Darkest Hour (21 page)

“So he told you.”

“I was with him when you called. He had to tell me.”

“Did either of you tell anyone else?”

“No. The message was to be delivered to Mr. Sanders and he hasn’t been around today.”

“Good. If you’re certain that neither you nor Buddy mentioned my call to anyone, then part of the mystery is solved.”

“Part—? Oh, I see what you mean. Other people listen to telephone calls, too.”

“You’re a smart girl. Now, if you’re as smart as I think you are, you’ll get back to Buddy and stick with him like a split personality. And don’t mention the body in the utility house. That’s important. Just remember, it was self-defense. If it’s any balm to your conscience, the dead man is a murderer many times over. He would have shot both of us just for the fun of it if he hadn’t been given orders to bring me in alive. Get out of here now.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Watch you leave. Make sure you aren’t followed and then get lost. I won’t tell you where I’m going because I think you and Buddy can make beautiful music together as soon as you forget about Whitey’s millions. I want you to have a long and wonderful life.”

The second brandy had given Bonnie a shot of Dutch courage. Simon tossed his suit in the bottom of Buddy’s closet, turned out the lights and opened the outside door. A station wagon with an Arizona license had pulled up to the adjacent unit and a highly vocal couple with five road-weary children were in the process of moving in for the night. No more sinister form of life being visible, Bonnie struck out in the direction of the Gateway Bar. Simon watched until she was out of sight and then limped toward the registration lobby. He wasn’t afraid of being apprehended by the police. He had checked out of the Santa Monica airport without causing any stir and landed in La Verde without question. What was big news in Marina Beach was of less importance than the local tax fight in the next county. What he did fear was the return of the big green sedan driven by a man who had been ordered to pick up Simon Drake and who might not retain his robust health if he failed the mission.

The registration lobby was brightly lighted and virtually empty. The color TV was playing for the benefit of no one at all, and Simon, in search of a public telephone, glanced at it in passing. The handsome young newscaster wearing too much make-up interested him not at all, but when the scene changed to a beautiful blonde wearing dark glasses and a mini-skirt and boots he was fascinated. The beautiful blonde was being more or less chased through an airport by half a dozen reporters. She smiled, waved, ducked her head and said not one word while the newscast announcer explained that Wanda Call, star of the soon-to-open Broadway production
The Soft Touch
, had been apprehended by reporters at Kennedy airport. “Miss Call, the fiancée of socialite lawyer Simon Drake, who is being sought by the police for questioning in the brutal slaying of a California coastal city playgirl, refused to comment on speculation that she was on her way to join Drake. Although she succeeded in eluding the press at plane time, it is believed that she caught a Los Angeles-bound flight.” Wanda faded from the screen and the handsome young man turned to other matters. Simon turned to the nearest exit. He was pushing his luck too far in approaching the desk after that exposure.

He returned to the cover of darkness. The reception desk faced an off-ramp leading to the freeway. It was the main entrance to the motel complex. Simon paused to get reoriented. He had left the Jaguar in the kitchen service area of the Gateway Bar. Following the driveway that led back into the complex would take him to his car. He walked slowly—no longer to avoid attention but because the wound in his thigh was painful. He had gone about a hundred feet when he sighted a public phone booth standing in isolation at an intersection of traffic lanes. This seemed far preferable to the lighted lobby where he might be recognized. He hobbled forward and got himself cozily inside. He put in a call to The Mansion and was answered by Chester’s strong baritone.

“Chester,” he said, “the phone at the house may be bugged but it’s okay. I’m calling from a public booth.”

“Where are you?” Chester demanded.

“Never mind that. What about that chemical analysis?”

“You wouldn’t believe!” Chester said.

“Oh, yes I would! Take care of it. Now let me talk to Wanda.”

“But don’t you want to hear the report?”

“No! Not over the telephone. I want to talk to my girl.”

“Your girl isn’t here.”

“Where is she?”

Simon heard a clicking on the wire. It might have been one of Duane Thompson’s spies but it wasn’t. It was Hannah on the extension.

“That’s what we’ve been trying to find out,” Hannah said. “I caught that newscast at an earlier hour and sent Chester to International in the Rolls. It was delivered this afternoon. They did a lovely repair job—”

“Never mind the Rolls,” Simon said. “What happened at the airport?”

“Nothing. Chester couldn’t find Wanda. She was on the passenger list of an American Airlines flight that was due in at five-fifty this evening. But she wasn’t on the plane and nobody remembered seeing her board the plane in New York.”

“Maybe the reporters scared her off,” Simon said.

“You underestimate an actress’s talent,” Hannah huffed. “She probably staged the whole incident as a red-herring tactic to draw the police off your scent.”

“Or to get publicity for herself,” Chester muttered.

“That’s ridiculous!” Hannah said. “If she wanted publicity she would have completed the flight and got a second round at International. Besides, the girl loves you, Simon.”

“I’ve heard that song before,” Chester said.

“Don’t listen to him!” Hannah roared. “Ever since he started going to college he’s had no sentiment in his soul. Wanda is absolutely loyal…. Simon, why on earth did you hit that nice Lieutenant Franzen last night? Don’t you realize that he wears glasses?”

“Hannah, get off the line!” Simon ordered. “I want to talk to Chester … Chester, get in touch with Jack Keith. Tell him to run a check on Alex Lacey, who works for Whitey Sanders at the Gateway Bar in La Verde. Everything right back to his birth certificate if he has one. Then call Franzen and tell him to call the La Verde Police Department. Have them look in the utility plant across from the Gateway Bar. If they hurry, they’ll find a dead man in it with a gun in his hand that belonged to Sam Goddard. Franzen might have fun learning how the dead man got it, although I’m not quite sure how he’s going to do that without a Ouija board.”

“A dead man!” Hannah cried. “Anybody I know?”

“I hope not—and get off the line! Did you get everything I said, Chester?”

“I got it,” Chester answered. “But, Simon, about that analysis—”

“I told you to let that wait. I’m hanging up now. I can’t stay here any longer. Call Franzen first. I want him to get that gun.”

“How did the dead man get dead?” Chester asked.

“I refuse to answer any more questions without benefit of counsel,” Simon said. “Get busy.”

He broke the connection and started to leave the telephone booth, but the picture of Wanda on the television screen was too vivid. Hannah might be right. The whole maneuver could have been a red-herring operation and Wanda might be tucked safely in her bed in New York at this moment. The thought was intriguing enough to inspire a second call. He got the operator and placed the call to New York. He heard Wanda’s telephone begin to ring and then, as he shifted position in the narrow booth, became aware of a sedan crawling to a stop at the curbing about ten feet away. A dark green Cougar. Simon instinctively kicked open the door of the booth to turn off the light. The Cougar stopped and the driver stepped out. A huge, thick-featured man wearing a turtleneck sweater. He was fumbling in his pocket for change when Simon slammed the telephone back on the hook. With luck there might be enough time to step out of the booth and slip into the shadows before the man looked up. But Simon’s luck had run out half an hour earlier when a dying man’s final shot took a bite out of his leg. He moved too quickly. A red poker of pain tore through his thigh and he pitched forward. His hands reached out to break his fall and came to rest on the huge shoulders, and when he looked up the thick, ugly features of Max Berlin’s sadistic hatchet man were twisted with surprised recognition. They stood together for an instant like a pair of grotesque dancers waiting for the music to begin, and then Turtleneck’s right fist came up and smashed against Simon’s jaw. The dance was over.

There is an encouraging thing about awakening with pain; it is the splendid knowledge that one is still alive. Simon was first aware of the hot poker in his thigh; then, regaining consciousness, as it were, from his feet upward, his senses acknowledged one scuffed elbow, a lame shoulder above it, and finally, the vise of soreness about his jaw. Furthermore, his mouth tasted strongly of ether and he felt slightly nauseated. He opened his eyes and stared at his body. He was lying flat on his back on a large bed with a massive carved wood headboard. He was clothed in fine white silk pajamas. Someone had expertly bandaged the wound on his thigh, but the room he now occupied was definitely not in a hospital. True, the walls and the high vaulted ceiling were white. The furnishings were handsomely carved Spanish mahogany, and the light streaming into the room came from a wide glass door that opened on a red tile patio landscaped with semitropical plants. Hearing the sound of splashing water, he drew himself up to a sitting position and peered beyond the patio. The view was unexpected and enthralling. The sounds were coming from a large, azure swimming pool that seemed to have been carved from the native rock surrounding it, and in and about the pool were eleven (by actual, studied count) beautiful bikini-clad young females in various poses of uninhibited relaxation. Simon deliberately rubbed his sensitive jaw to bring back the reassuring pain. He was too young for Valhalla.

He examined his wrist. His watch was there and the hands stood at ten minutes past nine. The daylight told him that this was
A.M
., and the vegetation on the patio told him he was somewhere in the Tropic of Cancer. So much for a beginning. He turned his attention back to the room. It contained a huge, hand-carved chest over which hung an ornately framed mirror. On the chest was a blue ceramic ashtray and a handset telephone. The telephone suggested contact with the outer world, and so he swung one foot over the side of the bed and prepared to test his strength. He was weaker than he thought. Grabbing at the headboard for support, he discovered the bell cord. He pushed the bell and waited. In addition to the patio access there were two doors in the room. One, partially open, led into the bathroom; the other, a handsomely carved mahogany masterpiece, was the one Simon watched. After a few moments he heard the smart click of booted heels on the tile. The door opened and Max Berlin stepped into the room.

He was dressed in cords and boots and a peasant’s shirt unbuttoned to the belt line. He carried a braided leather riding crop that switched nervously against the calves of his boots. “So, you are awake!” he said, as if an entertainment were about to begin. “Welcome to Mexico. I chose this room for you so you could admire the view. A part of the spa’s therapy. Expectancy speeds recovery. Life is worth living, isn’t it?”

“I can’t think of a better alternative.”

“Nor can I. Feast your eyes, Drake. If you see anything you want, I’m sure it can be arranged. My guests are healthy, wealthy and eager for adventure.”

“That’s generous of you,” Simon said, “but I’d rather have breakfast.”

“Of course you would!” Berlin stepped eagerly to the telephone and spoke into the mouthpiece: “A menu for Simon Drake.”

“Bring a pot of black coffee with the menu,” Simon said.

“And a pot of black coffee,” Berlin ordered. “Anything else?”

“A double brandy,” Simon said.

“And a double brandy with the coffee. ¡
De’se prisa!”

Berlin slid the telephone back into the cradle. It was like Christmas. Ask and receive. The customer is always right. There had to be a catch in it.

“What time is the execution?” Simon asked.

Max Berlin laughed. “You are a good loser, Simon Drake,” he said, “—so far. I admire your spirit.”

“Where’s Otto?” Simon asked.

“Otto isn’t here. I’ve sent him on another mission. I must apologize for Otto. He was instructed to find you and bring you here without violence, but Otto enjoys violence. It does for him what looking at those lovely ladies at the pool must do for you. Do you understand?”

“And Otto’s friend?”

“You must mean Garcia, the tout. He’s dead.”

“I know.”

“Yes, but I won’t hold that against you. I never liked Garcia. Otto picked him up in Buenos Aires and I tolerated the companionship because Otto was my father’s orderly from the old days in Germany. No intelligence and no style, but a man of loyalty and great physical courage. He was most useful to us in the past. But times change. I’m afraid Otto’s usefulness is almost at an end. I will have to get rid of him, too.”

“I would have been glad to oblige.”

“I’m sure that you would have, Mr. Drake. But you didn’t, and you won’t. You will put down your gun now and use your brain, because that is your strongest weapon. That is why I found this paper in the pocket of your coat.”

Max Berlin had taken a sheet of note paper from his shirt pocket. It was the page Simon had torn from Monterey’s notebook. “It’s a buyers’ market now, Drake. I make the terms.”

“It must be valuable,” Simon said. “Four men and a woman are dead because of it.”

“Not at my hand. Monterey killed Kwan—that fool, that unhorsed cowboy! I didn’t dream he had the guts—and what did he think he would do with the formula? He had no contacts. He would have had to come back and deal with me.”

“Maybe he didn’t want contacts.”

“Are you mad? Of course he wanted contacts! The formula Kwan obtained is worth millions, but only when one has production facilities—”

“Like Severing and Di Miro?” Simon asked.

“That is nothing to you, Drake. It was nothing to Monterey. I think he went mad. He killed Kwan in full knowledge that we would track him down when he failed to return here to the spa. I keep complete dossiers on all my staff. There was only one person who might have helped Monterey.”

“Sam Goddard.”

“Right. Goddard was here some time ago, under an assumed name. We found suddenly that we were overbooked and canceled his reservation. When Monterey failed to return to base, I sent Otto and Garcia to question Goddard.”

“To kill him, you mean.”

“No! What good was he to me dead? I sent them to question him but he was armed. Otto forced his car off the highway because there was too much risk trying to follow him in the fog. Goddard leaped out of the car and started shooting and Otto, responding in primitive fashion, picked up a rock and killed him. There was nothing to do then but stage the accident and look for Monterey elsewhere.”

“In La Verde,” Simon said.

“As it so happened, in La Verde. But once more it wasn’t murder. Monterey recognized Otto and Garcia when they came for him. He hurled himself over the iron railing to avoid questioning. It was Garcia’s idea to put a bottle of whisky in his pocket, smash it on the tiling and leave him to the police.”

“Whose idea was it to put the bomb in Hannah Lee’s Rolls?”

Berlin frowned. The riding crop flicked against the boot tops again.

“Idiots!” he said. “Otto—Garcia. I sent them to La Verde because it seemed the logical place for Monterey to go. It was his birthplace. Also, he had known Whitey Sanders and, with Goddard dead, might turn in that direction. My men followed him to the Gateway Bar, but he saw them and got out of the club. He waited in his car for Miss Lee to come out and then rammed the Rolls trying to get away from Otto and Garcia. Later, after his death at the hotel, they searched his room and couldn’t find the packet. They decided he had left it in the wrecked car. It was locked in the police garage but Garcia got inside—”

“And slashed the upholstery in the Ford—”

“Yes, looking for the packet. The nightwatchman came before he could search the Rolls. It was possible, you see, that Monterey had passed the packet to Miss Lee when he ran toward her car after the collision. When you asked the police to release the Rolls to you, Otto was desperate. Without consulting me he made a small bomb and managed to get it under the hood while the Rolls was waiting for you outside the police station. It was meant to cause a wreck which would delay you until Otto and Garcia could arrive at the scene.”

“A small bomb! That charge would have destroyed the car and everything in it!”

“So I have heard. That’s why I called my men idiots. The size of the explosion frightened them off. Explosives are a specialty. Otto is no chemist.”

“But I could have been killed,” Simon said. “That’s another near one for the boys. And Eve Potter was murdered.”

“Because she occupied the room next to Kwan. I thought Monterey might have placed her there. When Otto questioned her the answers were unacceptable. He lost his temper and his control.”

“Boys will be boys,” Simon said without humor. “Eve Potter had no answers to give. She was trying to run a very feeble con game.”

“Then there’s no great loss, is there? But I forget. You’re suspected of complicity in her death. I feel generous. I’ll trade you Otto for the notebook and the sample. Otto is leaving on a holiday. Tonight he will get in a brawl at the Hi-Ho Bar in Ensenada. He will be fatally stabbed and in his room will be found a letter in a perfect simulation of his own handwriting, complete with grammatical errors, in which he confesses to the murder of Eve Potter and of his former friend, Garcia. You will be in the clear, Simon Drake, and in the good graces of your ambitious district attorney.”

It seemed there was no end to Max Berlin’s knowledge. He was an organizational genius with a flair for the theatrical and the instinct of a good housekeeper. Simon sat on the edge of the bed and watched the lovely young things cavorting poolside, and he thought the very thought Berlin had seeded in his mind: the alternative to cooperation was something so terrible that Monterey chose death over capture.

When Simon didn’t answer, Berlin added: “One thing puzzles me. How did you get the formula?”

“From the Post Office Department,” Simon said. “Monterey mailed me a key to a storage locker in the La Verde airport.”

“So that was it! But why mail it to you?”

“Because he saw Hannah Lee a short time before. He must have known that Hannah lived with me.” It was a lie but it protected Vera Raymond. That seemed important. “Hannah knows nothing about it,” Simon added. “She wouldn’t understand if she did. Chemistry isn’t her forte.”

“And you?”

“I have imagination. Anything worth a million dollars is worth more than Otto’s confession. Duane Thompson has nothing on me that I can’t handle.”

“But I have, Drake.”

Someone tapped on the carved wooden door and Max Berlin opened it. It was a young Mexican girl, slender, graceful with unspoiled innocence in her soft brown eyes, another reminder of the joys of life and freedom, wheeling the breakfast cart on which were a silver coffee service, a cup, and a hand-blown amber glass half filled with aromatic brandy. A folded newspaper was on the tray together with a printed breakfast menu. The girl smiled and waited and then disappeared from consciousness when Simon picked up the newspaper. It was the
La Verde Daily Chronicle
and the lead story concerned the police discovery of a murdered man in the utility plant building at Whitey Sanders’ Gateway Bar and Motel complex. Simon skimmed through the text of the story. “… shot at close range … a .22-caliber bullet … dead man clutching recently fired .38-caliber Smith and Wesson …” He restrained a triumphant smile. The police had Sam Goddard’s gun. Score one point for Simon Drake. He flipped the page to complete the coverage and the smile died painfully. Heading another story was a one-column cut of Wanda over the caption: “N.Y. actress still missing after two days.”

“Two days!” Simon exclaimed. He glanced at the dateline and it was true. He looked up at Berlin and watched him slowly turning a small bright object between his fingers. Light danced from the object similar to the light from Berlin’s huge ring. Seeing that he had caught Simon’s attention, Berlin tossed the object onto the bed. Simon picked it up: a small gold setting holding a square-cut diamond. The inner side of the ring was inscribed: “W.C. from S.D. —All the way.” It was the engagement ring he had given to Wanda before she went to New York.

Berlin was smiling now.

“Where is she?” Simon shouted.

Berlin gestured for the Mexican girl to leave the room. “Mr. Drake will order breakfast later,” he said.

The girl left the room and closed the door.

“Damn you!” Simon said. “What have you done with my girl?” He climbed off the bed and lunged toward Berlin, forgetting his wounded leg and the general soreness. He lurched forward against the tray, and it was only Berlin’s counterbalancing weight that kept it from collapsing with Simon on top of it. Simon fell back on the bed.

“Take care,” Berlin said. “The coffee is replaceable but the brandy is from my private stock.”

“Where is she?”

“Safe and unharmed as you shall soon learn. Wait a few minutes.” Berlin stepped to the telephone and lifted it from the cradle. “Are you still holding that line open to New York? Good. Put the call through now. I’ll wait.” He turned back to Simon. “I take no chances with telephone service. Mexico is a charming country but one pays for charm with a lack of efficiency. And you must watch those emotional outbursts. If that bullet I took out of your leg had been in there much longer, or if it had been removed by less expert hands, you might be crippled for life.”

So it was more than a flesh wound. That explained the lost day. “It was a .38 slug,” Simon said. “The police have the gun. By this time they must know that it was registered to Sam Goddard. What does that do to the ‘buyers’ market’?”

Berlin was irritated. Sloppiness annoyed him as much as the slow telephone service. “Nothing,” he reflected. “I’ve already arranged to get rid of Otto. His journal lets you home free, Drake. No more problems with the Marina Beach police. Wait, I think this is our call … Yes? Good. Put her on now. Drake—”

Simon grabbed the telephone and listened to Wanda’s voice.

“Simon? Are you there? Honey, what kind of weird gag is this?”

“Are you all right?” Simon asked.

“Of course I’m all right, but I’m mad! I don’t mind so much that you had some character dress like an airport guard and whisk me off in a limousine on the pretext of taking a short cut to my plane, but you might have warned me. Simon, say something!”