Leem’s reaction was faster now. “Was Sam murdered, too?” he gasped.
“You know damned well he was! His gun is missing and I was almost shot with it two nights ago. I’ve got the shell casing to prove it.”
Simon loosened his hold on Leem’s collar and let him sink back in his chair. He was thoroughly shaken. He drew back like a man who has been beaten and fears another blow. He looked at Keith, lips trembling. “I wore a topcoat when you brought me here yesterday,” he said weakly. “Where is it?”
“You aren’t going anywhere,” Keith said.
“I know. But get the coat, anyway. It’s an all-weather with a zip-out lining. The tape’s in a box fastened to the lining under the right arm. You can play it on your fancy machine.”
The words exhausted Leem. He sat motionless while Keith got the tape, and then the three of them sat in silence while it played out the action Eve Necchi had missed while making friends at the Balboa bar. The death of N. B. Kwan had a playing time of slightly over three minutes. It began with a knock at the door. The door opened.
MONTEREY: Dr. Kwan?
KWAN: Yes?
MONTEREY: My name is Monterey. I’ve come for the shipment.
KWAN: Oh, sure. I recognize you. Come in and close the door. I’ve got the stuff in my brief case.
MONTEREY: It’s lighter than usual.
KWAN: But it’s more valuable than usual. Where’s my money?
MONTEREY: In your safety-deposit box at the bank in La Jolla as usual. Is this all of it?
KWAN: No. Take this notebook and keep it close to you. It’s more valuable than the package.
MONTEREY: I know. I met with Max Berlin and Di Miro in Mexico a few weeks ago and they clued me in on the deal. Van Brut was there. He got a face job. So did Di Miro. They’re heading south.
KWAN: I’m not surprised. Di Miro’s hot. Severing’s under fire too but his slate cleans easier. Robles will take care of him. How much did Berlin put in my box?
MONTEREY: One hundred thousand dollars.
KWAN: It should have been double. This stuff will make Maxie millions. But I’m not greedy. I’m young. I like living.
MONTEREY: (softly): So did Joe.
KWAN: Who?
MONTEREY: Somebody you never knew. A young man. A G.I.
KWAN: What’s eating you? You look peculiar.
MONTEREY: I feel fine. I’ve been waiting for tonight and thinking about Joe and all the young men in Viet Nam who might live if they had this stuff. Young men. Girls, too. Girl’s like Joe’s Juanita and babies like the babies they never had. You’re rotten, Kwan. You’re filthy rotten.
KWAN: Don’t preach to me, Monterey. I’ve seen Berlin’s book on you. You haven’t been a man on a white horse since the cameras stopped turning. I won’t lose any sleep over those damned G.I.’s. I saw them in action when I was a kid. They make out and I intend to make out too. Let the big-eyed S.O.B.’s die!”
That was almost the last of the dialogue. The rest of the sounds were of violence and animal-like cries. Kwan screamed: “Let go, you idiot! You’ll kill me!” And then Monterey said: “That’s the way we play this scene, baby. That’s how I wrote the script.” The sounds diminished as they moved out on the balcony and then came a terrible scream that nearly burst the speaker. Footsteps ran from the room. The door slammed and a sickening wail continued in the background until Keith snapped off the machine.
“It’s evidence,” he said. “The voice prints can be matched to the sound tracks of Monterey’s old films.”
“Yes, it’s evidence,” Simon admitted, “but with Monterey dead there’s nothing to bring to trial.”
“Berlin?”
“Berlin is mentioned—that’s all. No corroborating evidence and probably nothing in Kwan’s safety-deposit box by this time. Where’s that notebook again? It’s beginning to make sense.”
Keith gave Simon the notebook and he turned immediately to the names in the back of the book. “Robles and Malvern. I should have recognized the names last night. Law partners specializing in international law. Van Brut was a client in a trust-busting suit last year. Price fixing and a drug-cartel deal. Wessler. Strikes a chord. Check with the FDA. I think this whole thing smells of an industrial spy ring stealing chemical formulas. A reliable pharmaceutical firm will spend millions developing a product that turns up on the black market before he can get it packaged. Van Brut and Di Miro had face jobs, Monterey said. That would make them the two studies in plastic surgery that Sam Goddard found interesting enough to photograph. That’s an indication that he was on to the operation, too. I don’t think he dropped the story. I think, when he saw Monterey, he decided to hold off until he could dig deeper. Monte was his wife’s brother. Old ties are hard to break.”
“Then the code in the notebook is a formula Kwan got for Berlin,” Keith concluded, “but what is the shipment?”
“Not a shipment at all, probably. Kwan called it that because he usually delivered contraband—probably heroin. I wish Monterey had been more talkative. He was on to something that hit a sensitive area. Joe was his brother—the war hero who died overseas. The powder is a drug. An antibiotic. What’s the big health problem in East Asia?”
“Malaria,” Keith said.
“Right. They’ve run into a virulent type nothing seems to cure. And there’s a congressional investigation in progress on the booming price of quinine. An international cartel is involved.”
“The profits of war,” Keith said bitterly. “I’m beginning to understand why Monterey got on his white horse again.”
“So am I,” Simon said. “His brother—the war hero—meant too much to him. Monterey must have had to wear mental blinders most of the time when he worked for Berlin, but a man can fall only so far. This was one peg too low.”
“He should have gone to the police.”
“After losing control and killing a man? How could he? I don’t suppose he thought of it as murder. It was more like an execution of somebody the law couldn’t touch. For a man like Max Berlin there’s always a Robles and Malvern, and he uses them to protect anyone in his organization. Not Monterey because Monterey was deviating, and so Monterey turned to Sam Goddard. He may have seen Goddard at the spa, too. We’ll probably never know about that.” Simon turned to Charley Leem, who had remained silent throughout the playing of the tape and was now absorbing the exchange between the two men with the intense interest of a man listening for a clue that might save his skin. “How soon after Kwan’s death did you realize what was on this tape?” he asked.
Leem licked his lips nervously. “A few hours after Kwan’s body was discovered,” he answered. “Eve called me as soon as the maid reported the murder. She was panic-stricken and I told her to sit tight and call me again after the body was removed. I knew the hotel would try to play it down for the sake of the other guests. When she called back I went to the hotel and picked up the machine. I played just enough of it in the room to know we had something, so I asked her to stay on in the hotel. She wouldn’t stay in the same room, but that was okay. I took the machine to my room and played the whole tape.”
“Monterey was still alive then.”
“Yes.”
“And Sam Goddard. You old fool, don’t you realize that you might have saved their lives if you had gone to the police? What did you have in mind—blackmailing Monterey? It must have been a shock when you learned he was dead.”
“It was more of a shock when I learned Sam Goddard was dead,” Leem said. “I figured the organization Monterey and Kwan were in had polished off Monterey, and only a Boy Scout mixes in that kind of a fight. I’m too old to be a Boy Scout. But I’d seen Sam in the courtyard of the Balboa. His death shook me up. I couldn’t see Sam getting mixed up with anything like that unless he was on a story. Sam had principles. He didn’t play by ear; he played by heart. I went to his funeral to see who would show. You, Drake, were the only one who didn’t belong. I’d heard about you. Big-shot lawyer with a fancy clientele. I wan
ted to make a contact to try to learn who you were representing. I was trying to learn who this tape would hurt more than it could hurt me. That’s not blackmail, baby. That’s insurance.”
Leem was old and rheumy-eyed, but he knew the ropes and had the psychic burns to show for it. He licked his lips again. “You’re right about one thing,” he said. “Eve’s murder scared me. I knew you weren’t responsible. That meant that the organization was on to Eve and, maybe, to me. They weren’t even careful who they killed. The tape’s too hot for me to handle alone. I’m glad you two have heard it. That’s insurance, too.”
“I’ll get it to a non-fuzz lab I know to make the voice-print records,” Keith said. “After that, Simon, it’s your move.”
The telephone rang and Keith answered it. It was from Franzen.
“They’ve found my car at International,” Keith reported back. “Duane Thompson’s afraid you’ve left the country.”
“Great!” Simon said. “Los Angeles International connects with any and every place in the world. The search should keep him busy right up to the spring primaries. Is your phone bugged?”
“It wasn’t the last time I checked.”
“Then I’ll borrow it.”
Simon put in a call to Whitey Sanders at the Gateway Bar in La Verde. He recognized Alex Lacey’s voice when he was curtly informed that Mr. Sanders was still in Palm Springs.
“It must have been quite a party,” Simon said.
“What?” Lacey demanded.
“Never mind. Connect me with Buddy Jenks.”
The call was transferred to Buddy’s quarters. The kid sounded happy. Simon couldn’t tell whether or not he was alone.
“Buddy, this is Simon Drake,” Simon said. “I want you to give Whitey a message as soon as he comes in. Tell him that I’ve gotten possession of the rest of Monterey’s estate.”
“Whatever that means,” Buddy answered.
“Tell him. Promise?”
Buddy promised and placed the telephone back in the cradle. Simon waited until he heard the second click and then hung up. He turned away from the instrument to find Keith watching him with concern. “There might be a bug on the other end of that call,” he warned. “If so, you’re in trouble.”
“That,” Simon answered, “is what I’m counting on.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It was a night without fog. From the sky the La Verde airport was a bright splay of fluorescence at the bottom of the black bowl of the valley. The runways were clear as Simon approached in his rented Beechcraft and the parking lot was almost empty. He came in low and located the XK-E where he had left it, but now it sat in grand isolation in a field of blacktop. There was no sign of the green Cougar or of Berlin’s henchmen. Simon banked, circled the field until the control tower gave permission to land, and then dropped gently to the landing strip. The last air commuter had long since returned home and the waiting room, when he reached it, was deserted. The coffee shop was in operation for the benefit of the airport employees, none of whom paid any particular attention as he passed through the building on his way to the car. Reaching the Jaguar, he took the precaution of raising the hood for a bomb inspection before starting the motor. But the explosive that had been planted in the Rolls probably had another purpose than to frighten him off the case. Finding the motor clean, he drove directly to the Gateway Bar.
News of a good thing travels fast, and Buddy Jenks already had a following that overflowed the parking lot. Inside, Buddy’s performance had mesmerized the crowd. They had no eyes, ears or awareness for anything but the weaving artist under the spotlight. Nobody noticed Simon except Alex Lacey, whose noncommittal expression seemed to have been enameled on his face. He was a presence at Simon’s shoulder.
“Where’s the boss?” Simon asked.
“Mr. Sanders hasn’t come in this evening,” Lacey said. “I think he’s in his bungalow.”
“Call him and tell him that I’m here. I’ll be at the bar.”
Simon didn’t wait for an argument. He threaded his way through the tables and took a position at the bar where he could observe the entrance to the room. He avoided watching Buddy’s performance because there might be a more vital one off-stage. He ordered a Scotch on the rocks and waited. Alex Lacey left his place at the doorway and about five minutes later Bonnie Penny, sheathed in body-hugging pink spangles, took the route Simon had just traversed and joined him at the bar. She wasn’t bouncy or smiling. She had an ugly red bruise on the left side of her face and a wetness in her eyes that didn’t match the ecstatic tears of Buddy’s teen-aged fans.
“Mr. Drake,” she said, “why don’t you get out of here right now? You’re in trouble.”
“Who hit you?” Simon asked.
“Nobody.”
“You’re lying. Doorknobs don’t come that size.”
“Okay, so I had a fight with Buddy.”
“I don’t believe you. The kid’s too happy to hit a woman now. Did Whitey send you?”
“No. I was with Buddy when you called this afternoon. He told me what you said.”
“What do you know about Monterey’s murder?”
“Murder?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. You knew something was wrong the day his body was discovered. You wasted no time following me up to his room and didn’t leave me alone in it for an instant.”
“That was my job!”
“I think you carried it beyond the line of duty. And you knew about that oil stain on the chair. Who ordered it taken to the workroom? Was that your job, too?”
Bonnie seemed in a state of shock. He wasn’t certain that she had heard a word he said. She glanced nervously toward the entertainment area and then fixed her intense eyes on Simon. “We can’t talk here,” she said. “Buddy doesn’t like crowd noises when he’s performing. There’s an exit to the service yard just behind you. Let’s step outside.”
Simon’s hand slid into his coat pocket. The automatic Keith had given him was still there. It generated confidence. Taking Bonnie’s arm, he gently steered her just ahead of him past the bar and through the exit doorway. The service yard was empty. Floodlights bathed the driveway, and more light streamed from the windows of a squat utility shed located in a circular green plot beyond the drive, but the eaves of the Gateway building dropped a shawl of shadow across the doorway and provided cover from any unseen watcher. Simon didn’t step beyond the shadow. “Now,” he said, “what’s the size of this trouble I’m in, and why did we have to come out here to talk about it?”
Bonnie didn’t answer. Her face was partially hidden by the shadow, but he could see tears forming in her eyes. He touched her shoulder and she trembled. “I didn’t want to do it,” she said. “I had to because of Buddy. They threatened Buddy if I didn’t get you out here.”
“Threatened? They? What the hell are you talking about!” Simon grabbed Bonnie’s other shoulder just as her face was bathed in light. He whirled about and was momentarily blinded by the two bright headlamps that were bearing down on the doorway. From inside the club Buddy’s trumpet had acquired a percussion backing, and a throbbing churn from the utility shed blotted out whatever sound the big Cougar made as it pulled to a stop in front of them. The character with the turtleneck sweater was driving. The rear door swung open and the little man who had his face in a racing form stepped out holding a gun. It was a snub-nosed revolver with an emphatic blue barrel pointed at Simon’s chest.
“Okay, get inside the car,” he said.
Simon shoved Bonnie behind him.
“Both of you,” the man said.
“We don’t need the girl,” Simon protested.
“I say that we do.”
The short barrel beckoned Bonnie into the car. The thick features of Turtleneck had loosened in a kind of lewd smile, and Simon remembered the way Eve Necchi’s body looked sprawled in that motel shower. Some people had a sickening sense of humor. The gun barrel waved again, and in the instant it wasn’t pointed at Simon’s chest he
slid his right hand into his coat pocket and aimed the automatic. He fired at a range of no more than five feet, and the blast tore loose a piece of Guildenstern’s stomach on contact. The impact hurled him back against the sedan. He hung there for an instant with an expression of astonishment on his face. He looked down and saw his own blood streaming out onto the asphalt paving and then he screamed: “Otto! Otto!”
The Cougar roared forward. Otto wasn’t waiting for a second shot. He stomped on the accelerator and the wounded man’s only support was pulled away. He lurched backward, braced himself and swayed for a moment still screaming hysterically and futilely: “Otto! Otto, wait for me!” From some instinctive depth of self-preservatory memory he remembered the gun in his hand. Simon saw his fingers tighten on the trigger and braced for the impact of the bullet, but then, as he fired, the man pitched forward. It was like a fall of timber: one sudden plunge and then he was sprawled on the driveway with the gun still gripped tightly in his fingers and the startled quiet of death in his eyes.
Bonnie sobbed hysterically at Simon’s shoulder. “He’s dead!” she cried.
Simon dropped to his knees and verified the obvious. The man was indeed dead. Vaguely aware of a sudden pain in his left thigh, he turned to Bonnie. “What’s in that little building that’s making so much noise?”
“It’s the heating and cooling plant for the whole complex,” she answered.
“Does it have a door? And if it does, get it open. I’ve got to move this body before his friend has time to circle the motel and get back here.”
Bonnie was in a state of shock and reacted like a well-programmed robot. While she opened the door to the utility shed, Simon got hold of the dead man’s ankles and dragged him across the driveway. A safety light burned inside the building enabling Simon to get the body well away from the doorway and tucked next to the refrigeration unit. He left him there lying face-up with one hand placed over the wound and the other still clasping the gun. It was a Smith and Wesson .38 with a wooden grip. He didn’t have time to look for a serial number but felt certain that it was Sam Goddard’s gun. By the time anyone located the dead man he would be so cold it would require a surgical operation to get the weapon out of his hand, and the ballistics unit of the La Verde police could have fun comparing notes with its counterpart in Enchanto-by-the-Sea.
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