The Brink of Murder (11 page)

T
HANKSGIVING DAY
. They slept late because the sun was hidden behind layers of smog and clouds that gave the room an eerie pre-dawn appearance at ten-thirty. It was a good day to stay in bed but they were both hungry so Wanda got on the telephone and ordered Eggs Benedict for two with large orange juices and a pot of black coffee. When room service delivered the cart Wanda was up, wearing her robe and slippers, to direct the setting of the table in front of the window. Simon had to stay in bed with the sheet pulled up to his chin because he had no pyjamas. When the waiter left the room, Wanda brought him a huge bath sheet from the shower so he could wrap up like an Indian in Terry cloth and join her for breakfast. The morning
Times
had been delivered as a courtesy of the hotel. The Amling story was still on the front page and several sportswriters had picked it up for special columns in spite of the fact that there was nothing new to report. That Amling had fled to Argentina was hinted at darkly, but no reporter had picked up the bit about a Barry Anderson buying a ticket on a flight to Buenos Aires. Modern journalists seemed more concerned with purple prose than legwork.

Simon tossed the paper on the floor in a gesture of disgust and poured himself a second cup of coffee.

“This is a holiday,” he insisted. “When we’re through eating I’m going to get back into bed and spend the day watching football games on the television.”

“It’s colour,” Wanda said.

“Good. We can see the blood.”

“What about dinner?”

“Room service.”

“Cocktails?”

“Room service.”

“Do you intend to spend the entire day wrapped up in a towel?”

Simon grinned. “Why not? It’s comfortable.”

“You’ll embarrass the waiters,” Wanda said. “I have an idea.”

She got back on the telephone and called the liquor store in the lobby.

“Sam? How nice. You’re open. This is Wanda Drake.” The name didn’t make the proper impression so she tried again. “Wanda
Call
Drake.” Bingo! It registered and she was all smiles. “You’re sweet,” she said. “Listen, Sam. My husband came in last night and we’re up here dying of thirst. You will? Wonderful! Send up a fifth of Buchanan’s—and do you have Champagne? Oh, with glasses, too. Well, one bottle to start. You know my room number. And Sam—is your brother’s store open today? My husband doesn’t have any sleeping gear. You have? You will? Sam, you’re an absolute darling.”

Simon finished his coffee and left the table to turn on the TV. Wanda was still rattling away on the telephone when he tuned in to a ball game in Miami where the sun was shining brightly in a cloudless sky in direct defiance of every Los Angeles viewer.

From across the room Wanda asked: “Si, what is your suit size?”

“I don’t want a suit,” Simon said. “I’ve got one in the closet and I won’t put it on.”

“I didn’t ask you to put it on, darling. I asked the size.”

The picture on the tube was fine but all of the players had blue faces and it wasn’t that cold in Miami. “I don’t know the size,” he said.

“Oh, Sam, just make it large. Yes. Anything you like in large and put it on my bill.”

Simon got the colour co-ordinated in time to see a long pass intercepted and run back to the 40-yard line. The camera switched to the cheering section and all of the pretty little girls with pom-poms had oriental colouring, but Simon had got back into bed and wasn’t about to move.

Wanda sat down beside him looking pleased with herself. “Sam’s brother has a men’s-wear shop in the lobby,” she explained, “and Sam has the key. He’s sending up pyjamas and a robe with the booze.”

“Expecting a fire?” Simon asked.

She hit him with a pillow.

In some ways it was a lovely day but Simon couldn’t keep his mind on the game. When the order from the liquor store was delivered he fell heir to a pair of canary-yellow Mandarin-type pyjamas with a salmon-pink dragon embroidered over the left side pocket, and a purple karate coat with a gold-fringed belt. Either Sam was colour blind or had taken advantage of the chance to get rid of slow-moving stock.

“I don’t think I’d care to meet Sam’s brother’s clientèle,” Simon reflected, “and the waiter’s still going to be shocked.”

He switched the TV channel to a game being played in Dallas where the sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky. By this time the sun over Los Angeles was edging its way through the overcast like a poached egg in a bowl of dirty milk. While two football teams skidded about on the astro-turf Simon thought about Verna Castle and wondered why he couldn’t get her out of his mind. When the game was over Wanda ordered dinner from room service: rare steaks because they didn’t care for turkey, but with cranberries on the side because it was Thanksgiving. When the waiter came Simon pulled the sheet up to his neck again and Wanda had the cart placed beside the bed so they could watch the movie that followed the football game. It was an oldie, circa 1943, and a cast of entertainers who had since grown fat and bald were bouncing around in army uniforms with wide trousers, singing, dancing and marching off to win world war two with wise-cracks. It looked like the most fun war of all times with victory hanging solely on the success of the musical revue the male lead was trying to stage before the company went overseas. The steak was gone, the mince pie was gone and Simon had uncorked the bottle of Champagne before the male lead announced to his buddy that he was in love with a girl named Alverna.

“Alverna,” Simon said, overpouring Wanda’s glass.

“She’s the Doris Day-type with blonde pigtails,” Wanda said. Wanda always watched television films with the intensity of a seminarian studying for the priesthood. “She’s supposed to be a poor country girl working as a welder, but she’s really the daughter of the oil tycoon who’s going to finance the show on Broadway in the last reel. Five dollars.”

Simon sipped his Champagne with more tingles in his flesh than in the sparkling bubbly. “I won’t bet you five dollars because you always win,” he said. “Besides, I saw this picture with my cub-scout troop on a free Saturday matinée for kids.”

He climbed out of bed leaving her the Champagne and the movie. In a drawer under the telephone he found two fat directories. One was yellow. He flipped open the pages to the listings for detectives and located a small box enclosing the name: David G. Alder, Private Investigator. He copied the telephone number on the courtesy pad supplied by the management and tested the length of the telephone cord. By stretching it tight he could just manage to take the instrument outside the sliding glass doors on to the balcony. The entertainers on the film were going into a big stars-and-stripes number and he had to escape the din. He dialled Adler’s number and reached an answering service. After some wrangling he extracted Adler’s home number and dialled again.

Adler came on grouchy. He must have backed the wrong team.

“I’m Simon Drake,” Simon said. “You may have heard of me. I do a lot of business with a colleague of yours—Jack Keith.”

“Keith I know,” Adler said. “Why don’t you call him? This is Thanksgiving.”

“I’d like to call him but he’s gone off on a vacation and can’t be located.”

“Smart man.”

“I do his income tax returns and so I know that he uses your services on occasion. I need some information urgently.”

“Thanksgiving,” Adler repeated.

“I know. But tomorrow isn’t Thanksgiving. Will your office be open?”

“Nine to five,” Adler said.

“Good. I’ll be in to see you. In the meantime, I’ll give you something to think about. I need information on a woman named Alverna Castile. She figured in a court trial about ten years ago. Police scandal.”

“Alverna Castle.” Alder repeated the name slowly as if he might be writing it down. “A.m. or p.m.?” he asked. “What do you mean?”

“Are you coming in tomorrow a.m. or p.m.?”

“A.m. if I can make it. Early as I can make it.”

“Okay,” Adler said. “I’ll be there.”

It was chilly on the balcony for nothing but Mandarin pyjamas. Simon completed the call as the sun gave up in disgust and slid behind an oily yellow cloud. He took the telephone inside the room again and selected the other telephone directory to find a second number. The movie was still in progress. The whole cast was screaming with delight because they had just discovered Alverna’s father was an oil tycoon who would finance the Broadway production of their show before the boys went overseas. Wanda leered at Simon as he retreated to the balcony again.

He dialled the home number of Mary Sutton.

She was slow answering. When she did respond her voice sounded flat and far away as if she had difficulty in co-ordinating her vocal cords with her brain. Simon introduced himself and received no greeting of delight.

“I’m sorry, Mr Drake,” she said. “I gave a little party here last night and I’m not too sharp this morning.”

“Afternoon,” Simon said. “Almost three o’clock.”

“Really? It looks earlier—or maybe later. Where are you calling from?”

“The Century Plaza. I plan to go back to the beach tomorrow, Miss Sutton, and there’s something I must talk to you about. I wonder if I could come over to your apartment for about half an hour.”

She didn’t answer for several seconds. “Must you?” she asked. “The place is a mess. I’m a mess.”

He could hear her moving about the room. The telephone must have been on a long cord because the sound of her footsteps changed from soft carpeting to something harder like wood or tile. A door closed.

“I’m a mess, too,” Simon said ruefully. “At the moment I’m wearing canary-yellow pyjamas. I haven’t showered or shaved and I have to dress. I could make it at four o’clock if it’s all right with you.”

“Why should it be all right with me?” she demanded. Her voice was louder now as if she wasn’t worried that anyone else would overhear.

“Because it concerns Barney Amling and we both want to know where he is. I’ll give you a clue. Do you know a Miss Verna Castle?”

He could hear her breathing. That was all.

“She owns a hotel and a restaurant and a yacht—God knows what else. I think she may have done business with Barney.”

“Oh,
that
Vcrna Castle,” Mary Sutton said.

“Bells ringing?”

“Only in my head. Yes, Miss Castle took out a loan with Pacific Guaranty about two years ago. A large one.”

“Through McClary’s office or through Barney’s?”

“Both. McClary okayed the loan first and then Barney—I don’t think I should discuss business over the telephone, Mr Drake.”

“Aren’t you alone?”

She hesitated. “That’s not the point,” she said. “I have no records here. I can’t recall the details. There was some sort of disagreement between Ralph McClary and Mr Amling about the interest rates—but it was such a long time ago.”

“No recent business?”

“No.”

“Then why has Barney been meeting with Miss Castle at her hotel several times within the last two months?”

The thin, disinterested voice came alive then for an instant. “I don’t believe that,” Mary Sutton snapped.

“But it’s true. I have proof and I’ll bring it to your apartment at four o’clock. By that time you may remember the details about that other loan.”

“Mr Drake, please don’t—” she began.

“Four o’clock sharp,” Simon said and concluded the call.

As soon as Wanda learned Simon was going out of the hotel, she insisted on going with him. He explained that it was business and that he would be gone less than an hour, and she explained that she was his wife and that she would sit in the car and wait for him while he talked to Mary Sutton. It was easier to agree than to argue. Simon showered and dressed and returned to the bedroom to find her decked out in a burnt-orange knit suit and a brown suede jacket. She could dress in a dark closet in three minutes and come out looking smarter than any woman in the hotel. There was still some Champagne in the bottle. She had poured two glasses and was standing beside the table examining the two photos that had spilled out of the envelope. She handed Simon a glass of Champagne and said:

“One for the road.”

“If you drink don’t drive,” Simon said by way of a toast.

“Where did you get the pictures of Barney Amling?” she asked.

“Classified information,” Simon said.

“Who is the woman?”

“If you’re caption-minded you might call her ‘The Mystery Woman’.”

“Is she the one you’re going to see?”

“How did you know I was going to see a woman?”

“Because you asked me to wait in the car.”

Simon drained the glass and returned it to the table. He picked up the photos and took Wanda’s arm. “I don’t think the lady will wait,” he said.

He had never spoken a truer word.

It was a short drive to the quiet residential street on which Mary Sutton’s apartment was located. Simon parked opposite the building at five minutes before four. It seemed later. The sky was darker and most of the windows in the stylish new building were already lighted. One thing was different about the street. No black and white police car hugged the curb and it seemed a little lonesome without Lieutenant Wabash.

“Which apartment is it?” Wanda asked. “I want to know where to go if you call for help.”

“I’m not sure,” Simon admitted. “It’s on the fourth floor.”

Their eyes climbed upward. Only one set of windows on the fourth floor showed light and that was a wavering, flickering light as if someone might have a fire going in the fireplace.

“Psychedelic light show,” Wanda said. “If that’s the apartment you must be calling on a pot smoker. Take me along?”

“To smoke pot?”

“To see the freaks—Simon—” Wanda’s light banter worked its way up into a near shriek. Her eyes were still on the window. Simon, who was then climbing out of the car, looked upward just as the drapes at the flickering window were enveloped in flames.

“It’s a fire!” Wanda cried.

Simon reached inside the car and grabbed the telephone. He had time to dial the operator and ask for the fire department but that was all. Suddenly the entire window shattered outward and through it, hurtling like an exhibition diver executing a backward swan, came a woman wearing a long green housecoat laced with a fringe of orange flame. A shutter snapped in Simon’s brain. For an instant that grotesque plummeting figure seemed to hold in space as if the law of gravity had been found unconstitutional. During that instant Simon failed to see the open convertible creeping along the opposite curbing as if the driver was searching for a house number. The outward thrust of the woman’s leap took her clear of the sidewalk. She fell, still blazing, into the rear seat of the car. There must have been screaming. Simon was never sure about that. The terrified driver slammed his foot down on the accelerator instead of the brake and the ensuing rush of air fanned the flames.