by Keith Miles
‘The night is young,’ I argued. ‘With luck and a following wind, you should be able to fit it all in.’
‘I intend to,’ he vowed with a cackle.
‘Clive, please. Could we just forget about your Argentinian handmaiden for a moment? This is important.’
‘Go on. I’m listening.’
‘There are two things I want you to do for me.’
‘Organise your funeral and choose the hymns.’
‘Find out all you can about Rutherford Kallgren.’
‘Are you joking?’ he gasped. ‘That could take weeks. Months. Kallgren is head of a multinational corporation, which means that he belongs to the Millionaire Crooks Brigade. Those blokes know how to cover their tracks.’
‘What I need is the story of his involvement in golf. When did it start and why? How did he come to team up with Bellinghaus? What are his plans for the future? Talk to your American colleagues, Clive. Dig up the dirt.’
‘There’s plenty of that,’ he conceded. ‘Kallgren is about as popular among my fellow-scribes as AIDS.’
‘While you’re collecting horror stories about him, ask about Phil Reiner as well. That’s the second thing I need to know. Why has Reiner signed up with the Kallgren organisation?’
‘Answer’s obvious. Reiner wants a licence to print money everytime he swings his club.’
‘There’s more to it than that, Clive.’
‘Then the person to tackle about it is the resident harpie.’
‘Who?’
‘Suzanne Fricker. She deals with all the contracts.’
I realised with a start that he was right. Suzanne Fricker must have been instrumental in finalising everything. Tucked away in my wallet was her business card and an invitation to ring her. It was time to see if her offer of help was genuine.
‘I’ll handle her, Clive,’ I decided.
‘Wear rubber gloves,’ he advised. ‘She likes it sanitised.’
‘You concentrate on Reiner himself. Try to speak to him.’
‘No point, Alan. He never gives interviews. Full stop.’
‘What happened to that celebrated silver tongue of yours?’
‘I’m saving it for Miss Rosario tonight,’ he said. ‘Phil Reiner is the Invisible Man of golf. When he won the tournament, all he gave us was a brief, noncommittal chat. I mean, I’ve heard of people playing their cards close to their chest. He plays them behind his sodding back!’
‘Do your best, Clive. That’s all I ask.’
‘Why am I still friends with you?’ he protested.
‘Because I give you all the peach assignments,’ I soothed. ‘Right. Let’s get organised. What time is your flight tomorrow?’
‘Ten-thirty in the morning.’
‘I’ll join you for breakfast at your hotel.’
‘You can’t, Alan.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m spoken for. Miss Rosario and I planned to have breakfast in bed tomorrow. She’s got a most individual way of serving warm croissants. All I have to do is lean forward and nibble.’
‘Eight o’clock,’ I ordered. ‘In the dining room.’
‘You’re blowing up my bloody bridge!’
‘If you’re not waiting for me at a table,’ I warned, ‘I’ll come up to your room and show you my individual way of serving warm croissants. And you won’t be able to lean forward and nibble these.’
‘I refuse to be intimidated.’
‘Goodbye, Clive. You’ve got work to do.’
‘Don’t hang up on me,’ he bleated. ‘You haven’t told me your last request yet.’
‘Last request?’
‘Yes. I don’t want to introduce a ghoulish note but Alan Saxon does happen to be on some hit man’s top ten list. There’s an even chance that you won’t make it for breakfast tomorrow.’
‘Thanks for the boost to my morale.’
‘Just so that I know,’ he continued. ‘Where would you like me to scatter your ashes? St Andrews?’
‘Carnoustie.’
‘The golf course or the motor caravan?’
‘A handful over each.’
I put the receiver down and made myself a cup of coffee. As I sipped at it, I went through the list of suspects in my mind. All of them remained possibilities. Kallgren. Bellinghaus. Gamil Amir. A new name kept suggesting itself, though I could not understand why.
Phil Reiner. The man of secrets.
I took out the business card and telephoned a number. Suzanne Fricker answered almost immediately in a crisp voice.
‘Hello.’
‘Suzanne? It’s Alan Saxon here.’
‘Alan!’ There was surprise in her tone. ‘Nice of you to call.’
‘You did say that you’d give me a spot of help.’
‘Oh, I will. Just tell me what I can do.’
‘It’s that item in the paper. Phil Reiner joining the Kallgren organisation. Were you involved in that?’
‘Yes, I was,’ she said guardedly.
‘Could you tell me a bit more about it, please?’
‘Well…’
I could hear her wrestling with divided loyalties.
‘It’s important,’ I pressed. ‘I wouldn’t ask you otherwise.’
There was further hesitation before she came to a decision.
‘Do you have any free time tonight?’
‘Plenty of it, Suzanne.’
‘Is there some place we could meet? I don’t really want to discuss this over the phone.’
‘Suits me.’
‘Have you eaten yet?’
‘No.’
‘Hungry?’
‘Starving,’ I confessed.
‘Why don’t I rustle up some supper here?’ she volunteered.
‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’
‘No trouble, Alan. Besides, it’ll be more private.’ Her business voice took over. ‘A limo will pick you up in an hour. The driver will know where to bring you. Where are you now? Zuke’s house?’
‘A motel not far away.’
I gave her the name and address, then she hung up.
As the bath was running, I stripped off and examined my injured thigh. A large, dark bruise acted as a vivid memento of my last contact with the Chevy Chevette. I lowered myself into the water and relaxed. Other aches and pains announced themselves. I soaked them thoroughly.
When I had dressed and shaved, I spent some time writing the post cards I bought in San Francisco. Lynette, as ever, came first. I’d already sent her a view of Santa Monica Beach and I followed it up with an aerial shot of the Golden Gate Bridge.
Katie Billings was next. My first card to her had featured Disneyland and she now got a colour photograph of a cable car rolling up the steep gradient of Hyde Street with the bay behind it. I addressed the post card to Miss Blaze of Glory and suffered another pang.
Winter in St Albans seemed like paradise lost now.
Alcatraz glowered up at me. I was still trying to think up a suitably crushing message for my father (‘Desirable residence to let—bring your own prisoners’) when the telephone rang. The tense voice of Mardie Cutler filled my ear.
‘Alan? Is that you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank God!’ she gabbled. ‘Mardie here. Been trying to get hold of you all evening. I called Helen but she said you’d moved out for some reason and I simply had to speak to you so in the end I tried that Lieutenant Salgado and he gave me your number. Thing is—’
‘Mardie,’ I interrupted, gently. ‘Take it easy, will you?’
‘What?’
‘Where’s the fire?’
‘Sorry,’ she said with a nervous laugh. ‘I guess I’m a bit overwrought. Wel
l, who wouldn’t be in my position? It was awful!’
When I eventually calmed her down, she told me that her apartment had been broken into earlier that day. Among the things stolen were her address book and hi fi equipment, both essential to her job. She was experiencing the usual feelings of invasion. Afraid to spend the night alone, she’d asked a girlfriend to move in with her.
‘I simply must talk to someone about it, Alan.’
‘The break-in?’
‘That—and something else. You’re the only person I can tell.’
I knew at once that she wanted to talk about Zuke.
We arranged to meet on the following day. Mardie suggested a small hotel as the venue and I promised to be there. She was almost pathetically grateful. I’d saved her from a sleepless night.
Valmai. Helen. Suzanne. Mardie.
Four women in the life of Zuke Everett.
I had the firm conviction that one of them could lead me to the man who’d been responsible for his death.
***
Suzanne Fricker’s apartment was quite enormous. It was on the eighth floor of a luxury block not far from Sunset Boulevard and it commanded a stunning view of night-time Hollywood. The main room had a three-piece suite of genuine leather, a huge coffee table surmounted by a stoneware lamp, a desk, swivel chair and filing cabinets, well-stocked bookshelves, a television, an elaborate hi fi system and a dining area that was set on a raised platform. In one corner, I noted, were an exercise bicycle and a multi-gym. Contemporary paintings and ornaments abounded.
‘Good of you to come at such short notice, Alan.’
‘It was kind of you to invite me.’
‘I was hoping you’d get in touch.’
Suzanne Fricker offered her hand and I took it. Her manner was at once formal but friendly and it matched the atmosphere of her apartment. The lighting was subdued but I was still able to see and admire her deep pink sheath dress with its plunging V-neckline. Two round, bronzed breasts were in view separated by a large golden coin that hung from a chain around her neck.
She saw my interest and fingered the coin with a smile.
‘It’s an eagle. The old $10 piece.’
‘Every woman has her price,’ I joked.
‘I never thought of it like that,’ she replied, crossing to the drinks cabinet. ‘I opened a bottle of sparkling wine, by the way. I hope that’s okay.’
‘Fine by me.’
‘California’s best.’
Suzanne lifted the bottle from its ice bucket, uncorked it with a pop, then filled two long-stemmed glasses with dancing bubbles. She sauntered back across the thick-pile carpet and handed me my drink.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Cheers.’
‘To Zuke,’ she insisted.
‘To Zuke.’
We clinked our glasses and sipped the wine. It was good.
‘Supper’s just about ready if you’d like to come over and take a seat,’ she invited. I followed her to the dining area. ‘Don’t expect anything special, mind. I keep my cooking simple. From the ice-box to the microwave.’
She went off into the kitchen and I sat down at the oval table. It was set for a three-course meal. Cutlery, condiments, table mats and linen napkins were of the highest quality. A thick, scented candle burned in the middle of the polished mahogany.
Memories of my last night with Katie Billings came surging into my mind. Our meal on that occasion had consisted of pizzas and Sauternes in the bedroom. The window had given us the inspiring view of Carnoustie standing out in the snow and doing its best to upset the neighbours. Katie had been my kind of woman.
With Suzanne Fricker, I might be out of my depth.
‘Chilled melon,’ she announced, bringing in the first course.
‘My favourite starter.’
She unloaded the things from the tray, then sat down opposite me. Almost immediately, a telephone rang on her desk. Cursing under her breath, she got up and went across to answer it.
Her caller got very short shrift.
‘Yeah, who is it?’ she asked. ‘Oh, hi there, Candice… Listen, sweetie, I’m in the middle of a meeting right now. Can I call you back?…Thanks. Speak to you later.’
When she put down the receiver, she unplugged the telephone and switched on the answering machine. I noticed that there was a second telephone on the desk, a flashy red model with gold digits on it.
Suzanne returned to the table with an apologetic shrug.
‘Sorry about that, Alan. We won’t be disturbed again.’
‘What’s the red phone? The hot line?’
‘You could call it that.’
‘White House or Pentagon?’
‘Mr. Kallgren. He had it put in when I started work for him. It’s his private line to me so that he can be sure of getting through. When I use that phone, I talk business.’
‘And which one are we going to talk on?’ I wondered.
She looked me in the eye. ‘The open line.’
‘I appreciate that.’
When I started eating, I realised just how hungry I was. Apart from a couple of biscuits with Valmai and some light refreshments on the flight back, I hadn’t touched anything since mid-morning. Suzanne noted my appetite and served me with a second slice of melon.
The main course consisted of steak, sautéed potatoes, broccoli and peas. A rich sauce full of aromatic herbs disproved her claim to have relied entirely on the microwave oven. We switched to a full-bodied red wine and the conversation became more serious.
‘Okay,’ challenged Suzanne. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Let’s start with Phil Reiner.’
‘He signed on the dotted line. We own him now.’
‘Could you give me some background to that?’ I said.
‘Of course,’ she answered, readily. ‘The negotiations went on for three or four months. Phil never rushes into decisions. It took time to persuade him that he’d be better off with the Kallgren organisation, but he came round in the end.’
‘Were you involved in the negotiations with him?’
‘No, Alan. It was someone else’s job to track him down and trap him. I simply drew up the contracts to keep him safely caged in.’
‘Is that what he is, Suzanne—caged in?’
‘It was a figure of speech.’
‘Why did Kallgren choose him?’
‘Because Phil has a lot going for him,’ she argued. ‘He’s your handsome, clean-cut, clean-living American golfer who’s a credit to the game. One of the good guys. He may be a bit shy but that’ll change when Mr. Kallgren starts to promote him.’
‘I thought Reiner was under contract to someone else.’
‘He was.’
‘Kallgren buy him off?’
‘He took over the whole company,’ she revealed, pouring more wine into both our glasses. ‘This hasn’t been released to the press yet but, as of today, Mr. Kallgren owns DLZ Management of New York City, Chicago and Los Angeles.’
I saw the implications. ‘But they have other players on their books apart from Reiner.’
‘Eleven of them,’ she confirmed. ‘They’ve all been offered the opportunity to come and shelter under the Kallgren umbrella.’
‘Who else is he after?’
Her gaze faltered for the first time. She drank deeply from her glass, then ran a long finger slowly around the rim. Her silver nail varnish glistened in the light of the candle and the coin that dangled from her neck was a blur of shimmering gold.
‘There are limits, Alan,’ she whispered.
I raised my own glass. ‘To Zuke Everett!’ I toasted.
Her eyes flashed and she sat up. Checking the retort she was about to make, she glanced down at her watch instead. When she looked across at me, her gaz
e was steady again.
‘At this time tomorrow night,’ she confided, ‘Mr. Kallgren and I will be dining at the Beverly Wilshire with Gamil Amir.’
‘Thanks, Suzanne. I needed to know that.’
‘What else do you need to know?’
‘Tell me about Tom Bellinghaus.’
She laughed. ‘That horny old bastard!’
Suzanne talked openly about the course architect. She didn’t like him and had fended him off more than once. I knew that Bellinghaus was obsessional. He now emerged as dishonest, deeply ambitious and skilled in the politics of business. If Golden Haze became a success, he stood to make millions of dollars in the long run.
I helped Suzanne to clear the things away and carried a tray into her large and meticulously clean kitchen. We had lemon sorbet for dessert and followed it with cheese and biscuits. I suddenly found that we had finished the red wine and moved on to liqueurs.
The languid mood helped me to ask the next question.
‘Did Zuke come here often, Suzanne?’
She nodded and gave a wistful smile.
‘How did you first meet him?’ I said.
‘At a party thrown by Mr. Kallgren. About five months ago.’
‘So it was after his marriage to Helen?’
‘Oh, yes. The honeymoon period was over by then. Problems were surfacing.’ She stared into the flame of the candle. ‘The party was a gigantic publicity exercise for Golden Haze. Hundreds turned up. Zuke was there on his own. His wife refused to come at the last moment and his manager had no time for Mr. Kallgren. Zuke and I took one look at each other and that was it.’
‘Some enchanted evening.’
‘Just about. Corny as hell, maybe, but so what?’
‘Not enough of it about,’ I observed.
‘There were speeches, of course, and then Tom took over. The Bellinghaus Road Show.’
‘I’m glad I missed that.’
‘He’d made this video of Golden Haze and we all had to watch it while he gave a running commentary. The lights were down and I was standing at the back. Then I felt a hand slip into mine. It was Zuke. We sneaked out and came back here.’
Her eyes moistened and she blinked to stem the tears. I warmed to her. Suzanne Fricker was proving to be unique. Alone of the Barbie doll range, she’d had a heart implant.