Operation Deathmaker

by Dan J. Marlowe

  It’s not only the astronauts who benefited from the technical advances of space research. Everything in the vest was miniaturized to the nth degree. Not too many safes had been designed to cope with the sophisticated items in the vest. And not very many men were qualified to use them successfully.

  I took a thin steel Z-shaped torque wrench and lock-pick from the vest and placed them in my shirt collar where they acted like collar stays and were just as invisible. Then I tried on the vest. It was adjustable, and I had to loosen a couple of straps. I rotated the various items in the canvas pockets until they followed body curves as closely as possible. With the weight equally distributed around the trunk of my body, I hardly felt as though I was carrying anything at all. And it left my hands free.

  I had the vest partway off when the telephone rang again. I tossed the vest onto the bed and pulled the spread down to cover it. When I opened the door, Val was standing in the open door across the corridor, looking at me silently. My jacket was in her right hand. I moved past her and picked up the telephone receiver. “Yes?” I said again.

  “This is George,” the by-now-familiar young voice announced. “He made only three phone calls, and two were to the same number.”

  “Okay, shoot,” I said.

  “The repeated call was made to area code 213. The phone number was 461-4215. The other call was local, to 775-3325.

  “Beautiful,” I said. “You’re earning a bonus, George. Where can I reach you if I need you again?”

  “I’ll leave word at the switchboard if I’m not there myself.”

  “Fine. Keep digging. So long.”

  I backed up the tape on the recording device and copied down the phone numbers as they were repeated.

  “You keep showing me unsuspected facets of yourself,” she said dryly as I set the unit to record again. “When I think of the way you used to sit on the terrace at the Viking as though you’d never done a day’s work in your life—” She shook her dark head slowly.

  I hadn’t really looked at her closely since I’d found her waiting for me at the Miramar. She was dressed in a pantsuit, which she filled superlatively. Although not as large-framed as Hazel, she had a superior set of jugs and an ass that at times seemed to be framed only by the blue horizon. When Hazel had introduced me to her, I had thought she wasn’t beautiful. Right now I wasn’t nearly so sure.

  “Is there something the matter with my suit?” she countered my stare.

  “Nothing. Nor with what it’s containing.”

  “That’s enough of that,” she said quietly.

  “Okay.” I didn’t want to upset her. “Does area code 213 mean anything to you?”

  “It should. It’s the Los Angeles area code.”

  “Verrry interesting,” I said lightly. I picked up the phone and had the switchboard operator call 461-4215 for me. The phone rang several times. Then there was a click, and a hollow-sounding voice responded. “This is the law office of Roger A. Kirkman. Mr. Kirkman is not available right now. You have twenty seconds in which to leave a message.”

  I hung up without leaving a message.

  “Roger Kirkman,” I repeated. “Another Kirkman.” I gestured toward the telephone. “The same name as Melissa’s boyfriend at school.”

  “A relative?” Val hazarded.

  “I suppose. He’s a lawyer.” I looked at the other number I had jotted down. 775-3325. I asked the operator to get me the Boston area code with that number.

  “American Airlines, may I help you?” the phone said in my ear.

  “Are you the downtown office?”

  “No, sir. We’re at Logan International Airport.”

  “Thanks.” I cradled the receiver. “Young Kirkman called American Airlines at Boston’s Logan International Airport,” I repeated for Valerie.

  “After he called L.A.?”

  “I didn’t get the chronology. Maybe I should.” I thought of something else. I picked up the phone for the third time and gave the operator the number of Melissa’s school.

  “Northeastern University,” a female voice said.

  “George Foley, please.”

  “Oh, George!” the voice caroled. “Call for you!”

  “This is George,” I heard after a three-second pause.

  “Elliott again. Do you recall the order in which the phone calls were made for which you gave me the numbers?”

  “The local call was sandwiched between the others.”

  “One more question, George. Is Kirkman in school now?”

  “Why, I took it for granted he was. With the phone calls, you know. The local call and the last area code 213 call were made yesterday afternoon.”

  “How about checking on it and calling me right back? It’s probably not important, but I’d like to know.”

  “Stay right by the phone.”

  “Why are you asking these questions?” Val asked while I waited for the phone to ring again. “Do you think that Melissa’s boyfriend had anything to do with her kidnapping?” Her tone of voice indicated she hadn’t thought previously she was dealing with an idiot.

  “I’m asking the questions because I don’t have any better ones to ask right now,” I said candidly. “Anything I learn from Melissa’s school will add to the little I know now. I don’t necessarily think that—”

  The telephone rang.

  I reached for the receiver.

  I hadn’t made or received as many telephone calls in the past five years as I had in the past few hours.

  “Elliott,” I said.

  “Mr. Elliott, Stan Kirkman flew to the coast last night.” Repressed excitement bubbled in the voice of my amateur detective. “Is that important?”

  “I’m not sure yet. Any idea where he went?”

  “He didn’t tell anyone. It must have been important, though, because he missed a makeup exam to do it.”

  “Okay, George. Circulate around and get me everything you can on this Kirkman and his relationship with Melissa Andrews. You won’t be able to reach me here tonight, but call me in the morning.”

  “In the morning your time?” he wanted to know.

  “Your time. Don’t worry about waking me up.”

  “What did you mean when you said he couldn’t reach you here tonight?” Val asked with the same directness she had employed previously.

  I pushed the telephone away from me again. “I’ve got a few things to do,” I replied.

  “Did you tell your telephone caller about Melissa’s disappearance?” she asked next.

  “No. He thinks I’m a private detective.” I continued on before she could ask more questions. “Does the name Roger Kirkman mean anything to you? Attorney Roger Kirkman? Ever hear your ex mention the name?”

  “No, but I could paper a pathway to the stars with the number of attorneys in the L.A. area whose names I’ve never heard.”

  “Is there anyone you could talk to who might have some information?”

  “There’s Tom Gilford. He’s still in the district attorney’s office. I’m sure he could find out.”

  “Would he do it if you asked him?”

  “I’m sure he’d want to know why.”

  “Give him a story. Tell him you’re about to become involved in a real estate transaction with this Kirkman, and you’re anxious to learn about his financial responsibility.”

  She considered me silently for a long moment. “Suppose this lawyer were somehow connected with what’s taken place,” she said finally. “I don’t believe it, but suppose. What then?”

  “What then?” I repeated.

  “What would you do about it?” she inquired with the same armor-piercing directness she had previously exhibited.

  “Call it to the attention of the proper authorities,” I replied with affected nonchalance. “Indirectly.”

  She was still studying me. “I shouldn’t do it, because I don’t believe you. You’re not the same man I sat drinking coffee with at the Viking Motel. But I suppose I could call Tom from the hospit
al while I’m spending time with Hazel.”

  “Get this Gilford talking,” I urged. “Ask about Kirkman’s friends. Relatives, too.” I remembered the aerosol gas attack at the airport and the pipebomb in Hazel’s car. “Ask about a friend or relative who might be a technician of some kind.”

  “A technician?”

  “Yes. Builds things. Makes things. A do-it-yourself type.”

  “Tom is going to think I’m considering marrying this Kirkman if I ask all those questions,” she protested.

  “I’d appreciate getting the answers,” I said. I didn’t want to make it any stronger than that because I’d already learned that this woman responded better to honey than to vinegar.

  She glanced at her watch. “I suppose I should leave for the hospital. Can I reach you here in the morning if I learn anything?”

  “You certainly can. And thanks.”

  I took my jacket from her before she left. Then I went back across the corridor to the other room. I pulled the canvas vest from under the bedspread and worked my way into it. When I had it snugly fastened, I pulled on my jacket carefully. Even with the moved-back buttons it was a tight fit, but I was able to fasten it. The vest hampered me in reaching my Smith & Wesson 9mm. automatic, so I removed it from my belt holster and put it in my jacket pocket.

  I was just about ready to leave, but there was one more thing I could do to make the evening’s work a little easier.

  I knew that the Davis, Dodds, and Badger brokerage office was in the Armstrong Building in Pasadena, because I’d let Hazel off there on my way to the airport with Melissa. I looked for the Armstrong Building number in the phone book, then walked out to the lobby pay phone. Voices sounded from the cocktail lounge across the way, and ice cubes tinkled in glasses. I could have used a drink myself, but that would come later.

  The phone rang six times before anyone answered. “Custodian,” a gruff voice said.

  “This is Dr. Baker at Rancho Los Amigos Hospital,” I said. “I’d like to talk to Mrs. Angelo Torrez. It’s important.”

  “You got the wrong number, Doc,” the custodian said with authority. “We got no Mrs. Torrez here. This is the Armstrong Building.”

  “She’s a substitute worker who joined the night cleaning crew today,” I said. “Her husband has just been brought into emergency.”

  “Hell, I don’t even know all the reg’lars, let alone the new ones.” Some of the impatience had departed from the gruff voice, however.

  “Isn’t there some way I can contact her?”

  “Yeah. After business hours, like now, there’s one phone on each floor the crew’ll answer. Otherwise they let ‘em ring. The crew assembles on the twelfth floor an’ works their way down through the buildin’. It takes about forty-five minutes for each floor. They’ll prob’ly still be on twelve or movin’ down to eleven. Take these numbers down. You ought to catch her at one floor or the other.”

  I listened to him rattle off two phone numbers I didn’t bother to write down. “Thanks, you’ve been a real help,” I said sincerely. I now knew the cleaning crew followed a set routine, and I knew their rate of progress.

  I wondered what kind of a safe the Davis, Dodds, and Badger office might contain. Going after a safe sight unseen can be a touchy thing. The vest contained a safe manual with opening instructions for major makes and models, but a manual isn’t infallible. In addition, a man has to damn well know what he’s doing to follow the instructions, which tend toward an industry-jargon shorthand.

  There was always the possibility that after Hazel had unloaded the cash in the broker’s office that afternoon too late for them to bank it, they’d hired a temporary guard for the weekend because of the safe’s unusual contents. But unless the safe was far more substantial than those found in the average business office, I really didn’t anticipate that peeling the box was going to present too great a challenge.

  I removed the extra wigs from my makeup kit and carried it with me when I left the motel. The rigidity of all the metal in the vest around my upper body made folding myself under the wheel of the Cutlass a problem but nothing insuperable. I hit the Pasadena Freeway well after the commuter traffic had cleared but before the evening drivers had come out in full force. I decided to consider it a good omen.

  I left the freeway after passing City Hall and worked my way over to Washington Boulevard. It was the same route I had taken in the afternoon with Hazel and Melissa. It didn’t seem possible that it was only hours ago. I pulled off the street into a multi-story parking garage a block away from the Armstrong Building.

  “I won’t be long,” I told the attendant. I didn’t want him burying the Cutlass so it would be inaccessible when I was ready to leave.

  Remnants of fast-fading daylight still illuminated the west side of the Armstrong Building when I reached the sidewalk. The shaded street was almost dark. Some lights were on in offices on almost every floor. I’d been counting on that. Most people caught up in overtime prefer to work late Fridays rather than come in on Saturdays.

  The top two floors of the building were ablaze with light, marking the location of the cleaning crew. I walked toward the main entrance of the building, carrying my makeup kit in my left hand and my car keys in my right. I moved past the entrance, sizing it up. Lights were on in the lobby, but when I tested the central revolving door and the two glass doors flanking it, all were locked. The doors of three elevators were in plain view at the rear of the lobby.

  Position indicator lights were flicking on and off above the central elevator. The cab was descending. I watched as the letter “L” lit up and the elevator doors parted. A good-looking girl stepped out and began advancing toward the entrance, opening her handbag as she did so.

  I judged her pace while I approached the door she was walking toward. My car key was in my outstretched hand when I reached the door. “I’ll get it,” I said loudly enough for my voice to carry inside, but I made sure the girl was already unlocking the door when I said it.

  She pushed the door open, forcing my key hand back. “Thanks,” I said. “You’re working late.”

  “The usual last minute Friday foul-up,” she said. “But at least I won’t have to come in tomorrow.”

  “Sorry I can’t say the same,” I said.

  The girl smiled in commiseration and walked away.

  I moved inside and the door snicked shut behind me.

  Lady Luck was still on the job. I could have managed the door lock, but it would have taken time and left me open to the possibility of being seen manipulating it. It was much better this way.

  I walked toward the prominently posted building directory. Davis, Dodds, and Badger occupied suite 744-750. I did a little mental arithmetic. According to the custodian’s figures, I had until 10:45 before the cleaning crew was due to show up on the seventh floor. I could wait until they had finished with it, of course. But any sound vibrations from a steel safe would travel downward through the floor. I preferred to have them above me. And in addition I didn’t want to wait that long.

  I stepped inside the open door of the elevator and pushed the seventh-floor button.

  The elevator stopped at a dimly lit corridor. My footsteps were muffled as I moved along the carpeted hallway. The lettering on the solid, fine-grained walnut doors named insurance adjusters, fire underwriters, and brokers of various descriptions.

  The building was U-shaped, and I turned a corner, following the room numbers. Suite 744-750 was at the end of the corridor. It didn’t look like the other offices. It had a clear glass door in a clear glass wall. I could see inside part of the office, since night lights had been left on. Most importantly, the wall glass and the heavy glass door in its burnished aluminum frame carried around its edges the familiar silver tape of a burglar alarm system.

  I had to bypass the alarm before I could get to the office safe.

  I unbuttoned my jacket, pulled a pair of prepowdered, latex surgical gloves from the vest, and drew them on. I went back to the turn in
the corridor and set up the suction-cupped curved mirror so I could see around the corner if anyone got off the elevator. Then I removed the battery-powered high-speed drill from the vest and went back to the Davis, Dodds, and Badger glass door.

  The glass wall was the weakness in the burglar alarm system. The tape circled the wall completely until it reached the door. It rose perpendicularly from the floor, framing the outside of the door without touching it, then moved across the top of the door almost to its right-hand edge. The tape then outlined the door at its edges, climbing finally to tie into the main loop again half an inch from where it had left it.

  I drilled two holes at the points where the tape left and returned to the main loop. The reach to the top of the door was a bit awkward, but I only had to penetrate the tape. Next, I squeezed liquid solder from a tube into the holes to make a good contact with the foil. Finally, I inserted the bare ends of a short piece of copper wire into the soldered holes, effectively short-circuiting the door’s alarm. The wire was nearly invisible. What I had done was bridge the circuit, taking the door out of the system.

  I picked the door lock with no difficulty, using the torque wrench and pick from under my collar. I opened the door with no fear of the alarm, since the contacts at the door edge had been bypassed. There was ample light inside the office. I removed my jacket and hung it on a chair-back in an inside office, out of sight of the corridor.

  I made a quick tour of the premises to be sure there were no unpleasant surprises. It seemed a typical brokerage office: small partitioned-off rooms for the partners, and a large, open workroom with secretarial desks with pedestal attachments holding electric typewriters and telephones.