The McBain Brief (26 page)

“I'll be goddamned,” he said again.

It would be a long night.

Mr. Schlemmer was
a balding man in his early fifties. A pair of rimless glasses perched on his nose, and his blue eyes were genial behind them.

“I can only speak for Aircraft Insurance Association of America, you understand,” he said. “Other companies may operate on a different basis, though I think it unlikely.”

“I understand,” Davis said.

“First, you wanted to know how much insurance can be
obtained from our machines at the San Francisco airport.” Schlemmer paused. “We sell it at fifty cents for twenty-five thousand dollars' worth. Costs you two quarters in the machine.”

“And what's the maximum insurance for any one person?”

“Two hundred thousand,” Schlemmer said. “The premium is four dollars.”

“Is there anything in your policy that excludes a woman travelling on a company pass?” Davis asked.

“No,” Schlemmer said. “Our airline trip policy states ‘travelling on ticket or pass.' No, this woman would not be excluded.”

“Suppose the plane's accident occurred because of a bomb explosion aboard the plane while it was in flight? Would that invalidate a beneficiary's claim?”

“I should hardly think so. Just a moment, I'll read you the exclusions.” He dug into his desk drawer and came out with a policy which he placed on the desk top, leafing through it rapidly. “No,” he said. “The exclusions are disease, suicide, war, and of course, we will not insure the pilot or any active member of the crew.”

“I see,” Davis said. “Can I get down to brass tacks now?”

“By all means, do,” Schlemmer said.

“How long does it take to pay?”

“Well, the claim must be filed within twenty days after the occurrence. Upon receipt of the claim, and within fifteen days, we must supply proof-of-loss forms to the claimant. As soon as these are completed and presented to us, we pay. We've paid within hours on some occasions. Sometimes it takes days, and sometimes weeks. It depends on how rapidly the claim is made, the proof of loss submitted—and all that. You understand?”

“Yes,” Davis said. He took a deep breath. “A DC-4 crashed near Seattle on January 6th. Was anyone on that plane insured with your company?”

Schlemmer smiled, and a knowing look crossed his face. “I had a suspicion you were driving at that, Mr. Davis. That was the reason for your ‘bomb' question, wasn't it?”

“Yes. Was anyone insured?”

“There was only one passenger,” Schlemmer said. “We would not, of course, insure the crew.”

“The passenger was Janet Carruthers,” Davis said. “Was she insured?”

“Yes.”

“For how much?”

Schlemmer paused. “Two hundred thousand dollars, Mr. Davis.” He wiped his lips and said, “You know how it works, of course. You purchase your insurance from a machine at the airport. An envelope is supplied for the policy, and you mail this directly to your beneficiary or beneficiaries as the case may be, before you board the flight.

“Yes, I've taken insurance,” Davis said.

“A simple matter,” Schlemmer assured him, “and well worth the investment. In this case, the beneficiaries have already received a check for two hundred thousand dollars.”

“They have?”

“Yes. The claim was made almost instantly, proof of loss filed, the entire works. We paid at once.”

“I see,” Davis said. “I wonder . . . could you tell me . . . you mentioned suicide in your excluding clause. Was there any thought about Mrs. Carruthers' death being suicide?”

“We considered it,” Schlemmer said. “But quite frankly, it seemed a bit absurd. An accident like this one is hardly conceivable as suicide. I mean, a person would have to be seriously unbalanced to take a plane and its crew with her when she chose to kill herself. Mrs. Carruthers' medical history showed no signs of
mental instability. In fact, she was in amazingly good health all through her life. No, suicide was out. We paid.”

Davis nodded. “Can you tell me who the beneficiaries were?” he asked.

“Certainly,” Schlemmer said. “Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Radner.”

He asked her
to meet him in front of DiAngelo's and they lingered on the wharf awhile, watching the small boats before entering the restaurant. When they were seated, Anne Trimble asked, “Have you ever been here before?”

“I followed a delinquent husband as far as the door once,” he answered.

“Then it's your first time.”

“Yes.”

“Mine, too.” She rounded her mouth in mock surprise. “Goodness, we're sharing a first.”

“That calls for a drink,” he said.

She ordered a daiquiri, and he settled for scotch on the rocks, and he sipped his drink slowly, thinking,
I wish I didn't suspect her sister of complicity in murder.

They made small talk while they ate, and Davis felt he'd known her for a long time, and that made his job even harder. When they were on their coffee, she said, “I'm a silly girl, I know. But not silly enough to believe this is strictly social.”

“I'm an honest man,” he said. “It isn't.”

She laughed. “Well, what is it then?”

“I want to know more about your sister.”

“Alice? For heaven's sake, why?” Her brow furrowed, and she said, “I really should be offended, you know. You take me out and then want to know more about my sister.”

“You've no cause for worry,” he said very softly. He was not
even sure she heard him. She lifted her coffee cup, and her eyes were wide over the brim.

“Will you tell me about her?” he asked.

“Do you think she put the bomb on the plane?”

He was not prepared for the question. He blinked his eyes in confusion.

“Do you?” she repeated. “Remember, you're an honest man.”

“Maybe she did,” he said.

Anne considered this, and then took another sip of coffee. “What do you want to know?” she asked.

“I want to . . .”

“Understand, Mr. Davis . . .”

“Milt,” he corrected.

“All right. Understand that I don't go along with you, not at all. Not knowing my sister. But I'll answer any of your questions because that's the only way you'll see she had nothing to do with it.”

“That's fair enough,” he said.

“All right, Milt. Fire away.”

“First, what kind of a girl is she?”

“A simple girl. Shy, often awkward. Honest, Milt, very honest. Innocent. I think Tony Radner is the first man she ever kissed.”

“Do you come from a wealthy family, Anne?”

“No.”

“How does your sister feel about—”

“About not having a tremendous amount of money?” Anne shrugged. “All right, I suppose. We weren't destitute, even after Dad died. We always got along very nicely, and I don't think she ever yearned for anything. What are you driving at, Milt?”

“Would two hundred thousand dollars seem like a lot of money to Alice?”

“Yes,” Anne answered without hesitation. “Two hundred thousand would seem like a lot of money to anyone.”

“Is she easily persuaded? Can she be talked into doing things?”

“Perhaps. I know damn well she couldn't be talked into putting a bomb on a plane, though.”

“No. But could she be talked into sharing two hundred thousand that was come by through devious means?”

“Why all this concentration on two hundred thousand dollars? Is that an arbitrary sum, or has a bank been robbed in addition to the plane crash?”

“Could she be talked,” Davis persisted, “into drugging another woman?”

“No,” Anne said firmly.

“Could she be talked into forging another woman's signature on an insurance policy?”

“Alice wouldn't do anything like that. Not in a million years.”

“But she married Radner. A man without money, a man without a job. Doesn't that seem like a shaky foundation upon which to build a marriage?”

“Not if the two people are in love.”

“Or unless the two people were going to come into a lot of money shortly.”

Anne said, “You're making me angry. And just when I was beginning to like you.”

“Then please don't be angry. I'm just digging, believe me.”

“Well, dig a little more gently, please.”

“What does your sister look like?”

“Fairly pretty, I suppose. Well, not really. I suppose she isn't pretty, in fact. I never appraised her looks.”

“Do you have a picture of her?”

“Yes, I do.”

She put her purse on the table and unclasped it. She pulled out a red leather wallet, unsnapped it, and then removed one of the pictures from the gatefold. “It's not a good shot,” she apologized.

The girl was not what Davis would have termed pretty. He was surprised, in fact, that she could be Anne's sister. He studied the black-and-white photograph of a fair-haired girl with a wide forehead, her nose a bit too long, her lips thin. He studied the eyes, but they held the vacuous smile common to all posed snapshots.

“She doesn't look like your sister,” he said.

“Don't you think so?”

“No, not at all. You're much prettier.”

Anne screwed up her eyebrows and studied Davis seriously. “You have blundered upon my secret, Mr. Davis,” she said with mock exaggeration.

“You wear a mask, Miss Trimble,” he said, pointing his finger at her like a prosecuting attorney.

“Almost, but not quite. I visit a remarkable magician known as Antoine. He operates a beauty salon and fender-repair shop. He is responsible for the midnight of my hair and the ripe apple of my lips. He made me what I am today, and now you won't love me any more.” She brushed away an imaginary tear.

“I'd love you if you were bald and had green lips,” he said, hoping his voice sounded light enough.

“Goodness!” she said, and then she laughed suddenly, a rich, full laugh he enjoyed hearing. “I may very well be bald after a few more tinting sessions with Antoine.”

“May I keep the picture?” he asked.

“Certainly,” she said. “Why?”

“I'm going up to Vegas. I want to find your sister and Radner.”

“Then you're serious about all this,” she said softly.

“Yes, I am. At least, until I'm convinced otherwise. Anne . . .”

“Yes?”

“It's just a job. I . . .”

“I'm not really worried, you understand. I know you're wrong about Alice, and Tony, too. So I won't worry.”

“Good,” he said. “I hope I
am
wrong.”

She lifted one raven brow, and there was no coyness or archness in the motion. “Will you call me when you get back?”

“Yes,” he said, “Definitely.”

“If I'm out when you call, you can call my next-door neighbor, Freida. She'll take the message.” She scribbled the number on a sheet of paper. “You will call, won't you, Milt?”

He covered her hand with his and said, “Try and stop me.”

He went to City Hall right after he left her. He checked on marriage certificates issued on January 6th, and he was not surprised to find that one had been issued to Anthony Louis Radner and Alice May Trimble. He left there and went directly to the airport, making a reservation on the next plane for Las Vegas. Then he headed back for his apartment to pick up his bag.

The door was locked, just as he had left it. He put his key into the lock, twisted it, and then swung the door wide.

“Close it,” MacGregor said.

MacGregor was sitting in the armchair to the left of the door. One hand rested across his wide middle and the other held the familiar .38, and this time it was pointed at Davis' head. Davis closed the door, and MacGregor said, “Better lock it, Miltie.”

“You're a bad penny, MacGregor,” Davis said, locking the door.

MacGregor chuckled. “Ain't it the truth, Miltie?”

“Why are you back, MacGregor? Three strikes and I'm out, is that it?”

“Three . . .” MacGregor cut himself short, and then grinned broadly. “So you figured the mountain, huh, Miltie?”

“I figured it.”

“I wasn't aiming at you, you know. I just wanted to scare you off. You don't scare too easy, Miltie.”

“Who's paying you, MacGregor?”

“Now, now,” MacGregor said chidingly, waving the gun like an extended forefinger. “That's a secret now, ain't it?” Davis watched the way MacGregor moved the gun, and he wondered if he'd repeat the gesture again. It might be worth remembering, for later.

“So what do we do?” he asked.

“We take a little ride, Miltie.”

“Like in the movies, huh? Real melodrama.”

MacGregor scratched his head. “Is a pleasant little ride melodrama?”

“Come on, MacGregor, who hired you?” He poised himself on the balls of his feet, ready to jump the moment MacGregor started wagging the gun again. MacGregor's hand did not move.

“Don't let's be silly, Miltie boy,” he said.

“Do you know
why
you were hired?”

“I was told to see that you dropped the case. That's enough instructions for me.”

“Do you know that two hundred grand is involved? How much are you getting for handling the sloppy end of the stick?”

MacGregor lifted his eyebrows and then nodded his head. “Two hundred grand, huh?”

“Sure. Do you know there's a murder involved, MacGregor? Five murders, if you want to get technical. Do you know what it means to be accessory after?”

“Can it, Davis. I've been in the game longer than you're walking.”

“Then you know the score. And you know I can go down to R and I, and identify you from a mug shot. Think about that, MacGregor. It adds up to rock-chopping.”

“Maybe you'll never get to see a mug shot.”