Darkest Hour (20 page)

“Yes, it’s evidence,” Simon admitted, “but with Monterey dead there’s nothing to bring to trial.”

“Berlin?”

“Berlin is mentioned—that’s all. No corroborating evidence and probably nothing in Kwan’s safety-deposit box by this time. Where’s that notebook again? It’s beginning to make sense.”

Keith gave Simon the notebook and he turned immediately to the names in the back of the book. “Robles and Malvern. I should have recognized the names last night. Law partners specializing in international law. Van Brut was a client in a trust-busting suit last year. Price fixing and a drug-cartel deal. Wessler. Strikes a chord. Check with the FDA. I think this whole thing smells of an industrial spy ring stealing chemical formulas. A reliable pharmaceutical firm will spend millions developing a product that turns up on the black market before he can get it packaged. Van Brut and Di Miro had face jobs, Monterey said. That would make them the two studies in plastic surgery that Sam Goddard found interesting enough to photograph. That’s an indication that he was on to the operation, too. I don’t think he dropped the story. I think, when he saw Monterey, he decided to hold off until he could dig deeper. Monte was his wife’s brother. Old ties are hard to break.”

“Then the code in the notebook is a formula Kwan got for Berlin,” Keith concluded, “but what is the shipment?”

“Not a shipment at all, probably. Kwan called it that because he usually delivered contraband—probably heroin. I wish Monterey had been more talkative. He was on to something that hit a sensitive area. Joe was his brother—the war hero who died overseas. The powder is a drug. An antibiotic. What’s the big health problem in East Asia?”

“Malaria,” Keith said.

“Right. They’ve run into a virulent type nothing seems to cure. And there’s a congressional investigation in progress on the booming price of quinine. An international cartel is involved.”

“The profits of war,” Keith said bitterly. “I’m beginning to understand why Monterey got on his white horse again.”

“So am I,” Simon said. “His brother—the war hero—meant too much to him. Monterey must have had to wear mental blinders most of the time when he worked for Berlin, but a man can fall only so far. This was one peg too low.”

“He should have gone to the police.”

“After losing control and killing a man? How could he? I don’t suppose he thought of it as murder. It was more like an execution of somebody the law couldn’t touch. For a man like Max Berlin there’s always a Robles and Malvern, and he uses them to protect anyone in his organization. Not Monterey because Monterey was deviating, and so Monterey turned to Sam Goddard. He may have seen Goddard at the spa, too. We’ll probably never know about that.” Simon turned to Charley Leem, who had remained silent throughout the playing of the tape and was now absorbing the exchange between the two men with the intense interest of a man listening for a clue that might save his skin. “How soon after Kwan’s death did you realize what was on this tape?” he asked.

Leem licked his lips nervously. “A few hours after Kwan’s body was discovered,” he answered. “Eve called me as soon as the maid reported the murder. She was panic-stricken and I told her to sit tight and call me again after the body was removed. I knew the hotel would try to play it down for the sake of the other guests. When she called back I went to the hotel and picked up the machine. I played just enough of it in the room to know we had something, so I asked her to stay on in the hotel. She wouldn’t stay in the same room, but that was okay. I took the machine to my room and played the whole tape.”

“Monterey was still alive then.”

“Yes.”

“And Sam Goddard. You old fool, don’t you realize that you might have saved their lives if you had gone to the police? What did you have in mind—blackmailing Monterey? It must have been a shock when you learned he was dead.”

“It was more of a shock when I learned Sam Goddard was dead,” Leem said. “I figured the organization Monterey and Kwan were in had polished off Monterey, and only a Boy Scout mixes in that kind of a fight. I’m too old to be a Boy Scout. But I’d seen Sam in the courtyard of the Balboa. His death shook me up. I couldn’t see Sam getting mixed up with anything like that unless he was on a story. Sam had principles. He didn’t play by ear; he played by heart. I went to his funeral to see who would show. You, Drake, were the only one who didn’t belong. I’d heard about you. Big-shot lawyer with a fancy clientele. I wanted to make a contact to try to learn who you were representing. I was trying to learn who this tape would hurt more than it could hurt me. That’s not blackmail, baby. That’s insurance.”

Leem was old and rheumy-eyed, but he knew the ropes and had the psychic burns to show for it. He licked his lips again. “You’re right about one thing,” he said. “Eve’s murder scared me. I knew you weren’t responsible. That meant that the organization was on to Eve and, maybe, to me. They weren’t even careful who they killed. The tape’s too hot for me to handle alone. I’m glad you two have heard it. That’s insurance, too.”

“I’ll get it to a non-fuzz lab I know to make the voice-print records,” Keith said. “After that, Simon, it’s your move.”

The telephone rang and Keith answered it. It was from Franzen.

“They’ve found my car at International,” Keith reported back. “Duane Thompson’s afraid you’ve left the country.”

“Great!” Simon said. “Los Angeles International connects with any and every place in the world. The search should keep him busy right up to the spring primaries. Is your phone bugged?”

“It wasn’t the last time I checked.”

“Then I’ll borrow it.”

Simon put in a call to Whitey Sanders at the Gateway Bar in La Verde. He recognized Alex Lacey’s voice when he was curtly informed that Mr. Sanders was still in Palm Springs.

“It must have been quite a party,” Simon said.

“What?” Lacey demanded.

“Never mind. Connect me with Buddy Jenks.”

The call was transferred to Buddy’s quarters. The kid sounded happy. Simon couldn’t tell whether or not he was alone.

“Buddy, this is Simon Drake,” Simon said. “I want you to give Whitey a message as soon as he comes in. Tell him that I’ve gotten possession of the rest of Monterey’s estate.”

“Whatever that means,” Buddy answered.

“Tell him. Promise?”

Buddy promised and placed the telephone back in the cradle. Simon waited until he heard the second click and then hung up. He turned away from the instrument to find Keith watching him with concern. “There might be a bug on the other end of that call,” he warned. “If so, you’re in trouble.”

“That,” Simon answered, “is what I’m counting on.”

It was a night without fog. From the sky the La Verde airport was a bright splay of fluorescence at the bottom of the black bowl of the valley. The runways were clear as Simon approached in his rented Beechcraft and the parking lot was almost empty. He came in low and located the XK-E where he had left it, but now it sat in grand isolation in a field of blacktop. There was no sign of the green Cougar or of Berlin’s henchmen. Simon banked, circled the field until the control tower gave permission to land, and then dropped gently to the landing strip. The last air commuter had long since returned home and the waiting room, when he reached it, was deserted. The coffee shop was in operation for the benefit of the airport employees, none of whom paid any particular attention as he passed through the building on his way to the car. Reaching the Jaguar, he took the precaution of raising the hood for a bomb inspection before starting the motor. But the explosive that had been planted in the Rolls probably had another purpose than to frighten him off the case. Finding the motor clean, he drove directly to the Gateway Bar.

News of a good thing travels fast, and Buddy Jenks already had a following that overflowed the parking lot. Inside, Buddy’s performance had mesmerized the crowd. They had no eyes, ears or awareness for anything but the weaving artist under the spotlight. Nobody noticed Simon except Alex Lacey, whose noncommittal expression seemed to have been enameled on his face. He was a presence at Simon’s shoulder.

“Where’s the boss?” Simon asked.

“Mr. Sanders hasn’t come in this evening,” Lacey said. “I think he’s in his bungalow.”

“Call him and tell him that I’m here. I’ll be at the bar.”

Simon didn’t wait for an argument. He threaded his way through the tables and took a position at the bar where he could observe the entrance to the room. He avoided watching Buddy’s performance because there might be a more vital one off-stage. He ordered a Scotch on the rocks and waited. Alex Lacey left his place at the doorway and about five minutes later Bonnie Penny, sheathed in body-hugging pink spangles, took the route Simon had just traversed and joined him at the bar. She wasn’t bouncy or smiling. She had an ugly red bruise on the left side of her face and a wetness in her eyes that didn’t match the ecstatic tears of Buddy’s teen-aged fans.

“Mr. Drake,” she said, “why don’t you get out of here right now? You’re in trouble.”

“Who hit you?” Simon asked.

“Nobody.”

“You’re lying. Doorknobs don’t come that size.”

“Okay, so I had a fight with Buddy.”

“I don’t believe you. The kid’s too happy to hit a woman now. Did Whitey send you?”

“No. I was with Buddy when you called this afternoon. He told me what you said.”

“What do you know about Monterey’s murder?”

“Murder?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. You knew something was wrong the day his body was discovered. You wasted no time following me up to his room and didn’t leave me alone in it for an instant.”

“That was my job!”

“I think you carried it beyond the line of duty. And you knew about that oil stain on the chair. Who ordered it taken to the workroom? Was that your job, too?”

Bonnie seemed in a state of shock. He wasn’t certain that she had heard a word he said. She glanced nervously toward the entertainment area and then fixed her intense eyes on Simon. “We can’t talk here,” she said. “Buddy doesn’t like crowd noises when he’s performing. There’s an exit to the service yard just behind you. Let’s step outside.”

Simon’s hand slid into his coat pocket. The automatic Keith had given him was still there. It generated confidence. Taking Bonnie’s arm, he gently steered her just ahead of him past the bar and through the exit doorway. The service yard was empty. Floodlights bathed the driveway, and more light streamed from the windows of a squat utility shed located in a circular green plot beyond the drive, but the eaves of the Gateway building dropped a shawl of shadow across the doorway and provided cover from any unseen watcher. Simon didn’t step beyond the shadow. “Now,” he said, “what’s the size of this trouble I’m in, and why did we have to come out here to talk about it?”

Bonnie didn’t answer. Her face was partially hidden by the shadow, but he could see tears forming in her eyes. He touched her shoulder and she trembled. “I didn’t want to do it,” she said. “I had to because of Buddy. They threatened Buddy if I didn’t get you out here.”

“Threatened? They? What the hell are you talking about!” Simon grabbed Bonnie’s other shoulder just as her face was bathed in light. He whirled about and was momentarily blinded by the two bright headlamps that were bearing down on the doorway. From inside the club Buddy’s trumpet had acquired a percussion backing, and a throbbing churn from the utility shed blotted out whatever sound the big Cougar made as it pulled to a stop in front of them. The character with the turtleneck sweater was driving. The rear door swung open and the little man who had his face in a racing form stepped out holding a gun. It was a snub-nosed revolver with an emphatic blue barrel pointed at Simon’s chest.

“Okay, get inside the car,” he said.

Simon shoved Bonnie behind him.

“Both of you,” the man said.

“We don’t need the girl,” Simon protested.

“I say that we do.”

The short barrel beckoned Bonnie into the car. The thick features of Turtleneck had loosened in a kind of lewd smile, and Simon remembered the way Eve Necchi’s body looked sprawled in that motel shower. Some people had a sickening sense of humor. The gun barrel waved again, and in the instant it wasn’t pointed at Simon’s chest he slid his right hand into his coat pocket and aimed the automatic. He fired at a range of no more than five feet, and the blast tore loose a piece of Guildenstern’s stomach on contact. The impact hurled him back against the sedan. He hung there for an instant with an expression of astonishment on his face. He looked down and saw his own blood streaming out onto the asphalt paving and then he screamed: “Otto! Otto!”

The Cougar roared forward. Otto wasn’t waiting for a second shot. He stomped on the accelerator and the wounded man’s only support was pulled away. He lurched backward, braced himself and swayed for a moment still screaming hysterically and futilely: “Otto! Otto, wait for me!” From some instinctive depth of self-preservatory memory he remembered the gun in his hand. Simon saw his fingers tighten on the trigger and braced for the impact of the bullet, but then, as he fired, the man pitched forward. It was like a fall of timber: one sudden plunge and then he was sprawled on the driveway with the gun still gripped tightly in his fingers and the startled quiet of death in his eyes.

Bonnie sobbed hysterically at Simon’s shoulder. “He’s dead!” she cried.

Simon dropped to his knees and verified the obvious. The man was indeed dead. Vaguely aware of a sudden pain in his left thigh, he turned to Bonnie. “What’s in that little building that’s making so much noise?”

“It’s the heating and cooling plant for the whole complex,” she answered.

“Does it have a door? And if it does, get it open. I’ve got to move this body before his friend has time to circle the motel and get back here.”

Bonnie was in a state of shock and reacted like a well-programmed robot. While she opened the door to the utility shed, Simon got hold of the dead man’s ankles and dragged him across the driveway. A safety light burned inside the building enabling Simon to get the body well away from the doorway and tucked next to the refrigeration unit. He left him there lying face-up with one hand placed over the wound and the other still clasping the gun. It was a Smith and Wesson .38 with a wooden grip. He didn’t have time to look for a serial number but felt certain that it was Sam Goddard’s gun. By the time anyone located the dead man he would be so cold it would require a surgical operation to get the weapon out of his hand, and the ballistics unit of the La Verde police could have fun comparing notes with its counterpart in Enchanto-by-the-Sea.

Bonnie was standing in the driveway too scared to cry when Simon emerged from the shed. Her mouth worked hard and came out with a few words.

“I have to tell Buddy—”

“You have to tell Buddy nothing!” Simon ordered. “He’s in no danger. It’s me they want. Christ, I’ve got blood all over me! Where’s Buddy’s cabin? I’ve got to wash.”

“C-C Wing,” she stammered. “Next to the first pool. I’ve got the key.”

“Let’s go!”

There was no time to go back to the Jaguar. Bonnie started to sprint across the grass and Simon followed as fast as his now throbbing leg permitted. Beyond the utility plant a labyrinth of driveways combed through the huge motel complex. Once in the guest area, they weren’t likely to be seen by the driver of the Cougar, should he return. Bonnie ran directly to Buddy’s cabin and had the door open by the time Simon limped inside. He slammed the door behind him and looked down at his leg. It was streaming blood all over the expensive broadloom.

“You’ve been hit,” Bonnie said. “Can you make it to the bathroom?”

Simon’s answer was to move. In the bathroom he got out of his trousers. The dying man had been lucky. His one shot had grazed Simon’s left thigh. A tiny but messy wound. Bonnie, poking into the medicine chest, announced that Buddy had a box of Band-Aids and some sleeping tablets but had no gauze or iodine.

“I’ll clean it with mouthwash,” Simon said.

“There’s a drugstore in the registration lobby. Maybe it’s still open.”

“Forget it. Whitey’s got as cheap a grade washcloth in his motel as any other setup. They rip easy—see?” He tore the cloth in strips and knotted them together. With the product he made a makeshift tourniquet and stopped the flow of blood. Later, after a hurried shower, he covered the wound with the widest Band-Aid and made a protective bandage from another washcloth. By that time Bonnie had found a pair of old flannels in Buddy’s closet that were just barely wide enough to fit over Simon’s legs, and a soft Italian sweater that made him look like a refugee from the Via Veneto.

“If the wound doesn’t open you’re all set,” she said. “I found some brandy in the bar. I don’t know if you need a drink as bad as I do—”

“Worse,” Simon said.

Bonnie poured two fingers of brandy in two water glasses and the bracing effect began to clear Simon’s head. He found his jacket and got the gun and his personal effects out of the pockets. There was one special envelope in an inner pocket that fitted into the hip pocket of Buddy’s flannels. The gunshot hole in the jacket made it too conspicuous for further wear and all of Buddy’s suits were too narrow across the shoulders, but he did find a corduroy car coat with raglan sleeves roomy enough to be worn over a ski sweater. The complete effect took ten years off his age and made his hair look too short, but the winter tourist season was beginning and he would never draw a second glance on the street.

Bonnie watched him check the cartridge clip of the gun and poured herself a second brandy. “Do you realize,” she said hollowly, “that you killed a man with that thing just a few minutes ago?”

“And a good shot, too,” Simon said. “Otherwise you might not be meeting Buddy after his performance just as if nothing had happened. Is it really Buddy, Miss bright and shining Bonnie Penny? Or is it the boss you’re after via the old tried-and-true jealousy route?”

She blushed. It looked nice after the ashen horror of the last half hour. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

“I wonder. I’m a strong one for first impressions. I had you tabbed as a company girl the first day I saw you, but I didn’t know then that Whitey Sanders was the company. You don’t look like one of Whitey’s girls. Could it be that you’re really Tess Truelove in disguise? That you’re biding time until the winds of autumn convince Whitey that he needs something of more substance than a quick ambulatory pep pill to see him through the winter? I won’t ask to see your driver’s license, but I’ll bet he has at least twenty years on you. Probably more.”

Through the shock, Bonnie was beginning to be her crisp, efficient self again. “There’s a dead man in the cooling plant,” she said. “You aren’t talking like this just because you want to know me better.”

“But I do,” Simon said. “I want to know if you’re the kind of hotel receptionist who might double at the switchboard on the late shift. Who might hear a guest put through a call to the Gateway Bar and ask for Whitey Sanders, and then identify himself as Monte Monterey.”

“Would I listen to a guest’s call—is that what you mean?”

“Exactly.”

“Is it important?”

“Very. If you handled that call of Montgomery’s and then mentioned his identity to someone in the hotel, I’m still a long way from home. But if you did take the call and said nothing to anyone about the new guest on the fourth floor then I know who is responsible for what just happened.”

“All right,” Bonnie said. “I handled the call and I heard the guest ask for Mr. Sanders. That bugged me a little. The name Monterey didn’t register until I read about his suicide in the newspapers, but I did talk to Mr. Sanders the next day and told him about the call. I didn’t tell another soul. The only reason I told him was because I thought he should know the dead man was trying to reach him. Mr. Sanders thanked me and said that I wasn’t to worry about anything.”

“Did he mention that he brought Max Berlin in from Tucson with him?”

She hesitated. “Yes,” she said, finally. “That was because he thought I might have seen Mr. Berlin on the premises. I hadn’t but I was given to understand that he was Mr. Sanders’ house guest at the ranch and that he intended to visit the hotel—it’s a historic landmark, you know—incognito. We’re always very careful to protect the privacy of our guests and visitors.”

“When did this conversation take place?”

“On the morning the suicide was discovered. Mr. Sanders came to my apartment. He wasn’t aware that I had heard about the trouble. Now that’s all I can tell you, Mr. Drake, except that the men who tried to kidnap us in the driveway came to Buddy’s dressing room about ten minutes before he went on and asked when he was expecting you. Buddy told them he wasn’t expecting you at all and the one who drove the car tried to hit him. I got in the way. Buddy finally convinced them that he was telling the truth, so they forced me to stay on the floor during his performance and watch for you. The one you shot stayed with me. When we saw you come in, he told me to get you out to the service area or he would turn Otto loose on Buddy. You know the rest…. What’s this all about? Why did you call Buddy and tell him that you had the rest of Monterey’s estate? It didn’t make any sense to him.”