Perhaps Hawk was overestimating the importance given to Martin’s absence. Layton and Wyler’s sponsors, it seemed, were under the impression that Martin would be found easily in San Francisco. That is, unless he was forewarned. I figured that Layton and Wyler were to delay me only long enough to give Martin time to relocate and cover his tracks. Martin didn’t want to be found. Not today, especially.
The whole thing was extremely puzzling. What was he doing in San Francisco to cause him to overstay his leave and not ask for an extension of time? It couldn’t be an undercover job of an official nature. Hawk would have known what it was even before Martin had been detailed to the task.
It had to be something personal. If it was, I sympathized with Martin. I don’t like anyone prying into my personal affairs, either.
Also bothering me was who had sent Layton and Wyler to intercept me. It had to be someone with the inside knowledge that I was being dispatched to look for Martin.
The cabdriver used by Ginger didn’t finger me. He didn’t have time to put anything in motion. There were plenty of other likely prospects to suspect. I opted for the airline employee who took Ginger’s call to set up a flight reservation in my name.
I debated whether to tell Hawk about that when I phoned Washington. I had to call him. He’d want to know that I received the facsimile report on Keith Martin.
I knew Hawk wouldn’t care to hear my negative news about being roughed up. He isn’t interested in problems that crop up on the job — only results. He’d half-seriously ask why I didn’t already have Keith Martin in tow, reminding me that it’s almost impossible for a man to move about unnoticed. If the right people — doormen, beat cops and streetwalkers, to name a few — were approached, bagging the wayward general would be easy. He’d end up telling me to use a little initiative and make short work of finding Keith Martin.
Five
From the top of Nob Hill ships passing through the Golden Gate were visible through a thin veil of persistent fog. The warmth of the mid-afternoon sun would soon clear away the remaining mist. The doorman of the Fairmount Hotel greeted me on the steps. I surrendered my bag to a gangling youth wearing an ill-fitting bellhop’s uniform.
There’s something serene about the lobby of the Fairmount. Though redecorated a number of times, remnants of the lobby’s original quiet elegance remain. Despite stiff competition from the newer Mark Hopkins across the street, the Fairmount had lost none of its appeal for the affluent, genteel segment of society.
The desk clerk didn’t know me, but he treated me as though I was a major stockholder in the company. A tag pinned over his coat pocket identified him as Mr. Whitner, Ass’t. Mgr. He gave me his full, courteous attention. I was the only person checking in at the time. He addressed me by name as soon as I had written it down on the registration card. He had developed the knack of reading upside-down penmanship. “We have a nice single on the tenth floor, bay side, Mr. Carter. Will that do?”
“Fine,” I agreed.
He turned around to remove the key from the rack of pigeonhole room boxes covering the wall behind him. “What room is occupied by General Martin?” I threw at his back.
“He’s in 824,” was the reply. “Not at the moment, though. His key is gone. Would you like to leave a message?”
“Do you expect him back today? I understand he’s been in and out.”
“Now that you mention it, I haven’t noticed him around for a couple of days.” A look came over his face as though he had forgotten something. “Would you mind waiting a moment?”
Mr. Whitner disappeared behind a partition. The mechanical clatter of accounting machines beyond the wall marked the area as the billing department. Mr. Whitner returned wearing a smile. “I’ve checked. General Martin is keeping his room.” He was relieved. Keith Martin hadn’t skipped out. “His bill to date was paid up just yesterday,” Whittier added.
“In person?” I wanted to know.
Whitner didn’t answer at once. He seemed to be debating whether he should answer at all. My questions were becoming too pointed. His tone turned evasive. “I have no way of knowing. I would presume so. The account was paid with a personal check taken in by one of our cashiers on the morning shift.”
I broke off my probing. I thanked Mr. Whitner and turned away from the reception counter. The bellboy gathered up my key. I followed him into the elevator. He hummed to himself on the way up to the tenth floor. We detoured around a housekeeper’s cart in the hallway. After opening the door to Room 1022 and going through the ritual motions inside, the lad left humming a lively tune. I had tipped him generously. He’d remember me if I needed some answers from him later.
The call to Hawk couldn’t be delayed much longer if I wanted to catch him at the office, but there was something I wanted to do first. Seeing the pushcart in the corridor suggested the move.
I took the self-serve elevator down to the eighth floor. The maid, a stout, middle-aged Chicano woman, was working in Room 856. She was using a vacuum sweeper, but shut it off when she saw I wanted to speak to her. The machine was back in operation in less than a minute. The answer she gave to my question was useful, but it didn’t satisfy me.
The pay phones in the lobby were as safe as any for what I had to say. Even though my conversation with Hawk would be fairly straightforward, he didn’t like getting long distance calls that went through a switchboard.
Ginger accepted the collect call and Hawk came on immediately. The exchange between us went pretty much the way I expected. Hawk brushed aside the details and the consequences of my run-in with Layton and Wyler. The fact that interference had developed so soon disturbed him. Someone in Washington had broken silence. It had to be an intentional breach of trust. Hawk questioned Layton’s claim that Martin was remaining out of sight voluntarily. Because our plans to go after Martin had been penetrated so rapidly after getting under way, Hawk concluded that a person or persons in Washington didn’t want Martin back. He assured me that he was going to start digging around back there for some answers.
I told him I could use the help. I also agreed that there were plenty of people who would just as soon not see Martin in Washington again, although my slim evidence gathered so far suggested that Martin was in no hurry to return. “Martin isn’t using his room at the Fairmount,” I explained, “although he’s hanging onto it.”
Hawk questioned my source.
“The maid that does the rooms on the eighth floor. Martin hasn’t slept in his bed for the past six days.”
“Then he’s sleeping in someone else’s bed. That should be easy for you, Nick. Find the girl!”
Before hanging up, Hawk gave me the name of the Bank of America vice president who would expidite an alternate set of credit cards and replenish my cash supply. His voice was beginning to rasp toward the end. He’d been smoking too many of those horrid cigars.
I went out and stood on the steps under the drive-up portico. The doorman glanced over. “Cab, sir?”
“In a moment,” I replied, but made clear my intentions by getting a pair of one dollar bills ready for a tip. That left me with a last, lonely five for the cab. “I’m trying to catch up with General Martin whom I hoped to meet here. He’s a guest of the hotel, too. About my build, broad-shouldered, sandy hair with a square jaw?”
“I know who you mean,” the doorman replied, eyeing the bills.