She thought no more about Mrs. Harris and the unused condition of 326 until she went off duty at two o’clock that afternoon and mentioned it in a brief report to the housekeeper which the hotel rules required her to do.
Robert Merrill, Chief Security Officer of the Beachhaven Hotel, read Martha Hays’ report on the unused condition of Room Number 326 at five o’clock that afternoon. It consisted of a few typewritten lines near the end of two typewritten pages of somewhat similar reports which Merrill received in his office each afternoon. Most of them were no more important and meant no more to the management of the hotel than Martha’s report on 326. Yet, you never could be sure. It was Robert Merrill’s job to read this daily report on the doings and activities of guests in the hotel, and carefully evaluate each item. He didn’t really care, and the hotel management didn’t care, who was sleeping with whom, or what sort of wild parties were being thrown in which suite, so long as the decorum for the hotel and the sensibilities of other guests were not endangered… and so long as the credit rating of a guest did not come under suspicion. This was the most important part of Merrill’s job. He was hired to see, and it was his duty to see, that fraud was not successfully practiced on the Beachhaven by departing guests.
Thus, anything whatever out of the norm was noted by each employee of the hotel and eventually reached Merrill’s desk. Very few hotel guests realize the type of surveillance they are subjected to every hour of the day. If they did realize it, most of them would protest honestly and vigorously against what they would consider an invasion of privacy, yet such protests would avail them nothing. If they managed to remain reasonably discreet during their stay and paid their bill in full on departure, they were rated as “Xlent” by the hotel and were welcomed as favored guests any time they wished to return.
Thus, when Robert Merrill noted that the maid on the third floor reported that Mrs. Herbert Harris from New York had not occupied her room the preceding night, he was only mildly interested. It was something that had to be checked, but nothing to get excited about. There could be dozens of legitimate reasons why Mrs. Harris had decided to spend the night elsewhere, and certainly she was under no obligation to inform the hotel of her intention or reason for doing so. The only important question was whether she could reasonably be expected to pay for the room she had not occupied.
Merrill had Ellen Harris’ registration brought to him with her bill to date, and he glanced at the cryptic notations on the card before referring to her bill. Reservation had been made by letter from her husband in New York, ten days previously, European Plan. The daily rate for 326 was $18.00 single. Husband’s New York business address was a brokerage house which appeared legitimate. A notation from the desk clerk when he checked her in indicated that her appearance and baggage were correct. Her bill was guaranteed by a Carte Blanche card in the name of Mrs. Herbert Harris. She had rented an Avis U-Drive-It car which had been delivered to her.
Nothing to worry about there. Merrill didn’t care whether she spent fourteen nights or none in 326 so long as Hilton guaranteed payment. Save the hotel fresh linens if she did continue to sleep out.
He glanced casually at the first day’s bill to see there was nothing out of the ordinary. A person-to-person call to her husband in New York soon after she checked in. A bar bill for four drinks from the cocktail lounge later in the evening. Nothing else.
Robert Merrill shrugged and put a small check mark against Martha’s notation, and went on to the next item in the daily report which dealt with cumulative evidence that a homosexual was occupying one of their more expensive suites and was strongly suspected of luring youthful males into the rooms for purposes of blackmail in a variation of the badger game. This required Merrill’s serious attention and careful plan of action. Mrs. Harris and her non-occupancy of 326 her first night in Miami Beach were forgotten.
5
Daylight was just beginning to break over the Atlantic Ocean on Saturday morning when a dark blue, 1962 Buick with New York license plates stopped in front of the Beachhaven Hotel. Herbert Harris was alone in the driver’s seat. He got out slowly and stretched and yawned before opening the back door to lift out a single bag.
His light gray suit was rumpled and showed traces of cigarette ashes down the front, his face had a dark stubble of beard, and his eyes were slightly red-rimmed. He had not been in bed since the preceding morning, and had been driving fast down the coast all through the night. But he squared his shoulders and dragged in fresh lungfuls of the cool Miami air, and walked purposefully around the back of the car and through the revolving door into the lobby that was empty except for the night clerk dozing behind the desk.
The clerk was elderly and bald. He watched Mr. Harris approach across the lobby with frowning disapproval. There were no planes or trains due to arrive at this ungodly hour, and a hotel like the Beachhaven didn’t take many check-ins at dawn.
Harris set his suitcase down and rubbed the back of his hand across his rough chin, aware of the clerk’s disapproval. Thus, his voice was more than usually brusque as he said, “You have a Mrs. Herbert Harris registered. What is her number?”
Mrs. Herbert Harris! The name struck an instant chord in the clerk’s mind. There had been some memorandum about the lady. He couldn’t recall just what it was. Nothing terribly important, he thought, but some sort of alert had been issued to the hotel employees.
He said, “Mrs. Harris?” questioningly, and just to be on the safe side, pressed a button beneath the desk to buzz the night detective on duty. He said thoughtfully, “I’ll see,” and turned his back to consult an alphabetical list of registrations. He ran his finger down the list slowly, stalling until he heard heavy footsteps coming around the corner of the desk, and then turned to admit, “Yes, we do have a Mrs. Herbert Harris registered.” He spoke her name loudly and distinctly enough for the house detective to hear it as he came up.
Ed Johnson was the member of the Security Officer’s staff on duty at dawn that Saturday morning. It had been quiet since midnight and he had managed to sleep most of the shift, and the clerk’s buzzer wakened him. He was a heavy man, with a genial face and manner, not overly intelligent, but he knew his job and was fairly competent at it. He halted beside Harris, blinking the sleep from his eyes and considering the New Yorker carefully.
Harris paid no attention to him. “What’s her room number?” he demanded impatiently.
The clerk shrugged slightly and looked at Johnson for his cue. Johnson said, “Just a moment, sir. Would you mind explaining why you want the lady’s number?”
Harris jerked his head around angrily and narrowed his eyes at the stolid detective. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded insolently, “and what business is it of yours if I want my wife’s room number?”
“Security Officer,” Johnson told him equably. “You say you’re Mr. Harris?”
“Yes. Damn it! I’m Mr. Harris. What’s some flatfoot got to do with my wife?”
“No reason to get so belligerent about it, Mr. Harris,” Johnson told him mildly. “It’s my job to protect our guests’ privacy. Is Mrs. Harris expecting you?”
“No, she isn’t.” Harris paused and sought to control his irritation. “Look. I’ve been driving all night. I’m tired and sleepy, and I need a bath and a shave and a drink. Now can I, for God’s sake, have my wife’s room number?”
Johnson’s ruddy face remained expressionless. He said, “You don’t happen to have some identification on you, do you?”