Simon pocketed the schedule and drove back to Marina Beach. It had been a good night’s work.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Jack Keith came to The Mansion for breakfast. He barreled up the driveway in the bronze Caddy with Rover riding in the back seat, a paw on each of his shoulders. He parked at the back door, patted Rover on the head and walked into the kitchen, where Simon and Chester were watching Hannah prepare eggs Benedict.
“I’ve got a way with guard dogs,” he explained. “They smell the cop in me and know I’m on their side.”
It was at least ten years since Keith had traded a police detective salary for the private practice that kept him in a Beverly Hills penthouse and a Sunset Strip office when he wasn’t out beating the bushes for answers to questions like “Who skewered N. B. Kwan?” While Chester set an extra place at the table, Hannah explained her presence in the kitchen.
“Chester is new here,” she said, “and he can’t even make a decent piece of toast. The only thing he’s expert at is garlic bread and spaghetti.”
“My favorite food,” Keith announced.
“For breakfast?”
“Warmed over with three or four strips of bacon on the side. What do I do with these?”
Hannah had placed the eggs, elegantly arranged on a Spode platter that bespoke a more affluent past, on the table. They were beautiful.
“Eat them, peasant!” she roared. “Give that poor abused stomach of yours a treat!”
“Without coffee to wash them down?”
Hannah, disgusted, stomped off to her room with Chester at her heels bearing a tray and a half bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. Simon put on the coffee and waited for Keith to make his report. It began with a simple declarative sentence.
“Eve Potter, née Necchi, lived in a seventy-five-dollar-a-month walk-up that hadn’t been painted in three years—and I got that straight from the landlord’s mouth.”
“Then she wasn’t occupying that room next to Kwan’s for the reason given,” Simon said.
“Obviously. The landlord wasn’t surprised about the hotel business. Eve Necchi—she rented the apartment in her maiden name—slept out a lot. Usually she left the place alone, occasionally with men. It was never the same man except for one: an older man the landlord thought was her father or an uncle until he caught them in a more intimate situation. This older man worked for a newspaper or a promotion outfit and took Eve to plays and concerts—any kind of thing he could get passes to see. I found these ticket stubs in the apartment.”
Keith took a pair of cardboard stubs from his pocket and dropped them on the table. They were for a performance in Sherwood Hall in La Jolla three weeks before Kwan’s murder.
“The older man took her?” Simon asked.
“Right. The landlord said he hadn’t seen the fellow for several weeks but that night he saw him come for Eve and they drove off together in a Ford with a press card on the sun visor. He doesn’t recall that Eve ever came back to the apartment. I also found a passport in her dressing-table drawer. It expired last year, but it does show that Eve Potter spent some time in Hong Kong in April 1964. Kwan, in case you’re still with me, didn’t leave Hong Kong and come stateside until August of the same year.”
The coffee was ready. Simon filled two cups and let Keith get on with his report.
“Getting back to Eve,” he continued, “we find her getting an uncontested divorce from Corporal Orley S. Potter, USMC, in June 1965. That’s the final decree granted here in California which means that she sued a year earlier. The grounds were desertion, but I’m not sure who did the deserting. Maybe it was a two-way deal. Eve had lived with Potter in Korea and Viet Nam before the buildup began. Apparently, she was on her way home to get the divorce when she stopped at Hong Kong.”
“Hong Kong’s a busy port,” Simon said. “A lot of people passed through that way in 1964.”
“But only two of them, so far as we know, were in the Balboa Hotel last Sunday night. Now let’s suppose that Eve ran short of funds in Hong Kong and a handsome young Eurasian, who spoke flawless English, offered her a chance to earn her passage back in exchange for a small service such as delivering a package of contraband to someone in San Diego. That could have been the link with Kwan.”
“Wait a minute,” Simon said. “I asked you to find a link between Kwan, Berlin and Monterey.”
“That’s what I’m working toward. Kwan came to La Jolla, didn’t he? Eve Necchi attended a concert at Sherwood Hall three weeks before his death. If Kwan was the contact for shipments through San Diego, Eve Necchi could have been a check on Kwan.”
“Berlin’s?”
“At this point, you name it. Berlin, a private operation or even the Treasury Department. The old guy with the press pass—”
“Charley Leem!” Simon cried.
“Who?”
“Sam Goddard’s city editor on his old L.A. daily. Leem was at Goddard’s funeral. There’s the key, Jack. Leem drove an old Ford with a press pass on the sun visor. He could have driven Eve to the motel Thursday. But he’s not working for any paper in San Diego now—not under that name, anyway. I looked. He said something about having an apartment overlooking the bay. Hey, maybe Vera knows where he lives.”
Simon pushed aside his plate and went to the kitchen wall phone. It was still early but Vera Raymond didn’t seem the lie-a-bed type. He dialed and got an answer on the third ring. Her voice sounded fresh and breathless. He could almost smell the loam when she said:
“I’ve been out trimming roses. It’s bright and clear down here this morning. Where have you been? I tried to reach you yesterday and again last night. The houseman said that you were away.”
“I was,” Simon said. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m not sure. It’s something I can’t tell you about over the telephone. I have to show you.”
“Good! As soon as I get rid of a freeloader in my kitchen, I’ll be on my way. Wait a minute. I called you to ask if you knew where Charley Leem is living.”
“Charley?” She sounded surprised. “I can’t tell you that because I don’t know,” she said. “Can’t you reach him at the paper?”
“What paper?”
“Good Lord, I don’t know. I’m not much help, am I? Why are you trying to reach Charley?”
“I’ll tell you all about that when I see you in about”—Simon glanced at the clock on Chester’s electric range—”an hour,” he said.
He returned to Jack and reported Vera’s conversation. “Leem’s not listed in the San Diego directory, and he’s not working on any newspaper in the vicinity,” Simon said.
“Nice,” Keith responded. “But he’s a newspaperman, isn’t he? If he’s a newspaperman, he’s a guild member and pays dues. Right? Let me try to find him.”
Simon let Keith get back to his job. On his way out the back door Keith picked up the morning paper from the place Rover had deposited it in the hedges and flipped it open to the front page. He handed it to Simon without comment. Splashed across the upper half of the page was a photo of a bewildered young man in a Marine uniform and a grinning Duane Thompson standing over him like a fisherman with the prize catch of the day. Sergeant Orley S. Potter had been picked up for questioning in the environs of Camp Pendleton. Simon didn’t take time to read the sergeant’s alibi, but it was nice to know that the kid had received a promotion. What wasn’t so nice was the knowledge that Duane Thompson was another step closer to placing the corpse from Motel Six in the Balboa Hotel.
• • •
Vera Raymond, looking very country style in faded blue jeans and a bright plaid cotton shirt, was working in the rose garden when Simon arrived. Sam’s roses still bloomed and so Sam was still alive. Something like that was showing in her eyes when she greeted him—that and quick relief. A friend had come, and she needed a friend.
She dropped the clippers onto a lawn chair and pulled off her gardening gloves. “Right on time. You’re Sam Goddard’s kind of man.”
; “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Simon said. “What was it that you wanted to show me?”
Her smile faded. Without it she looked haggard and vulnerable. “You’ll have to come inside the house for that,” she said.
They entered by the back door, passed through a kitchen that still smelled of coffee and bacon, on through the living room where a pillow and bedding on the divan near the fireplace told the story of where Vera was spending her lonely nights, and on to the area of Sam’s office. Vera paused at the doorway.
“I must explain first that I went out last night for the first time since the funeral. I went to a realty-board meeting in Enchanto. I can’t tell you anything that was said and couldn’t care less, but live people were making human noises and that’s something very important to me just now. But then I got nervous and left early. The local coffee shop was closed so I drove to San Clemente and had some coffee and blew some time until I could bear to come home. I found this.”
She opened the door and ushered Simon into Sam’s office. At first Simon didn’t notice any change, and then he walked around to the business side of the desk and found all of the drawers open and most of the contents dumped on the floor. Vera didn’t comment. She let him continue his inspection in the darkroom, where everything had been ripped from the drying line and where the photo files were open and the contents stacked on the top of the cabinet or strewn on the floor. What looked like vandalism had undoubtedly been a thorough search. He turned back to Vera and she asked the question in her eyes: “Why?”
“I’m not sure, but I think somebody was looking for a file I took the last time I came here.”
“You? I didn’t know. What was in it?”
“Family portraits. No, this is no time to be cute. I took the pictures Sam made at Max Berlin’s over-the-border spa.”
Vera looked puzzled. “I didn’t know he took any pictures there. What was in them?”
“People who shouldn’t have known one another but did. Vera, are you sure that nobody came into this room after Sam’s death until we found those film strips?”
“I answered that before. No one.”
“No, of course not,” Simon mused. “This couldn’t happen until after Eve’s death.”
Now Vera was really puzzled. “Eve?” she echoed. “Eve who?”
“I’ll explain that later when there’s more time. Have you called the local law about this?”
“No. I wanted you to see it first.”
“Good. Why don’t we just clean up this mess and not tell anybody just yet? Do you always go to the realty-board meetings?”
“Usually. It’s something to do.”
“Did you leave a light in the house?”
“Yes. It’s supposed to keep away burglars.”
“Not from a house like this. You can’t see the road from up here, but there’s only one way off the property and that’s through the front gate. A car parked in a sheltered spot wouldn’t have been noticed at night or on a foggy day.”
Vera was a sharp gal. She missed nothing. She winced a little at the last two words as if he had struck an exposed nerve. “A foggy day,” she echoed. “You mean the day Sam died, don’t you? You think someone was watching when he left the property.”
“I’m not sure what I think.”
“Yes, you are. You don’t have to hide it, Simon. I’ve been thinking too. If you know anything—if you have any evidence to indicate that Sam’s death wasn’t accidental, don’t keep me in the dark. If Sam was murdered I can get mad, and anger’s a way of siphoning off grief.”
Simon reflected. He didn’t know enough about Sam Goddard—the Sam Goddard who had died in a ravine in the fog—to guess what had pulled him off the Max Berlin story. It might even have been a sell-out and that would hurt Vera more than the accidental death. But she had asked for evidence and he had a little.
“Have the police located Sam’s gun?” he asked.
“I haven’t heard.”
“I don’t think you will. You told me that Sam had been teaching you to use the gun. Where did you practice?”
“He set up a range behind the garage.”
“May I see it?”
Nothing was making too much sense to Vera at this point, but she was interested enough to acquiesce. She took him out through the rear of the house again to a place behind the garage where Sam had set up a target nailed to a strip of fencing. Simon found several shell casings on the ground and picked up one to compare with what he already had. Back in the darkroom, he examined three shells under the high-power magnifying glass Sam used for his blowups and, in lieu of expert opinion, decided the markings were sufficiently matched to assume that all three came from Sam’s gun. Vera watched the comparison intently.
“I found one shell case on the shoulder near the spot where Sam’s car went into the ravine. If it came from his gun it means that he was pushed off the highway and took a shot at someone before he went over the side. I dug the second shell out of a potted plant in the courtyard where Monte’s body was found. I’m just lucky that some pathologist didn’t dig it out of me.”
“When did that happen?” Vera demanded.
“Last night. Did Sam have any other guns? Anything that might come in handy if the wrecking crew returns?”
“Do you think they will?”
“I don’t know. When did you get home from the board meeting last night?”
“About ten.”
“Then they must have come here directly after attacking me at the Seville Inn.”
“What are they looking for—and who are they?”
By this time Simon had a fair idea of the answer to Vera’s second question: it was the first question that troubled him. He started to tell her about his encounter with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and then the front doorbell began to buzz. Simon pocketed the shell casings while Vera went to the door. She returned moments later holding an envelope imprinted with a cut of the Seville Inn. It had been sent out of the La Verde post office on Tuesday morning and mistakenly delivered to Escondido. It was hand-addressed to Vera Raymond. She slit open the envelope and took out of it one picture post card and a small flat key. She glanced at the post card and flipped it over to the message side. It was blank. She was too puzzled to comment.
“Let me see it,” Simon said.
He took the card from her hand and studied the picture side. It was a color shot of a modern little airport with “Greetings from La Verde” lettered across the top. The fine print on the back carried a thumbnail Chamber of Commerce-style description of the city and the unwritten message was perfectly clear. Simon returned the post card and took the key from Vera’s hand.
“I’ll keep this,” he said, “and you forget that you ever saw it. Do you recognize the handwriting on the envelope?”
It was a florid scrawl that looked familiar. Both remembered the flourish with which Monte Monterey autographed his publicity stills.
The small flat key was engraved with the number 28.
“It’s a locker key,” Simon explained, “and the locker is in the La Verde airport. Now forget that I told you.”
“What’s in the locker?” Vera asked.
“I don’t know. Whatever it is has caused two—perhaps three or four deaths. Forget that I told you that, too.”
“But if it’s so important,” she protested, “why didn’t Monte write something on this card?”
There was an obvious answer.
“He didn’t have time,” Simon said.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The bus that ran along Orange Street in La Verde was tagged “Orange Street—Airport Blvd.” That was what Simon remembered as he pocketed Vera’s unsigned post card and locker key. Briefly he sketched out what must have transpired during the unknown portion of Monterey’s last night on earth. He had tried desperately to reach Hannah at the Gateway Bar, failed and fled toward Orange Street. The schedule showed that the last bus passed through the area after two-thirty; hence, it was quite possib
le that he had caught a bus at about twelve-thirty and ridden on past the Seville Inn all the way to the airport. Why? Because the contact he wanted most to make—Whitey Sanders—was expected in from Tucson at any moment. It was the logical place to look for him.
“But he didn’t meet Whitey,” Vera protested. “Whitey would have told us, wouldn’t he?”
She was beginning to feel the pressure too. Fear. Suspicion. Doubt. The old do-it-yourself brainwash. If Monterey’s death wasn’t accidental … if Sam’s death wasn’t accidental …
“I think Whitey would have told us,” Simon said. “Why not? But something could have happened before Whitey landed that caused Monterey to rush back to the hotel. This key tells us that he put something in locker number 28 in the waiting room of the La Verde Airport. He mailed it to you because he must have learned that Sam was dead and his death made you the next of kin. And that’s interesting.”
“I hardly knew Monte,” Vera said.
“That’s what I mean. He sent the key to you because he didn’t trust any of the people he did know. Vera, I asked you not to ring in the police about the mess in Sam’s study. Now I’m not so sure. Do you have a friend in town you could stay with for a few days?”
“There are no ghosts here,” she said quietly. “I’m not afraid.”
“I’m not afraid either—of ghosts,” Simon answered. “But you saw Sam’s film strips. You know the way Kwan died. We’re not doing business with nice people, and they may decide to come back again and interview you in person.”
Vera was brave but she was nobody’s fool. “Maren Moody asked me to stay with her as soon as she heard about the accident,” she reflected. “Maren’s my boss at the real estate office.”
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