Miss atomos, p.2
Miss Atomos, page 2
Beffort gave up. He slipped the card furtively into his pocket, paid the bill and said, “If it’s all the same to you, doc, I’d rather check into the Hilton as soon as possible. Are you coming?”
Soblen winked. “You think I’m going to ditch an old friend like you to get drunk in Switzerland? No, Smith, no…” He took out his wallet. “I’ll just pay and I’ll be right with you.”
“I’ve already paid.”
“Oh. So, we’re going to have another drink!”
“No.”
“To celebrate your arrival, Smith. Just one more, eh? A quick one…”
He was clinging in a friendly way, hanging on gently but stubbornly to Beffort’s lapels. The bartender and the other people in the bar watched them nonchalantly. Beffort had already noticed that they were all too busy drinking to care about anything else. Even the bartender was dodging behind the cash register to wet his whistle behind, but it was not big enough to hide his tippling elbow.
In fact, only the women were not drinking to excess.
Beffort gently freed himself from Soblen’s grip and spoke smoothly, “In the hotel we’ll drink as much as you want, doc. Come with me.”
Soblen lightened up. “The Boss made sure that we would stay together,” he was satisfied with himself. “Our rooms are next to each other. We can play cards every night before going to bed. You can play cards, can’t you Smith?”
“I can,” Beffort confirmed. “Are you coming, doc?”
Soblen finally let himself be dragged away. He staggered a little and his soles scraped the ground, sounding like sand sifted through a sieve.
Beffort hailed a taxi, helped Soblen into the backseat and told the driver the name of the hotel. The vehicle bolted off, got into the middle of the road, veered off to the right, swung back left and went on its way continuing to zigzag between the other cars that were also zigzagging between each other. Many men were stumbling along the sidewalk and all the bars were full.
He turned to Soblen and asked, “Did you know that everyone in Palm Beach is a lush?”
Soblen’s look was not friendly. “You just arrived, Smith, and you can still stand the heat. At the beginning I was like you. If I weren’t so reasonable, I would have packed my bags right away and gone back to New York. But by the end of the fifth day, I understood that the air in this region is dry and the sun burns too hot for a normal man to stay sober. But I’ll say again that it’s not really bad because everything we absorb is immediately evacuated by sweating. Of course, it’s something that can’t be done safely anywhere else but here and when my vacation is over I’ll stop drinking, naturally…”
Beffort nodded so as not to upset him. Soblen could talk about nothing but drinking. He was a leading expert in science; he had chaired the proceedings of the last Congressional Committee on Atomic Energy; he had defeated the Pooley—the terrifying mushroom of Madame Atomos; and now he was so saturated with alcohol that his physical and mental health were threatened.
But, even admitting that Dr. Alan Soblen had lately given in to this vice, was it normal for an entire population to take to drinking so deliriously? Beffort tossed his cigarette butt just when the taxi miraculously finished its race and pulled up in front of the entrance of the Hilton.
“My name is Beffort,” he said. “I have a reservation…”
“You have to see the front desk,” the bellboy piped up. He was very cheerful. Too cheerful. His pants and shoes were dusty, his hands dirty and his long hair curled over the collar of his shabby shirt. Beffort followed him into the lobby. The front desk clerk was a big, ruddy fellow who looked like an overblown balloon that the slightest poke could pop. He, too, was not very clean.
“Room for Mr. Bradford,” the bellboy squealed.
“Beffort,” Smith corrected.
The front desk clerk opened the register. His index finger went down the column until his dirty fingernail stopped at a name. “Beffort,” he boomed, “room 304.”
Smith leaned over. “There’s a mistake. I know I’m in room 300.”
The fat man looked up at him worriedly and said, “Someone called to change your reservation and we gave room 300 to someone else this morning. But 304 is just as comfortable and also looks out on the sea.”
“I don’t care. Who called and when?”
“A woman called us first thing this morning, sir.”
“From New York?” Beffort pressed him.
“Certainly not. The call surely came from Palm Beach or somewhere very nearby because the person used direct dialing. If it was a call coming from New York, they would have used an operator.” Seeing Beffort stay quiet, thinking, he added, “I can assure you…” (he covered his mouth as he burped discreetly) “…that you new room is excellent. Almost better than the other.”
“It’s true,” the merry bellboy squealed. He and the front desk clerk started giggling silently, for no apparent reason, and Beffort started getting irritated. Since his arrival he had been running around in a deranged world. The women were on one side of the fence and the men on the other. Alcohol towered up between them.
“Who’s staying in room 300.”
The two of them stopped giggling. “The chief of police,” the clerk answered solemnly. “His house collapsed last night. Luckily he wasn’t in it, but his maid was crushed under the wreckage. It’s the first time that a house collapsed in our city!”
At that instant Dr. Soblen arrived. From his breath Beffort surmised that he had passed through the Hilton’s bar. The doctor must have reached an obvious limit of his power to absorb alcohol because now he was in a very bad mood.
“What!” he shouted, swelling his chest. “You’re still here, Smith? I hope you haven’t had any problems.” He was ready to risk his life to defend the rights of Beffort. It was so unreasonable that it was almost ridiculous. At any other time, Beffort would have laughed, but he, had reached a kind of saturation point that allowed him to sort out, very perceptively, the drama from the melodrama. Tragedy pushed too far often borders on the burlesque and the worst situations can make you laugh instead of panic or become disturbed. Beffort remembered that Madame Atomos had had a special gift for stirring up this kind of confusion. The United States had burst out laughing when old Pooley’s land disappeared under the giant mushroom. The laughter did not stop until the same mushroom was stretched out over the entire Dallas area and had killed almost 800 Americans.
At the moment Soblen’s drunkenness and the people of Palm Beach were funny. It remained to be seen what underlying menace was hiding behind the bawdy façade.
“Don’t get your hackles up,” Beffort said. “They just changed my room.”
Soblen puffed out, staring angrily at the front desk clerk, and shouted, “What right do you have? Who took Mr. Beffort’s room?”
“The chief of police,” the clerk replied.
“Perfect!” Soblen blasted. “I’ve got something to say to him!” He was so determined that Beffort did not have time to hold him back. Soblen bounded off at full speed and jumped into the elevator, which shot him straight up to the third floor.
Beffort shrugged his shoulders and said, “Can you give me my key?”
The front desk clerk gave it to him and Beffort left, followed by the young bellboy who was still carrying his suitcase. They climbed into the second elevator and went up to the third floor. When Beffort stepped out onto the landing, he handed the bellboy a coin and sent him back downstairs. The elevator descended and Smith Beffort found himself alone in the long, deserted hallway. He was expecting to hear a fight because it was likely that the chief of police would not take kindly to being insulted by Soblen and that he would react. But the building was cast in total silence.
Beffort went to look for room 304 and all of a sudden a door opened and Soblen appeared. He was not far from Beffort who could see that he was pale. When Soblen saw the G-man, he came up and stuttered, “Smith, it’s awful. The man who took your room is dead.”
It looked like he sobered up. Beffort grabbed his arm and shook him rudely. “Don’t talk nonsense, doc!” he snarled. “If the guy is sleeping…”
“He’s dead!” Soblen cut him off with renewed energy. “I may not be very clear-headed, but I still know whether a man is dead or alive. This guy’s been dead for more than two hours. Come see for yourself.”
Beffort followed him to room 300. Soblen had not closed the door and from the hallway you could see the body lying in the tiny entranceway. The chief of police had apparently not had time to settle in. His suitcase was still against the wall and his hat had rolled a little farther. Beffort went in and leaned over him. He could tell at first sight that Soblen was right.
“He’s been strangled, hasn’t he, doc?”
“It’s undeniable… We have to inform the police.”
“Go down to the front desk. The Hotel management will take the necessary steps… How can you strangle a man so easily?”
Soblen did not answer. He was sweating bullets and seemed to be having a hard time staying on his feet.
“You want me to go down instead of you?” Beffort offered.
“Please, Smith. I don’t feel very well.”
“Is the sight of a corpse upsetting you all of a sudden?” Beffort said ironically.
“You know very well that that’s not it.”
“Well, you’re starting to have too much alcohol in your blood. In 15 days, you’ve let out all the stops. Why are you drinking like this?”
Soblen flicked his hand and snapped, “I don’t drink! And I’m not as sick as you think.”
“Great. So go down and tell the front desk if you can.”
Soblen rose to the challenge, went out into the hallway and staggered to the elevator. When he was on his way down to the ground floor, Beffort left room 300, closed the door behind him and looked for his own room. He found it at the end of the hallway. As soon as he entered he picked up the phone and asked for New York. After waiting a moment, he was put through to the FBI headquarters.
“Hello,” the Boss said. “What’s going on, Smith?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to know why you sent be to this dump.”
“You ought to know if you’ve seen Soblen.”
“So that was it!”
The Boss snickered. “Did you really think that I was going to send you on vacation when all of Florida is drowning in alcohol? You have to clear up this mystery, Smith, otherwise we’re going to be forced to declare Prohibition all over the state!”
“Damn,” Beffort moaned, “how have the newspapers…”
“Censured,” the Boss stated coldly. “The government doesn’t want the whole world to know that Florida is dead drunk. And mind you, all this coincided with Soblen’s arrival exactly 15 days ago.”
“Are you saying that Florida’s been boozing only since Soblen got here?”
“Exactly! Anything else you want to know, Smith?”
“Yes. Did you give orders for the Hilton to change my room?”
“No. What else?”
“Do you know where Soblen bought his ticket for Bermuda?”
“No, but that’s easy enough to find out.”
“Okay,” Beffort said, “find out and check if a Mie Azusa is working there.”
“Done,” the Boss replied. “Stay where you are. I’ll send you the information in ten minutes.” He hung up. Beffort did, too. Then he hung his clothes in the closet, put his toilet set in the bathroom and started shaving. He was just finishing his left cheek when the telephone rang. It was New York. In no time Beffort learned that Mie Azusa was unknown to the Star and Co. Agency and that Soblen’s place had not been filled on the trip to Bermuda, which was going on at the moment.
Beffort went back to mirror thinking deeply. He started shaving again when a thought came to mind: if they had not changed his room, he would be the one lying on the floor right now instead of the chief of police.
Chapter III
Alan Soblen was questioned by the investigators, but it was only a formality. Twain, the chief of police, had been dead for a little while when he had discovered the body and he could not be a suspect. The death was placed at around 5 p.m. and it was established that Twain had just enough time to close the door of his room before being attacked and strangled. The murder took place at a time when the hotel was practically empty: the guests were in the city, on the beach or in the drugstores. The search for a witness was a hopeless undertaking. Furthermore, Beffort saw that the investigation would not go far. The police, like the rest of the population, could barely walk straight.
Since all the men, to one degree or another, were under the influence, Beffort had recourse to the women. He wandered all over the hotel until he set his sights on a young woman behind a counter in the Hilton’s lobby. She looked intelligent, thoughtful, and should have had good judgment.
He wasted no time and entered the little store that sold goods for female tourists—everything from jewelry to bras, not to mention the cheap trinkets for passing fancies and all the odds and ends that women go crazy for so they can transform themselves into display cabinets.
Beffort took off his hat and looked at the necklaces and rings. He carefully lifted up a snake with incredibly life-like articulations that could have wrapped around an arm, wrist or neck.
“Is this what’s trendy?” he asked offhandedly.
“All the women have one,” the sales girl replied. “It’s a baby rattlesnake that’s been dried and specially treated by the Seminole Indians on the big reservation in the Everglades. You can wear it around your arm or ankle just as easily as your neck…”
“Atata,” Beffort interjected, “I’d never wear this thing! But I’ll take one. I’ll send it to New York on the next plane and my secretary will be delighted. There you go—wrap this thing up for me. How much do I owe you? And make a note that I’m an exceptional man.”
“How’s that?”
“I’m not drunk,” Beffort said humbly.
“It won’t take long,” she said confidently. “You’ve obviously just arrived in Florida?”
“A couple of hours ago,” Beffort confirmed.
“In four or five days you’ll be drunk as a skunk.”
“So it’s an epidemic?”
“Almost. My father never drank anything but fruit juice and he started drinking alcohol so suddenly that he hasn’t sobered up for two weeks! The strangest thing is that he doesn’t even like it. You want a ribbon around it?” She showed him the finished package.
“Go for a ribbon,” Beffort said.
“Yellow or blue?”
“Blue,” the G-man sighed. “And don’t forget the instruction manual.”
The salesgirl picked up the baby rattlesnake, twisted it deftly around her wrist and explained, “Baby rattlesnake is very flexible. You can give it whatever shape you want. Some customers think that it might bite them one day with its poisoned hooks, but there’s nothing to be afraid of because baby rattlesnake is dead. Besides, the Seminole Indians took all the venom out before stuffing them. If your little secretary has any worries, the warranty…”
“Okay!” Beffort cut her off. “I see you know your business. Let’s get back to this epidemic. Why don’t you drink?”
The salesgirl smiled like she was going to bite him. “I’m sure you’re a journalist.”
“I’m a journalist,” Beffort lied.
“The girl’s face hardened. A mask. “You owe me a dollar,” she said.
“Hey, don’t you like journalists.”
“Not at all.”
“Why?
“They drink. Here’s your package. Goodbye.” A customer entered and Beffort left. He could not prove it, but he was sure that the salesgirl was a little bit off.
With his package under his arm, he walked to the operator. She was sitting in a corner of the lobby between two other booths. From behind the counter she kept half an eye on the few guest walking around.
“Connect me to New York,” Beffort said.
“What number?” Beffort gave it to her and the girl dialed it. After a few words with her invisible colleague on the switchboard, she said, “Booth 2, you’ll have New York.”
Beffort jumped into the booth, picked up the phone and was immediately in contact with the FBI operator. “Good evening, Jenny. Do you like snakes?”
“I hate them! Are you at the Hilton in Palm Beach?”
“Exactly. I’m going to send you a snake, my dear. It’s a baby rattlesnake that they wear instead of a necklace or bracelet. I hope that you like it.”
“If it’s gold, don’t worry!”
“I paid a dollar for it,” Beffort said gloomily.
Jenny laughed at him a little. “And I’m surprised that the handsome G-man has suddenly fallen in love with a poor girl like me! Anything else, Mr. Beffort?”
“Do you remember Mie Azusa?”
“Of course. That’s the girl you told where to go this morning.”
“That’s her. Do you know where she was calling from?”
“One minute…” After a moment of searching the files she said, “The call came from Palm Beach. A public booth. At 9 a.m.5”
“Thanks, Jenny. You’ll get the snake tomorrow.”
He hung up, left the booth and went to lean on the operator’s counter. He paid for the call and asked, “Were you on duty this morning between 9 and 9:30?”
“I was here at 8:50,” the girl answered. “You’re also investigating that telephone call?”
Beffort was surprised. He had underestimated the Palm Beach police. “I’m not really investigating. I was supposed to be in room 300 and I would like to know who changed my reservation. What do you know about it?”
The girl straightened out some stray hair on her forehead and Beffort noticed the baby rattlesnake on her wrist. “I already told the police,” she said. “The woman telephoned around 9:15.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“No. The front desk takes care of reservations. I only did my job by putting her through.”
Beffort tried in vain to read something in her face. The girl was looking at everything but him. Until now he had not noticed her long, curved eyelashes and he had the eerie feeling that he was talking on the telephone.
