Shape of Fear Read Online Free PDF

its quality shops opening off the lobby, its telephone switchboards, and its complex human relationships.
    My town. That’s the way I thought of it, and I suddenly felt a part of it, and possessive about it, and jealous of its reputation. I guess that was exactly the way Chambrun felt, which is why the place runs with the smoothness of an expertly engineered Swiss watch. Others felt as I did, I knew. There was Jerry Dodd, the security officer, who could smell trouble before the people involved had actually gotten into it. There were Mr. Atterbury, the head day clerk, and Karl Nevers, the head night clerk, both of whom could spot a phony before he had managed to cross the lobby of the reservation desk. There were the bartenders, and the captains, like Mr. Novotny and Mr. Cardoza, and Mr. Del Greco who presided over the Trapeze Bar. And there was Mr. Amato, the banquet manager, and Johnny Thacker, the day bell captain, and Johnny Maggio, his night-time counterpart. At any time of day or night, Pierre Chambrun could press a button in his office and have the answer to any question almost before it was out of his mouth. Of course, he knew exactly whom to ask.
    The Trapeze Bar at the Beaumont is suspended in space, like a birdcage, over the foyer to the Grand Ball Room. The foyer, painted a pale chartreuse with a rich cherry wood paneling, is a meeting place for people when the ballroom itself is not in use. The Trapaze, its walls an elaborate Florentine grillwork, is popular mainly because it’s different. An artist of the Calder school has decorated it with mobiles of circus performers working on trapezes. They sway slightly in the draft from a concealed air-conditioning system. It creates the illusion that the whole place sways gently.
    The head bartender in the Trapeze is a pleasant, brown-haired, chubby little guy named Eddie. He saw me coming through the grillwork doors and an ice-cold martini was on the bar almost before I reached it
    “Kill the taste of the sherry,” he said.
    “How did you know?” I asked.
    “Built-in radar,” he said. “Old boy go upstairs for his siesta?”
    “I guess. You know Mr. Cardew a long time, Eddie?”
    “He came with the woodwork—long before me,” Eddie said. “You know the rules, Mr. Haskell. Never talk about a customer.”
    “To a customer,” I said.
    “It’s like this,” Eddie said. “Most of us know about the old boy. Twelve, thirteen years ago he decided he could expect to live another five years. He’d been hurt in the crash of twenty-nine and other crashes. Not much dough left. Enough capital to live on for about five years in the fashion to which he was accustomed. At the end of five years he was out of money and healthy as a horse. He couldn’t live anywhere but here. So, one night he ordered an elaborate dinner in the grill, said goodnight to Cardoza, and headed up to his room. When he got there, he found Chambrun sitting in an armchair waiting for him. Chambrun was smoking one of his Egyptian cigarettes and tossing a little medicine bottle up and down in his hand. Enough sleeping pills to kill three people. You know how Chambrun works. Mind-reading sonofabitch!” Eddie said that affectionately. “He knew what was in the wind, and when old man Cardew bought those pills in our drugstore—he had to buy them here because he had to charge them—one of Chambrun’s little birds whispered in his ear.
    “It wasn’t enough to stop the old boy that night. Chambrun had to stop him for keeps, and he managed it. He persuaded Cardew that he was of real value to the hotel. That he was worth his keep and a few extras. He managed to get around the old boy’s enormous pride and convince him. So you might say he’s an extra pair of eyes and ears for Chambrun. That could be resented.”
    “But it isn’t?”
    “There’s nothing small about the old man. No petty complaints. No sticking his finger in other people’s business. Maybe three-four times in the last eight years