Darkest Hour

by Nielsen, Helen

  “Where does she live?”

  “In Enchanto. I can give her a shout—”

  “Do it. I’ll drop you off on my way home.”

  But Simon didn’t go home. He deposited Vera, complete with overnight case, at a pleasant little cottage with a white water view and then nosed the XK-E inland. La Verde. Home—where, as Buddy Jenks had so aptly observed, all things go to die. At some period between the elegant dream of the builder of the Seville Inn and the advent of the freeway, affluence had reached the little city and left its trademark: the glass and native rock cathedral of the sky worshipers—the La Verde City Airport. It was midafternoon when Simon arrived. The scheduled flights had come and gone but the field was littered with private planes and the waiting room housed a few suburban wives waiting for commuting spouses. Simon had no difficulty locating the block of steel lockers just outside the coffee shop. He was fingering his pocket for the key when the P.A. system broke into the sprightly musical-comedy air with which it was soothing the impatient waiters and announced: “Mr. Simon Drake report to the information desk, please. Mr. Simon Drake—”

  Alarmed, Simon swung away from the lockers. The information booth was about twenty paces inside the front entrance and as conspicuous as a gunboat in the Los Angeles river. If Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were in the house, he was a perfect setup for their style of primitive group therapy. But the sweet young thing behind the information desk was all smiles and charm, and she asked if Mr. Drake would be so kind as to ascend the stone slab stairway across the foyer to the V.I.P. waiting room on the upper level: request of Mr. Whitey Sanders. Simon turned to look in the direction her well-manicured fingers were pointing and saw Whitey, incongruously attired in a white ruffled dinner shirt and black tuxedo pants, waving to him from the upper landing. The gesture was far more inviting than the butt end of a stolen .38.

  Simon took the slab steps two at a time. Whitey was wearing black patent-leather pumps with black grosgrained bows. All six-foot-plus of him looked as pretty as a layout for evening-wear fashions for Esquire. He slipped one arm about Simon’s shoulder and guided him through an unlettered door into the inner sanctum of the airborne elite. It was a huge semicircular room with wide-angle windows commanding a view of the landing field, the parking lot and a horizon full of snow-capped mountains that belonged on a travel poster. A few deep-cushioned Mediterranean lounge chairs faced the view, and a robotlike bartender was busy opening a bottle of cola behind the small but extremely well-stocked bar. Whitey advanced to the bar and took the cola from the bartender’s hand before he could transfer it to an amber glass that had kept some Mexican glass blower in frijoles for a week.

  “What are you drinking?” Whitey asked.

  “What if I asked for cream soda?”

  “You would get it.”

  “I was afraid of that. Make it a Scotch-rocks…. Where’s the waterfall?”

  There was no waterfall. What Simon’s ears had picked up was the civilized sound of a needle-spray shower. Beyond the bar area was a screened section to which Whitey now led Simon with the bright eagerness of a small boy displaying the family’s new house.

  “This is the recreation area,” he said. “In the distance you will note a slate-bed billiard table. Blue felt top. Easy on the eyes. The exercise equipment you see is all chrome-plated. We also have masseurs, male and female, available by appointment.”

  “No swimming pool?” Simon chided.

  Whitey smote his sun-tanned brow in mock chagrin. “Now why didn’t I think of that?” he moaned. “But we do have a sauna and a hot therapy bath.”

  “I wonder how the peasants travel these days,” Simon reflected.

  “Peasants? At six bucks an hour for labor who’s a peasant?”

  “Anybody over forty-five without a credit rating,” Simon remarked, but Whitey wasn’t listening. He had downed the Coke and was combing through a walnut-paneled locker for his dinner jacket. “I saw you drive in,” he said. “You surprised me. What’s with you and the airport?”

  “Legal leftovers,” Simon said. “I came to make sure Hannah’s clean on that parking-lot accident.”

  “Something on your mind?”

  Whitey’s dinner jacket was teal blue with narrow satin lapels; his eyes were icy blue with narrowing pupils, and Simon had several things on his mind. The sound of the shower had stopped. At any moment the door to the shower room might open, and he had no idea what company had inspired Whitey’s elegant attire. This wasn’t the occasion for an audience. Simon talked fast.

  “When we met last Tuesday morning,” he began, “we were both too concerned about Monterey’s plunge to get hung up on details. I had the impression then that you didn’t reach La Verde until morning. You were due in before midnight. What delayed you?”

  “Weather,” Whitey said.

  “I don’t think so. I flew in from San Francisco early Tuesday morning and the weather was fine.”

  “Not in Tucson.”

  “I can check your flight log.”

  “So you can.” Whitey Sanders finished his drink and chucked the bottle inside the locker. He was irritated. “Damn it, Drake, why all these questions? I hate lawyers. I pay ‘em small fortunes to keep me away from other lawyers. All right, if it’s so important I’ll tell you when I got in Tuesday. It was exactly one-twenty by my perfectly synchronized watch. I was tired so I went straight to my bungalow at the hotel. I didn’t see Alex until a few minutes before I came to the Seville. The first I heard of Monte’s death was when I got there. I’d come to see Hannah. Does that satisfy you?”

  “Did you see anyone at the airport when you arrived?” Simon asked.

  “Of course I did! The ground crew, the man in the control tower—The coffee shop was closed but I think a janitor was scrubbing up the foyer and there must have been a guard or two on duty somewhere. If you must know, I wasn’t paying attention to such things. I had a passenger with me on the flight.”

  “Oh,” Simon said.

  “Yes, oh. Not a female passenger—which isn’t as interesting for either of us. I was carrying a man who came to La Verde looking for land. I’m still a realtor. I still work for a living.”

  Whitey looked at the shower-room door as he spoke; when it opened the missing portion on Monterey’s last night on earth came as clean as the bright drops of shower spray glistening on Teutonic blond hair and rolling down beautifully sun-lamped shoulders. The lavish photo spread in Chic had come to life. Max Berlin, stark naked, stood in the doorway with a towel in his hands.

  He showed no embarrassment. He commanded the scene and knew it. “I thought I heard voices,” he said brightly. “I say, Sanders, that needle spray is really something.”

  His accent was on the Oxford side. He raised the towel and began to dry his chest, but his eyes never left Simon’s face. The overhead light caught in the huge sapphire on his finger. The identification was complete. Arrogant, cool and confident—this was the man Simon had seen at the top of the stair well at the Seville Inn. He seemed shorter without the flamboyant black hat and suit. He probably wore lifts on his shoes.

  Simon glanced at Whitey. “Your passenger?” he queried.

  “My passenger,” Whitey said. “Max Berlin. He’s been staying at my ranch the past week. Today we flew over some land I’m trying to sell him, and tonight we’re off to a dinner party in Palm Springs. Want to come along, Drake?”

  “Sorry. I’m booked for the evening.”

  “Drake—” Berlin mused. “Of course, Simon Drake!” He laughed boyishly. “You see, you are famous, Mr. Drake. I recognized you at once. Are you working on another murder case? Has another fair lady been accused of killing her husband?”

  Berlin was having his little joke. He knew exactly what had happened at the Seville the previous night, and he knew that Simon knew he knew. He tossed the towel onto the floor and moved to the locker. “I’m taking your word, Sanders, that my dinner clothes have been sent to this place. Yes. Everything seems to be here.”
He began to dress slowly starting with a dress shirt inspired by an overpaid matador. Innocently, he inquired: “Am I disturbing a private discussion? I can dress in the shower room.”

  “You can back up my story,” Whitey announced. “You were with me when we landed Tuesday morning. Did you see anyone on the premises aside from the working staff?”

  “Anyone? Do you mean anyone or someone in particular?”

  “Ask Drake. It’s his brain storm. He’s been playing twenty questions with me without establishing whether we’re looking for an animal, vegetable or mineral.”

  “Oh, an animal, I’m sure,” Berlin said. “Homo sapiens—or is it cherchez la femme? Sorry, Drake, but I can’t help you. I took careful note of the facilities when we landed. It’s quite impressive for so small a field, and then Sanders had told me that he sold the land for the airport to the city which made it even more interesting. But I saw no one lurking in the shadows or waiting at the entrance gate. Should I have seen someone?”

  The key to locker number 28 was still in Simon’s pocket. Without it he might have let Berlin charm him out of the truth he knew. But several people were dead because of what that key kept out of Berlin’s reach and Simon didn’t intend to join the club. “I think you’ve just answered that question,” he said. “You shouldn’t have seen anyone because no one was there.”

  The picture was clearing. Monterey had come to the airport looking for Whitey. He would have queried operations and learned that Whitey’s plane was coming in—such details would be cleared by later investigation. Through the wide glass windows of the waiting room he would have seen Whitey’s plane land and two men descend from the cabin. Whitey Sanders accompanied by the one man who could frighten Monterey into putting the evidence he had been holding for Sam Goddard into a locker and then getting out of the building before he could be seen. The shock of that moment must have been traumatic. Little wonder that he returned to the Seville so shaken that the night clerk thought he was drunk.

  By this time Max Berlin had pulled on his trousers and gotten into his dinner pumps. Simon was right; they had lifts. “Have I time to make one telephone call?” he asked Whitey. “I forgot to call my broker this morning. I may be penniless.”

  Both men laughed but Simon knew whom Berlin wanted to call. The Joy Boys had to be brought up to date. Simon Drake is at the La Verde Airport. He’s on to something. Get him and find out what he knows. Whitey glanced at his wrist watch. “It’ll be about ten minutes until they roll out the plane,” he said. “There’s an outside line at the bar.” Max Berlin moved out of earshot on the other side of the partition and Simon polished off the last of his Scotch.

  “Where did you pick up the fat-farm king?” he asked Whitey.

  “In Tucson. He’s looking for a secluded area for another spa. I convinced him that Californians have more spread.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  Simon’s glass was empty. Whitey took it from his hand and set it on a padded exercise table.

  “All I need to know,” he said. “His checks don’t bounce. We’re none of us any better than we can afford to be, are we? He escaped the Krauts and landed on his feet. That’s enough for me.”

  “Maybe he didn’t escape,” Simon said.

  Whitey was momentarily shaken—but only momentarily. “Look, Drake, I sell land. The Supreme Court says I can’t discriminate. That’s good enough for me. Besides, suppose Berlin was a Nazi. That’s thirty years ago—more. People have to forget things.”

  “Not some things,” Simon said, “unless we want to go back to tails and claws and swinging from trees.” He couldn’t say more because Berlin emerged from behind the partition all smiles and charm.

  “Everything’s under control,” he said. “I’m ready for take-off. Sure you won’t come, Drake? My host has promised a lavish evening with lovely feminine company, dancing, wine—”

  “It might ruin my waistline,” Simon said.

  “Then I will invite you to one of my spas. My specialists could take care of any excessive bulge for you.”

  “Suppose I’m tired of my face?” Simon asked. “Can your specialists change it for me?”

  Berlin was a highly disciplined man. His reaction was barely visible. “Plastic surgery?” he asked. “Yes, that is possible. I have specialists—”

  “No, I meant something even more special. The Berlin touch. Wasn’t your father a plastic surgeon? Weren’t you his pupil?”

  This time he struck a raw nerve end. “On a higher level than my clientele!” he said. “My father serviced heroes, Herr Drake. He gave faces to men who had lost portions of them in battle. Heroes. Soldiers. Not politicians. Not Nazis. Just fine young men who were caught up in the killing time. But why should so handsome a man wish his features altered? Are you in some trouble with a woman? Surely there are other ways to escape.”

  Whitey was impatient. He looked at his watch again. “It’s getting late,” he said, “and I think Drake is pulling our legs. Look, that’s my plane they’re taxiing out on the field.”

  “Don’t let me keep you,” Simon said. “Have fun.”

  Simon didn’t wait to say good-by. He had wasted too much time needling Berlin as it was. The key to locker 28 was still in his pocket, and the chances of getting at the contents of the locker lessened with every minute of delay. He left the V.I.P. lounge and hurried down the slab stairs to the lower level. From behind the shelter of a potted monstera plant he watched Whitey and Berlin descend from the lounge and walk out onto the field. Whitey’s plane was a sleek white jet with a gold Mercury emblem on the tail. He watched the men go aboard and saw the plane taxi slowly toward the point of take-off, and as his gaze followed the progress of the plane past the parking lot he saw a dark green Cougar slide into an empty place beside the XK-E. He was too late. Berlin’s henchmen were already on the scene.

  In the coffee shop, Simon ordered a cup of coffee and then let it get cold while he telephoned Jack Keith’s answering service. Keith wasn’t in his office, but he had a telephone in the Cadillac and the sharp girl on the other end of the wire promised to make immediate contact and relay the word that Simon Drake was waiting for Keith at the La Verde Airport. Simon returned to his table and asked for a refill for his coffee cup. Three cups of coffee and half a pack of cigarettes later he began to feel conspicuous and ordered the chef’s special to while away the time. He was finishing up the custard pie and a fourth cup of coffee when he saw Keith, his trench-coat tails flapping about his boots, come stalking through the waiting room. Simon stood up and gestured. Keith came into the coffee shop and sat down beside him.

  “You were lucky,” Keith said. “You caught me a mile below the La Verde off-ramp. I was on my way home from San Diego and, friend, I have tales to tell. I found Charley Leem.”

  “Alive?”

  “Alive and scared pink, blue and yellow. He shacks up in a rooming house in the Old Town section of San Diego. He’s no newspaperman any more—he’s a rumhead. He was halfway through a fifth when I found him, and the need for inner fortification is obvious when you realize that he was sitting in his old Ford in the parking lot at Gusik’s bar when you drove in the night Eve Necchi died. He saw you get out of your car and scrammed south. Reason: he was the one who planted Eve in the motel with a shabby shakedown scheme for which you were the selected victim. When you didn’t grab the bait fast enough, Leem walked back to Eve’s room to investigate and found her dead. He’d just gotten back to his car when he saw you arriving, and that meant to him that you had nothing to do with the murder. Rumhead or no, Leem can add. That left only the person or persons unknown who had disposed of Monterey and Goddard.”

  “Then Leem thinks they were murdered.”

  “He’s convinced of it—and for good reason. Charley Leem was the escort who took Eve Necchi to a concert at Sherwood Hall three weeks before Kwan’s death. She saw Kwan sitting with haut monde and pointed him out to Leem. Said she knew Kwan when he wasn’t such a high-brow. After
the concert she tried to make contact and was given a serving of very cold shoulder. This made Eve mad. She spent the night with Leem and told him that she’d met Kwan in a travel agency in Hong Kong. She was short a few dollars on her return ticket and he helped her out. She got the ticket free and a hundred American dollars in cash. All she had to do was stash a few diamonds in her cosmetic box. When she got stateside, she boxed them and mailed them to a post office box number in San Diego. That was the end of the story for her. But it was the beginning of a big idea for Leem. He was still a newshound and he needed money badly. He checked on Kwan and learned he was something of a boy wonder in the chemistry lab. He was also known to make periodical study trips off campus. By the time Kwan made a reservation at the Balboa Hotel, Leem was close enough on the scent to grab the room next door for Eve. He bugged Kwan’s room and rigged a tape recorder in Eve’s—”

  “My God!” Simon said.

  “Wait, don’t blow your mind too soon. Eve was a lush, prone to getting lonely after dark. She stuck it out in that room for three days and then, on the night Kwan was murdered, broke her vigil and dallied to closing time in the Balboa bar. She was drunk when she went up to her room, and the first she learned about Kwan’s death was when the maid came in the next morning to do the room and stepped out on the balcony and screamed. ‘The best laid plans of mice and men—’

  “Meanwhile, Leem had been nervous and paced the sidewalks outside the hotel night after night. On Sunday night he got a shock. He saw his old boss, Sam Goddard, going into the Balboa garden entrance a little after midnight. His first impulse was to make contact, but it seems that Goddard, even when down on his luck, managed to keep up appearances and drive a good car. Leem looked and felt shabby. He ducked back to his furnished room and was there when Eve called him in the morning. She wanted to move out of the hotel immediately, but he talked her into staying in the hope she would pick up some information on the murder.

  “Leem went to Sam’s funeral and saw you there. That evening, still watching the hotel, he saw you check in. He called Eve in her room and told her who you were and suggested that she make contact in the bar because such a smart lawyer might know something about Kwan. The rest of the story you know. Eve tried to hustle a buck on her own and got caught with her hands in your wallet, but she knew the feel of film strip and took it for insurance. When she showed it to Charley Leem he set up the meeting. He says it was a come-on to sell you his information on Kwan. That’s a nice name for it.”