The Brink of Murder (19 page)

“I didn’t know that,” Adler exclaimed.

“That’s because you watch too much TV. I think he had an accident with that car and that’s why he got rid of it so soon. Now, here’s the clincher, I want you to check out the LA newspaper on the night of the date Amling was admitted to Laurelwood. Check for any serious accidents—hit and run. Probably involving a fatality.”

“I detect the putrid stench of blackmail,” Adler said. “All this research is going to cost you.”

“Not as much as it cost Barney Amling,” Simon said. “He was admitted to Laurelwood by a woman who claimed to be his sister: a Mrs Joseph Carnes.”

“Oy vey,” Adler groaned.

O
N THE FOLLOWING
day Simon went to see Knox Reardon. The captain was in conference when he arrived at division headquarters and Lieutenant Wabash, who told Simon to wait, was muttering over his desk work. “I joined the police force to see some action,” he complained. “I should have taken a course in typing. Do you know a good lawyer, Drake? I’m going to need one if I don’t find all of the heroin we confiscated in a beach house raid a few weeks ago. The commission will throw the book at me so hard I’ll have to turn private snoop to support my family.”

“Where did you leave it?” Simon asked.

“In the lower drawer of my desk—one that locks. The captain’s going to say, ‘Why did you wait so long to file your report?’ “

“Why did you?” Simon asked.

“Because we made it the same day your friend Amling disappeared. I thought I’d have a couple of weeks to get the paper work done and right in the middle of it I’m put on the Amling case. Now I have to try to remember the details of bringing in those punks from the Pucci property.”

“What Pucci property?”

Wabash grinned wickedly. “Legally it still belongs to the old lady who didn’t want to sell,” he admitted, “but I’ve seen Pucci operate before. He wants a certain property so he applies pressure and we start getting complaints about wild parties at the beach house. After enough complaints we have to raid. Sure enough, we find a bunch of bushy-haired kids with electric guitars, a stash of marijuana and about twenty thousand dollars’ worth of horse. For all we know he had the hard stuff planted himself. Anyway, I hear the old lady who owns the house is so uptight about renting to junkies that she’s ready to accept Pucci’s offer.”

“Don’t knock free enterprise,” Simon said.

Knox Reardon came to the door of his office then and invited Simon inside. It was roomier than Wabash’s and had a small artificial putting green on the floor near the windows. “I think better when I’m relaxed,” Reardon explained. “Sit down and unburden your soul, Drake, if that’s what you’ve come for.”

“Did Carole decide to go to Hawaii?” Simon asked.

“Not yet, but I’m seeing her again tonight. There’s a benefit dance at the Shoreside Country Club. It’s good public relations for me to be there and Carole’s coming with Larson. That takes guts, you know. Making a public appearance so soon after Barney’s death in Buenos Aires. She’s determined to keep up a front for the sake of the boys.”

“Barney didn’t die in Buenos Aires,” Simon said.

Reardon missed the putt he was about to sink. He turned around slowly and looked at Simon as if he had just announced the discovery of little green men on the moon. Simon took advantage of the conversational void to explain about the blood tests of the stains on his jacket and watched Reardon’s face turn to the colour of wet cement.

“There must be a mistake,” Reardon insisted. “I
saw
Barney. We both saw him.”

“We saw the man who was supposed to be Barney,” Simon said. “We both made an identification because we were looking for Barney and saw what we expected to see.”

Reardon shook his head incredulously. “But we found Barney’s things in the hotel: the luggage, the clothes, the passport—”

“Raincoat, wallet and gun,” Simon concluded. “There are still a few things missing. Nine hundred thousand dollars, to begin with.”

“Have you talked about this with Carole?”

“Not yet.”

“Then don’t—that’s an order. That woman’s been through enough hell without getting up false hopes. If Barney’s still in South America he may never be found. It will be easier for her to go on believing he’s dead.”

“That’s the way I see it,” Simon agreed. “If he’s in South America. Did you run a ballistics test on his gun?”

Reardon nodded. “It had been fired recently,” he said.

“Are you still interested in why I went to see Mary Sutton?”

“Very much so.”

“Then I’ll tell you. I called her and made an appointment to visit her apartment at four that afternoon because I was interested in the possibility that Barney was in some trouble at the office. She intimated there was some discussion about him giving special interest rates to favoured clients. She didn’t want to talk about it but I put on pressure. I told you that I had the impression she wasn’t alone in the apartment.”

Reardon nodded. “Paul Corman was with her. He told us that and said he left a few minutes after your call.”

“After which she set fire to herself and jumped out of the fourth-floor window backwards,” Simon said.

“Backwards? Are you sure?”

“I saw her. So did my wife.”

“Then you think she was pushed.”

“I’m not going to talk about that. I’m still Barney’s lawyer.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“Think about it,” Simon said, “and go to that dance tonight and pretend that you’re competing for an award as the tightest-mouthed policeman of the year.”

Reardon looked as gloomy as any law officer would look if he thought a nasty case was closed and it suddenly exploded in his face. “Drake,” he thundered, “I know your reputation. If you’re withholding evidence—”

“I’m only withholding hunches,” Simon said. “They don’t count.”

He didn’t want to say anything about Verna Castle until Adler completed his report. He left Reardon scowling at the imitation putting green and left the office. He returned to his car and drove to the Pacific Guaranty garage where he parked in Barney’s slot. He unfolded a map of the harbour area, checked the address on the card Pucci’s bodyguard had given him in the massage parlour and then set the trip-meter on the Jaguar to zero. He drove out of the garage and headed for the freeway. Half an hour later, after passing a row of billboards advertising the new Pucci development, he turned in at a gate marked “no admittance”, drove another 50 feet and was waved back by the gateman.

“I want to see the layout of the new apartments,” Simon explained. “I’m a prospective buyer.”

“Come back in about three weeks,” the gateman advised. “They’re still under construction.”

“It’s all right to let me in. I’m a friend of Pucci’s.”

Simon produced the card but it didn’t convince the gateman. “I never saw you come here with Mr Pucci,” he insisted.

“Did Barney Amling ever come here with Pucci?”

“Amling? Sure. With him and without him. It’s his company’s money. But Amling’s dead now.”

“When was the last time he came here?”

Simon had the feeling he was getting on sticky ground. The gateman’s face was getting red. “No you don’t,” he protested. “You don’t trick me into saying anything I shouldn’t. I got my orders. Mr Pucci don’t want no bad publicity connected with this place.”

“I’ll bet you never saw Barney Amling here at all.”

“Then you lose. If you want to know, I was the last person to see him before he skipped the country—but don’t you let Mr Pucci know I told you that.”

“Why do you think you were the last person to see him?”

“Because he was here the night he took that plane to South America. He drove out here in that big Continental of his and I said hello when he came past the gatehouse just like I always did.”

“Where did he go?”

“Up to the building site, I guess.”

“Alone?”

“Sure, alone. He was up there a while and then he drove out again. Had his hat on when he drove out. It was starting to rain.”

“Why didn’t you tell the police about that?”

“Because Mr Pucci don’t want bad publicity—like I told you.”

“Did anyone else come this way while he was here?”

The gateman shook his head in disgust. “You ask more questions than my five-year-old grandson. Sure, somebody came this way. Three or four police cars—only they took that left turn that goes down to the beach. Raided a house where some of those crazy potheads were living.”

“It must have been exciting,” Simon said. “Maybe you left the gatehouse for a few minutes to go down and watch the raid.”

Now the old man was livid. “I never leave my post!” he shouted. “Jobs ain’t so easy to come by when a man gets my age.” Then the man’s anger switched off and a sickly grin slipped over his face like a transparent mask. Simon heard the sound of a motor approaching behind him. He looked back as the black LTD crept up alongside the Jaguar and braked to a stop. Pucci’s bodyguard, Louis, slid out from behind the wheel. “What’s the trouble?” he asked the gateman. “Didn’t you tell Mr Drake that this area is closed to the public?”

“He said he wanted to buy an apartment,” the gateman explained.

“Then give him a brochure.”

Simon grinned at Louis. “So it was Pucci who had me tailed,” he said. “Do you mind telling me why?”

“Nobody’s tailing you,” Louis answered. “I was just driving by. Now, take the brochure home and look at the pretty pictures. We can’t have an important man like you coming around and getting hurt on the equipment so you can sue Vincent, can we?”

Louis’s hands were balling into fists and Simon knew what kind of equipment he was about to be hurt on. He had lost enough of that group O blood in Buenos Aires. He accepted the brochure and shifted the gears into first. He stomped the accelerator into the floorboards, executed a fast U-turn around the gatehouse and watched the LTD in the rear-view mirror all the way to the freeway. He drove north on the freeway, watching the miles roll up on the trip-meter, and began to fit Barney’s last-day schedule in his mind. Barney had left the Pacific Guaranty building at about four-forty-five and driven to the Pucci development. It wasn’t a drive a man would take just prior to walking out on 40 years of his life unless his visit had a purpose. It was a lonely, deserted locale after working hours—a good place to meet someone he couldn’t contact in a public place. He had stayed a while and then driven out alone. Later he left the Continental at the airport.

Simon drove all the way to LAX, losing the LTD in the flow of traffic, and parked in the area where Barney’s car had been found. He checked the trip-meter and found it short a mere seven miles. He then drove to the Marina View Inn where the cocktail crowd was gathering for a late dusk drink before dinner and checked the trip-meter again. He had travelled 70 miles since leaving the Pacific Guaranty building and that was close enough.

• • •

He hadn’t planned to tackle Verna Castle again until Adler had more information, but Wabash’s complaint over the coincidence of a beach-house raid and Barney’s disappearance sparked a line of investigation that had led him full circle back to her domain. The welcome mat wasn’t out for him at the
Funky Frigate
but when he saw Cherry Lane, flanked by the two muscular lobster chefs, bounce off towards the shopping mall, the temptation to encounter Verna without her reserve troops was irresistible. He left the Jaguar and sprinted down to the dock. The gate stood open. Unmolested, he walked to where the big yacht still rode at anchor. Lights were showing in the aft cabin and no one was on deck. He found the boarding ladder and climbed up quickly. His feet had no more than touched the deck when the blinding beam of a flashlight hit his face and Verna’s voice said: “I’ve got a loaded .32 aimed right between your eyes, Drake, and you’re trespassing on my property again.”

Simon raised his hands. “You sure know how to make a stranger feel welcome,” he said.

“If you were a stranger I wouldn’t be about to shoot you,” Verna answered.

“If you shoot me,” Simon said, “I won’t be able to tell you how your half-brother, Anthony, was murdered in Buenos Aires.”

He must have said something right. The flashlight lowered and snapped off. He could see Verna framed in the lighted cabin doorway. She did have a gun in one hand but now it pointed listlessly towards the teakwood deck.

“You’re lying,” she said.

“If you believed that I would be dead now.”

“Tony isn’t in Buenos Aires. He’s in San Quentin.”

“Wrong. He was paroled two months ago. Whose idea was it to use him as a decoy for Barney Amling?”

Voices carried on the water. Verna seemed to remember that. Beckoning with the gun, she said: “If you’ve got anything to say you can say it inside.”

Simon lowered his hands and followed the woman into the lounge. Like the decking, it was done in teakwood with upholstered couches, printed drapes and wall-to-wall carpeting. It had a bar, a stereo and even a small metal fireplace with electric lights flickering on the logs. It would have seemed like a real home-from-home if the woman had put down the gun.

“I think you really want to shoot me,” Simon said, “but you can’t shoot evidence. I’m not the only one who knows it was Tony who died instead of Barney Amling. He got blood all over my jacket. It’s not Barney’s blood group. It is Tony’s.”

She put the gun down on the bar. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

“Murder,” Simon answered. “Tony yelled something when he was bleeding on me. ‘They’re going to kill me,’ he said. Who are ‘they’, Miss Castle? Did you set up your own kin for early disposal if the ruse went sour?”

She muttered a few words that belonged in the category of her original profession but it was bravado. Inside she was crumbling. He hit her with another question before she could recover.

“Where is Barney Amling?”

“Dead,” she said.

“I just told you that he didn’t die in Buenos Aires. Listen to me when I tell you things, Verna Castle, because you’re in big trouble. I know you took Barney to the Laurelwood Sanatorium twelve years ago. There’s a nurse still working there who can identify the woman who signed in as Mrs Joseph Carnes. I know that he came in with a concussion. When I know the full story about that, I’ll probably know why you get such preferential interest rates from Pacific Guaranty. When did you first meet Barney Amling?”

“This isn’t a courtroom, Drake,” she said.

“Never mind. I’ll find out. That famous Love Chalet you operated was just the kind of place a hot-shot grid star might go for a fraternity romp. Was his name in your mysterious unpublished file? He was promising material. He turned pro’ and made big money until his accident. By that time he was married to a girl whose father had the contacts to get him started on an even more successful career. I think Barney was the kind of material you would have kept under scrutiny.”