The uniformed man went to the secretary and leaned over her desk, whispering. She reacted to his information with resigned annoyance. He shrugged his shoulders and walked quickly to a door to the right of the elevator. Canfield saw through the slowly closing door the flight of stairs he had presumed to be there.
The secretary placed some papers into a manila folder and looked over at the three men. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, the Marquis de Bertholde can not see anyone further this afternoon. We apologize for any inconvenience.”
“Now see here, young lady!” The impatient gentleman was on his feet. “This is preposterous! I’ve been here for three-quarters of an hour at the explicit request of the Marquis!… Request be damned! At his instructions!”
“I’m sorry, sir, I’ll convey your displeasure.”
“You’ll do more than that! You’ll convey to Monsieur Bertholde that I am waiting right here until he sees me!” He sat down pompously.
The man named Arthur rose and walked toward the elevator.
“For heaven’s sake, man, you’ll not improve French manners. People have been trying for centuries. Come along, Basil. We’ll stop at the Dorchester and start the evening.”
“Can’t do it, Arthur. I’m staying right where I am.”
“Have it your way. Be in touch.”
Canfield remained in his seat next to the impatient Basil. He knew only that he would not leave until Bertholde came out. Basil was his best weapon.
“Ring the marquis again, please, miss,” said Basil.
She did so.
A number of times. And there was no response.
The field accountant was alarmed. He rose from his chair and walked to the large double doors and knocked. There was no answer. He tried opening both doors; they were locked.
Basil unfolded his arms and got out of his chair. The spit-curled secretary stood up behind her white desk. She automatically picked up the phone and started pressing the buzzer, finally holding her finger down upon it.
“Unlock the door,” commanded the field accountant.
“Oh, I don’t know …”
“I do! Get me a key!”
The girl started to open the top drawer of her desk and then looked up at the American. “Perhaps we should wait.…”
“Damn it! Give me the key!”
“Yes, sir!” She picked up a ring of keys and selecting one, separated it from the others, and gave the key to Canfield. He rapidly unlocked the doors and flung them open.
There in front of them was the Frenchman sprawled across the top of his white desk, blood trickling from his mouth; his tongue was extended and swollen; his eyes bulged from their sockets; his neck was inflated and lacerated just below the chin line. He had been expertly garroted.
The girl kept screaming but did not collapse—a fact that Canfield wasn’t sure was fortunate. Basil began to shake and repeated “Oh, my God!” over and over again. The field accountant approached the desk and lifted the dead man’s wrist by the coat sleeve. He let it go and the hand fell back.
The girl’s screams grew louder and two middle-aged executives burst through the staircase doorway into the outer room. Through the double doors the scene was clear to both men. One ran back to the stairway, shouting at the top of his voice, while the other slowly, fearfully walked into Bertholde’s room.
“Le bon Dieu!”
Within a minute, a stream of employees had run down and up the staircase, log-jamming themselves in the doorway. As each group squeezed through, subsequent screams and oaths followed. Within two minutes twenty-five people were shouting instructions to nonexistent subordinates.
Canfield shook the spit-curled secretary in an attempt to stop her screaming. He kept telling her to phone the police, but she could not accept the order. Canfield did not want to make the call himself because it would have required separate concentration. He wished to keep his full attention on everyone in sight, especially Basil, if that was possible.
A tall, distinguished-looking, gray-haired man in a double-breasted pin-stripe suit came rushing through the crowd up to the secretary and Canfield. “Miss Richards! Miss Richards! What in God’s name happened?”
“We opened his door and found him like this! That’s what happened,” shouted the field accountant over the growing din of excited voices.
And then Canfield looked closely at the questioner. Where had he seen him before? Or had he? The man was like so many in the Scarlatti world. Even to the perfectly waxed moustache.
“Have you phoned the police?” asked the gentleman.
Canfield saw Basil pushing his way through the hysterical mob gathered by the office doors. “No, the police haven’t been called,” yelled the American as he watched Basil making headway through the crowd. “Call them!… It might be a good idea to close these doors.” He started after Basil as if to push the doors shut. The distinguished-looking man with the waxed moustache held him firmly by the lapel.