1963 - One Bright Summer Morning (2 page)

“Come to think of it . . . Bruno hasn't shown up this morning. I whistled, but he didn't come. It's damned odd.” He got to his feet and went quickly into the kitchen. The bowl of food remained untouched. He went to the door and whistled again.

Joining him, Carrie said, “Where can he be?”

“Chasing something, I guess. I'll go and look for him.”

Junior, feeling neglected, began to bawl and Carrie hurried back to the bedroom. Vic hesitated, then he set off on the long walk down to the entrance gate. He passed the shut-up staff cabin. The time now was seven o'clock. Di-Long still had half an hour before he showed himself. As Vic walked down the long drive, he paused from time to time to give his long, piercing whistle.

He finally reached the five-barred gate and he looked up and down the narrow dirt road beyond without seeing a movement of anything alive.

Then he looked down at the sandy road. Between the tyre tracks of his car, he saw the unmistakable imprint of two single tyre tracks . . . the tracks of a motorcycle. These tracks led from afar, direct to his gate and they stopped there. He looked to his left, but the tracks were no longer visible. It seemed, on the face of it, that someone had driven from Pitt City highway, up the dirt road to his gate. The driver and his machine had then vanished into space. There was no sign that the motorcycle had come up the drive nor had gone on to Boston Creek. The machine had stopped at the gate and then had apparently dissolved into nothingness.

For several minutes, Vic stared at the motorcycle tracks and up and down the dirt road, then turning, he stared up the drive. The strange, uneasy feeling of loneliness closed over him again and he started back towards the ranch house at a pace that set him sweating in the growing heat of the early sun.

As he passed the staff cabin, he came into sight of the ranch house. Carrie was standing in the open doorway and she was waving to him. Her movements were quick and urgent. As he approached her, he called, “What is it?”

“Vic! The guns have gone.”

He now reached her. He could see she was frightened.

Her blue eyes were round and alarmed.

“Guns? Gone?”

“I went into your room . . . the guns aren't in the rack!”

He went quickly into the gunroom. The gun rack was out of sight of his desk, around the L-shaped room. He paused and stared at the empty rack. There had been four shotguns: a .45 and two .22 rifles in the rack. The rack now stood empty.

Vic stared at the empty rack, feeling the hairs on the nape of his neck bristle. He turned to find Carrie watching him.

“They were here last night,” she said in a small, frightened voice.

“That's right.” Vic walked over to his desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. In this drawer he kept a .38 Police Special automatic presented to him by the Los Angeles Chief of Police.

It came as a sickening shock when he looked into the empty drawer with its slight smear of oil where the gun had been.

“Your gun too?” Carrie asked, moving forward.

He forced the feeling of panic that gripped him into control and turning, he smiled at her: a forced smile, but a smile.

“Looks like someone broke in here last night and grabbed all the guns,” he said. “I guess I'd better call the police.”

“That motorcycle I heard . . .”

“Could be. I'll call the police.”

As he picked up the telephone receiver, Carrie said, a rise in her voice, “He - he could still be here. I told you . . . I didn't hear him leave.”

Vic scarcely heard what she was saying for he was realizing as he held the telephone receiver to his ear and as he began to dial that the telephone was dead.

Speaking as calmly as he could, Vic said, “Seems the telephone is on the blink.” Slowly he replaced the receiver.

Carrie said breathlessly, “It was all right last night. We had that call from . . .”

“I know,” Vic cut in. “Well, it's not working now.”

They faced each other.

“What's happened to Bruno?” Carrie asked. She folded her arms across her breasts, her blue eyes growing rounder. “Do you think . . .?”

“Now don't get worked up,” Vic said sharply. “Someone broke in here last night, disconnected the telephone and took the guns. It's possible he has put Bruno out of action.”

Carrie flinched.

“You mean . . . Bruno's dead?”

“I don't know, darling. Drugged perhaps . . . I don't know.”

Carrie came into the room and moved quickly to Vic, putting her arms around him. He held her, feeling her slight body trembling. “Oh, Vic, I'm frightened! What is it? What are we going to do?”

He patted her, holding her close to him, aware that he too was a little frightened: aware too of the loneliness of the place. He thought of Di-Long.

“Look, you go back to Junior. I'm going to wake Di-Long, I'll get him to stay with you while I take a look around. Come on, Carrie, you don't have to look so scared.”

With his arm around her, he walked with her into the bedroom where Junior, in his cot, was kicking his fat legs and making his usual routine noises.

“You stay right here. I won't be a couple of minutes.”

“No!” Carrie gripped his arm. “Don't leave me, Vic! You mustn't leave me!”

“But, darling . . .”

“Please! Don't leave me!”

He hesitated, then nodded.

“Okay, okay, now don't get worked up.”

He went over to the open window that looked out onto the staff cabin, some two hundred yards away. Leaning out, he shouted, “Di-Long! Hey! Di-Long!”

Only silence greeted his shout. The small cabin with its tightly closed green shutters showed no sign of life.

“Di-Long!!”

Carrie was slipping into a pair of slacks and a lightweight sweater. Her movements were hurried and clumsy.

He turned away from the window.

“That guy sleeps like the dead,” he said. “Come on, Carrie. Let's go over and wake him. Bring Junior.”

With Carrie carrying the baby, they walked along the path between the two squares of lawn, kept green by concealed sprinklers, over to the staff cabin.

Vic knocked on the door. They waited, feeling the sun now hot on their backs. Junior, blinking in the sunshine, doubled his fat hand into a fist and attempted to push it into Carrie's eye, but she was used to this move and avoided the probing fist by a quick jerk of her head.

“I'm going in,” Vic said impatiently. “You wait here.”

He turned the door handle and the door yielded. He walked into the sitting room.

“Di-Long!”

There was no movement. A tap dripped steadily in the kitchen. There was no other sound.

Vic hesitated, then he crossed the room and pushed open the door that led into the bedroom which gave off a faint acrid smell and was in darkness. He groped for the light switch, found it and turned it down.

The small, neat room was empty. The single bed, against the far wall had been slept in. Vic could see the impression of Di-Long's head on the pillow. The single sheet had been thrown aside: the bottom sheet was slightly crumpled. He paused only long enough to satisfy himself that Di-Long wasn't there, then he went into the kitchen. After a quick look round, he joined Carrie.

“He's gone!”

Carrie visibly relaxed.

“You mean he stole the guns . . . and Bruno? Do you think that's what happened?” she asked, holding Junior close to her.

“Could be.” Vic was puzzled, but now he also was relaxing. This seemed to be the solution to the mystery. “He wasn't happy here. He adored Bruno. Yes . . . I guess that's what he did. He probably got a pal of his to fetch him on the motorcycle.”

“But the guns?”

“Yeah.” Vic ran his fingers through his hair and he frowned. After a moment's thought, he went on, “You never know with these Vietnamese. He may belong to some secret society who need guns. Looks as if he put the phone out of order to get a clear start.”

“But how could he have taken all those guns on a motorcycle . . . and Bruno?” Carrie asked.

“Maybe he's taken one of the cars. I'll go and see. Look, we'll drive down to Pitt City. We'll get the police up here. This is a job for them to handle.”

Carrie nodded. Vic was relieved to see she no longer looked frightened.

“I'll get things ready for Junior. You get the car.”

Vic watched her walk quickly to the ranch house. He started towards the garage, then paused. A thought struck him. He went back to Di-Long's bedroom. The closet in which Di-Long kept his clothes and his possessions stood against the wall to the left of the bed. Vic opened the doors. He looked at the three neat suits and the white uniforms that Di-Long kept immaculate. On one of the shelves was the electric razor that Vic had given Di-Long last Christmas. By its side was a Kodak camera Vic had also given him when Vic had changed to a Leica: two of Di-Long's most treasured possessions.

Vic stood staring at these two articles, feeling his heart beginning to thump. Di-Long would never have left these behind unless something extraordinary had happened to have forced him to do so . . . but what could have happened?

Turning quickly, he walked with long strides to the garage and swung up the big door. The blue and white Cadillac and the Mercury estate wagon stood side by side. It was a relief to see them. He got into the Cadillac. The key was in the ignition lock and he turned it, then put his foot down on the gas pedal to start the engine. There was a whirring noise, but the engine didn't fire. He tried three times to start the car, but the engine refused to fire. He got out of the car and crossed over to the estate wagon and attempted to start that. Again he was greeted with the whirring noise, and again this engine refused to start.

He got out of the estate wagon and wiped his sweating hands on the seat of his cotton pants. Then he opened the hood of the Cadillac. He had little knowledge of cars, but he saw at a glance that all the sparking plugs had been removed. A quick look at the estate wagon told the same story. Someone had removed the plugs from both cars and they were now immobile.

Vic stood motionless in the big garage between the two useless cars. He felt a drop of cold sweat run down his face and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. If he had been alone, this situation would have been a challenge to him, but he kept thinking of Carrie and the baby and he felt frightened. What was going on? he asked himself. No Bruno, no Di-Long, no guns, no telephone and now no cars. He suddenly remembered that Carrie was alone with Junior in the ranch house. He left the garage and with long strides he ran across the lawn.

He found Carrie in the bedroom, packing a small suitcase with baby things. She turned as he came into the bedroom and he paused. They looked at each other. He saw her stiffen. Her hand went to her mouth. He realized he must be looking pretty scared and he tried to control himself without much success.

“What is it?” Carrie asked sharply.

“This could be trouble,” he said. “The cars have been put out of action. We are marooned here. I don't know what it all means.”

Carrie sat abruptly on the bed as if she no longer had any strength in her legs.

“What's happened to the cars?”

“Someone's taken the plugs. Di-Long left his camera and razor. I'm willing to bet he wouldn't have left them unless . . .” Vic stopped, frowning, then he sat on the bed beside Carrie. “I don't want to frighten you, but this could be serious. I don't know what it's all about, but someone has been here . . . someone who . . . “ He stopped short, realizing he was talking too much.

Carrie stared at him, her face pale.

“Then you don't think Di-Long stole the guns?”

“Not now. He would never have left his camera or his razor if he had walked out on us. I just don't know what to think.”

“Then what's happened to him? What's happened to Bruno?”

“I don't know.”

Carrie got abruptly to her feet.

“Let's get out of here, Vic!” Her voice was a little shrill. “Now! I'm not staying here!”

“We can't get out of here!” Vic said. “It's fifteen miles to the highway. The sun's getting hot. We can't walk all that way with Junior.”

“I'm not staying here! We'll walk! Anything but staying here! You carry Junior. I'll bring his things. I'm not staying here a moment longer!”

Vic stood up, hesitated, then shrugged.

“It'll be a hell of a walk. Well, all right. Let's walk then. We should have something to drink. I'll fill a vacuum flask. In another hour the sun will be fierce.”

“I don't care . . . hurry, Vic!”

He went into the kitchen and filled a flask with ice-cold Coke. He put two packs of cigarettes in his shirt pockets. He went into his workroom and took his chequebook and three one-hundred dollar bills he always kept by him for an emergency. These he stuffed into his hip pocket, then he returned to the bedroom.

“You'd better wear your sun hat. I'll use an umbrella to shade Junior,” he said. “Take your jewels, Carrie. We’ll . . .”

He broke off as Carrie gave a sudden suppressed scream.

She was looking at his feet, all colour drained from her face.

Vic followed her staring gaze down to his white sneakers.

The right shoe, along the inner edge, was stained red . . . the red was unmistakable.

Somewhere during his walk around the estate he had stepped into a puddle of blood.

CHAPTER TWO

T
o understand what had been happening at Wastelands, it is necessary to go back three months to the day on which Solly Lucas, a Los Angeles attorney, put an automatic pistol to his mouth and blew off the top of his balding head.

Although, as a gangster's mouthpiece, Solly Lucas had a disreputable reputation, he was considered generally as a very smart cookie with a golden touch for the Stock Market. He was sixty-five years of age when he finished his life. For the past thirty years he had been the mouthpiece and investment fixer for one of the most notorious criminals since Al Capone: a man known as Big Jim Kramer.

Kramer, now close on sixty years of age, had begun his criminal career as bodyguard to Roger Touhy. He had risen slowly and murderously to a gang boss, had been elected a member of Murder Incorporated and had eventually become the iron hand that ruled the Bakery and the