“There is Harriet Green: she’s my secretary. She leased the bungalow. Then David Bentley: I sail with him, he’s my closest friend. Terry Thompson: he’s the manager of the Opera House. He was Lisa’s friend. He knew and approved.” He paused, thinking. “Luke Williams: he was my alibi for Friday nights. We were supposed to be at a bowling alley. My wife approved of this. She thought the exercise was good for me.”
In the brilliant moonlight, Beigler scribbled down the names in his notebook.
“You said you had a flat tyre?”
“Yes . . . I went to get my car and found the off side front tyre was flat. Bates, my chauffeur, was off duty so I changed the tyre myself. I’m not good at this kind of chore and it took time. Usually I get to the bungalow at nine o’clock. I wasn’t worried. I knew Lisa would wait for me. I got to the bungalow thirty-five minutes late. I found her. That’s it. Anything else?”
Beigler hesitated. Was it possible, he asked himself, that Riddle had quarrelled with the woman and had killed her? Could he have painted the word on her back to shift suspicion from himself? But looking at the tragic face, he was satisfied.
“No, go home, Mr. Riddle.” He got to his feet. “The Chief will want to see you. I’ll get a couple of men over to your place right away to keep the press off you.”
“Thanks.” Riddle stood up. He turned to look at Beigler. “It’s a mess, isn’t it?” He hesitated, then offered his hand. A little surprised, Beigler took it. “Thanks for being so understanding.”
“It’ll work out,” Beigler said.
“Yes.”
Riddle turned, got in his car and drove away.
Beigler grimaced. Then with a shake of his head, he got in his car and headed back to the bungalow.
***
Alone in the small, stuffy cabin, Poke Toholo listened to the commentator on the small screen. Chuck and Meg were out. He had told Chuck to take Meg dancing and to keep her out late.
The fat, excited looking man with the love nest as his background was waving his microphone as he talked. A few moments ago, Lisa Mendoza’s body, covered by a sheet, had been brought out of the bungalow on a stretcher and the stretcher had been fed into the waiting ambulance.
“So the Executioner strikes again,” the commentator said dramatically.
“First Dean K. McCuen, one of our best known citizens, shot to death yesterday, now Lisa Mendoza, known to music lovers of this City as a fine violinist, has been strangled and her body defiled by the killer’s signature. There is no one in our City this night who isn’t asking the same question: not if this lunatic will strike again, but when will he strike again and who will be his next victim. I have with me Chief of Police Terrell . . .”
Poke smiled. The atmosphere was building up beautifully, he thought. He listened to Terrell’s plea against panic, knowing the rich and the spoilt would not be reassured. It would need now only one more killing for real stark panic, so necessary to his plan, to have the City in his grip.
Chuck must be more closely involved this time, Poke thought. Up to now, Chuck’s only contribution had been to help steal the rifle and to let the air out of Riddle’s tyre. That had been necessary to give Poke time to reach the bungalow and to find the woman there on her own. But the next killing would be different. It was time Chuck earned the promised money: time for him to be so involved, he couldn’t rat.
Poke’s attention was drawn back to the lighted screen.
The commentator was now whispering with a man who had joined him.
Poke heard the commentator whisper, “For God’s sake! Are you sure?”
The other man nodded and moved out of the camera’s range. The commentator mopped his sweating face with his handkerchief as he faced the camera.
“Folks . . . I’ve just heard Mr. Malcolm Riddle is dead. This will shock you as it shocks me. While driving back to his home, after being interviewed by the police, Mr. Riddle apparently lost control of his car. The car plunged over the cliff into the sea at West Point. Mr. Riddle . . .”
Poke got to his feet and stretched. It was building up even better than he had hoped. He looked at his watch. The time now was a few minutes after midnight. He turned off the television set, then taking off his flowered shirt and dropping his blue hipsters, he went into the shower room. Some minutes later, he put on faded red pyjamas and lay on the bed. He turned off the light.
His mind went back to the moment when he had broken into the bungalow. The lock on the back door had offered no resistance. He had waited in the darkness. She had arrived at 21.25 as he knew she would from Luke Williams whispered conversation with another Club member at the bar while Poke was serving them drinks. He was standing behind the drapes in the big bedroom. He watched her undress. She had tossed her stockings carelessly from her and they had landed within a foot of where he was hiding. He had meant to use his hands, but as she had supplied the weapon, he had accepted it.
The sound of a car driving into the garage broke his thoughts. He slid off the bed and peered through the curtains.
Chuck and Meg were walking to their cabin. He heard the door slam and then listened to the murmur of their voices. He stretched out on the bed again.
Tomorrow . . . the final killing . . . then the harvest.
He lay awake for some time, thinking. It was working out exactly the way he had planned. In a week the money would begin to come in.
He was still thinking about the money as he drifted off into sleep.
***
Lights burned in Mayor Hedley’s penthouse on the top of City Hall.
The time was 02.33.
Hedley had just got rid of Pete Hamilton and five other pressmen. They had given him a roasting that left him furious, white faced and sweating.
His wife, Monica, a forty-three year old motherly type of woman, sensible and nice, sat in a chair away from him. Chief of Police Terrell sat in a chair facing him.
“Lawson, dear, you must try to calm yourself,” Monica said soothingly. “It’s not good for you to get so worked up. You know . . .”
“Calm myself?” Hedley’s voice exploded, “calm myself! Don’t you realise this goddamn thing could lose me my job? Calm myself you say! With a lunatic killer loose in this City!”
Monica and Terrell exchanged glances.
“But honey if you did happen to lose your job, would it matter so much?”
Hedley clenched his fists and sucked in a breath of exasperation.
“You don’t understand. Monica . . . please go to bed. I want to talk to Frank.”
“But I do understand, Lawson.”
“You don’t! What you don’t seem able to grasp is the whole City is exploding!”
“Is it?” She got up and walked gracefully to the big picture window and looked at the residential skyscrapers that surrounded City Hall. Only a few lights showed in the many windows. “I would say most folk are in bed and asleep. The only people exploding as far as I can see are a handful of pressmen and you.”
“Monica, will you please go to bed.”
“Yes, of course.” She smiled at Terrell, then made her way to the door.
“Lawson is very civic minded, Frank,” she said at the door, then she was gone.
There was a long pause, Hedley said, “Monica doesn’t appreciate the implications behind all this. I don’t have to tell you, you and I could be out of office tomorrow, do I?”
Terrell took out his pipe and began to fill it.
“Could we?” He regarded Hedley. “I’ve been waiting to tell you something, Lawson. Now Monica isn’t with us, I’ll say it. In my view, you’re acting like an old woman who thinks there is a man under her bed.”
Hedley flushed red.
“Are you talking to me?” he demanded, then under Terrell’s steady stare, he managed to control his temper. “You can’t say a thing like that to me!”
“I’ve said it,” Terrell said mildly. “Now, for a change, listen to me.” He paused to light his pipe, then when it was going to
his satisfaction, he went on, “I’ve been Chief of Police for fifteen years. I’ve done a job and I know it as you know it. Just because we have a nut loose who has killed two people there’s no cause to panic and that is what you are doing. You should know as I know every so often a City gets a nut. This is nothing unique.”
Hedley pressed his finger tips to his forehead.
“But this is happening to Paradise City!”
“That’s right. What’s so special about Paradise City? I’ll tell you. Paradise City is the playground of some of the richest, most arrogant, most vulgar and most unpleasant people in this country. So a killer arrives: a fox among the golden geese. If it happened in any other City you wouldn’t bother to read about it.”
Trying to keep his voice steady, Hedley said, “It’s my duty to protect the people I serve! I don’t give a damn what happens in any other City! It’s what happens here that counts!”
“So what is happening here? A nut has killed two people. Getting into a panic won’t find him.”
“You sit there and talk,” Hedley said angrily, “but what are you doing?”
“I’ll find him. It’ll take time, but I’ll find him. Right now, by the way you and the press are behaving I get the idea you and they are creating an atmosphere the killer wants.”
Hedley reared back in his chair.
“What do you mean? Be careful what you’re saying! So far you and your men haven’t done a goddam thing to impress anyone! Two killings! And what have you got? Nothing! What do you mean by saying I’m creating an atmosphere this lunatic wants? Just what the hell do you mean by saying a thing like that?”
Completely unruffled, Terrell crossed one thick leg over the other.
“I’ve lived in this City most of my life,” he said. “For the first time I smell fear. I have smelt money, sex, corruption, scandal and vice, but never fear . . . I’m smelling it now.”
Hedley made a gesture of exasperation.
“I don’t give a damn about that! You’re accusing me of making an atmosphere this killer wants . . . you’d better explain!”
“Have you asked yourself what is the motive behind these killings?”
Terrell asked. “Why this killer publicises himself? When I have a murder case on my hands, I ask myself what is the motive? Without a motive, a killing is tough to solve. So I have asked myself what is the motive behind these two killings?”
Hedley dropped back in his chair.
“Why look at me? This is your job, goddamn it!”
“That’s right. It is my job.” Terrell puffed at his pipe. “No murder is ever committed without a motive. When dealing with a nut, the motive is obscure, but it is there, if you look for it hard enough. McCuen was a typical product of this City. Lisa Mendoza was a musician. There is no connection between these two except one thing: their deaths are the means to publicise a man who calls himself the Executioner. It’s a clever name . . . a name that makes an impact. With a name like that, he gets headlines. With a name like that, he has started a panic in this City. Until I find something else, I think that is the motive . . . to create panic in this City.”
“Oh, nonsense!” Hedley snapped. “Why should a nut want to create a panic?”
“That’s what he is doing,” Terrell said quietly. “I’m not saying I’m right, but with nothing else to go on, and looking at the scene, this could be the motive.”
Hedley thought for a long moment, then pushed back his chair.
“I’m tired. I’ve had enough for tonight. I’m sorry I blew up, Frank. All right . . . I’ll go along with your thinking. I don’t have to tell you what tomorrow is going to be like.” As Terrell said nothing, Hedley paused as he thought of tomorrow’s newspapers, the nonstop ringing of his telephone bell and Pete Hamilton creating trouble on the 10.00 TV news. “You really think this nut is trying to throw a scare into this City?”
“He’s doing it, isn’t he?”
“So what are we going to do?”
“That now depends on you,” Terrell said. He leaned forward and knocked out his pipe in the ash tray. “Before I return to headquarters I want to know if you are still on my side.”
“On your side?” Hedley stared at him. “Of course I am!”
“Are you?” Terrell looked woodenly at Hedley. “A moment ago you were talking about me losing my job. Do you want a new Chief of Police?”
Hedley flinched.
“Why the hell should I want a new Chief of Police? If there’s anyone who can catch this bastard it’s you!”
Terrell got to his feet.
“That’s right. If there’s anyone who can catch him it’s me. So let’s cut out the panic.”
“That’s telling him, Frank,” Monica said from the open doorway. “And how he needed to be told!”
Both men turned, realising only at this moment that she had been listening all the time.
Hedley suddenly relaxed. He looked sheepish.
“Wives! You want to take her off my hands, Frank?”
Terrell relaxed too. He winked at Monica.
“If I hadn’t one of my own, I’d take you up on that,” he said. “Both of them are as good as each other.” He started towards the door.
Hedley said, hesitation in his voice, “Do you want me at headquarters tomorrow?”
“You’re always wanted, Lawson,” Terrell said, pausing. He touched Monica’s hand, then taking the elevator, he went down to face the waiting TV cameras.
***
Jack Anders, doorman of the Plaza Beach hotel, stood on the red carpet before the imposing marble portals that led into the best hotel in the City, his keen grey eyes surveying the boulevard, his big hands clasped behind his back.
Anders was a 2nd World War veteran, the holder of a number of impressive combat medals and was now a recognised character on the boulevard. He had been doorman of the Plaza Beach hotel for the past twenty years.
This was the slack time in the morning so Anders was taking it easy. In another couple of hours cars would be arriving for the pre-lunch cocktail hour and he would be fully occupied opening car doors, instructing chauffeurs where to park, tipping his peak cap to the regulars, answering idiotic questions, giving information and collecting dollar bills. None of the Plaza Beach hotel’s clients ever dreamed of speaking to Anders without parting with a dollar bill. But at this hour of 09.30, he didn’t expect any demands on his attention and accordingly was relaxing.
Police Officer Paddy McNeil, a massively built, elderly Irishman who was around to take care of any traffic snarl up on the boulevard and generally to keep an eye on the aged and the rich, came to rest beside Anders.
The two men were friends. Their friendship had grown over the years while Anders had stood sentinel in all weathers outside the hotel and while McNeil paced the boulevard and came around to the hotel every two hours to pause and exchange greetings.
“How’s your pal . . . the Executioner?” Anders asked as McNeil paused by his side. “I was listening to the radio. Got all my old dears wetting their knickers.”
“Your old dears aren’t the only ones,” McNeil said darkly. “Right now life isn’t worth living. I’m thankful to be on patrol. Except for a dozen of us old deadbeats, the rest of us are out looking for his sonofabitch. Two truckloads of men from Miami arrived this morning. So much water down a drain. What do the finks from Miami know about this City?”
“Do you think what Hamilton says is right?” Anders asked innocently. He liked needling McNeil.
“Hamilton?” McNeil snorted. “I never listen to that big mouth . . . he’s a trouble maker.” He cocked an eye at Anders. “What did he say?”
“That this killer is a homicidal maniac with a grudge against the rich.”
McNeil pushed his cap forward to scratch the back of his head.
“You don’t have to be either homicidal or a maniac to hate the rich,” he said after some thought. “I can’t say I love the rich myself.”
Anders concealed a grin. “They
have their uses.”
“You can say that again. I’d like to have your job.”
“It’s not so bad.” Anders tried not to look smug. “But you have to know how to handle them. Think you’ll catch this nut?”
“Me?” McNeil shook his head. “Nothing to do with me. I’ve got beyond catching anyone. I’m like you . . . taking it easy, but the Chief will catch him. Terrell’s got a head on his shoulders, but, of course it’ll take time .”
A gleaming sand coloured Rolls drew up and leaving McNeil, Anders stepped briskly across the red carpet and opened the car door.
“Morning, Jack.” The handsome fat man who got out of the Rolls was Rodney Branzenstein. He was a successful Corporation lawyer who came every morning to see clients living at the hotel. “Seen anything of Mrs. Dunc Browler?”
“Too early for her, sir,” Anders said. “In about fifteen minutes.”
“If she asks you, tell her I haven’t arrived.” Branzenstein slid a dollar bill into Anders’ ready hand. He strode into the hotel.
While his chauffeur drove the Rolls away, McNeil moved close to Anders.
“Do you ever get sore fingers, Jack?” he asked with concern.
“Not me,” Anders said promptly, “but don’t get wrong ideas. This has taken years.”
“Is that right?” McNeil shook his head. “I’ve been pounding this goddam beat for years and no one has ever thought to slip me a buck.”
“My personality,” Anders said. “Your bad luck.”
A tiny woman with sky blue hair, her skin raddled, her aged fingers crooked by diamond rings came tottering out of the hotel.
Anders was immediately by her side.
“Mrs. Clayton!” Watching him, McNeil was startled by the look of incredulity on Anders’ red, leathery face. “Now where do you think you’re going?”
The little woman simpered and looked adoringly up at Anders.
“I thought I’d go for a very short walk.”
“Mrs. Clayton!” The concern in Anders’ voice made even McNeil concerned. “Did Dr. Lowenstein say you could go for a very short walk?”
The little woman looked guilty.
1971 - Want to Stay Alive Page 6