XPD (12 page)

‘Which bloody Porsche?’

‘I saw it at the airport when I arrived. It was parked in the hotel car park. Then yesterday I saw it cruising slowly down Sunset Boulevard when I was talking with our pal Breslow.’

Boyd Stuart got up and walked to the window. ‘Where is it now?’

‘In a lot across the road, alongside the Pioneer Chicken.’

Stuart looked through the dark tinted glass which was advertised as a way of cutting air-conditioning costs. It gave the office privacy from passersby. Across the street he could just see the back of a black Porsche tucked behind a Chevrolet pick-up. Sitting inside the Porsche was Willi Kleiber, and behind the wheel Rocky Paz, a local strong-arm man turned car dealer. But even had Stuart seen their faces it would have meant nothing to him; he had never met either of them. ‘A Porsche,’ he said doubtfully. ‘Not exactly inconspicuous, is it?’

‘In this town it is. Look for yourself; the streets are full of them, especially black Porsches.’

‘In that case perhaps you’re overreacting,’ said Stuart. ‘How can you be certain that this was the same car you saw? Did you get the license?’

‘It’s an Illinois licence. And he’s got a hand-operated spotlight mounted behind the windscreen slightly off centre – it’s a 1978 Porsche 928. It’s the same car all right.’

‘At the airport, you say?’

‘When I got off the plane from Washington. It was a million to one that I should notice him, but I notice cars like that.’

‘Always the same man driving?’

‘Couldn’t see who was inside, I’m afraid. I thought it was one of your people, to tell you the truth.’

‘You’ve got the green Datsun at the kerb?’

‘Hertz; from the airport.’

‘Give me three or four minutes to get my car ready to go. Then get in your Datsun and take a ride round Palos Verdes Drive. You know where I mean? Let’s take a look at him. Would you do that for me?’

‘You bet I would! Do you really mean it?’

‘And keep going until we find a nice lonely stretch of road, without any filling stations or McDonald’s. We’ll shake an explanation out of him.’

‘Depend on me,’ said the young man, galvanized by new-found enthusiasm.

‘And pull this door locked when you leave.’

Boyd Stuart opened the door of the battered cupboard that held two brooms and some telephone directories and rattled around the wire coat-hangers to get his jacket. He put it on and said, ‘Wait a minute, though. Let’s do it another way. Why don’t you take my car? It’s a white BMW with dark tinted glass.’

‘No rainbow-paint job or flashing light top?’ said the young man sarcastically.

‘And I’ll take your Datsun. OK?’

The visitor got the car keys from his pocket and gave them to him. ‘It’s a rented car, remember. Don’t bend it.’

‘Good,’ said Stuart handing over the keys of his BMW. By this time Stuart had begun to have second thoughts about the chase but it was no longer socially possible to voice such thoughts.

‘If you lose me, phone me at the apartment tonight.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Let’s say about 10.30.’

‘I won’t lose
you
,’ said the visitor. ‘I’ve done enough rally driving to hang on to a Datsun with a BMW. But I can’t guarantee to keep the Porsche in sight if he tumbles to what’s going on.’

The temperature touched 100° Fahrenheit in Los Angeles that day. The hot Santa Ana wind brought the sour smell of the desert and made the city unbearable. Overhead the sky was white and baleful. Stuart hurriedly fitted the keys into the Datsun and started it up. He watched the BMW come into view and glanced in the mirror in time to see the driver of the black Porsche toss the remains of his chicken into the trash bucket, together with a shower of fried potatoes and a dollop of coleslaw. The tinted window closed with a purr and the car shivered in a blue haze as the engine came to life with a deep roar. By the time Stuart had the Datsun moving, the Porsche came bumping its way out of the Pioneer Chicken parking lot. He followed both cars on to Venice Boulevard.

The San Diego Freeway traffic was thin and fast on the southbound side of the elevated highway. He matched his speed to the other cars and trucks, and found the black Porsche and his own BMW in the number one lane. He pulled ahead of them and positioned himself so that he could see them in the mirror. Then the Porsche accelerated suddenly and the youngster from the embassy gave chase. It was a foolish thing to do.

Somewhere in the complex crossover of the Marina Freeway intersection Stuart lost sight of the other two cars. One moment they were clearly visible behind a huge Vons delivery truck. Then the great articulated vehicle changed lanes to find the westbound loop that would bring it to the Marina del Rey. It closed out the rearward view like the curtains closing upon the last act of a play. As the truck passed across the mirror, the highway reappeared but this time empty. Damn! They’d left the freeway. It was about half a mile before the next exit sign appeared. It seemed like a hundred miles. Stuart slammed his car into the slow lane and roared down the ramp at Centinela Boulevard. One way the road dead-ends. Stuart swung down into the street and on to the pavement as he squeezed past an angry lady in a Buick to make an illegal U-turn at the lights, almost hitting the large sign which says such turns are forbidden here. He came back under the freeway, his engine roaring at its concrete confines. Only then did he realize that there was no entrance to the freeway here and he changed lanes to make a left turn. Coming through the amber he caused a panel truck to flash its lights as he narrowly missed hitting a motorcyclist. Stuart swore again. To get to the northbound side of the freeway he had to drive a block to find the next ramp.

This side of the freeway was crowded with commuters making an early start back to their families in the valley. Stuart weaved through the heavy traffic and now and again slowed to a crawl. There was no sign of the other two cars, and eventually he turned off the freeway and returned to the Marina del Rey. His department had arranged for him to live on the
Hare Krishna II
, a thirty-five-foot cabin cruiser moored near the California Yacht Club building, and using the power, telephone and TV antenna hook-ups.

He put the air-conditioning to its coldest, took off all his clothes, poured himself a big malt whisky and drank some before stepping under the shower. It had been a frustrating day and he was continually hampered by having to work in a city with which he was only superficially acquainted and where he was almost totally devoid of the sort of contacts he needed. He wrapped himself in a big bathrobe and looked at the time. It would be the middle of the night in England; he abandoned the idea of phoning Kitty. He switched on the television and went rapidly through some quiz games, ‘Bugs Bunny’ and a black-and-white film about the French Revolution. He made himself a toasted ham sandwich, opened a tin of mixed nuts and settled down in front of a situation comedy. The boat moved lazily as a big ketch slid out from its mooring.

It was 9.30 when the telephone rang. A polite voice inquired if he was Mr Boyd Stuart.

‘Rampart Division, Los Angeles Police Department. Sergeant Hernandez. Traffic accident investigation.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘You rent a white BMW from Citisenta Rentcar?’

‘That’s right? Where is it?’

‘Right now it’s being shovelled into the back of a dump truck, Mr Stuart. When did you miss it?’

His mind raced ahead, trying to decide whether to confirm that his car had been stolen.

‘Are you still there, Mr Stuart?’ the police sergeant asked.

‘Was the thief hurt?’

‘He sure was, sir. The gas tank exploded and made a fireball that scorched three lanes of the Harbor Freeway. Nothing left of him to identify, I’m afraid.’

‘No other car involved?’

‘No, sir. We figured it was stolen. The car rental company know about the accident already – that’s how we got your number – but you’ll have to come down to the station tomorrow and do some paperwork with me. Ask for AI Follow-up. Would noon be OK?’

‘I’ll see you at noon, Sergeant Hernandez.’

Stuart fetched the notebook from his jacket pocket. There was a phone number scribbled in the margin of the page of addresses. They had told him to use it only in an emergency. This was an emergency. He dialled the number and heard an answering machine telling him that Dr Curtiss was not available at this time but, if the caller would leave a name and address and telephone number, he would call back. If the caller was in pain, the recorded voice added, an osteopath on emergency call would be sent immediately.

‘I’m in pain,’ said Stuart and gave the south Pasadena address that London had told him to give in such a situation.

He sat with the lights off and the curtains drawn back. He could see the harbour lights reflected in the water and the dark outlines of countless boats. An osteopath was a good cover for a case officer, he thought. Not too difficult to get a licence, and it would account for him going anywhere at any time of day or night.

The osteopath arrived at midnight. Stuart heard him clatter down the gang-plank. This was the man whom London had assigned to control him. Some agents in the field could operate for years and never meet their controller and Stuart studied him with interest. This man was a swarthy forty-year-old, with short hair and tired eyes which he rubbed sometimes with the back of his fist. He was wearing light blue cotton trousers, an openneck shirt and a dark blue cashmere cardigan. He carried a black leather case which he put down just inside the front door.

‘We’ll close the curtains if you don’t mind,’ said the man. He walked across the cabin and closed them without waiting for a reply.

‘The pain …’ said Stuart.

‘Never mind all that crap that London told you to say,’ said the man. ‘Just pour me a scotch and water and tell me why I had to be dragged away from my chess game.’

Stuart gave him the whisky and watched him pour a lot of water into it. Then the man switched on the TV and tuned it to the Japanese channel. ‘Sit close and talk softly,’ said the man.

‘Didn’t you check this boat for bugs?’ said Stuart.

‘Sure we did, but why take chances?’ He sipped his drink. ‘Are you a chess player?’

‘Not seriously,’ said Stuart.

‘We play for money, and I was on a winning streak tonight …’ He pulled a face. ‘No matter, tell me the story.’

Stuart went carefully through the whole business. At the end of it, the man did not react for a long time. He stared at the small screen of the TV set as if enjoying the Japanese singing contest. ‘Centinela Boulevard exit from the freeway,’ he said finally. ‘Just about the only one I can think of, in the whole city, where there’s no entrance ramp on the other side.’

‘That’s why I lost them,’ said Stuart.

‘Could be they chose it for that very reason. It would be a good way to do it. Stick in the fast lane all the way to the changeover … cut suddenly across the lanes to the exit, and leave you ahead with no alternative but to take the Centinela ramp and find yourself in a tangle of street traffic … Too bad you didn’t get a better look at the man in the Porsche.’

‘It was a deliberate killing, you mean?’

The case officer did not answer him. He said, ‘The accident investigation cops have a routine they call AI Follow-up. I don’t want you getting tangled into it. You make sure you’re Mr Clean when this Sergeant Hernandez talks with you.’

‘OK.’

‘Give me the keys of that kid’s Datsun; I’ll handle that. I’ll give you another car and put the keys into your mailbox well before noon. Just forget you ever saw this British kid from the Washington embassy. Tell the cops you left your car in the marina car park with the key in the ignition. Plenty of people do that; the cops won’t be arguing about it. No other keys on the ring, were there?’ he said, suddenly anxious. The Japanese vocalists were becoming noisy.

‘I’ll switch that TV to some other station.’

‘Leave it,’ said the case officer. ‘Were there any other keys?’

‘Just the hire-car keys.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sure,’ said Stuart forcibly.

‘Well, at least you did something right,’ said the case officer with a sigh. Stuart let it go. A man dragged away from a game he had been winning deserved some indulgence. ‘Go through with your dinner with Breslow tomorrow. Don’t mention losing your car unless he brings it up. Play the innocent. Say the embassy guy phoned you to put you in touch.’

‘It could be Breslow had a hand in the killing,’ said Stuart, irritated by the man’s casual manner.

‘So you’re not just a pretty face,’ said the case officer with mock admiration. He reached for his black leather medical case and opened it to reveal a thick wedge of documents and a cardboard box. He opened the box before giving, it to Stuart. ‘I brought this for you,’ he said. It was a brand-new, blue-finish .38 revolver still in the special preservative wax-paper wrapping. ‘You know how to use it, I suppose?’

‘Point it and pull the trigger?’

He shook his head and reached into his pocket for ammunition. ‘No. You have to load it first.’ He took the gun, broke it and spun the chamber. ‘You’ll get the hang of it. I’m going back to my game.’ He got to his feet and swigged the remainder of his drink.

‘Good luck,’ said Stuart.

The case officer smiled for the first time. ‘The same for you, feller,’ he said. ‘You realize that the guys who zapped that white BMW probably figured you were inside it?’

‘I’m not just a pretty face,’ said Stuart.

‘Don’t buy a holster for that piece. Tuck it in your trousers. It’s difficult to get rid of a holster in a hurry, and I might not be around to help you out.’

‘Can I switch off the Japanese singing now?’ said Stuart.

‘Can you manage that on your own?’ said the case officer as he went back up the gangway.

Stuart remembered the keen young man with the dismantled sports car which would never be put together again, and only with some difficulty resisted the temptation to get very drunk. Involving an outsider in an operational role was considered an unpardonable sin; and this youngster had been ‘diplomatic’. Stuart knew it would go into his personal file in letters of fire.