Darkest Hour

by Nielsen, Helen

  “The girl’s got the pictures,” she said. “She knew damned well they were incriminating.”

  “She occupied the room next to Kwan’s the night he was killed.”

  “Why?”

  The question was unexpected, but it was a good sign. Vera was thinking and that would take her mind off the void that was Sam. She was too well disciplined a woman to get bogged down in the irreparable past.

  “That would be an interesting thing to know,” Simon admitted.

  “That’s what Sam would be working on if he were alive—that and the background on Kwan.”

  “Have you ever heard of a man named Max Berlin?” Simon asked.

  Vera’s eyebrows arched upward. “Max Berlin?” she echoed. “What made you think of that faggot?”

  “Is that what he is?”

  Vera smiled. “Oh, that’s just what Sam called him. Sam called anyone he didn’t like a faggot. He didn’t really know Berlin—maybe that’s what burned him. Sam heard about his operation less than a year ago and got the idea of doing a feature story. I told you that he free-lanced some. It was shortly after Berlin opened a spa just over the border. It’s for females, mostly, but they have certain weeks for men and Sam went down with camera and typewriter. He was to have been away for two weeks, but he came back in three days. Never told me what happened, so I suppose he got a big no on the story. All he did say was that he wanted to do a masculine slant and the place was full of faggots. He dropped the story. Sam knew his limitations. Is Berlin mixed up in this mess, too?”

  “He paid for Kwan’s funeral,” Simon said.

  “Oh, God. Maybe Sam wasn’t kidding. No wonder he dropped the story. Sam was a man, whatever else he was or wasn’t. And I know what you’re thinking. I can tell by the way your nose wrinkles. You’ve heard how Sam made a fortune buying cheap land from the Japanese. Well, he did make money on that land. A lot of people did. A lot of people made much more money—millions, in fact, on the war. But not many of them felt guilty the way Sam did. He was an idealist. That land grab was when he lost his virginity, so to speak. When he began to compromise. A few years later when Sam’s back was against the wall some of the people who criticized him the most took advantage of his need and bought him out cheap. They called it good business. Just nice, friendly horse-thieving among us Wasps. But did anyone ever tell you about the radio transmitters and signal stations the army and navy found on some of those Japanese fishing vessels? There were two sides to that story, too.”

  Simon smiled gently. “You never stopped being in love with Sam, did you?” he said.

  Vera’s hand tightened about her glass. Simon saw her knuckles turn white and that was when he took the glass from her and set it down on the coffee table. He was afraid her grip might be strong enough to break the glass and cut her hand. She didn’t protest. She buried her face in both hands and leaned back on the divan. Her upper body and face were out of the range of firelight, but he could sense the quiet shaking of her body as she wept. He took her glass and returned to the bar for the second refill. She was quietly cracking apart over there in the shadows, and he gave her exactly two minutes to get rid of the excess emotion. When the time was up he came back across the room and sat down beside her.

  “All right, that’s enough,” he said. “Drink this.”

  She obeyed like a child taking a glass of water. He wanted her to get drunk enough to relax because nobody could go on walking about with that load of grief indefinitely. She finished the drink and he took the glass from her, and then he pulled her gently back against his shoulder and stroked her hair while the firelight made dancing patterns on the walls.

  The mercy of the liquor and the firelight worked. Vera slept peacefully—probably for the first time since Sam’s death. Simon arranged a divan pillow under her head and found a woolen car robe on the fireplace bench that covered her legs and torso. She would sleep now until dawn, at least. He got up and took his coat from the chair and started to leave the house, but the door stood open into the lanai and Simon’s curiosity had a higher motivation than morbidity. He switched on the lights and entered the room. Nothing had been touched since his last visit. It was out of bounds to Vera’s mood. Now, unhurriedly, he examined the desk with greater care. Aside from the working clutter, Sam Goddard had been a tidy craftsman. The desk was neat and orderly: pens, pencils, paper clips all in place. The file drawer was locked, but the keys were in the lock. Simon opened the drawer and took out an oblong blue cardboard box marked: Smith and Wesson, Inc., Springfield, Massachusetts. On the end of the box was a description of contents: Model number 36, Fin. B, Barrel 2, Stock R, followed by a serial number. The box was too light to contain a pistol but it did rattle. He removed the lid and found eight .38 Special center fire shells and a metal brush for cleaning a gun barrel. That was all. He replaced the lid and returned the box to the drawer, but not before copying the description of the gun it had contained and the serial number on a scrap of Sam’s memo paper. Later he would have to ask Vera if Sam was in the habit of carrying a gun and if the authorities had found it.

  Simon proceeded to the darkroom. Vera hadn’t done any housekeeping in this room, either. The glossies of Monterey were still spread over the table with some of the stuff Sam had shot in San Diego, and Simon didn’t like the idea of all these things being exposed. He scooped up everything on the table, plus what was still on the drying line, and carried it to a tall green metal filing cabinet across the room. Sam had left the cabinet unlocked, and the drawer stood open where a paper folder labeled Monterey, Monte awaited the collection. The cabinet had a master lock. If one drawer was open, all drawers were accessible. Simon played a hunch. Sam Goddard was too methodical to scrap whatever he might have compiled on the Berlin story, and so he opened the top drawer and combed through the B file until he found Berlin, Max. It was a good hunch. The file was fat with photos. There was a stack of shots of the spa itself—exterior and interior views. There were shots of swimming pools and gymnasiums, the picture post-card stuff: “Having a fine time. Wish you were here.” And then there were other shots not so scenic because people with bandaged faces couldn’t smile for the birdie. Some of the faces were blurred as if Sam had been shooting from a distance with a zoom lens. After five of these shots the camera returned to the pool again where a group of six men dressed only in trunks and towels were seated about a shaded table. Two of the men looked familiar. The next set of pictures were individual blowups of each man, and here Monte Monterey was clearly recognizable. So was Max Berlin.

  Simon was excited. A key was fitting into a locked door of time. Monterey and Berlin had known one another. The guesswork had gone out of that riddle. The four remaining photos were equally interesting. One man was Asiatic. Could it be Kwan? One was vaguely familiar. Simon added an imaginary turtleneck sweater and he began to resemble a stranger who drove a dark green Cougar. The last two studies had been of sufficient interest to Sam Goddard to inspire two enlargements apiece. One face was square, blunt and brutal with heavy eyebrows and little hair. The other face was gentler with an almost feminine quality that must have been quite handsome in youth but was now showing signs of puffiness and a swollen petulance at the lips. The eyes were hidden behind dark wrap-around glasses, as were Berlin’s eyes. The blunt-faced man sat with his eyes closed against the sun. There were no notes on the story Sam Goddard had decided not to write, but the photographs bore further study and so Simon took the entire file on Berlin and locked up the cabinet. Vera would never miss the photos. She was the kind of woman who knew better than to putter about in her man’s workrooms.

  She was sleeping soundly on the divan when Simon returned to the living room. He paused long enough to straighten the logs in the fireplace and turn off the television set.

  Simon drove home on Coast Highway and it was almost 3 A.M. when he saw the red neon “MOTEL SIX” blinking through the fog. Other red lights were blinking too, and one of them was on the roof of Lieutenant Franzen’s official sedan.
Simon didn’t stop. It was only the mop-up operation anyway. The meat wagon had already come and gone.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  There was nothing coy about Eve Necchi’s death; it was murder. The word was out on the Marina Beach grapevine before Simon was out of bed in the morning. Chester brought it in with the milk, which he now picked up at the front gate because Rover didn’t like the milkman. (Simon had managed his own entry several hours earlier with the assistance of a rare porterhouse purchased at the twenty-four-hour franchise restaurant on the highway.) The crime intrigued Chester, who was an avid follower of the highly detailed sadistic crime report. He had transformed the milk into an eggnog lightly laced with whisky. Chester assumed that any night out required a morning bracer. It was useless to remonstrate. Seated cross-legged on the bed attired in blue silk pajama pants (Hannah’s latest contribution to his education in elegance), Simon sipped the drink and absorbed Chester’s colorful tale of what hadn’t happened at Motel Six.

  “A dame was murdered in Gusik’s motel last night. The MBPD found her body in the shower—nude and raped. The killer had called the cops on the phone and told them what he’d done bold as brass. In a case like that—you being a lawyer should know—was the woman raped before she was killed or afterward?”

  Chester’s questions were to be taken seriously. He wasn’t usually so articulate.

  “How long ago was the body found?” Simon asked.

  “About one o’clock this morning.”

  Simon checked his wrist watch. “And it’s now almost seven-thirty.” He yawned. “Assuming that Franzen got the medical examiner out last night, which is questionable, he certainly didn’t do any more than authorize the body for removal to the morgue. The medical examination won’t be complete for hours, and official release of the findings may take much longer. How can you be so cocksure the victim was raped?”

  Chester was obviously disappointed. “But the killer called the cops—” he protested.

  “Did he confess?”

  “Well, no. He said there was a dead dame in the motel.”

  “Then how do you know he was the killer? He might have found the body and panicked, or he might have seen the murder committed and is afraid to give evidence.”

  By this time Chester’s confidence was completely shattered and his morning ruined. Simon swallowed the last of the eggnog and returned the glass. He smiled brightly with maximum teeth exposure and watched Chester retire in defeat. But it wasn’t a rout. This was Marina Beach, Small-town, U.S.A., and the citizens would cherish whatever scandal came their way. If they already had Eve Necchi naked and raped, it wouldn’t be easy to dislodge the idea that Pete Franzen’s caller was the killer. And there was always the uncomfortable chance that Franzen would identify the caller. Simon got out of bed, did two push-ups and went to the shower stall. He reached toward the faucet and then his arm seemed to freeze. He stood staring at the tile cubicle until Hannah’s voice brought him back to the moment.

  “Was it the girl from San Diego who called last night?” Hannah asked.

  Hannah was impressive. She wore a purple velvet robe with a touch of mink at the collar. Because the damp mornings caused her arthritis to kick up, she leaned heavily on the gold-headed walking stick. Her wits were quick and Simon knew she was at least two questions ahead of his answer.

  “Yes,” he said. “Her name is Eve Necchi … was Eve Necchi.”

  “Did she want money?”

  “Ten thousand dollars.”

  “Did you kill her?”

  Simon was right; it was exactly two questions. “I did not,” he said, “but I did find her body. She wasn’t nude and I doubt that she was raped. Her neck was broken. The Kwan photos weren’t in her room.”

  “Maybe she didn’t have them with her.”

  “That’s possible. Lucky for me, Franzen doesn’t know about the pictures.”

  “But the killer does.”

  Simon paused and listened to a mental playback of Hannah’s words. But the killer does … and he may think there are more pictures somewhere that are more damaging … a photo of the actual killing of Kwan.

  “That’s why Eve was killed,” he said aloud. “She wouldn’t tell where they were. She couldn’t.”

  Hannah didn’t ask for an explanation. She was accustomed to hearing Simon talk to himself. He turned on the shower and tugged at his pajama pants. It was one way to get rid of Hannah.

  Detective Lieutenant Peter Otto Franzen sat in his office in the east wing of the new Marina Beach City Hall pondering Simon Drake. Franzen was a family man and Simon Drake’s activities in Marina Beach had always puzzled him. To begin with, a top-flight lawyer usually settled in a large city. Drake had an office in Los Angeles but was seldom there. He operated out of The Mansion for the most part, and his roommate, Hannah Lee, was always a source of gossip; yet Simon was engaged to an actress—Wanda somebody. He drove a high-speed imported sport car, held a pilot’s license and kept a small motor launch at the marina. He was warm, open and outspoken, and Franzen liked the man, personally, but for all its modernization Marina Beach was still a small town and people did talk. They would talk a lot more if they got wind of why Franzen dialed Simon’s unlisted number and waited.

  Simon answered. In the background Franzen could hear water running.

  “Hello,” Simon said.

  “Did I get you out of the tub?” Franzen asked.

  “The shower,” Simon said. “It’s okay. I was finished.”

  “Good,” Franzen responded. “This is Pete Franzen down at police headquarters. I’d like to have you drop by for a chat this morning if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “No trouble at all,” Simon said. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  • • •

  Exactly twenty-nine minutes later Simon walked into Franzen’s office and sat down in one of the chrome and leather chairs the taxpayers couldn’t afford. Franzen was seated behind the desk affixing adhesive pads to the tips of his glasses’ frame. He squinted at Simon until the glasses were in place and then smiled.

  “You look better now,” he said. “I may get used to wearing these darned things yet.”

  “They make you look intense and impressive,” Simon said.

  “They make my ears hurt,” Franzen answered. “I tried contact lenses but I keep losing them.” As he spoke he opened the top drawer of the desk and took out a paper file. He opened the file and Simon could see that it contained the cover of a local telephone directory. “I’m sure you’ve heard all about our murder by this time,” Franzen added. “Four or five versions.”

  “I’d like to hear yours,” Simon said.

  “I don’t have a version. All I have is ‘the facts, ma’am.’ I was burning midnight oil here in my office when the telephone rang. A man’s voice—he sounded as if he talked through a surgical mask—told me there was a dead woman out at Motel Six. He didn’t give a name and hung up before I could trace the call. I immediately called Gusik and asked him what was going on. He didn’t know anything about it, but he met me in the court driveway later and we found the body together. It was a woman. Her neck was broken and she was badly bruised about the head and face. It was murder.”

  Simon hadn’t noticed the bruises but that didn’t make Franzen a liar. Eve’s wet hair had been hanging over her face, and her skin was lobster red from the hot water.

  Franzen continued: “The victim’s name was in her handbag. Eve Necchi. She was from San Diego. There’s a different address on every identification card so she must have moved a lot. So far nobody claims her body.”

  “Age? Race?” Simon asked.

  “Age: twenty-nine. Race: Caucasian. She wasn’t bad to look at before she died. She dressed fairly well. The peculiar thing is that she didn’t have a car and nobody at the bus station remembers driving her up from San Diego. She checked in at the motel at seven-thirty P.M. No luggage but a small overnight case. She told Gusik she was meeting her husband, a soldier just back from Vi
et Nam, and he was going to get her a new wardrobe for their second honeymoon. Gusik bought the story. He runs an economy place where soldiers can afford to come with their wives.”

  “Maybe the soldier changed his mind about the honeymoon bit.”

  “What soldier? Nobody at the bus station remembers a Viet Nam vet, either. We found snapshots in the victim’s purse: pictures of her and a Marine sergeant, but they date back to 1959, and nobody married to a Marine would make the mistake of calling him a soldier…. How well do you know the Gusiks? Ever stay at Motel Six?”

  Simon took a box of cigarettes from his pocket and flipped open the top. He pulled out a cigarette and rolled it back and forth in his fingers. “It’s possible,” he reflected. “When the construction men were working on my house I stayed at just about every motel in Marina Beach.”

  It was useless to try to guess if he had been seen at Motel Six, and Franzen was playing cat and mouse with his information. Before he started wearing glasses Franzen had resembled a good-natured television announcer. With glasses he looked a little more mature but no less uncomplicated. But appearances could be deceiving even in so unsophisticated a community as Marina Beach.

  Franzen sighed. “Okay, I might as well let you see what’s in this file and then let you tell me what it means.” He spun the paper file about and pushed it toward Simon. Something had been scrawled in pencil across the directory cover: Simon Drake—655-8055. The last stroke of the last five was broken off short as if the pencil had broken or run out of lead. The handwriting was in a wide, flowing hand with small o’s over the i’s instead of dots and an inverted S that resembled the English pound symbol without the crossbar. Franzen followed Simon’s eyes as he studied the writing and then reached out and pulled the telephone book cover aside. Underneath was a registration card from the motel. It was filled out with Eve Necchi’s name and address, and the i’s had small o’s instead of dots, and the S in San Diego matched the S in Simon on the telephone book.