The Brink of Murder (10 page)

It was Kevin Amling with fire in his eyes.

“What the hell—” Kevin yelled.

“Exactly,” Simon said. “What the hell are you trying to do? I told your friend inside that I wanted to see you.”

“Maybe I don’t want to see you.”

“You want to see me all right. That’s why you sent me the pictures of your father and Verna Castle dining at The Golden Fleece. Why did you try to run away? Cold feet?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kevin protested.

“Then I’ll have to be more explicit. Park that contraption and come with me.”

“Where?”

Kevin looked almost hysterical. Simon considered slapping his face to bring him to his senses; instead, he grabbed the collar of his jacket and began to march him swiftly towards the Jaguar.

“Wherever I say!” he snapped.

S
IMON STARTED UP
the car and drove out of the parking-lot. It was the dinner hour and most public parking places would be filled so he drove out to the point where the mock-Cape Cod village was located. The Cape Cod village was a requisite of any self-respecting marina on the Pacific Coast, in spite of the fact that a mock-Spanish fishing village would have been more compatible with the terrain and a reminder to tourists that the heritage of the nation wasn’t solely white Anglo-Saxon protestant. At this hour most of the shops were closed. He found a parking space near the coastguard building and switched off the ignition. Kevin was slumped in the adjoining seat with his chin on his chest. He was trembling. Simon thought it was from the cold. He opened the glove compartment and took out half a pint of brandy that was always there for emergencies. He uncapped the bottle.

“Take a drink,” he ordered.

“I’m in training,” Kevin protested.

“You’re shaking,” Simon said. “It’s good for a quick warm-up.”

Kevin drank—hesitantly and then eagerly. When he stopped trembling Simon took back the bottle. “Save a little for me, chum,” he said. He took a few swallows and re-capped the bottle. As he replaced it in the glove compartment he could see Kevin’s face in the light from the overhead lamps. His cheeks were wet with tears.

“Okay,” Simon said, leaning back in the seat, “when you feel up to it you can tell me what this is all about.”

Kevin cleared his throat noisily. “How did you know I sent you those photos?” he asked.

“I didn’t at first. Then I saw that kid with the camera—Phillipe.”

“Phil,” Kevin corrected. “His name is Phil Swanson and his father was layed off in the aerospace cutback. He needs that job, Mr Drake. Please don’t make trouble for him.”

“I was just trying to scare him into telling me where you were. Your mother called me from Ojai this afternoon. She’s worried about you.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Kevin said, “but what could I do? I couldn’t tell her why I had to leave. I couldn’t tell her about those pictures. She’s hurt enough already.”

“Who had the photos? Phil?”

“No. I had them at our house. I went there this afternoon and got in the back way. Old Norm doesn’t even know I was in the house. Then I sent them to you because I thought somebody should see them—somebody who could do something about them.”

“Is that why you tried to run away from me a few minutes ago?”

“I don’t know. I guess Amlings are just good at running when the heat’s on.”

“Don’t say that,” Simon said sharply.

“But a million dollars. Jesus!”

“You don’t know—nobody knows that your father took that money. Remember that. He’s been a good husband and father for a lot of years, Kevin. He’s entitled to some loyalty. Now suppose you tell me how you got those pictures.”

“Phil took them,” Kevin said, “but only because I asked him. It started a couple of months ago. I knew Phil was working at The Golden Fleece after school—we’re in the same class. He told me they were hiring busboys and dishwashers and that I could pick up some cash if I wanted work. He knew I wanted to buy a Harley-Davidson. I said that I didn’t know if my father would like to have me working so late. I’ve been on sort of a curfew since—well, since some trouble I had.” Kevin was referring to his scrapes with the law but Simon didn’t push for details. He wanted to hear the rest of the story about the pictures. “Phil said: ‘Why don’t you come down some night and ask him?’ Then he said that he had seen my parents there and I knew something wasn’t kosher. They don’t like flossy places. I even asked my mother if she’d been to The Golden Fleece and she didn’t know what it was. When I told that to Phil he acted funny—like, forget it. So I told him if he ever saw my father there again he should take his picture, without him knowing it, and show it to me. When I said that I didn’t realize my father was going out with another woman. I thought Phil was mistaken.”

“Until he did take a picture and show it to you.”

“Right. Then I knew something was wrong. The night Phil took that first picture my father had called and said he was flying to Palm Springs. I told Phil to call me at the house if my father came in again. About two weeks later he called and I got out without my mother knowing it and rode down there. I put on an apron and worked in the kitchen. When Phil brought back the second picture I sneaked into the dining room. I saw my father leaving with that woman.”

“Did you follow them?”

“Sure. All they did was go to the inn and walk up to the desk. The clerk gave them a key and they went upstairs. I hung around for an hour but they didn’t come down.”

“Did your father come home that night?”

“No. He had called earlier and told my mother he was going to San Francisco and wouldn’t be home until the next day.” Kevin’s voice broke in a smothered sob. “Why did he do it, Mr Drake? My mother’s a nice lady. She’s a lot prettier than the woman in the pictures.”

“Do you know who she is?”

“No. I never went back to The Golden Fleece until tonight. I even stopped talking to Phil.”

Kevin sighed and slumped back in the seat. He seemed exhausted and that was understandable. He was pretty young to be carrying a burden like that for two months.

“And you never spoke to your father about it?”

“How could I? I didn’t even want him to know that I knew. I figured it was one of the crazy things grown-ups do and he would soon forget about her. But now he’s gone. He’s left us all.”

“All right,” Simon said. “I get your point.”

“Are you still mad?”

“A little. Because you didn’t tell me sooner. But it’s all right. I’ll find out what those pictures signify without creating a fuss. You did the right thing, Mr Smith.”

The grin Kevin screwed up on his face was pathetic but it was an improvement over the trembling. Simon switched on the ignition and started the motor.

“What are you going to do now?” Kevin asked.

“Find a telephone booth and call your mother,” Simon said.

He drove back to the business area of the marina and parked beside a public telephone. By that time he had coached Kevin on what he must say. He put in the call to Ojai and waited until Carole came to the telephone. Then he said: “Carole, I’ve got someone here who wants to talk to you.” He turned the telephone over to Kevin and stood by while the boy explained that he had panicked when he heard the news about his father on the radio and run off without telling her he was leaving. When that part was finished Simon took the telephone again and told Carole Amling that he was putting her son in a cab and sending him back to Ojai immediately. “Tomorrow is Thanksgiving,” he concluded. “The family should be together.”

When he concluded the call he hustled Kevin back into the car and drove to the nearest hotel where a few cabs were waiting. He gave the driver a bill and promised that the boy’s family would pay any extra at the other end of the trip, and then he gave one final directive.

“Drive carefully,” he said, “and under no circumstances are you to open the doors of this cab until you reach the address I gave you.”

As Kevin was crawling into the back seat Simon asked him one more question.

“That night you saw your father get a room key at the hotel,” he said, “did you ask any questions at the desk? Did you ask, after he left the desk, if Mr Amling was registered or what room he was in?”

Kevin shook his head. “I didn’t have to ask,” he said. “I followed them into the lobby. Heck, they weren’t thinking about me. They didn’t even look around. They didn’t register, either. The clerk just smiled and gave them a key. ‘Three-oh-one,’ he said, ‘just like he knew them. Just like they did it all the time.”

Simon nodded. “All right,” he said. “Don’t jump to conclusions and don’t talk about this to anyone. After all, your mother is staying with Eric Larson and people could talk about that if they wanted to.”

“Talk?” Kevin squeaked. “How could they talk? Eric’s so square he sleeps at the clinic. We’re staying in the house with the housekeeper. Eric doesn’t dig my mother at all.”

Simon closed the car door and watched the cab wheel away. Kevin was wrong about one thing. With the cruel glare of publicity hanging over Carole Amling the doctor’s behaviour was anything but square. It could mean that he did dig Carole—very much.

Thanksgiving eve. Simon went back to his car and argued with himself. After all, what could he do with the information he had on Thanksgiving eve? He thought about the room at the Century Plaza where Wanda would be sleeping the night, and, as he had told Carole Amling, families belonged together at such a time. He opened up the glove compartment again and argued some more with the aid of what was left of the brandy. Barney Amling had been missing almost two weeks. Twenty-four hours more couldn’t make all that difference. But the lights of the Marina Inn twinkled across the channel and before Simon had emptied the bottle he knew the argument was lost. He drove back to the inn and parked in the guest parking. He walked into the lobby and asked for a room at the desk. When the clerk turned to consult the vacancies Simon leaned forward and breathed the aromatic fumes of brandy in his direction.

“I don’t want just any little old room. Any old room that looks like a broom closet,” he said. “I want a room upstairs with a view. I believe in numerology. Do you believe in numerology?”

The clerk turned back and looked at him carefully. “Do you have any luggage, sir?” he asked.

“Luggage? I don’t need luggage to sleep. I’ve got money. That’s all that’s important. And how do you think I got my money? Numerology. I’ve got lucky numbers. Three—that’s my lucky number. And one.”

“I can give you room thirty-one,” the clerk said, “but it’s on the ground floor.”

“I don’t want the ground floor. I want the third floor. I want a room with the number three and one in it. Three-oh-one. Three-nought-one.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the clerk said, “we don’t have a room with that number.”

Simon lurched against the counter. “What do you mean you don’t have a room with that number? I never heard of such a thing. I want to see the manager.”

“The manager is off duty,” the clerk said. “Perhaps if you tried some other inn—”

“Three-nought-one,” Simon insisted. “Don’t tell me you don’t have such a room. I can see the number on that box right behind your left shoulder.”

The clerk sighed. “All right. We do have such a room but it’s not available. It’s a private suite.”

“Private!” Simon exploded. “What do you mean private? This is a public inn, isn’t it?”

“It is. But the room in question is reserved. It’s always reserved for the special guests of the owner.”

“Then I want to see the owner!”

The harried clerk had sent an eye signal across the room and a burly bellhop was approaching across the carpeted lobby. Simon saw him out of the corner of his eye and knew he hadn’t much time. He repeated the request for the owner and was told, tightly, that the owner didn’t live in the hotel. The suite was reserved for friends and special guests of the owner.

“Miss Castle lives on her yacht,” the clerk said, “and I’m sure she didn’t send you or we would have been notified. But there are several other inns that might accommodate you.”

Simon felt a firm grasp on his arm.

“No offence,” he said. “Just a little too much holiday cheer.”

“The night air’s good for that, Bud,” the bellhop said.

“No offence,” Simon repeated. “But I don’t like that business about private suites. Private! No wonder there’s so much talk about revolution! And owners living on yachts. I don’t buy that. What’s the name of the yacht?”

By this time there were two bellhops and Simon was being rapidly walked to the door. “I don’t believe there’s any yacht,” he yelled. “What’s the name of the yacht?”

But nobody talked to him any more. He was marched out to the sidewalk and turned loose.

“Walk it off, Bud,” a bellhop advised, “but just be sure you don’t walk back this way unless you want to spend the holidays in the drunk tank.”

Simon walked back to his car thinking how proud Hannah would have been of his performance as a drunk. He drove all around the marina and tried to calculate how many hundreds of boats were in the berths. He thought of some people he knew who lived in the apartments and might know which one belonged to Verna Castle, and then he thought of what a dirty trick it would be to bother them on Thanksgiving eve and how he would probably end up a genuine drunk if he did. So he filed away in the back of his mind all he had learned about Verna Castle and Barney Amling and then drove to the Century Plaza where he was treated more kindly by the personnel. Wanda had left word at the desk that he was to be taken up to her room if she wasn’t in, which she wasn’t. He went upstairs and undressed, hanging his brown suit and the shirt with the French cuffs carefully in the closet, and then went to bed.

It was a little after two o’clock when Wanda came in. She went directly into the bathroom, showered, and came out wearing a tiny piece of chiffon and a robe. She didn’t turn on the bedroom lights because the drapes were open so all the sparkling lights of the city would show. She drew back the blankets and Simon pulled her down beside him.

“Oh, Si! You did come,” she murmured.

It was nice.

“Happy Thanksgiving, honey,” he said.