Chapter 38

Saturday, July 10, 12:45 p.m.

Marshall Craig, the manager, hadn't noticed anyone following Madeleine, nor had the desk clerk.

"This man came up from the marina," Sam insisted. "Did you notice anyone down there, earlier?"

"No-o-o," Craig said, "but Mr. Phelps may have still been down there."

"Mr. Phelps?"

"Yes. He paid his bill a while ago and was preparing to move his boat from the marina."

"Was he a guest of the hotel?"

"He hasn't been, but he was a guest last month."

"Last month? How old a guy is this Phelps?"

Craig looked at Sam with genuine alarm. "Mr. Phelps is middle-aged. He's a rather distinguished-looking man." There was a lengthy pause. "Actually, Sam," the hotel manager said, "I guess Phelps kind of meets the description. I think he might have been a guest here when... I'm sorry, Sam, it never occurred to me when you..."

"Is his boat still here?"

"I don't know."

"Let me guess. 'Third one in on the left off the near platform... Right?"

Phelps' boat was, indeed, still there, but there was so sign of its owner. Returning to the main desk, Sam reviewed the data on Phelps' registration, then stood in the doorway to Craig's office behind the counter, scanning the lobby while he called Hugh Fulcher.

Hugh had been enroute to the planned afternoon stakeout at the shopping center. Sam told him they had a strong possible. "I want a picture of this guy, SAP," Sam said. "I'm going to walk the grounds here. If this guy doesn't turn up in the next few minutes, I'm going to have Madeleine skip lunch in Old Town and go directly to the shopping center instead.

"She'll be having lunch there, at Alice's, just inside the entrance. You go to Alice's and wait, and then follow Mad wherever she goes from there. I'll be in the van, trying to photograph anybody who's following her."

"OK, Sam."

"Hugh, on your way, call the Sheriff and tell him to check with the Feds and with the New York State Police on a Christopher Louis, L-O-U-I-S Phelps. We got no data on him from the hotel, except they think he's 45-60 years old, about 5'10", maybe 160. Grey hair. I think he's some kinda rich guy -- you ought to see his goddamned boat. 'Address on the hotel registration is just 'Westchester, N.Y., ' no street, no zip, nada.

"Ask Lester to go all out with New York for a drivers license photo, police record... anything. I think this could be our guy."

"You don't have any line on where he is now?"

"Nope. But I know he has, or had, a rented Buick, and I know where his yacht is. I'm pretty sure he's still around here, Hugh"

"In Twin Rivers?"

"No, right here. Somewhere around this hotel. Hugh?"

"Yeah?"

"One more thing. Have Lester send a deputy out here right away to sit on this boat, and tell Lester I'll be in touch, 'soon as I can, to try to give him enough for a search warrant on the boat."

Phelps had displayed his usual patience, but at last he began to feel the sweltering heat in the car. He reminded himself that there was no reckoning when, or even if, the woman would emerge from her room that afternoon.

He considered taking his boat and leaving. He could not. Not now. Not after discovering this superb specimen.

But perhaps he could. He could take his boat and leave... And take the woman with him. Why not? It would be risky, of course, but if he could just get her aboard without creating a scene, he would have every advantage. The prospect was simply too attractive to resist. He could take her anywhere. She would be in his power.

And it was possible that she would go willingly. She might be a Player.

But what if she wouldn't go willingly? Phelps had recently been given a stark reminder that not every woman who liked to tease was a true Player. Or what if she were not alone in the room? How could he deal with it if there were a man -- a husband, perhaps -- with her in the room?

He'd have to move carefully. He would have to have some ruse available in case she opened the door and someone else was there. What was that manager's name? Cramer? No. Craig. Yes. Something Craig. That would do it. And just downriver from the hotel, he'd seen that joker selling tickets for river tours on that old paddle steamer.

That would do it: complementary tickets for a river tour, courtesy of the management. Phelps thought it sounded plausible. It ought to get the door open, at least. If some bruiser answered, he could hand him the tickets, beat a retreat, and think of another approach.

Phelps retrieved a Browning automatic pistol from under the passenger seat of his freshly rented Ford 500. The gun was in a brown wax paper bag, and he took it, still in the bag. Leaving the car, he made a wide detour around the edge of the hotel grounds to reach the little temporary stand on the riverbank where a sunburned, grossly overweight man was selling riverboat tickets.

Phelps purchased two.

Reentering the hotel from the auxiliary stairs he'd left from earlier, Phelps climbed to the third floor and cautiously approached the woman's door. "It would help," he thought, "if I knew her name." He knocked.

There was a long pause. He could hear nothing. At last a woman's voice responded: "Yes?"

Phelps made a last-second decision against pretending to be the manager, demoting himself to only an aide. "It's Mr. Henry, Ma'am -- Mr. Craig's assistant? If I could disturb you only for a moment. I'm distributing complementary passes for the riverboat tour."

"Thank you, but I'm not interested. I can't open the door just now."

"Damn!" Phelps thought. "I'll be happy to just slip them under the door, Ma'am," he said in the same obsequious voice with which he'd begun the conversation. "Will two be enough?"

"I really have no use for the tickets, but thank you very much anyway, Mr... ah... Henry."

"Sorry to disturb you, Ma'am." Phelps retreated.

But he thought he'd learned something. "I" have no use for the tickets, she'd said. Surely, had there been anyone with her, she'd have used "we". The corridor was cool, comfortable, and lightly traveled. Phelps decided to resume his vigil in these more hospitable surroundings.

Walking back to the end of the corridor and around the turn, he purchased a soft drink from a machine in a refreshment alcove and, hovering just around the corner from her room, he waited. The soft drink can was left sealed. He shook it a bit. Should anyone approach, he'd make a big, fizzy show of opening it as if he had just made the purchase.