Double Eagle

by Keith Miles

  ‘I can see why you bought Louis.’

  ‘Present company excepted—men are slobs.’

  Helen Everett had said much the same to me. On that point at least, the two women were agreed. Helen had been victimised for her charms and escaped by marrying Zuke. Valmai only became a target when he divorced her. My sympathy went out to both wives.

  ‘I’m surprised you let me through the door,’ I said.

  ‘You’re different, Alan. I feel safe with you.’

  ‘I hope that’s a compliment.’

  Valmai nodded and blew me a kiss.

  She finished her coffee, then toyed with the cup for a while before putting it down on the saucer. I could see that she wanted to ask me something and I waited patiently until she was ready.

  ‘How long were you married, Alan?’

  ‘Long enough.’

  ‘Do you still keep in touch?’

  ‘Fitfully.’

  ‘What does she do now?’

  ‘Rosemary? She haunts me.’

  ‘Does she have a job of any kind?’

  ‘That’s it,’ I confirmed. ‘Spooking me. Full time.’

  ‘So she didn’t marry again.’

  I laughed. ‘No man is brave enough to take her on, Valmai. In her own sweet way, Rosemary is a daunting prospect. She embodies all that’s wrong with the English class system.’

  ‘And what about you?’ she enquired. ‘Have you never thought about a second marriage?’

  ‘I’ve thought about it. Yes.’

  ‘But that’s as far as it went, by the sound of it. Why?’

  ‘Once bitten.’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ she murmured.

  ‘Also,’ I stressed, ‘there’s Lynette to consider. I don’t know why but I hate the thought of her having a stepmother.’

  ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘Lynette is very special to me and I have to share her as it is. I don’t want to fit another person into the equation. Permanently, that is. I get on well with my daughter the way things are.’

  ‘How often do you see her?’

  ‘That’s the problem. Not often enough.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  I talked freely and found myself confiding things that I’d never even been able to mention to anyone else. Valmai was attentive and sympathetic throughout. She prompted me gently and drew the whole story out in the most painless way.

  There was an immediate bonus.

  In telling her about the break-up of my marriage, I was helping her to confront her own. As I recalled some of my battles with Rosemary, she in turn began to make comments about her difficulties with Zuke.

  I was at last getting behind her defences.

  ‘Did it hurt, Alan?’ she wondered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘When she walked out on you.’

  ‘I was in a complete daze for almost a year.’

  She looked at me soulfully for a long time, then pulled her knees right up so that she could wrap her arms around her legs. Huddled in the chair, she spoke softly about her own problems.

  ‘We always wanted children. Zuke couldn’t wait to be a father. But it wasn’t to be. We tried for years and never gave up hope.’ She paused and bit her lip. ‘It was me. I had every kind of test imaginable and some of them were pretty humiliating, I can tell you. But I went through with it all because I believed that we’d make it in the end. And we did. Almost.’ A sad smile appeared. ‘Did you know that I became pregnant, Alan?’

  ‘No. When was this?’

  ‘Over eighteen months ago. We were knocked out by it. Zuke was so frightened that something might go wrong that he sent me back home to Petaluma whenever he went off to play in a tournament. Mom took care of me. She was even more nervous about it than Zuke. Talk about being wrapped up in cotton wool.’ Valmai paused. ‘Everything was fine and dandy until the last month. And then…’

  The memory seemed to make her shrink. Her head dropped to her knees, her arms tightened and her shoulders hunched. A woman I had always admired for her serenity was now a mass of tensions.

  ‘And then?’ I coaxed.

  ‘The baby died,’ she said, simply. ‘I went for one of my regular check-ups and the doctor couldn’t hear its heart beating. It was dead. There was nothing they could do about it.’

  ‘It must have been terrible for you,’ I consoled.

  ‘That wasn’t the end of it,’ she whispered, recalling an added torment. ‘They told me it would be better if I went to term. So I did. I carried a dead thing around inside me for another three weeks. It was torture, Alan. I don’t know how I got through it.’

  ‘You’re a martyr,’ I soothed, leaning across to pat her on the shoulder. ‘What an ordeal to face! How did Zuke react?’

  A hardness crept into her eyes and her voice.

  ‘That was the start of all the trouble.’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘I went into a depression straight after,’ she explained. ‘It went on for months. I hardly knew one day from the next. When I finally came out of it, most of the damage had been done.’

  ‘What damage?’

  ‘Money worries, arguments with Howie, loss of form, the other women…When Zuke did something, he did it big. There was I, needing love and comfort and I find myself in the middle of a crisis.’

  ‘You mentioned money worries.’

  ‘I don’t know all the details,’ she admitted. ‘I was kept out of it. What I do know is that Zuke never could handle his finances properly. Easy come, easy go—that was him. Howie had some terrific rows with him over money. I’d hear them yelling at each other.’ A note of despair was sounded. ‘Then it affected his golf. That was it.’

  She offered a hand and I held it comfortingly in my own.

  ‘Did Zuke blame you about the baby?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But that’s so unfair, Valmai.’

  ‘He got to be like that. Towards the end.’

  ‘And the other women?’ I said, quietly.

  ‘It wounded me at first,’ she replied wearily, ‘but I soon got used to it. I had to. I didn’t mind as long as he was discreet about it. He was looking for something that I couldn’t give him any longer so, okay, let him get on with it!’ The weariness increased. ‘Then he met Helen Ramirez. I couldn’t compete with that.’

  ‘You can from where I’m sitting,’ I reassured.

  ‘He was infatuated, Alan. He just wouldn’t listen.’ She sat up and used a fist to bang the arm of the chair. ‘I hate him, I hate him! So don’t ask me to feel sorry that he’s dead because I don’t care. It’s nothing to do with me any more. He’s not mine.’

  Her face was at war with her words. For all her denials, I could see in her eyes that she still loved him in some ways. Zuke had betrayed her but he had not wiped out everything there’d been between them. I felt that there was something she ought to know.

  ‘On the day that he played that incredible round of golf,’ I informed her, ‘Zuke filled his den with photographs of you. He did wrong by you, Valmai, and he knew it. On his last day, he turned to you for help—not to Helen.’

  ‘I know, Alan.’

  ‘How?’ I asked in astonishment.

  ‘You promise not to tell anyone?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The cops mustn’t know. It’s none of their damn business.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I assured. ‘I’m getting to be quite expert at hiding things from Lieutenant Salgado.’

  She perched on the edge of the chair and regarded me.

  ‘Zuke rang me that same morning.’

  ‘Before the third round?’

  ‘Yes,’ she confirmed. ‘It was a real shock. I hadn’t spo
ken to him in ages and suddenly his voice is on the end of the line from Santa Monica.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘He wanted me to wish him good luck.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It worked, Valmai.’

  ‘Only on the golf course.’

  Silent tears trickled down her cheeks and her body sagged. I offered to take her in my arms but she waved me away and controlled herself at once. After drying her tears, she got up to inspect her face in the mirror. She spoke over her shoulder.

  ‘Who killed him, Alan?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’

  ‘Have I said anything that’s been of any help?’

  ‘Lots. Thanks.’

  ‘Know the real reason I tried to stop you coming here?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The resemblance. I didn’t want to be reminded of Zuke again.’ She turned round. ‘But I’m glad you came now.’

  ‘Me too. There’s one last thing,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘Did Zuke take drugs of any kind when he was living with you?’

  She stiffened at once. ‘No, he didn’t!’

  ‘Are you certain of that, Valmai?’

  ‘Absolutely certain,’ she retorted, vehemently.

  ‘Look, I didn’t mean to offend you,’ I apologised.

  ‘I’ll give you the answer I gave to Lieutenant Salgado. Our marriage had its problems but there was nothing like that going on. When he was with me, Zuke never touched narcotics.’

  She was back on the defensive again. My visit was over.

  I handed her the card I’d picked up at the motel and asked her to contact me there if she should think of anything else. Valmai had already told me far more than she’d intended but I sensed that she was still holding back something important. It was no use trying to pressurise her. If I backed off and gave her time to reflect, she might volunteer the information in her own good time.

  I made departure noises and she ushered me to the front door. The Alsatian came padding out of the kitchen to lick my hand by way of farewell. I gave him an affectionate pat.

  Valmai held the dog’s collar as I opened the door.

  ‘It was a boy,’ she said.

  ‘A boy?’

  ‘Our baby. The one that died. We were going to name it after my father, you see.’ Her sad smile returned. ‘He’s called Louis.’

  I glanced down at the dog. It wagged its tail.

  ‘Safe journey,’ wished Valmai.

  I kissed her on the cheek before striding away.

  Louis barked his own kind of goodbye.

  Chapter Five

  As soon as I drove out of Stinson Beach, I knew that I was being followed. At the airport and during the walk with Valmai, there had just been an unpleasant sensation. This time I had visual evidence as well. Rounding a sharp bend, I slowed the Chevette down and kept an eye on my mirror. A big blue car cruised into sight, then checked its speed when it saw me up ahead.

  Trailed from the airport. Watched on the beach. Shadowed on my return journey. I felt annoyed and apprehensive. My instinct was to stop and confront whoever was on my tail but I remembered that discretion was the better part of valour.

  I elected to make a run for it.

  Gradually accelerating as I drew away from the next bend, I soon lost the blue car from my driving mirror. I went as fast as I dared along the coast road, screaming around the curves, racing along the straighter sections and flirting more than once with the edge of the precipice. Far below me, the Pacific rolled in with mild-mannered turbulence.

  After a couple of miles I was convinced that I had shaken off my pursuer, so I reduced speed slightly. The headlong dash was proving to be a test of nerve as well as driving ability. Since I am used to trundling along in a motor caravan, the strain began to tell. I slowed, I relaxed, I played safe.

  It proved to be a costly error.

  My driving mirror was suddenly filled with a blue car that was powering its way towards me. I pressed my foot down on the accelerator but had no chance against its superior pace. As yet another bend loomed up ahead, the blue car pulled out and eased up alongside me. In the split second I allowed myself to look across at him, I saw that the driver was a swarthy young man with thick, black hair. He was alone, sitting well forward and staring grimly through the windscreen.

  The blue car sailed past me and cut across my path at the critical moment. I braked fiercely to avoid collision, swung to the right and sent a small avalanche of stones over the side of the cliff. While the other vehicle straightened to glide around the bend, I fought hard to control the skid and prayed that I would stop before I ran out of road.

  The Chevy Chevette squealed in pain as its tyres burned their way across the hard surface. We swung crazily from side to side and then turned right around as we screeched to a juddering halt immediately before the bend. Only half the vehicle was now on a solid foundation. The rest of it jutted out in space and I was held there with it.

  When I tried to move, the car rocked precariously. The slightest change of balance could send it over the edge. I cursed the fact that it was a left-hand drive. In a British car, I would have been sitting above solid rock. As it was, there was nothing but fresh air below me.

  Not daring to budge an inch, I pressed my hand down on the horn and kept it there. Minutes passed before I saw another vehicle coming towards me from Stinson Beach. It was a pickup truck and it halted a dozen or more yards away.

  A big, brawny man in overalls came running over. He peered through the windscreen to assess the extent of my plight.

  ‘Holy shit!’

  ‘Have you got a rope or something?’ I pleaded.

  ‘Just hold on there.’

  I had a further agonising wait while he rummaged in the back of his truck. He reappeared and waved a long steel pole at me.

  ‘Open this window,’ he ordered.

  ‘I daren’t move.’

  ‘Then you got problems, buddy,’ he warned. ‘You don’t move, you don’t live. Now, come on, will you?’

  Resting the steel bar on top of the Chevette, he pressed down with his full weight. The car steadied a little and the fractional improvement encouraged me to try doing as he said. I released my safety belt and eased myself sideways with excruciating slowness. When I was in a leaning Tower of Pisa position, I reached out gingerly for the handle of the window. I wound it at a snail’s pace; the glass inched down.

  ‘Get a move on,’ he said, impatiently.

  ‘Almost there.’

  ‘Make sure it’s right down.’

  ‘I will.’ The final turn was completed. ‘It’s done.’

  ‘Okay,’ he explained. ‘Here’s what we’re gonna do. I pass in the bar and you take a good grip with both hands. Right? Then I pull you through the window. Keep your legs clear of the steering wheel or you’ll get dragged back if she goes over the edge. We only got one shot at this, buddy, so let’s make it a good one.’

  ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘I sure as hell hope that I am.’

  With one hand still pressing down on the car, he used the other to pass the bar in through the window. I gripped it firmly and brought my legs up slowly so that they were across the driving seat. When the bar was jerked through the window, I intended to go with it.

  ‘What d’ya say?’ he called.

  ‘Ready and waiting at this end!’

  ‘Okay—let’s go for it!’

  He brought his other hand down to grab hold of the bar, then heaved backwards with all his force. As I was pulled towards the open window, I put my feet against the door behind me to gain extra thrust. The balance altered dramatically. Before I was properly clear, the car rocked violently and plunged over the sid
e of the cliff.

  I took a blow on my leg and hit the ground with a thud.

  But I was safe.

  The Chevy Chevette, meanwhile, somersaulted through the air until it landed on the jagged rocks below. There was a loud explosion as it burst into flames. I thanked the man profusely. We stood on the lip of the precipice and watched the inferno.

  My companion gave a genial chuckle.

  ‘One thing, buddy,’ he observed, slipping an arm consolingly around my shoulders. ‘You’d have had a great view on the way down.’

  ***

  A police car and a fire engine arrived on the scene about twenty minutes later. I had to give a lengthy statement and convince the police that my injury—a bruised thigh—did not merit a hospital visit. Editing the facts carefully, I made it all sound more like an accident than a deliberate attempt on my life. I supplied no details about the driver of the blue car. He was on my personal wanted list.

  Gazing down at the charred wreck, I was grateful that Lori Whyte had persuaded me to take out comprehensive insurance. I had enough on my plate without having to worry about a massive bill from the car hire company.

  In spite of my protests, the police insisted on driving me out to the airport. I sat in the back of their car like a villain on his way to trial. There was no thrill as I crossed the Golden Gate Bridge this time. I simply gave a shudder when I saw the notorious island prison.

  Alcatraz was my father’s spiritual home.

  It symbolised his view on law and order. The bleak rock was now only a tourist attraction but the sight of it still brought his voice echoing back. When I was growing up in suburban Leicester, my father ran his own private Alcatraz.

  I was its sole inmate.

  I closed my eyes for the rest of the journey and tried to concentrate on more immediate concerns. It seemed clear to me that I’d been followed from Los Angeles. My sleep during the flight had prevented my noticing anything and I was far too preoccupied with the traffic as I drove through San Francisco.

  Unless I was mistaken, the man in the blue car was also the proud owner of a battered Oldsmobile. I’d met him once before in the guest room of a Santa Monica house. The forward position of the car seat suggested that he was not very tall and his frame had been sturdy. Had I seen his other profile, I believed, there would have been a scar on the temple.