The Brink of Murder

by Helen Nielsen

  “I can’t tell you that. What you can tell me is why you were dining with Amling and why he spent a night in your private suite at the Marina View Inn.”

  “Get lost!” Verna said.

  “Your vocabulary is limited,” Simon observed. “Mine isn’t. I make my living talking. Now I can show these photos to the police or to the FBI. I can even show them to the newspapers. That would really make a hot story because the newspaper morgues still have the story on Alverna Castile and her lucrative trade in upper-class prostitution. People get tired of reading about wars. They might enjoy reading about you again and that could endanger your social standing with the yacht club set.”

  He tried to sound menacing. It was discomforting to hear her sharp laughter.

  “Get with it!” she said. “Haven’t you heard of the new morality? If word gets around about my past I’ll be the most popular hostess afloat.”

  “That’s possible,” Simon conceded. “Especially if somebody thinks you’ve got a piece of the missing nine hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

  Verna Castle didn’t laugh.

  “Fink!” she said.

  “You’ll have to do something about that vocabulary, Alverna. You give yourself away every time you open your mouth. Now suppose you just explain your business with Barney and we can be friends.”

  “You called it,” she said. “It was business. Only business.”

  “Barney had a very nice office for conducting business.”

  “He also has a very nice home in Palos Verdes which isn’t too far from here. It was easy for him to stop by on his way home from work.”

  “But he didn’t go home.”

  “Lawyer,” Verna said wearily, “the only reason I keep that suite at the Inn is for business conferences and as a convenience to friends. The truth is, I’m scared to death of freeways. I do very little driving any more. Now you, being a sailor, must know there’s a new marina at Dana Point. The Golden Fleece is doing so well I’ve been thinking of trying another restaurant down there. For expansion of business I need capital. Barney Amling dispenses capital. I’ve been doing business with him for years. I have a good credit rating.”

  “And all of this was just in the nature of discussing a new loan?”

  “Exactly. The night Barney stayed over at the Inn was one of those messy, foggy nights and he was tired. He complained of a headache. I told him to stay over and sleep it off. If he had any other reasons—like trouble at home, for instance—he was too much of a gentleman to discuss it with me. If you really are his lawyer you must know that.”

  “Keep talking,” Simon said. “I may be buying.”

  “There’s nothing else to talk about. This thing about his disappearance and the Pacific Guaranty shortage was as much of a shock to me as to anyone else. I called Ralph McClary the day the story broke and got full assurance that the money was insured. I’m a depositor, too.”

  “Then you haven’t heard from Amling?”

  “Of course not. I don’t know how you got these pictures. Maybe Barney’s wife is neurotic and hired a private detective to check up on her handsome husband. That’s her problem. I haven’t catered to an errant husband in over a decade. Check it out.”

  “All right,” Simon said, “but these photos were made within the last two months. Maybe you can help me in another way. If you’ve done business with Barney for several years you might have noticed any change in his behaviour. You mentioned a headache. Did he seem to have any other problems you could pin-point?”

  “Such as?”

  “When you dined with him—did he drink anything intoxicating?”

  “Do you see any liquor glasses at his place at the table?” Verna countered. “Just a water glass. You must know that Barney Amling was an alcoholic. Alcoholics can’t drink.”

  “And you’ve had some experience with alcoholics, haven’t you? Do you remember the name of the sanatorium where your husband died?”

  Verna’s body stiffened under that blousey jacket. “Mr Drake,” she said, “I’m not answering any more questions. I think it’s time for you to go unless you want me to call the marina patrol and have you put off my boat.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Simon said. “I can look it up.”

  “You can also get into a lot of trouble if you try to give me aggravation,” Verna said. “I was born on a boat, Mr Drake. Did you know that? A barge. A barge in San Pedro harbour. It didn’t have a queen-size bed or two heads with gold fixtures the way this yacht does. It was a crummy place to be born and a crummy place to live, so I don’t live that way any more. I’ve got it made, and a woman with that kind of a beginning doesn’t make it without learning how to protect herself from the killer sharks. Now if you look over your right shoulder you’ll see two of my friends coming to play gin. They like me. If I tell them that I don’t like you, they won’t like you either.”

  Simon looked. The two friends were tall. One had a barrel chest and wore his shirt unbuttoned to show a lot of greying black hair. He had the shoulders of a Ram tackle and a pair of lethal-looking hands. His companion was boyishly slender, younger and wore a little Swedish-type yachting cap. He carried something in a loosely knit tote bag which he held high as they neared the boarding ladder.

  “Cherry delivered the message and we decided to come early,” he called up to Verna. “We have a lobster and you have that fabulous galley going to waste.”

  “Wonderful!” Verna cried. “Too bad you can’t stay for dinner, Mr Drake. Rod’s the best cook in the marina. Freddie’s gifted too. He was the heavyweight boxer of the Sixth Naval District—or some such thing.”

  Simon took a good look at Freddie and friend. “I have a new pair of pyjamas and a karate robe you fellows would love,” he said, “but Miss Castle is right. I was just leaving.”

  Simon walked back up the dock and met Cherry Lane at the gate. She didn’t seem to notice him. She hugged the bag from the liquor store to her bobbing breasts and sauntered off towards the Funky Frigate wearing an empty smile. She was as sensual as sin but the smoke from her fire wasn’t blowing his way. Simon looked after her, pondering the many facets of the new morality and the odds against Alverna Castile’s half-brother having sired such a daughter in his early teens, and then returned to the Jaguar. He was locking the photos in the trunk with Adler’s file when he saw Verna Castle come trotting up the deck and through the gate. He thought for just a moment that she might be coming after him. Instead, she hurried to the pay phone and began pumping coins into the box like a masochist pumping a Las Vegas slot machine. He ducked inside the car and watched her complete the call. The extra coins meant that it was to a point out of the area. She got her party and began to talk heatedly, waving her free hand as if the phone booth was full of gnats. Once she stopped to put in a few more coins for overtime. By that time Simon realized that a woman who lived aboard her boat must have a telephone there but a call of that nature couldn’t be made with guests aboard. She finished the conversation with a gesture of impatience or despair, slamming the receiver back on the hook. She walked back towards the boats at a slower pace with her shoulders hunched against the chilly air. She wasn’t as invulnerable as she seemed.

  • • •

  When Simon reached The Mansion he learned that Hannah had given Wanda a sedative and sent her upstairs to bed. It was a good place for her. She was unnerved enough from seeing Mary Sutton plunge to her death through a fiery window without being drawn further into the Amling affair. Hannah thrived on mystery and had to be brought up to date on Simon’s activities since he went off in search of The Golden Fleece. He showed her Kevin’s photos and Adler’s file on Alverna Castile. She was fascinated.

  “I remember the scandal well. Some of my dearest friends were incommunicado until it blew over. Alverna never wasted her personal attentions on any but the well-heeled. I knew a countess, a genuine one, who was one of Alverna’s top-salaried courtesans—by choice, of course. The whole operation worked that way. None of tha
t sordid underworld business of picking up stray runaways and giving them the knock-’em down, beat-’em up, rape routine to make passive little sex machines out of them. Alverna had style.”

  “And brains,” Simon said. “Just the same, there’s more to her meetings with Amling than she said. I shook her up. I’d give a pretty penny to know who she called from that pay phone.”

  “Think back. What did you say that shook her up the most?”

  “I think it was when I asked the name of the sanatorium where her husband died. He was an alcoholic.”

  “And Barney Amling was an alcoholic.”

  “That’s right. Hannah, you may have hit on the tie between Amling and Alverna. I’m going to call Carole and see if she remembers the place where Barney took the cure.”

  Simon went into the den and looked up Dr Larson’s telephone number. He was starting to dial when he saw a black Cadillac coming up the driveway. The sedan stopped and the front doors opened. Dr Larson and Carole Amling got out. Simon put down the telephone and met them at the front door.

  “Perfect timing,” he said. “I was about to call you.”

  “I thought Carole needed a drive,” Larson explained. “We started out for nowhere and ended up here.”

  “Good. Come on in. I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “Could you make it tea?” Carole asked. “Barney and I have become great tea drinkers over the years. It’s a nice habit.”

  Hannah, delighted to have an occasion to use the antique silver tea service she had picked up at a rummage sale, hurried off to the kitchen. Simon scooped up the photos and the Verna Castle dossier and dumped them into a drawer of a Victorian table with the ease of a host tidying up for guests. Carole and Dr Larson sat down on a velvet upholstered love seat and tried not to look like two people perched on the edge of a smoking volcano.

  “Carole has decided to go home after the holidays,” Larson said. “I told her she was welcome to stay at my place as long as she likes but the woman is stubborn.”

  “The boys have to go back to school,” Carole explained. “It will probably be horrible for them after the recent headlines, but they might as well start living with it. Little Jake doesn’t know anything about the Pacific Guaranty scandal yet, but I’ll try to tell him before Monday.”

  “That’s the worst of it,” Larson said, “the children—”

  “No,” Carole said firmly. “The worst of it is being in love with your man who is in trouble and not knowing where he is or how to help him.”

  “That’s what I was going to call you about,” Simon said. “I need some information about Barney. Do either of you remember the name of the sanatorium he entered during that period of separation?”

  “It was a long time ago,” Carole said. “I was never there but Eric was. Do you remember, Eric?”

  Dr Larson adjusted his glasses and scowled. “It was in Hollywood—an old house up in the Los Feliz hills. Private. It may not be in operation any more.”

  “But it must have had a name,” Simon prodded.

  “It did. Something woodsey. Ferndale or something like that. A man and wife team ran it—a Dr Herrens, I think. If I had a classified directory of that area I might find it listed—if it still exists.”

  “I have a full set of telephone directories—white and yellow—in my den,” Simon said. “I’d appreciate it, Larson, if you gave it a try.”

  Simon ushered the doctor into his den and left him with the telephone directory file. He returned to Carole in the living room and found Hannah pouring tea. Carole took one lump of sugar and no lemon. She stirred the tea listlessly and then said:

  “Why, Simon? Why is the sanatorium important?”

  “I’m not sure that it is,” Simon said. “I have to start somewhere.”

  “No word from Jack Keith?”

  “Not so far. I’ve got another investigator helping me. We’re trying to find some motivation.”

  “For Barney stealing that money? He didn’t, Simon!”

  “I’m sorry, Carole. You asked me to help you find Barney and that’s what I’m trying to do. I may be on the wrong track but I’m trying. You’ll have to trust me. You were separated from Barney for almost a year as I recall.”

  She smiled wryly. “Nine months. Giving birth to a husband was my hardest pregnancy. I wanted to go home to Papa Jake but I didn’t dare. He adored Barney and would have made me return to him immediately. That would have spoiled everything. I took Kevin and went to a hotel for the first few weeks. Then I got in touch with Eric and he helped me find a tiny house in West Hollywood where I could have a small yard for the baby. A month or so later I came to you and started the divorce.”

  “Which never took place—thank God,” Simon said.

  “Thank God,” she repeated.

  “How were you reconciled?”

  “Gradually. Somehow Barney found out I was seeing Eric. He went to Eric’s office and made a scene and Eric told him he would have to take me at my word that I wouldn’t go back to him until he stopped drinking. Barney was so anxious to make good at his new career. He bought the idea that social drinking would help him up the ladder. That’s ridiculous, of course. His career really soared after he quit the stuff, but it takes a lot of heartbreak for some people to learn that lesson. I remembered Barney the way he had been when we were married, and that’s the Barney I wanted to be the father of my child.”

  “Did he enter the sanatorium after his talk with Eric?”

  “I’m not sure when he went in. That was part of the agreement when we resumed our marriage—not to ask questions or dwell on the bitterness again. All I know is that he did contact Eric several months after the row and Eric visited the sanatorium. He told me about it and that Barney was serious. I wanted to go and see Barney then but Eric said it would be better to let him work out his problem alone. He was right. Barney didn’t try to contact me again until he was cured and had been back on the job for several months. He reached me through Eric and Eric took me home. All Barney ever said about the cure was that some men had to be knocked on the head before they could see straight.”

  “Did he seem different after you went back to him?”

  “He was more settled, if that’s what you mean. He didn’t seem afraid of his job any more. Barney’s always been conscientious about his work. He could keep loose playing football. He had to learn to do the same thing in business.” Carole put down her tea cup on the serving table and opened her purse. She took out a leather snapshot-fold and thumbed through it until she found what she was looking for. “Before and after,” she said, handing the open fold to Simon. “The picture on the left was taken a few weeks before I left Barney. I’d been on the verge of doing it for almost a year but couldn’t. I kept hoping he would straighten out by himself. The picture on the right was taken a few months after we started living together again. Do you see any difference?”

  Simon studied the snapshots: typical Sunday afternoon family variety. In the first shot Barney was seated behind the steering wheel of an obviously new automobile—a blue and white Oldsmobile gleaming with chrome. Carole stood beside the driver’s door holding Kevin in her arms. The second snap was taken against a redwood fence. Barney was wearing a long barbecue apron. Carole and Kevin were holding paper plates in the manner of Oliver Twist asking for more.

  “He looks more domesticated,” Simon said.

  Carole smiled. “He was. Even to the car. That Olds was his pride and joy—our very first brand-new off-the-showroom model. It was so flashy Barney said he felt like a prostitute when he drove it, but we got it at a big knock-down price because the new models were coming out in a few weeks and the dealer was overstocked. When I went back to him the Olds was gone. He was driving a used Mercury—dark maroon. He said the Olds was a lemon—something wrong with the power steering. I suspected that he had to sell it to pay the sanatorium bills but I never asked him. Barney always handled the finances in the family. I’m just a spoiled-brat rich man’s daughter.”
<
br />   “But not much of a spoiled brat,” Simon said.

  “Thank you. I do my best. All I know is that I love Barney and I want him back.”

  Carole picked up the tea cup again and drank deeply, in spite of the fact that it was probably stone cold by this time. Simon slipped the “before” snap out of the folder and asked if he could keep it for a while. “I suppose so,” she said, “if you need it.”

  “I’ll take good care of it,” Simon said. What he didn’t say was that it might come in handy as identification if he had to make an extensive search for that sanatorium. He pocketed the snap and returned Carole’s folder just as Dr Larson returned from the den.

  “We’re in luck,” Larson said. “The name of the place is Laurelwood and it’s still in operation. I made a call and asked for Dr Herrens. He’s retired but a man named Werner Fischer has taken over. I didn’t give any reason for calling. It’s up to you, Drake, if you want to dig further.”

  “Thanks,” Simon said. “You’re staying for dinner, I hope.”

  “Not if we’re going to get back to Ojai ahead of the fog. Did you ask Simon about what was troubling you, Carole?”

  “Not yet. You heard about Mary Sutton’s death, didn’t you, Simon?”

  “I witnessed it,” Simon said. “I was on my way to see her when she came through the window.”

  “Then it was really an accident.”

  “What else?” Simon asked.

  “I thought—I was afraid she might have committed suicide.”

  “Suicide?” Hannah echoed. “Why?”

  “Because she was so hopelessly in love with Barney. Oh, don’t look shocked. It was obvious to everyone except Barney. I felt sorry for her. Years ago when women fell in love with my husband I got jealous. Lately I’ve learned just to feel sorry for them.”

  “Were there many?” Hannah asked.

  Carole smiled softly. “I stopped keeping score a long time ago.

  • • •

  I feel terrible about Mary. She was so young and lovely. I’d like to go to the funeral but I suppose the newspapers will make a fuss about this. I guess there’s no way to avoid the headlines.”