Brett Halliday: Murder by Proxy

Harris jerked his head around angrily and narrowed his eyes at the stolid detective. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded insolently, “and what business is it of yours if I want my wife’s room number?”

“Security Officer,” Johnson told him equably. “You say you’re Mr. Harris?”

“Yes. Damn it! I’m Mr. Harris. What’s some flatfoot got to do with my wife?”

“No reason to get so belligerent about it, Mr. Harris,” Johnson told him mildly. “It’s my job to protect our guests’ privacy. Is Mrs. Harris expecting you?”

“No, she isn’t.” Harris paused and sought to control his irritation. “Look. I’ve been driving all night. I’m tired and sleepy, and I need a bath and a shave and a drink. Now can I, for God’s sake, have my wife’s room number?”

Johnson’s ruddy face remained expressionless. He said, “You don’t happen to have some identification on you, do you?”

“I’ve got all the identification in the world,” snarled Harris. “But why should I show it to you? What makes you think…?”

“If you are the lady’s husband, you shouldn’t mind showing it to me. Would you want us to just send any strange man up to your wife’s room at daylight if he asked for her number? You can see we have to be careful.”

“Well, I suppose… of course. I see the logic in that.” Harris took out his billfold and pulled cards from it which he fanned out on the desk in front of the detective. Diner’s Club and Carte Blanche credit cards, a Standard Oil credit card, a business card with the name Brinkerhoff amp; Harris, Brokers, and a New York address. “Are those credentials sufficient?” Despite his resolve, he couldn’t wholly keep a bite of sarcasm out of his voice.

Johnson said, “They look okay. No offense intended, Mr. Harris.” He glanced at the clerk, “Is there a key, Richard?”

The clerk turned to numbered pigeonholes behind him while Harris replaced the cards in his wallet. “There’s an extra one, Mr. Johnson. Three-twenty-six. Mrs. Harris hasn’t been leaving her own key at the desk since registering.” There was a confidential undertone to his voice. His mind had been at work during the by-play and he now remembered the contents of the memo on Mrs. Harris.

“Ellen never does leave a key at the hotel desk.” Harris’ voice was expansive, a trifle over-hearty. He reached for the key which the clerk laid between them, but Johnson’s beefy hand closed over it before he could pick it up.

“I’ll just go up with you, Mr. Harris. Make sure everything’s okay. This your bag?” Johnson stooped genially to pick it up and turned toward the bank of elevators, shaking his head at a single uniformed bellboy who had materialized from the back.

“You don’t need to bother.” Harris followed him hastily. “I can carry my own bag.”

“No bother at all.” Johnson entered a waiting elevator and pressed the button for three. “We like to be of service at the Beachhaven.”

The elevator stopped at the third floor and Johnson stepped out first with the bag and strode ahead of Harris down the corridor. He stopped in front of 326 and stood aside politely. “Maybe you’d like to knock.” He held the room-key in his hand.

Harris stepped up to the door and knocked lightly. When there was no response, he knocked again, more loudly, and called, “Ellen. It’s Herbert. Are you awake?”

“Why don’t you unlock the door?” suggested Johnson. “No use disturbing other people.” There was a note of pity in his voice as he held out the key.

Harris took it with a puzzled frown. “I don’t understand. She’s always been a light sleeper.” He inserted the key in the lock and turned it.

Ed Johnson watched his face very carefully as he opened the door. He had a hunch what Harris was going to see inside the room, though he had no way of being certain that Mrs. Harris hadn’t returned to sleep in her own bed the preceding night.

Harris stood immobile in the doorway and his face went slack and frightened when he saw the unoccupied and unused twin beds. He took a step forward and said, “Ellen,” disbelievingly, then turned a harried face to Johnson. “Where is she? Where’s my wife? What’s going on here?”

He stared at the detective a moment as though he had never seen him before, then whirled and sprinted to the bathroom door and jerked it open.

Johnson picked up his bag and followed him into the room, closing the door firmly behind him. At that moment he didn’t like his job one damned little bit. Here was this seemingly nice guy… driving all the way down from New York to spend a surprise weekend with his wife… and where in hell was she?

He turned slowly away from the empty bathroom looking like a man who had been clubbed with a baseball bat. His eyes were vacant and staring, his jaw hung slack. “She’s not… she’s not here,” he muttered feebly. His vacant gaze moved all about the room, disbelieving, unable to comprehend… searching for the woman who wasn’t there. His gaze finally reached the open suitcase lying in the luggage rack, still packed exactly as it had been on Tuesday morning when Martha Hays first saw it. He took two wavering steps to stand over the suitcase, then turned to look distraughtly at Johnson who still stood in front of the closed door. “She’s got her bag packed,” he announced hoarsely. “As though she were ready to leave. But… she hasn’t even been here a week. Where is she?” The last words were almost a sob.

Johnson shook his head compassionately. He said, “Sit down, Mr. Harris. Sit down and get hold of yourself. I got something to tell you, and you’ll be better off sitting down when you hear it.”

“Something’s happened to Ellen! What is it, damn you? Don’t just stand there. Tell me. I have a right to know what’s happened to my wife.”

“Yes,” said Johnson uncomfortably. “I guess you got a right to know, Mr. Harris. It’s just that… well, I don’t rightly know myself.” He paused to mop sweat from his ruddy forehead with his sleeve. “There’s just this I do know. Mrs. Harris hasn’t been seen in the hotel since shortly after she checked into this room last Monday afternoon. She hasn’t slept in her bed a single night. That suitcase isn’t packed for departure. It’s the way she left it Monday afternoon after she changed from her travelling outfit into a bright red cocktail dress. That much I do know.”

He stepped forward quickly, real concern on his face as Herbert Harris’ face turned a horrible deathly gray and he swayed on his feet as though about to faint.

Johnson caught hold of his arm and slid his own arm about Harris’ waist. He led him toward the bed, saying soothingly, “You just stretch out here and relax, Mr. Harris. I know how you feel. I know damn well how you must be feeling. I’m sorry as hell I had to tell you like that.” He gently lowered the man onto the nearest bed, stretched him out and got a pillow under his head.

Harris lay stiff and trembling for a moment, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Then he sat up suddenly and opened his eyes wide and demanded, “You knew it all the time and you didn’t tell me? I wasn’t notified? All this week in New York, I didn’t know? What sort of hotel is this? What are you trying to cover up, anyhow?”

“We’re not covering up anything, Mr. Harris. Look, you want I should call the doctor? It’s been a bad shock.”

Harris continued to sit upright, and he drew in a long breath in a deep shuddering sob. “I don’t need a doctor. Goddamnit, I want the police. Hasn’t any thing been done to find Ellen? You just stand there like a goddamned statue. Call yourself a detective? She’s been missing for five days. What have you done?”

“Look, Mr. Harris.” Johnson pulled a chair forward and seated himself in it. He spoke quietly and reasonably, striving to strike through the man’s panic. “There’s no reason to think anything’s happened to your wife. Get that through your head. Wait a minute.” He held up a big hand as Harris started to protest angrily. “I know how you feel. I know just how you feel. But stop and look at it for a minute. All we know is that she’s spent the last five days and nights away from this hotel. You admitted she didn’t know you were coming down to surprise her. If you had let her know, why, maybe…