The strident urgency of Trevayne’s command had its effect. The detective looked at the panicked husband and lent his own foot to Trevayne’s next assault. The door came off the upper left hinge, crashing down obliquely into the short foyer. Trevayne and the detective rushed into the room.
    The detective saw what he had to see and turned away. He’d seen it before. He’d wait in the doorframe, both eyes on the husband, to make sure there was no violence.
    Phyllis Trevayne was naked in the white sheets of the bed; the covers were at the foot, lumped as if thrown off carelessly. On the night table, on the left side, was a bottle of Drambuie, two glasses half-full.
    On Phyllis Trevayne’s breasts were lipstick marks. Phalluses outlined toward the nipples.
    The detective assumed that somebody had had a ball. He hoped to Christ the third party had left the premises.
    Goddamn fool if he hadn’t.
    Phyllis Trevayne sat up in the bed drinking coffee, wrapped in towels. The doctor had finished his examination and motioned to Trevayne to come into the other room.
    “I’d say a very powerful sedative, Mr. Trevayne. A Mickey Finn, if you like. There won’t be much aftereffect, perhaps a headache, upset stomach.”
    “Was she … was she assaulted?”
    “Debatable, without a more thorough examination than I can perform here. If she was, it was a struggle; I don’t believe there was penetration.… But I think an attempt was made, I won’t disguise that.”
    “She’s not aware of the … attempt, is she?”
    “I’m sorry. Only she can answer that.”
    “Thank you, doctor.”
    Trevayne returned to the front room of the suite and took his wife’s hand, kneeling down beside