"What makes you think he's done something?"
"You asking questions. La Reine wanting to see me. It's about Johnson, isn't it?"
"Yes. A body's been found. One of the maids thinks it might be your missing busboy. I'd like for you to look and tell me if it's Johnson."
The steward opened his mouth to protest, but nothing emerged.
Wordlessly he followed her past the table where his employer sat, her two hands folded on the tabletop, a large sapphire ring glowing on her right hand. Sigrid pointed to the body and said, "Is that Johnson?"
"Oh my God!" the steward moaned. "Who's gonna tell Miss Quincy?"
"Come here, George," ordered Madame Ronay from the front of the room. "Do you say this is Quincy Johnson's nephew? Pernell, est-ce-qui?"
"Yes, Madame, the steward answered faintly. "She was so proud of how goodh e's been doing. I was going to speak to you about him tomorrow, recommend a bonus for the kid."
"Bonus?" Madame Ronay asked sharply. "Pourquoi?"
"Because of the way he kept his head Friday night. After the explosion, he's the one who grabbed that extinguisher and rushed over and put out the fire before it could spread. A few minutes more and you'd have had to replace not just the carpet, but part of the paneling, too."
"You should have told me this before." Lucienne Ronay's graceful blonde head drooped sadly. "Hélas! Now it is too late forever for me to reward him."
She drew a deep breath and began to function like an executive again. "Someone must be sent to tell Miss Johnson. Who, George?" Her ring flashed blue fire as she pointed to him. "You?"
"Not me," said the steward even before Sigrid could voice her own objection to letting him leave the hotel just yet.
"Hester Yates is downstairs. She and Miss Quincy are real good friends. You want me to send her?"
Both looked at Sigrid…
"This is permitted. Lieutenant?" asked Madame Ronay.
"In a moment," said Sigrid. "First, I'd like to hear everything you can remember about Pernell Johnson's movements today. What he did, who he talked to. If you would be patient a few minutes longer, Madame?"
Lucienne Ronay nodded graciously, turning the sapphire ring with her restless fingers.
Haines Froelick cleared his throat. "What about me, Lieutenant? Is it all right if I look around for my cousin's schilling?" He gestured hesitantly toward the back of the large room, to the corner where Zachary Wolferman had died.
"I'm afraid not," she replied. "Nothing can be disturbed till after our crime scene crew has had a chance to examine things. I'll tell them to keep an eye out for it."
"Then perhaps I should leave now," he said and Sigrid thought she detected relief in his face, as if she'd saved him an unpleasant task by her denial of his request.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Froelick, but I'll want your statement as well as the others."
"My statement. Oh my dear young lady, I've no statement, I assure you."
"What we need will only take a few minutes," Sigrid said. "After we've talked to Mr. George. Perhaps you and Madame Ronay-?"
Lucienne Ronay took the hint and wafted Froelick across the room to a loveseat upholstered in peach-colored silk beneath a large gilt-framed painting that easily fell within Nauman's Cool Ship parameters.
"All our paintings here are originals, Mr. Froelick," Sigrid heard the Frenchwoman murmur. "One of the finest ateliers in Europe is under contract with us."
Molly Baldwin sat wrapped in mute misery at one end of a long table while Vassily Ivanovich glowered at her from the other end. At a nearby table, just out of earshot, Sigrid and Alan Knight listened as Mr. George informed them that Pernell Johnson had come on duty at eight o'clock, as prompt and efficient in his work as always.
The steward was a small black man of ramrod posture, receding gray hair and a penchant for fussy details. Sigrid soonl earned that he had approved of Johnson and had interested himself in the youth's progress at the hotel. "That boy had a real future here, Lieutenant. He was a hard worker like his aunt. I know he might have gotten in a little trouble down in Florida, but up here he was one of the good ones. Never messed with liquor or dope or none of that stuff as far as I ever heard."
" Florida?" sked Alan Knight.
"Trouble?" asked Sigrid. "Miss Quincy told Hester Yates and Hester Yates told me and now I'm telling you, but nobody else. And certainly not Madame." He removed a crumb of cigarette tobacco from the table. "Not many boys that don't have a brush with the law 'fore they get grown. You know that. He and another kid stole some hubcaps or something down there and his grandmother, Miss Quincy's mother, shipped him up here to get him away from that stuff."
Sigrid remembered now: the thin youth with the soft drawl who'd brought her a glass of water the day before. A helpful person, eager to please, and, accordingt o Mr. George, a 'noticing' worker.
"Some of 'em can't see a thing that needs doing till you tell 'em. Johnson did, always. Dirty glasses and ashtrays didn't pile up around his stations. Somebody look around for a glass of water, cup of coffee, Johnson was right there."
A noticing kid.
Had he noticed something Friday night, Sigrid wondered, and been incautious enough to let the wrong person know?
If so, Mr. George seemed unaware of it. According to him, Pernell Johnson had been as puzzled as everyone else as to how the cribbage board was rigged and planted.
Yes, he said, Pernell had been one of his helpers when the long tables were covered with snowy linens on Friday afternoon. After supper, Pernell was among the busboys who came in when the service door was unlocked at seven o'clock and he had been in and out while the Graphic Games people put the finishing touches on the tables and Ms. Baldwin and Madame Ronay made a final check of the room.
Madame had approved everything exceptt he ashtrays. Instead of the heavy cut glass, she called for the lighter pressed glass which were easier to clean and, admitted Mr. George, less expensive to replace if any of the contestants had sticky fingers; so there had been a scurrying five minutes to change the ashtrays and then the doors were opened at seven-thirty and if Pernell Johnson had noticed anything suspicious after the room began to fill with five hundred cribbage players, Mr. George hadn't heard of it.
"Who changed the ashtrays at Table 5?" she asked.
The steward's brow furrowed. "I think it was Johnson."
Except for that, Mr. George's testimony was virtually a repeat of what he'd told them yesterday. It confirmed what each of the busboys had said as well. If Pernell Johnson had held anything back, no one had picked up on it. They would have to question the staff again, of course.
Sigrid returned to this morning.
Mr. George and his crew had stocked the hospitality table with urns of hotc offee and trays of light pastries at eight-fifteen. Play began at eight-forty-five. Almost nothing distinguished this morning from yesterday. Coffee and pastries again this morning, to be followed again by coffee, soft drinks, mixed nuts, and crudités in the afternoon. Pernell had performed as efficiently as ever, with nothing to make his movements remarkable.
There was a break for the cardplayers at ten-thirty.
"No matter how we try to corral them, they wander all over the hotel during the breaks," said Mr. George. "The service doors are clearly marked for staff only, but there're always a few that duck out that way. It's a little shorter to the restrooms. Johnson could have been around during the break, but I don't remember seeing him." He turned in his chair and his voice carried to the next table. "Like I said before, the last time I definitely remember seeing him was about ten-twenty-five, talking to Ms. Baldwin here."
Molly Baldwin looked startled. "Was that Pernell Johnson? I didn't know. I was warning him about the ash stands in the lobby."