Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 101, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 610 & 611, March 1993

The head porter of the George IV naturally managed “George” more or less in the English manner, but “Lloyd” came out as “Lo-id”. He was, nevertheless, extremely familiar with the name.

“Yes. With a most attractive woman of a certain age. I escorted them personally to Suite Twelve, his favourite suite. The prime minister’s patronage is of course an honour to the hotel...”

“Naturally.”

“Though it is not an honour we can proclaim...”

“Except discreetly.”

“Exactly. We proclaim it discreetly. Mr. Lloyd-George must of course be told before the police are summoned... Who else? The Belgian ambassador, the Latvian chargé d’affaires, the Australian foreign minister, all with ladies. They can be informed. For the rest, diplomats, members of various parliaments — they must take their chance. We will inform them if we can, but before too long, for our good name, we must summon the Sûreté. Mon dieu! They said they wished to keep an eye on him! What an eye!”

And leaving the head porter on guard outside the door, with instructions to inform any curious guests that there had been an unfortunate accident, the manager bustled off in his stately fashion to alert his guests.

In Suite Fifteen, the young dancer whose name was unknown to him lay under the King of Spain and thought rapturously that it really was something, to be pleasured by a king. The pleasure was undisturbed by any call from the hotel management.

In Suite Seven, the President of the United States of America put down the telephone and rose.

“Mr. Prime Minister, this has been a most interesting and productive meeting, and we have made real, very real progress, but I regret that it must come to an end.”

The president’s interpreter, who looked like a Mafia boss but who was in fact a Harvard professor, rose to his feet, but the Italian prime minister remained seated and looked petulant.

“But Mr. President, I wish to protest about Merano—”

“I’m afraid that there has been a murder in the hotel. Some scruffy little Balkan muckraker. It would greatly harm me in the American press if it were thought that I were making secret deals — coming to unofficial understandings — with a foreign power. No doubt the Italian press feels similarly strongly.”

It didn’t, but the Italian prime minister got to his feet.

“Of course. And my king is very touchy about his prerogative in matters of foreign policy.”

“Ah, I think I have met your king. A very small man, I seem to recollect.”

“But touchy accordingly. You are right, Mr. President: we should be gone.”

“Why don’t you stay, Giuliano? You could go through what we’ve already agreed on. No scandal in your being here.”

And the president and the prime minister opened the door onto the backstairs corridors and scuttled out. In minutes they were in two taxis which the manager had summoned for them, speeding back to their respective hotels.

In Suite Twelve, the British prime minister was more relaxed than the American president.

“Yes, I’m alone.” He flicked his tongue around his lips. His companion for the night had just returned from her maid’s room, and had said with a coquettish smile: “Ten minutes!” He could hardly wait. “The lady is preparing herself,” he told the manager.

“Mr. Lloyd-George, I am desolated to have to tell you that there has been a murder—”

“A murder? In this hotel?”

“Yes indeed. A Balkan adventurer of the most dubious kind.”

“A Balkan adventurer? Do you mean a gigolo?”

“No, no. A Serbian with a criminal bent. Perhaps it is best for you not to know the details.”

“Perhaps it is.”

“So I wondered whether you and the most charming lady would wish to... remove yourselves from any intrusiveness on the part of the police?”

“Hmmm... You have not yet called the police?”

“No indeed. I informed you first, Mr. Prime Minister.”

“Obliged to you. Hmmmm. I have a certain... experience in handling tricky matters of this kind.”

“Your statesmanship is known to all, sir.”

“Leave it with me for ten minutes or so. I may be able to advise you how to handle this. Suggest something to... to safeguard the reputation of the hotel.”

“Of the hotel, of course, Mr. Prime Minister.”

In his office on the ground floor of the George IV, the manager fumed at the well-known hypocrisy of the English. To pretend that he was thinking of a solution to the hotel’s crisis, when all he wanted from the period of grace was — what he had come for in the first place. How truly perfidious was Albion!

In Suite Fifteen, the nameless young dancer, once more under the King of Spain, was deciding that it was even more extraordinary than she had thought, being pleasured by a king.