The Brink of Murder

by Helen Nielsen

  “And have the traffic division slip a ticket under the wipers? No way! Can I buy you a beer?”

  “Not while I’m on duty. Thanks.”

  Wabash, still wearing the tan raincoat over what might have been a mail-order suit, got up long enough to pour himself a mug of coffee from the service table urn. He returned to the table and sat down. “Lawyer,” he said wearily, “how well do you know this Bernard Amling?”

  “I knew him in college,” Simon said.

  “And since?”

  “We conducted a little business now and then. Not much social contact.”

  Wabash sighed. “That’s the trouble. Captain Reardon did know him socially. The captain’s a good man, lawyer. The hardest working, smartest all-around piece of fuzz I know. You might not think of it to look at the dude way he dresses, but that’s his style. He’s not married. He can afford to live high on the hog.” Wabash took a long draw from the coffee and grinned. “I’ve got a wife and three kids,” he added proudly, “and no complaints.”

  “Each to his own,” Simon said.

  “Exactly the way I feel. The captain has his life-style and I have mine. So long as we both do our jobs it’s no matter. But I’ve never seen Reardon so uptight over any case as he is about Amling. You would think the guy was some saint we have to find before he gets crucified. I think the captain feels guilty.”

  “How do you mean?” Simon asked.

  “I don’t know exactly. Maybe because he was such a good friend but he couldn’t see this thing coming in time to stop Amling. He says things like: ‘Amling must be sick. He may have amnesia.’ If any other man took a powder with a million dollars in his suitcase—“

  “A million!”

  “Almost. The count is going up. The last I heard it was over eight hundred thousand. Now if any other man did that Reardon would be calling him every dirty name in the book. Amnesia! How old is Barney Amling—forty, forty-one?”

  “That sounds about right,” Simon said. “I was a sophomore when Amling turned pro’ and I started college a year or two younger than Barney.”

  “Okay, make it forty. A hot-shot football star. A super-hot-shot executive. He must have really pushed himself to get so far up the ladder so soon. But time catches up with all of us. He probably felt himself slowing down, and who wants to come down from a mountain like that? A million dollars is a temptation for any man. I’d like to be a millionaire. I hate paying taxes.”

  “You’ve got a point,” Simon admitted. “I have a friend who thinks Amling is in Argentina.”

  Wabash looked surprised. He wiped a smear of mustard from his mouth and said: “Who told him?”

  “It’s not a him. It’s a her and nobody told her anything.”

  “Then she thinks good. The word isn’t out, of course, but nobody could find a Barney Amling on any passenger list at LAX. Then I used my head and checked those lists myself. A passenger listed as Barry Anderson took a flight on Braniff International on the Friday night Amling disappeared. Destination: Buenos Aires. Reardon followed up with a photo of Amling and it’s been identified by three different flight personnel as the man who made that trip. Not only did this passenger look like Amling—he walked with a limp. Now everybody knows Barney Amling was forced out of football by a leg injury and has limped ever since. I ask you, lawyer, does that sound like amnesia?”

  “Objectively?” Simon asked.

  “Objectively,” Wabash said.

  “It sounds like embezzlement.”

  “Right! That’s why I’m worried about the captain. If he doesn’t stop thinking of this suspect as a boyhood hero, he can blow the case. I hate to see that happen. A good cop is hard to find.”

  “True,” Simon agreed. “A Lieutenant Wabash, for instance, talks more about a case than any cop I’ve known.”

  Wabash didn’t seem to resent the remark. He grinned over the rim of his coffee mug. “Not to just anybody, Drake. Only to you. I know your reputation. You can get anybody off a rap if the fee’s right.”

  “That’s not the only criterion,” Simon said.

  “I’m not criticizing, lawyer. Each to his own—like we said. I just want you to know what you’re up against because I’m not about to close one eye just because Amling’s a national hero.” Wabash put down his empty coffee mug and came to his feet. “At this point,” he added, “I stop talking.”

  “And do you stop following me?”

  “Maybe. Amling had a nice family. He might decide to get in touch and suggest they take a vacation to South America. Then again, it might be another woman he has on the side that he contacts. One way or the other, if he does communicate I’ll hear about it. Argentina isn’t impregnable.” And then Wabash answered the unasked question as to why he had revealed so much of his case against Barney. “If he should try to contact his lawyer,” he said, “it would be smart to report it to the proper authorities.”

  “A lawyer-client relationship is confidential,” Simon said.

  “Not if I can help it,” Wabash concluded.

  • • •

  When Simon left the delicatessen the black and white was gone from the parking lot. He got into the Jaguar and began to drive. He had been in shock from the time Carole Amling brought her story to The Mansion, and Wabash’s information was another jolt.

  All this time he carried the hope that was sustaining Carole. It was all a mistake. Somebody else at Pacific Guaranty was responsible for the theft and Barney would pop up any day now with the story of an impromptu fishing trip into the wilds of Mexico that left him stranded away from all means of communication. That hope was becoming as wilted as the lettuce on Wabash’s hamburger.

  He switched on the radio and listened to news reports that still made no mention of Barney Amling. He twisted the dial to a music station and was caught in a web of loneliness as Wanda’s voice came to him on one of her recent ballads.

  Tell me lies, tell me lies

  Like forever.

  Say that you, dear, will tire of me never …

  Was that the truth about Barney? Had he driven himself so far and so fast that he lost perspective and Carole’s face became only a blur in the crowd like the faces of the pedestrians in the street?

  Tell me wonderful things

  Through autumns, through springs

  Till the stars in my eyes light the stars in the skies.

  Simon wanted his wife. He looked at his wrist-watch and realized that she must still be sleeping—getting the rest so needed after the all-night recording session. He wanted to find her fresh and alert and able to think through this new development with him, because only an idiot does anything alone if there’s an alternative.

  It was then that he became aware that he was being tailgated by a black LTD sedan. He picked up speed and the LTD accelerated accordingly. Simon then slowed down so the car could pass but the driver slackened speed. A tail. If this was one of Wabash’s ideas he would have to learn a lesson. Simon watched for the first freeway entrance and made a sharp turn. Brakes screeched behind as the LTD followed. Simon manoeuvred his way into the freeway traffic stream and tried to lose the tail by crossing lanes. It didn’t work. He let the sedan follow him to the inside lane and watched the overhead signs for the next off-ramp. Picking up speed he waited until the last possible moment before cutting sharply across traffic, through a chorus of outraged auto horns, to plunge into the off-ramp a hairsbreadth short of collision. While several dozen motorists back on the freeway cussed him out and then went home to tell their families about the lunatics who were driving these days, Simon waited at the stop sign at the end of the off-ramp and looked back. His small contribution to the rise in the sale of headache powders had succeeded. The LTD was nowhere in sight. Simon was all alone except for Wanda’s voice on the radio concluding the second chorus of her ballad.

  Hold my hand while we stand

  And endeavour

  To conceive of a land called forever

  Tell me lies—if you do

&n
bsp; I’ll tell lies back to you

  Till they’re true, till they’re true, till they’re true.

  Lieutentant Wabash’s ardour notwithstanding, the picture was still out of focus. Barney Amling had too much to lose. He wasn’t an underpaid clerk grabbing for one chance at the good life. He had the good life: Carole and his sons. It was hard to conceive of so powerful a passion for some other woman that would drive him away from that. There must have been some other pressure. Simon switched off the radio and made a right turn. He drove for a few blocks trying to get his bearings and then, perhaps a mile ahead, he glimpsed the soaring tower of the Pacific Guaranty building and picked up speed. It was as good a time as any to verify Wabash’s count on the missing funds.

  In due time Simon reached the tower and approached the garage ramp with the intention of entering when the sudden emergence of a bronze Cougar changed his plans. The tail game could be played by more than one. He shifted gears and started to pull back into traffic when a second car nosed its way out of the garage—a Mustang. Mary Sutton was driving the first car—Paul Corman following in the second. Simon joined the parade. The trail led back to the freeway he had quitted a short time ago. It was still daylight. He dropped far enough behind to keep Mary Sutton’s car in view. When she veered off at the Robertson off-ramp he could follow without disturbing the equilibrium of other motorists. Corman made the turn just ahead of him and seemed unaware that he was being followed. The two cars turned north. They drove to Wilshire, crossed on a green that Simon had to race to make, and continued almost to Beverly before making a sharp left that ended at one of the new high-fashion apartment buildings that were rapidly replacing the over-taxed private dwellings. The Cougar turned into the underground garage and Corman parked on the street. Simon drove to the end of the block before he could find a parking space and then walked back to the building.

  It was standard construction. A few steps up to the double glass doors that led into a thickly carpeted lobby where a pair of Mediterranean divans stood against mirrored walls. On one side of the lobby a bank of elevators led to the upper floors. On the opposite side was a row of locked mailboxes with nameplates. Simon scanned the boxes and learned that Mary Sutton resided in apartment 422 and that Paul Corman didn’t live in the building at all. About to ring Mary Sutton’s bell, Simon glanced streetward as a black and white pulled to a stop at the opposite curb. Still angry at being tailed on the freeway, he charged out of the building and approached the police car from the rear. There was only one man inside the car and both of his hands were occupied twisting the top from a thermos bottle. Simon yanked open the door and said:

  “Did you follow me here, Wabash?”

  Lieutenant Wabash almost dropped the thermos in his lap. “Do you want to get killed?” he bawled. “Open up the door of a police car like that and you’re liable to get a slug in your ribs.”

  “Not if the officer inside is armed with a hot thermos,” Simon answered. “Now get this. I don’t like being followed by you or any of your squad. I ducked one tail on the freeway an hour ago. If this happens again I’m going to the District Attorney.”

  Wabash screwed the cap back on the thermos and poked about in a paper bag on the seat next to him until he found what looked like a day-old Danish. “I’d offer you coffee but I only have one cup,” he said. “Besides, what you really need is a psychiatrist. Nobody’s tailing you.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Simon sensed the answer before he finished asking the question. Inadvertently the lieutenant glanced across the street at the building Mary Sutton and Paul Corman had entered. A set of windows lighted up on the fourth floor. Wabash read Simon’s thought and grinned. “I guess there are maybe fifty apartments in that complex,” he said. “I could be sitting here waiting for a burglary suspect or for an ex-con who’s doing so well on the outside we think he’s pushing horse on the side. But, as you pointed out to me earlier today, lawyer, a good officer isn’t supposed to discuss his duty with outsiders.”

  “For a man who doesn’t seem to get much exercise,” Simon said, “you eat too much.”

  He slammed the car door shut and watched Wabash chuckle with a mouthful of Danish.

  Dusk came early in late November. The street lights came on as Simon walked back to his car. If Lieutenant Wabash was telling the truth he had something else to worry about because that LTD on the freeway certainly had been following him. He didn’t like to worry alone. He drove to the Century Plaza and left his car in an all-night parking area. He went inside and asked at the desk for Wanda Call’s room and was told that Miss Call wasn’t registered. He asked for Mrs Simon Drake’s room, showed his identification, and the smiling clerk directed him to a room on the top floor. Wanda liked a room at the top where she could look down on the city she planned to have at her feet. He refused to be announced. He found the room himself and rapped out the quick tattoo that was their special code. When Wanda opened the door he could see that she had just stepped out of the bathtub. She wore an unbelted white chenille robe and a shower cap that she pulled off as he took her in his arms. Her skin was still damp and smelled of scented soap. He kissed her on the mouth and the neck and behind the ears.

  “Honey, the door is open,” she whispered.

  “Scream for help,” Simon said.

  “I don’t want any help, thank you.”

  Simon let go of her long enough to close the door. “Don’t ever leave me for a whole twenty-four hours again,” he said.

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “Nothing that won’t wait. Did you work late last night?”

  “Until four-thirty this morning. I have to go back and finish the album in the morning.”

  “Did you get any sleep?”

  “Most of the day. I was soaking in the tub when you knocked. It’s good for the nerves.”

  “I know something better.”

  She smiled warmly and led him into the room. It was very large with windows that looked out over the city where the lights were winking on like Christmas candles. A serving table and a pair of cushioned chairs were placed before the windows. The king-size bed was unmade and the colour television was showing an old historical romance movie without sound. Olivia de Havilland registered a gentle brand of terror while Errol Flynn drew his sword.

  “Nice,” Simon said. “Why don’t we order dinner from room service and avoid the dining room?”

  Wanda let the chenille robe fall to the floor and sat down on the edge of the bed. She smiled as gently as Olivia without tears.

  “Simon,” she said “that’s a wonderful idea. And do you know what’s even better? Room service here is on a twenty-four-hour basis. We don’t have to hurry.”

  Simon turned off the television. Those old romantic movies always ended the same way. He didn’t need lessons.

  • • •

  It was daylight when Simon awakened. He smelled the aroma of hot coffee and sat up in bed. The coffee pot was on the serving table beside a covered dish and china service for two. He looked about for Wanda and couldn’t see her but the water was running in the bathroom. He got out of bed and located his trousers on the floor. He was half dressed when Wanda, looking as fresh as a model at a garden fashion show, stepped out of the bathroom and took her coat from the closet.

  “Hi, honey,” she said. “I ordered scrambled eggs and bacon for you. I have to run.”

  “Without breakfast?”

  “I had coffee and orange juice. Mustn’t lose my figure.”

  He caught her at the door and kissed her goodbye. “The next wife I have is going to be a nymphomaniac,” he said.

  She winked at him. “What do you mean—the next wife? Now let me go. If I start early I should be home tonight.”

  “Only if you’re rested,” Simon said. “I don’t want you driving on the freeway if you’re tired. Promise?”

  She promised and he let her go. He walked back to the table and poured a cup of coffee. Room service had sent the morning
paper in with the order and it was still folded on the tray. He had forgotten about Barney Amling from the instant Wanda opened the door to the room the previous evening but when he unfolded the paper the whole mess screamed at him from the headlines. “Football Hero Sought In S & L Theft”.

  The lid was off. Barney Amling’s picture was on the front page and nobody was awarding him a trophy.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WITHIN TWO BLOCKS of the Pacific Guaranty tower traffic began to pile up like cattle herding through a stockyard chute. Simon veered off down the nearest alleyway and approached the building from the rear. He still had to park almost a block away. Mobile television units were grouped about the garage entrance, and the shopping mall was crowded with people gathered in clusters to stare up at the plate-glass penthouse high above the street. Newsvendors were doing a brisk business. Any man who appropriated a million dollars would make news, but this man was a public idol whose name was still used as a yardstick to measure every blossoming grid star, and morbid curiosity transcended mere panic that the savings of a lifetime might be lost. Odds were slight that many of the crowd had invested in the association. But they did have a slumbering volcano of frustration waiting to explode in self-righteous indignation over a hero gone bad.

  Simon pushed through the mass of people and convinced a uniformed guard at the express elevator that he had valid business on the penthouse floor. The panic was quieter but more intense in the tower. Every face looked as if the owner had breakfasted on sour apples powdered with alum. The only smile in evidence was stretched painfully on Ralph McClary’s perspiring face as he parried questions from the press. Skirting the cables of the mini-cameras, Simon elbowed his way past McClary. Echoes of the inquisition followed him down the hall.

  “Is it true that over a million dollars is missing, Mr McClary?”

  “No! That’s not true.”

  “A million then?”