Maxwell said. Chambrun still stood behind his desk, as stunned as Mickly and I were. He waved, vaguely, toward the sideboard. We watched Maxwell go to the small bar and pour himself a heavy slug of Jack Daniels on the rocks. We say of Chambrun that no matter where he is he will know within thirty seconds if anything of consequence happens in the Beaumont. He has said that when the day comes that he doesn’t know what’s happening in his hotel, when it’s happening, he’ll retire. It’s not any kind of magic, it’s staff training. Karl Nevers, the chief clerk on the reception desk at night, had seen the shooting. At least he had seen the man we all thought was Maxwell fall, clutching at his bloodied shirt front. He might have done a dozen different things, but he was trained. He picked up the desk phone and called Chambrun’s office. Mickly and I didn’t bring Chambrun news. “I have seen Watty Clarke,” Maxwell said. “The guests in the banquet hall know that the dead man isn’t me, and that I’ll presently join them.”
