by Keith Miles
‘Tom’s got a pretty short fuse.’
‘So I gathered.’
‘And it’s not a wise move to upset Mr. Kallgren.’
‘Is that what Zuke did?’
‘Zuke is immaterial,’ she replied. ‘I’m warning you.’
‘An official caution?’
‘Of course not. I’m only speaking as a friend.’
She glanced back up the stairs and I could see that she was torn between professional and personal considerations. This Barbie doll had genuine emotions and she wrestled with them openly. Duty to an employer took second place to loyalty to a lover.
‘Will you be sticking around for a while, Alan?’
‘Oh, yes,’ I affirmed. ‘I’m seeing this thing through.’
‘If there’s any way I can help—any way at all—just ask.’ She took a business card from her pocket and handed it to me. ‘You can reach me on this number during office hours.’
‘I’ll remember that.’
‘It’s a direct line,’ she added, sensing my hesitation. ‘You won’t have to go through the switchboard. Nobody will know that we’re talking to each other.’
‘Not even Mr. Kallgren?’ I asked, pointedly.
‘If you’re not happy about it, ring me at home instead. You’ll find the number on the back of the card.’
I did. It was written in a firm, feminine hand.
‘Don’t forget, will you?’ she pressed.
‘No—and thanks.’
‘Let me help. Please. I owe it to Zuke.’
I nodded and slipped the card into my pocket.
Though I tried hard, I still wasn’t able to trust Suzanne Fricker. I was getting too many contradictory signals from her and the plastic perfection of her appearance unsettled me. It crossed my mind that she might have been planted on me by Kallgren.
‘You’re wrong,’ she insisted, reading my thoughts. ‘I’m no spy. If Mr. Kallgren knew about this, I’d be in real trouble.’
I believed her. She was doing it for Zuke.
‘Are you going back to the party, Alan?’
‘Not on your life,’ I answered. ‘I’m going to gather up my things and sneak away! I’ve got a lot of sleep to catch up on.’
‘Do you have transport?’
‘Clive offered to run me back—Clive Phelps, that is. Golf writer from England. We’re old mates.’ I had second thoughts. ‘We might not stay old mates if I drag him away from all that free booze. And it’d be cruel to rob him of the chance to invite Miss California back to his hotel room to admire the view.’
Suzanne smiled. ‘He’s been beaten to the draw there.’
‘Gamil Amir?’
‘Miss California prefers the Arab stallion. And with respect to your friend, I can’t say that I blame her.’
‘In that case,’ I decided, ‘I’ll have to let Clive stay.’
‘Why?’
‘So that he can drown his sorrows in style. I’ll call a taxi.’
‘Leave it to me,’ she offered.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Let Kallgren pay. This is his show.’
There was an edge in her tone that bordered on disillusion.
‘How did you come to work for him, Suzanne?’
‘He asked me.’
‘Was it as straightforward as that?’
‘More or less. He wanted me on the team and he has a habit of getting what he wants.’ She shrugged. ‘It was time for a move, anyway. I was getting frustrated in the Special Prosecutions Unit.’
‘Where you?’
‘I’d been there too long, Alan. Seen all the job had to offer. And the delays always used to get to me.’
‘Delays?’
‘Judicial process is a slow business. We’d spend maybe a year or more building up a case only to have it adjourned time and again on some technicality introduced by the defence. I hated having to play a waiting game. I like action.’
‘Is that what Kallgren offered you?’
‘Among other things.’
‘More money?’
‘That, too, of course.’
‘More scope for your ambition?’
A pause. ‘Why are we talking about me?’ she asked.
‘I’m interested, that’s all. I get the feeling that you’re very ambitious.’
‘Mr. Kallgren wouldn’t employ anyone who wasn’t.’
‘Do you like working for him?’
‘Most of the time.’ Her smile was enigmatic. ‘There’ll be a limo waiting outside for you in five minutes.’
‘Thanks.’
When we shook hands, her fingers squeezed mine hard.
‘Goodbye, Alan. Keep in touch.’
‘I will.’
Suzanne went off to organise my chauffeur and I made my way to the locker room. I retrieved my golf bag, sought out Jerry Bruford to settle my debts, then went around to the front of the clubhouse.
Phil Reiner was chatting in the foyer with Mrs. Kallgren and her two teenage sons. She had a serene self-satisfaction and the boys had a laid-back eagerness. I wondered if they knew what sort of a man the head of their family really was.
When Phil Reiner saw me, he detached himself with an excuse and came across. His voice had its usual subdued charm and politeness.
‘Leaving already, Al?’
‘I’m completely shattered.’
‘I guess you must be. Amazing you were able to play at all today, let alone shoot a round like that. It was terrific.’
‘You did pretty well yourself, Phil.’
‘Oh, sure,’ he replied with easy modesty. ‘But I’m only a textbook golfer. It’s guys like you and Zuke who can set the galleries alight. I envy you that touch of genius.’
‘Not as much as I envy you that prize money.’
‘Let’s face it, Al,’ he said, realistically. ‘Nobody is going to remember this tournament because Phil Reiner won it. What they’ll remember is that double eagle. I only made dough—Zuke made history.’ His eyes glistened behind his gold-framed spectacles. ‘Lemme tell you something. I’d give every cent of what I earned to have hit those two shots at the 13th!’
His urgency surprised me. I’d never known Phil Reiner speak with such passion before. He really coveted that double eagle.
A Lincoln Continental drew up outside and the driver tooted the horn. We walked across to the vehicle together. My chauffeur got out at once and put my golf bag in the boot.
Phil Reiner and I exchanged a brief handshake.
‘See you around, Al.’
‘Cheers.’
‘Oh, by the way,’ he added. ‘Where was Howie Danzig today? No sign of him anywhere.’
‘I didn’t expect him to be here. Zuke’s death poleaxed him. And Howie isn’t exactly in the best of health.’
‘Poor guy. Either way he stood to lose out.’
‘Either way?’
‘If Zuke had lived, I mean.’ He gave me a farewell slap on the back and opened the car door for me. ‘Take care of yourself, Al.’
‘I always do.’
I got into the vehicle and he closed the door behind me. He waved as we set off towards the exit, then he went back into the clubhouse to rejoin the celebrations.
As I was driven away from the Kallgren Tournament of Champions, I was assaulted by dozens of questions but the main one arose out of my chat with Phil Reiner. It was like a red hot drill inside my skull.
Why would Howie have lost out if Zuke had lived?
***
My chauffeur tooted his horn again when we reached the house in Santa Monica and the gates opened electronically. There was another car on the drive, a rather battered Oldsmobile in need of a wash. Its forlorn condition reminded me of Carn
oustie and I felt a wistful pang.
I got out, collected my golf bag, tipped my chauffeur and watched him drive away. When I turned to face the front door, I was full of misgivings. Zuke had wanted me to stay on for a few days after the tournament but the situation had altered radically. I sensed that I’d already worn out my welcome and prepared myself for not even being admitted to the house again.
The door opened as soon as I rang the bell. Dominga took one frightened look at me and then scurried off to the kitchen as if fleeing from the risk of contamination.
I stepped into the hall and looked around.
‘Helen!’ I called. ‘I’m back!’
There was no answer. If Helen was in the house, she was choosing to keep out of my way. I was grateful to be spared the embarrassment of meeting her and I had at least been allowed back in. I’d spend one more night there and look for alternative accommodation in the morning.
I closed the front door and headed for my room. Evening shadows gave the corridor a slightly eerie feel. Without Zuke in it, the house was curiously empty and lifeless.
The fatigue which had been threatening me all day now started to claim me for its own. A wave of tiredness splashed over me and I went quite dizzy. I left my bag against a wall and opened the door to my room, intending to go to bed as soon as possible and desperate to say goodnight to the accumulated miseries of the past twenty-four hours.
Then I switched on the light.
The scene which greeted me brought me fully awake again.
My clothes had been torn to shreds and scattered all over the floor. The duvet had been stripped from the bed and the mattress had been hacked unmercifully. Devastation was fairly comprehensive. The furniture had been overturned, the bedside lamp smashed, the mirror broken and the curtains ripped to tatters.
My immediate fear was that my passport had been damaged as well. I knelt down and lifted the lid of my suitcase, which was lying on the rug. Relief surged through me when I saw my passport and travel documents, unharmed. I snatched them up.
Before I could examine them, however, the light went out and there was a rustling sound behind me. The next second, I felt a knee in my back and had a thick, sinewy forearm locked across my throat. The pain was intense. I struggled to get free but it was hopeless. I was up against someone much more powerful. My strength drained away as he applied more pressure on my neck.
The voice was a low snarl of hatred.
‘Bastard!’
‘Let me go,’ I gurgled.
‘Bastard, bastard, bastard!’
When I tried to protest again, I had no voice. The arm tightened, my head swam and my eyes began to film over. Just before I passed out, I was released and shoved forward hard on to my face.
‘Get out!’ he ordered. ‘Now!’
I coughed violently and clutched at my burning throat.
‘Take all this shit and get out, mister!’
I sneaked a look at him. My attacker was a stocky young man of middle height in T-shirt and jeans. He was largely in shadow but the moonlight was catching the side of his face to reveal swarthy skin, bushy hair and a long, seasoned scar on his left temple.
His tone was rough and uneducated and there was the faint hint of an Hispanic accent. He was positively bristling with anger.
‘Hurry up!’ he shouted.
‘Who are you?’ I ventured.
‘Hurry.’
The kick sent me sprawling and deprived me of any wish to attempt further conversation. I threw my things into the suitcase and snapped it shut. As I tried to go past him, he forced me up against the door jamb and put his face an inch from mine. His breath stank.
‘Don’t come back!’ he warned.
‘No.’
‘Don’t fucking come back! Okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘You touch her again, I’ll cut your balls off and shove them down your fucking throat!’
He was there on Helen’s behalf. I had no wish to let him show his skill with a knife on me. I suspected that Zuke had been the victim of his proficiency with a naked blade.
‘Out, mister!’
I was hurled into the corridor. Grabbing my golf bag, I stumbled to the hall and opened the front door. He pushed me through it without ceremony. The gates at the bottom of the drive parted to let me out and then clanged shut behind me.
I’d been evicted by a man in a battered Oldsmobile.
When I glanced back to make a mental note of the car’s licence number, I saw a curtain twitch in one of the bedrooms. Dominga was watching my humiliation with the grim satisfaction of someone who’d had a hand in it. I wondered if she’d also had a hand in Zuke’s death.
Santa Monica has an abundance of hotel accommodation and I only had to walk a few hundred yards to find what I wanted, but the journey exhausted me. My bag was a ton weight over my shoulder and the handle of my suitcase dug into my fingers.
I checked into a small motel, locked the door and wedged a chair under the handle as an extra precaution. After undressing in slow motion, I fell into bed. Before I could turn out the light, I was asleep.
***
I slumbered happily for over twelve hours and would probably have stayed there for another twelve if I’d not been interrupted by a loud banging. My head felt like a bass drum that was being pounded in a search for maximum volume. It took me some time to establish that someone was knocking on my door as if trying to batter it down.
Salgado’s voice pierced the wood.
‘Wake up in there, Saxon! Let us in!’
I opened my eyes and recoiled from the harshness of the light.
‘Come on, come on!’ he yelled. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘Hang on!’ I croaked.
The banging stopped and the throbbing in my head eased. When I dragged myself out of bed, I realised that I was naked. My pyjamas had been cut to ribbons. Pulling on my trousers I zipped them up and staggered towards the door.
‘Get a move on in there!’ instructed Salgado.
‘Don’t shout,’ I pleaded. ‘I’m here, I’m here.’
I moved the chair and let them in. Victor Salgado was now wearing an even flashier suit that was set off by a vermilion tie. Patch Nelms had on the same clothes he had worn before.
They regarded me with cynical amusement.
‘Jesus!’ observed Salgado. ‘You look like something that just crawled off a slab down at the morgue.’
‘Thanks for the compliment, Lieutenant.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us you moved in here?’
‘What?’
‘We asked to be kept informed of your movements.’
‘Oh. Did you?’
‘So what’s with the change of address?’
‘Give me a minute,’ I said.
I went into the bathroom and filled the washbasin with cold water, plunging my head into it and holding it there for a few seconds. When I dried myself with a towel, I made the mistake of peering in the mirror. Salgado’s assessment had been a kind one. The average lodger at a morgue would have more resemblance to a human being than I did.
My face was just a white, distraught blob.
I went back into the room. Nelms had taken the putter from my golf bag and was practising a shot. Salgado was stretched out in an easy chair. He sounded impatient.
‘We ain’t got all day, Saxon.’
‘Sorry, Lieutenant.’
‘Late night?’
‘No. An early one, in fact.’
‘So why here?’ he asked. ‘What was wrong with the Everett house?’
‘I thought that Helen—Mrs. Everett—would prefer to be alone.’
‘Was it your decision to move out or hers?’
‘Mine.’
�
��Sure of that?’
‘Of course.’
‘Funny. Not how she remembers it.’
‘No,’ added Nelms, pausing in mid-putt. ‘I rang the house this morning to speak to you. Mrs. Everett said she’d asked you to leave.’
‘That’s not true,’ I argued.
‘The lady seemed pretty certain about it.’
Nelms was clearly going to accept her word against mine. He completed his imaginary putt and stood back to admire the result.
‘Do you play golf, Sergeant?’ I said.
‘On my pay? You must be kidding.’ He dropped the putter into the bag. ‘Anyway, I think it’s a lousy game. Too slow. Too tame. I’ll stick with baseball.’
‘So what happened back at the house?’ resumed Salgado.
‘Nothing happened, Lieutenant.’
‘It must have,’ he urged, ‘or she wouldn’t have thrown you out. What you been up to, Saxon? Trying to get into her pants?’
‘No.’
‘Wouldn’t blame you if you had. She’s some sexy broad, that Helen Everett. I had a blue veiner just talking to her.’ His gold tooth sparkled as he gave me a lecherous grin. ‘You made a grab for the goodies, didn’t you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Okay then. You asked her to gobble your pork and she told you she was strict vegetarian. That how it was?’
‘Lieutenant,’ I explained with a sigh, ‘it simply wasn’t… convenient for me to stay there. That’s why I moved out.’
‘So why didn’t you tell us?’
‘I was going to ring you first thing in the morning.’
‘First thing in the evening, you mean,’ complained Salgado. ‘We hadn’t come calling, you’d still be in that goddam bed having wet dreams about Helen Everett.’ He turned away in disgust. ‘Aw, for Chrissakes, put on a shirt or something, will you? I feel like I just liberated Belsen.’
I reached for my shirt and covered my pale, thin torso. As I did up the buttons, I noticed my suitcase and was relieved that I’d been too tired to open it the previous evening. If they’d seen my hastily packed collection of rags and tatters, they’d have asked some awkward questions about my undignified exit from the house.
Though I had a natural fear of the man who’d almost throttled me in the guest room, I didn’t want to bring the police in on it yet. I liked to fight my own battles. If he really was Zuke’s killer, I wanted to get at him first.