intimidating me, and then took my time walking out of there.
11
The Hotel La Farge, just off Union Square, was one of the city’s more venerable hostelries, built in the twenties and renovated at least twice since. Sedate, expensive, respectable. That last, respectable, had a somewhat different meaning these days. Hotels no longer police the morals of their guests, unless something happens that forces the issue. If a guest wants to entertain a member of the opposite sex in his room at any hour, day or night, and the visitor is reasonably presentable, hotel staffs are trained to look the other way. None of their business, and that’s as it should be. The worst thing any institution, public or private, can do is to try to dictate morality on any level.
La Farge had an underground garage, valet parking only at a confiscatory fee; I turned my car over to the attendant-another item for the Krochek expense account-and went into the ornate, wood-and-marble lobby. I used one of the lobby phones to call Suite 1408. No answer. At the desk, I asked one of a brace of well-dressed clerks if he knew when Mr. Jorge Quilmes in Suite 1408 would return.
He said, correcting me without making an issue of it, “I believe Senor Quilmes and his party are still in the Blue Room Lounge.”
“His party?”
“Two other gentlemen who came to see him a short time ago.”
The Blue Room Lounge was a fancy name for a small, not too dark lobby bar. Two couples sat apart from each other at the bar, and three men in business suits were grouped in leather chairs around one of the tables near a gas-log fireplace. It wasn’t yet four o’clock, but cocktail hour starts early in the city. I didn’t much care for the idea of bracing Jorge Quilmes in company; it looked liked a conference rather than a social situation and people don’t take kindly to being interrupted when financial matters are under discussion. But I had a business to run, too, and you do what you need to do when the opportunity presents itself.
The three of them were speaking a mixture of Spanish and English in low tones when I came up. I took the eldest to be Quilmes: mid-fifties, olive-skinned, black hair frosted with gray, mustache and Vandyke beard likewise frosted, dressed expensively and meticulously. The other two were younger, deferential, one of Latino ancestry, the other a blond American with a desultory command of Spanish.
“Excuse me for intruding,” I said, “but it’s important that I have a few words with Senor Quilmes.”
The distinguished type said, “Yes? I am Senor Quilmes,” in English with only a trace of accent.
The blond American said, “We’re having a business meeting here.”
The other Latino said, “Who are you? What is it you want?”
“It’s a private matter.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Such an impolite country, America,” Quilmes said, but without rancor; almost affectionately, in fact. He even smiled a little, in a tolerant way. “Everything is important, everything must be attended to immediately. What is it you wish to see me about?”
“An appointment you had last Saturday night.”
“Appointment?”
“Here at your hotel. At nine o’clock.”
Nothing changed in his expression. The other two men looked at him, looked at me, looked at him again. Quilmes and I locked gazes. At least fifteen seconds passed, none of us moving, before Quilmes stirred slightly and said to his companions, “If you will excuse me for a short time. Fresh drinks at the bar, perhaps?”
They didn’t argue or waste any time. Both of them got up, the blond brushing past me with a narrow-eyed look, and headed straight across to the bar.
Quilmes said coldly, “You may sit down.”
I sat and we looked at each other some more. I put an end to that by producing the photostat of my license and laying the case open flat on the table between us. He leaned forward to study it, leaned back again, and picked up his drink. Still no expression on his aristocratic face.
“Yes?” he said.
“Janice. The woman you had the appointment with Saturday night.”
“How do you know I had such an appointment?”
“How I know isn’t important. Are you going to deny it?”
Silence. He sipped his drink, set the glass down again, carefully. “In my country,” he said at length, “we have laws that carry severe penalities for attempted extortion. You have the same laws, do you not?”
“We do,” I said. “And I support them, just as I support ethics in my profession. I’m not here for financial gain or to cause you any undue embarrassment.” “Then why are you here?” “For the answers to a few questions.” “And if I choose not to answer your questions?” “That’s your prerogative. But it would be in your best interest if you’re candid with me. The woman, Janice, has disappeared under… let’s say unusual circumstances that may involve foul play. If you refuse to talk to me, and her disappearance becomes a police matter, I’d have to tell them about your Saturday-night appointment. And that you were uncooperative when I asked you about it.”
He said nothing for maybe thirty seconds. His pupils, in the dim light, were as black as obsidian. Then, “I have a wife and two children in Buenos Aires. I love my family very much. I also have a successful business and many associates, some of whom are quite religious. Do you understand?”
“I understand. If you have nothing to hide and you don’t try to stonewall me, there’s no reason your name has to be mentioned to anyone. Stonewall means-”
“I know what it means,” he said. “Do you think I had something to do with this woman’s disappearance?”
“I have no reason to. Information is all I’m after. Provide it, and we’ll consider this conversation a private business meeting strictly between the two of us.”
I had him and he knew it. “Very well,” he said stiffly. “I will answer your questions.”
“Good. You did have a date with Janice Saturday night?”
“Yes.”
“Here in your suite.”
“Yes.”
“Had you ever seen her before that night?”
“No.”
“How was the date arranged?”
“Through a personal acquaintance.”
“His name?”
“I cannot tell you that.”
“It wouldn’t be Carl Lassiter, would it?”
The slightest hesitation before he said, “I know no one by that name.”
“Someone else connected to QCL, Incorporated?”
“Nor any such business.”
“How long did Janice stay with you?”
“Not long. One hour, perhaps.”
“For which you paid her how much?”
“No money changed hands,” Quilmes said.
“No? Who did you pay? The acquaintance who made the arrangement?”
“If you must know, yes.”
“Is that always the way it’s done?”
“You may think I make a habit of this sort of thing, but I do not. Only once in a great while. A man has needs, and when they become too great to ignore… well, we are only human. Surely you understand.”
I understood that he was another one like Mitchell Krochek-a self-justifer who relied on the old “a man has
