The Prisoner of Chillon and Scattered Short Stories Read online

The man smiled broadly as the waiter took his order in the cosmopolitan throng of Shun Lee. A friendly ‘thank you’ escaped his lips as a boy in white poured his water. He examined the faces around him - a boisterous party of businessmen, a group of sailors on leave in the Big Apple, girls on a ladies night out, friends just arrived from the concert at Lincoln Center.

  This man sat alone. His silver gray hair was full and cropped neatly. Clean-shaven, a distinguished jaw, strong cheek-bones that bordered on handsome. He wore black jacket, black shirt, black pants, shiny black shoes, no tie necessary - only a pearl neck-pin. The man stared at the other diners with interested eyes and an almost sarcastic grin. He seemed to crave company, while at the same time basking in cool solitude.

  One of the girls at the next table nodded to him. He nodded back with the most cordial of smiles and resumed his examination of the wine list, finally putting it down with a soft shrug.

  He ordered his steamed razor clams with extra garlic and scallions, just the way he liked it. After each bite he put down his fork and continued his examination of the diners. The businessmen were still busy, the sailors were becoming tipsy and rocked as if again on a swell off the Cape, the girls giggled as they perused their fortunes, the concert-goers criticized boldly the performance they had just witnessed. The man continued to eat.

  He signed his copy of the receipt and walked out after a few friendly comments to the maitre'd. Walking at a steady pace, his legs were long and his strides were expansive. His shiny black shoes clicked with the periodic precision of a metronome as he said goodnight to the bartender. His coat was a long and black Austrian wool and his scarf was as white as the snow upon the Mont Blanc. Outside, he stepped into a black stretched limousine.

  “The hotel, Pierre." The lights of Broadway glimmered over the shiny hood. The door opened and the man glided out of the car, stepping swiftly up the marble front of the Plaza Hotel. He walked with sophisticated indifference through a crowd of party-goers and emerged on the twentieth floor after holding the door with a gallant nod to a small old lady. “Have a good evening, ma’am,” resonated his sonorous baritone, infused, for an instant, with the most suave of Tuscan accents.

  The man immediately noticed the blinking message light on his suite's telephone. He did not call the operator, but sat at the desk and began leafing through the morning’s newspaper after making himself an exceptionally dry martini from the suite’s bar.

  A knock came at the door. “Room service.”

  “I did not order room service,” the man answered as a cool Spaniard.

  “Sorry, sir. I just figured you would enjoy some ice for your bar.”

  “My bar is equipped fully.”

  “Maybe not as fully as the bar down at Cheers?”

  The man opened the door and the bellman stepped in, locking the door behind him. He strode forward with the ice, placed it on the bar, and inserted a converter in the open slot of the room’s Pay-Per-View box. The man opened the door and handed the bellman a twenty dollar bill in which he enclosed a small white paper. “Thank you. Good night.”

  The man turned on the television and dialed 343 on the video box. A message followed in German and pictures flashed across the screen. The man stopped the tape and burned it in his trash can. “Very good,” he muttered, and left the room.

  The valet drove up a white Mercedes. He swung out onto Madison Avenue with the aggressive celerity of a NYC cab driver, making his way toward a posh bar on Riverside Drive. He sat at the bar and ordered a Scotch. “Where’s my girl?” he uttered with slurred speech to the bartender.

  “She said to send you away if you came.”

  “Come on, she’s not like that,” the man smiled. He laughed out loud. “Out back in five minutes?” he muttered conspiratorially, with a drunken shake of the head.

  “Yeah, she’ll be there. She’ll be gone for long?”

  “You know how these things go.”

  In five minutes, the man walked out the front door and around the corner into an ally behind the bar, careful that no one was shadowing him. “Maggie, my dear,” he grinned as he saw the waitress waiting for him. Her wide, perfect smile betrayed her additional cover post as a fashion model.

  “Finally, you come to save me from this rat’s hole.”

  “Sorry it took so long, darling. I had some small business to attend to.”

  “Without me? How did you survive? Where to now?”

  “Plaza. My room at three. Avoid the man in white smoking jacket riding elevator three - I see him too often."

  “Will Harry be there?"

  “Going to get him now.”

  “We need optics?”

  “I think so. Prepare accordingly and look your finest - you’re going inside this time.”

  “Perfect, I’ve needed a little party for a while.”

  The man laughed and walked to his car. He made his way through the crowded streets past Lincoln Center and dashed up a flight of stairs leading to a second floor aerobics studio, just in time to watch the tired, but fit, late-night bikers and swimmers leave the bright studio for the glimmering darkness of Broadway. A young chap with stubbly beard and balding head in a L.L Bean windbreaker tripped on the step and crashed right into the man. As he apologized, the man whispered, “3. Plaza room, come up the back elevators.”

  “Pardon me, sir. Good night.” And the windbreaker dashed down the stairway and out the door. The man in black went out onto the street and stepped into his car.

  Maggie arrived promptly, now changed out of her T-Shirt and mini skirt from the bar into a long, black evening gown. “Looking lovely as always,” the man muttered as he looked through the peephole.

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way,” she smiled. “Where’s Harry? Late again?"

  “Yeah. He has a paranoia for shadows, you know.” Just then a knock came at the door. “Maybe I spoke too soon.”

  “Is this Dr. Spacey’s room?” the tuxedo-clad fellow in the hall asked with a wry smile.

  “No, but I’m a good friend of his. Come in.” The door opened and Harry stepped into the room.

  “Those little call things are driving me crazy. What’s all the fuss?”

  “I’ve been tracking a mole the last few weeks and we’re not really sure that the whole operation doesn’t have a shadow team following us. I try to keep things safe - for you, of course.”

  “Naturally.” Harry winked sarcastically at Maggie. “And how are you, princess? I can’t believe they placed you as a waitress.” He laughed.

  “Oh, shut up. You’ve been relaxing at a spa, right? Jacuzzi, everything. We’ve allowed you to get too soft.”

  “Hey, let’s settle down there,” Harry snickered. “Just a bit jealous, right?”

  She sat down on the other side of the room.

  “I love it when you get angry, you know.” He smiled affectionately and sat down next to her. “Come on, let’s make up, sweetheart.”

  She gritted her teeth.

  “Okay, people, it’s time to get to work. Harry, you’re going to work the system’s security computers from the inside air ducts. You’ll get in with the repairmen from the electric company, tagging along as an observer from Con Edison.”

  “So I won’t have to see him?” Maggie smiled.

  “If all goes according to plan, no. I have already had a position as a curator for the Yale British Art Center up in New Haven for the last six months. You, Maggie, are playing my graduate research assistant.” He handed her some papers. “This is your background and itinerary. Mine is in the back of that packet.”

  “Paper mache vases,” she exclaimed. “No way!”

  “Yes, quite shocking how they did it. They were molded very carefully by hand and glazed with a polish that is still a secret even to the top art materials analysts. Truly extraordinary."

  Harry took the pictures from Maggie and whistled. “A full set of twenty four? Sweet.”

&
nbsp; “Yes. We’ll move out tomorrow evening. I have a flight scheduled for the three of us, under these covers."

  “Oh, we should have made Maggie a flight attendant, no?” Harry laughed.