Darkest Hour (24 page)

Simon leaned over the balcony. “Otto! Behind you!” he yelled.

Otto pivoted. Simon saw the flash of light on a knife blade as he scrambled down the stairs. The two men were grappling when he reached the scene. He grabbed the assassin from behind and heard the knife clatter to the ground. “Hit him, Otto! Hit him!” he said. Otto cocked a huge fist and sank it into the attacker’s jaw. Skin ripped, bones crackled and the man slumped against Simon’s shoulder. With one arm now freed he could draw the Luger and point it at Otto’s head. “Unlock the trunk,” he said. Otto obeyed. “Otto,” Simon said, “this is Max Berlin’s man. He was sent here to kill you. Put him in the trunk and lock the lid.”

Otto had a chocolate ice-cream mustache and a bloody gash on his right forearm. He was in a state of shock and didn’t understand anything but the Luger. Obedience was the keystone of his culture, and the gun was authority. When the attacker was locked inside the trunk, Simon directed Otto upstairs to his room and let him read the confession.

“But I didn’t write this!” Otto roared. “Who wrote this?
You
wrote this?”

“It’s all I can do to read German, let alone write it,” Simon said. “And this German was written by a German. I think Berlin did the job himself. He doesn’t need you any more, Otto. He told me that today. He’s a big man now. He doesn’t want reminders of the old days. Look at that slash on your arm. Imagine how it would look if your body had been found on this bed with both wrists slashed and that letter and those clippings on the dresser. Let’s see what the rest of the note says. Isn’t that Garcia’s name down there? What does it say about Garcia in La Verde?”

“It says that I killed Garcia!” Otto cried. “I didn’t shoot Garcia. You shot Garcia!”

“But you did kill Eve Potter.”

“No, not alone. It wasn’t my idea, anyway. Garcia said: ‘Kill her or else she talks.’ Garcia told me to kill the woman.”

“Who killed Sam Goddard?”

“Garcia! Goddard had a gun and shot at him, so Garcia picked up a rock—”

“Save it,” Simon said. “I’m a lawyer, Otto, and I tell you no lies. The only thing for you to do now is to come back to Marina Beach with me and tell your story to the district attorney. You’ll go to jail but I think I can promise that you won’t die—not if you cooperate with the authorities and tell them everything you know about Max Berlin. He can’t reach you in jail. At least you’ll be alive.”

Otto sat down on the bed and put his huge hands over his face. His shoulders trembled. After a few moments Simon realized that he was crying.

On the concluding day of the pretrial of Otto Schneider for the murder of Eve Necchi Potter, Simon appeared as a witness for the prosecution. Although the prospect of cooperating with Duane Thompson was somewhat nauseating, the greater prospect of exposing the Berlin operation overcame personal dislike. But Berlin had sent his second-echelon legal talent to defend Otto. “Defend” was hardly the proper term. The actual purpose of the legal assistance given the bewildered Otto was to get him indicted, convicted and sentenced as quickly and quietly as possible, and to protect the interests of Max Berlin to the maximum. Over the protests of a young lawyer named Drager (unofficially affiliated with Malvern and Robles) the suicide note found in Otto’s room in the Harbor Hotel was admitted as evidence. The defense provided three expensive handwriting experts to prove the handwriting was not that of Otto Schneider, and Duane Thompson provided one with equally impressive credentials to prove that it was. The defense claimed that Otto had an enemy who had tried to frame him for this lurid crime and pointed to Otto’s attacker in the Harbor Hotel parking lot as the guilty man. This man, Martin Lukas, having been duly transferred to the Marina Beach County Jail for the purpose of the trial, had been found dead in his cell as the result of an overdose of heroin.

Lieutenant Franzen broke the news to Simon the night the body was discovered.

“Somebody got to him after he was put in the cell,” Franzen said, and Simon mentally added another corpse to Berlin’s death list.

Without Lukas the suicide note remained as state’s evidence, but it wasn’t a deciding factor. Simon’s testimony was more damaging. It was given in three parts: the rehearsal of the meeting with Eve at the Balboa Bar—which Drager tried to turn to the advantage of the defense by establishing the availability of the victim: the call he received from her on the night of her death and the subsequent discovery of her body and his communication with Lieutenant Franzen immediately thereafter; and finally, and most damaging, his story of the events leading up to the fatal shooting of Garcia. Bonnie Penny’s testimony was given first and established the scene. Simon, unflinchingly, supplied full details. Still pending was his appearance before the inquest into Garcia’s death which would be held at La Verde. He freely admitted firing the shot that killed Garcia.

“And you are positive,” Thompson demanded, “that Otto Schneider was driving the automobile from which the deceased, Luis Garcia, emerged and threatened you and Miss Penny with a loaded gun?”

“Positive,” Simon said. “And Garcia did more than threaten. A shot was fired.”

“And you were, furthermore, then of the opinion that the defendant was in fact a killer?”

“It was more than an opinion,” Simon answered, before Drager could object. “Just forty-eight hours before the Gateway Bar shooting the same two men jumped me at the Seville Inn. Garcia hit me with the gun then and dropped it. It exploded. I recovered the exploded shell casing and checked it back to a gun registered to Sam Goddard, who was allegedly killed in an automobile accident about a week earlier. Goddard carried the gun with him when he left the house on the day he died but it wasn’t found on his body or in the car. I did find an exploded shell casing at the scene of the accident—”

By this time Drager was on his feet screaming, and the judge was forced to concur that the testimony had no bearing on the murder under investigation, but Simon had planted a seed.

“Garcia was holding the same gun—a Smith and Wesson .38—when we were jumped outside the Gateway Bar,” he protested. “Why shouldn’t I think that he meant to kill us? I asked him to take me and leave Miss Penny. When he refused, I shot him. It was self-defense. Otto Schneider was at the wheel of the sedan then. When the shot was fired he drove away and left Garcia calling him.”

Thompson picked up Sam Goddard’s gun from the exhibit table and held it before Simon. “Is this the gun you have just described, Mr. Drake?”

Simon tried to concentrate on the weapon, but all he could really see was Vera Raymond’s tragic face. She was seated beside Wanda in the spectator section. Wanda had just flown in from the East Coast—he hadn’t spoken with her yet. Now he couldn’t enjoy watching her because Vera’s eyes dominated the room. They never left Sam’s gun. “Yes, that’s the one,” he admitted.

“But Garcia was killed with a .22-caliber automatic. Do you own such a gun?”

The question was out of order. Thompson couldn’t resist getting in one low jab. “I do not!” Simon answered. “I was given that gun by someone who knew I was in danger. I didn’t have any more time to register it with the police than Eve Necchi Potter had to protest when Otto Schneider walked into her room at Motel Six. Sorry about that!”

The defense attorney screamed another protest and the judge’s gavel banged, but the jury was convinced that the accused man was a killer. When subsequent testimony by the operator of an all-night gas station placed the dark green Cougar within a mile of the murder scene shortly before Eve’s death, the evidence was sufficient to bring an indictment of first-degree murder. On the advice of counsel, Otto made a plea of guilty by reason of temporary insanity. Everybody was happy, especially Duane Thompson, who had discovered that his left profile photographed better than a full-face shot and took advantage of the fact when braving batteries of cameras.

• • •

Later, Simon and Wanda watched the television coverage.

“Beautiful!” Simon exclaimed, as the newscaster switched to another topic. “Duane Thompson scores again! All he needs to do now is to come out with a statement on foreign policy—one that sounds big and says nothing—he’s a shoo-in for governor. Sacramento’s loss will be Marina Beach’s gain.”

Wanda chuckled and stretched catlike on the bed. She had dressed hours ago, if tight beach shorts and a pink velour top constituted dressing. Simon had gotten as far as his boxer shorts before becoming enthralled by the film reenactment of the recently-ended drama. His own part of the trial testimony had been concluded at
11 A.M
. of the previous day. Wanda had been waiting curbside with the Jaguar and drove him directly to a resort motel farther down the beach. It was off season and delightfully deserted: a perfect place to unwind and renew an old acquaintance. But now she had decided that they must go out and walk on the beach at sunset and then dress and go out for dinner, and all this in spite of excellent room service from the kitchen and bar. Simon had a counterplan. If the newscast lasted a bit longer it would be too late for a sunset walk. After that he could improvise.

Wanda was frowning. “Simon,” she said, “why did you keep using Sam Goddard’s name in your testimony?”

“Because Sam was murdered, too.”

“But it had nothing to do with the trial. I sat near Vera Raymond yesterday. She was taking it all in, and I could see how miserable she was. I could actually
feel
the tension. It would be better if she tried to forget it.”

“That will take time,” Simon said. “Vera’s one of those women who bear up under stress and collapse when it’s over. You should have seen her reaction when Jack Keith suggested the same thing at the border a few weeks ago. She’s bitter because no action is being taken in Sam’s death. I turned the shell cases over to Franzen. He thinks it’s murder, too, but there won’t be any prosecution. Otto’s lawyer put in a plea of guilty. He’ll have a brief trial and an automatic sentence. I know Max Berlin would rather see Otto get death, but that’s impossible now. He can always have him killed after he goes to prison.”

“Simon!”

“It happens, honey. Don’t worry about it. Otto’s death is no great loss to anyone—except the federal-investigation services that would like to wring the truth out of him. They know all about Berlin’s operations. They can’t act without evidence.”

“And they don’t have evidence because of me.”

“Wanda, for God’s sake don’t develop a guilt complex. Berlin’s won this round—that’s all. Sooner or later he’ll make a slip—”

But Wanda’s eyes were shining with inspiration. “You could write a book on Berlin,” she said. “Nobody sues for libel any more unless it’s a publicity stunt. You could use a pseudonym for Berlin—”

“Like what? Max Peking? A megalomaniac by any other name? Wanda, sweetheart, don’t you know that any exposé of Berlin on that level would triple his business? The ladies would flock to the salons! It would be the chic thing to do in the beautiful-people set. No, the truth is hard to swallow but Berlin is home free this trip. He bought that land from Whitey, by the way.”

“Hannah’s real estate friend in La Verde? Doesn’t he know what Berlin is?”

“Whitey knows that a sale is a sale. Don’t look so shocked. Whitey’s clean. He made his money at a time when you had to be a mental delinquent not to make it. He loves everybody and everybody loves him. He did fire Alex Lacey when he learned Alex was Berlin’s finger man who informed him that Monterey was in La Verde. Berlin will find a successor if he needs one. But Monterey’s dossier was what created the need for a La Verde contact. With Monterey dead there may be no replacement.”

“But I still can’t see why nothing can be done. You have the tape with Monterey’s voice—”

“Making allegations that can’t be backed up with testimony because he’s dead. Even the shell cases are useless now. Sam’s gun was stolen during the pretrial.”

“Berlin?”

“One of his men, I suppose. I don’t think Thompson would pull a trick like that just to avoid further investigation. But I do feel sorry for Vera. She gets the worst of all this. Honey, that woman has made me think. She stuck with Sam all these years and helped him keep alive his fantasy of believing to the last that he would find his big story and make a financial comeback. Well, he did find it but it’s Charley Leem who’ll do the marketing. But that’s love, baby. That’s a woman!”

“I know another woman,” Wanda said.

“So do I. You never did tell me what happened to the play.”

“It bombed out the first week.”

“So there’ll be another play that won’t bomb out. In the meantime—”

He pulled her down on the bed and found her mouth with his. She was warm and eager, and for a few moments the ugly world of Max Berlin disappeared. Sanity returned. Life was renewing itself: that miracle that all the sewage and moral erosion of the ages couldn’t erase. Max Berlin could complete his million-dollar deal. Severing and Di Miro could corner the quinine market and push up the prices of its lifesaving derivative until it was denied to millions, but no matter how dark the night might be somewhere a man and a woman would reach out to affirm life again. As long as anyone loved anyone else it was not too late.

Then, abruptly, Simon pushed Wanda aside and sat upright in the bed.

“Hey, mister, make up your mind!” she said.

He touched his hand to her lips. A woman commentator on the television screen was describing a flamboyant special event that was about to start in the ballroom at the Seville Inn in nearby La Verde: the ground-breaking ceremonies for Max Berlin’s latest spa. The commentator gave a brief preview of the style show on the evening’s agenda; the camera panned to the bandstand where the sensational new discovery, Buddy Jenks, was appearing with the orchestra from the Gateway Bar, and then continued to pan about the room where guests were arriving for a gala evening. Bonnie Penny was holding hands with Whitey Sanders while gazing longingly at Buddy. Still clutching the bird in the hand. The camera moved again and held for a moment on a face that was strikingly unsmiling. Tense and determined, Vera Raymond had gone to the ball.

Simon scrambled out of bed. “Where’re my pants?” he yelled. “Where’s my shirt? Where’s the phone?”

He found the telephone while Wanda located his clothes. He called The Mansion and talked to Hannah. “Are you watching the evening newscast?” he asked.

“With my blood pressure?” Hannah cried. “My doctor forbids it! I’m just sitting here counting my silver hoard. I’ve collected two hundred and thirteen dollars in quarters and dimes. If the government gives permission to have it melted down, I’m having mine cast in a silver calf. We’re apt to go off the gold standard one of these days. I don’t want to get caught with the wrong religion.”

“Never mind that now,” Simon said. “Max Berlin’s having a big party to celebrate the ground-breaking ceremonies for his new spa. It’s on the news.”

“Oh, I know about that. We received engraved invitations.”

“We would! Okay, grab the invitations and have Chester drive you to the Seville Inn immediately. We’ll meet you there.”

“Where are you now?”

“That’s not important. What is important is that Vera Raymond is at the Seville. I just saw her on camera.”

“Oh, that’s dreadful!”

“It could be worse than dreadful. She’s too near the breaking point for this kind of stunt. If you and Chester get there first, try to find her and get her away before she meets Berlin. I don’t think she can handle that—not yet.”

“We’re on our way,” Hannah said.

While Simon dressed Wanda exchanged the shorts and top for the dress she had laid out for dinner. Within five minutes from the time Simon called Hannah, they were in the XK-E headed for La Verde. Nobody felt like conversation except for the time Wanda said: “Honey, I don’t want to wait as long as Vera Raymond. When this is all over let’s drive on to Las Vegas and get married. I don’t have to have my name in lights to know who I am any more.”

“It’s a deal,” Simon said.

• • •

The red Rolls was in the parking lot when they arrived at the hotel. Chester met them at the main entrance. “Hannah’s gone upstairs to the ballroom,” he said. “It’s on the second floor. The fashion show just ended and Berlin’s getting ready to hold a press conference. I guess he thinks he’s the Chief Executive now.”

“Have you found Vera?” Simon asked.

“Not yet. This crowd—”

“If you haven’t found her what are we talking about? Let’s go!”

Chester sprinted ahead and caught the elevator. They rode up in silence and the elevator doors opened on a wave of laughter and happy talk that faded under the compelling persuasion of Buddy’s trumpet sounding a jazzy fanfare. Then Max Berlin, brilliant in a white brocade dinner jacket and black trousers, strode out onto a raised dais and faced a battery of cameras and reporters. Questions were fired at him from the working press. He answered with just the right balance of humor and humility. Berlin possessed a magnetism that made the truth about him seem unbelievable.