The Brink of Murder

by Helen Nielsen

  “Be an obscure failure,” Larson suggested. “I’m opposed to the funeral idea. You’ve been put through the wringer enough already, Carole.”

  Larson was right. Nobody could help Mary Sutton now. Carole would be better off saving her strength for the long haul ahead. They said their goodbyes and drove off in the black Cadillac, leaving Simon’s own suspicions unspoken. When they were gone Hannah made an on-the-spot deduction.

  “The doctor is in love with Barney Amling’s wife,” she said. “Wouldn’t it be strange if you were working on the wrong kind of triangle. Instead of looking for the woman who broke up Amling’s marriage and caused him to steal the company funds, maybe it was another man who reduced him to odd man out.”

  That was the way matters stood on Friday evening two weeks after Barney had driven off into the dusk and never been seen again. Simon made a couple of sandwiches and a pot of coffee and went into his den where he spent the rest of the evening poring over the file on Alverna Castile and pondering results of his investigation to this point. He studied the snapshot he had borrowed from Carole and saw a young man grinning over the steering wheel of a flashy new car. Within about thirteen years the same man would be the head of a large Savings and Loan Association who drove a luxurious Continental sedan and probably traded it off every 20,000 miles without a backward glance. This was success, American style, with all the heartaches and ruthless decisions it entailed. Of course he had changed. That’s what life was—change. Was it as simple as Lieutenant Wabash and practically all of the millions who read the headlines and listened to the media news surmised? Was almost a million dollars in cash sufficient motivation for what everybody thought Barney had done? Could a man get as tired of success as of failure? Barney was no Gauguin, driven by his own demon to create his immortality in art. Was there something significant in that flashy, chrome bedecked new car—circa 1959? Was there a playboy lurking in Barney Amling’s executive heart waiting to break loose for one final broken-field run down the field for a touchdown?

  Simon slipped a sheet of paper into his typewriter and pecked out the heading:

  KNOWN FACTS

  Mileage on Barney’s car. (Where did he go when he left the Pacific Guaranty tower for the last time?)

  Extra luggage in addition to two-suiter. (Did it contain the missing cash?)

  Meetings with Verna Castle when he was supposed to be out of town. (The woman knows more than she’s telling.)

  Mary Sutton dead. (How and why?)

  Dictation tape containing emotional outburst. (Who was the embodiment of corruption Barney deemed deserving of death?)

  Transfer of property to his sons. (An accident of timing or deliberate?)

  Last-day luncheon with Vincent Pucci.

  Estrangement with long-time friend Knox Reardon.

  Simon read over the list and added a footnote: Items 5, 6 and 8 could indicate growing emotional disturbance. (Is Barney sane? Is he alive?)

  The last question seemed to type itself. Simon stared at it, shocked by his own subconscious. Two weeks was a long time for a family man to be missing. As Barney Amling or as Barry Anderson he would have to surface somewhere. He was about to add another footnote about the airline ticket to South America when the telephone on his desk began to ring.

  He answered it quickly. It was almost midnight. He didn’t want the whole household disturbed.

  Carole Amling was on the telephone. She sounded hysterical.

  “Simon, can you come at once?” she asked.

  “Where?” Simon queried.

  “To the house at Palos Verdes. We’re going home immediately. I’ve just heard from Barney.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  SIMON DIDN’T ASK for details. He put down the telephone and went upstairs to get a jacket and coat. A light was showing under Hannah’s door and he had the uneasy feeling that she had been listening on the extension. He hoped not. He didn’t want to waste time on explanations. He did take time to write a brief note to Wanda telling her where he was going and slipped it under the door to her room where no light was showing. He wanted to look in on her but didn’t dare risk waking her. The distance from Larson’s clinic to the Amling house was almost the same as the distance he would have to travel. If he started immediately they might arrive simultaneously. He put on the jacket and car coat, transferred his wallet and keys and went back downstairs. The light under Hannah’s door was gone.

  A light was showing in Chester’s apartment above the garage where he was cramming for his new appointment. Simon went into the garage and opened the door of the Jaguar.

  “What took you so long?” Hannah said.

  Wrapped in a voluminous, hooded cape she looked like a runaway monk hitching a ride.

  “You were listening,” Simon said.

  “Of course I was. I’m going with you.”

  “You weren’t invited.”

  “That’s the trouble. You’re treating me like an old auntie. We used to work together on cases before you married Wanda.”

  “You’re jealous.”

  “Of course I am. And if you try to put me out of the car I’ll scream until everybody wakes up. You won’t get away for hours.”

  The only way to cope with Hannah was to take her at her word. If she threatened to scream, she would scream. Simon switched on the ignition and shifted into reverse. Ten minutes later he was on the freeway headed north. He was the first to arrive at the Amling estate. A light was showing on the ground floor. He rang the bell and waited until a gangling adolescent in robe and slippers opened the door a few inches and peered out apprehensively.

  “I’m Simon Drake, Mrs Amling’s lawyer,” Simon said. “I’m expected.”

  To his surprise the door opened immediately. Carole had called the house and briefed Norman on his coming. Hannah’s appearance evoked some misgivings, but when she swept into the entry hall swathed in the cape and bearing a silver-headed cane like a sceptre, Norman was left speechless. Except for the entry the only light in the house came from a television set in the family room. Norman, playing host, led the way. “This is a neat room,” he explained. “I bed down on the couch and watch TV until I go to sleep. I’ve got a swell horror movie on now if you’d like to watch.”

  “I’m freezing,” Hannah said. “Simon, that looks like a bar across the room. See if there’s any brandy.”

  Simon had barely time to find the bottle and fill Hannah’s request when new activity began at the front door. No doorbell this time. A key scratching at the lock, the door opening to admit Carole, her sons, and Dr Larson. Like Norman, Little Jake was in pyjamas and robe and barely awake. Carole immediately ordered the children upstairs to bed. Norman reluctantly turned off the television, as the swamp monster walked nonchalantly through a barrage of flame throwers, and accompanied his hosts. Quiet returned to the room with no loss of excitement.

  Carole took a cablegram from her handbag and gave it to Simon.

  “It was sent in my name to Eric’s place,” she said. “Barney must have known this house would be under surveillance.”

  Simon read the cable aloud. It was date-lined Buenos Aires. The message was brief.

  Dearest Squirrel

  Alive and well in S.A. Don’t worry. Letter follows,

  (signed) Bear.

  “I know it’s really from Barney,” Carole said excitedly, “because of the pet names. He called me ‘squirrel’ when I did some silly thing like spending too much money for a painting, and then I would call him ‘bear’ for growling about it.”

  “When did you receive it?” Simon asked.

  “Just before I called you. The office telephoned first and we picked up the message on the way here. Eric knows the agent. He eopned up the office so we could verify the wording. Simon—” Carole fixed him with a determined stare. “—I’m going to Buenos Aires.”

  “He doesn’t ask you to do that,” Larson insisted. “He says that a letter follows.”

  “I don’t care. I’m going to find my h
usband!”

  “You might lead him into a trap,” Simon said. “I’m sure the local police and the FBI are watching all flights to South America.”

  “But there’s no extradition from Argentina.”

  “That didn’t stop the Israelis from getting Eichmann out,” Hannah said. “They simply drugged him and dressed him up in an Israeli Airline uniform.”

  “She’s right,” Larson said. “Go down there now and you’ll be putting Barney behind bars. Besides, you can’t leave the boys now. You know what an ordeal they’re facing.”

  That was the argument that won over Carole. Defeated, she sank down on Norman’s make-shift bed and began to cry. Nobody tried to stop her. She had had a good cry coming for two weeks.

  “At least you have heard something,” Simon said. “That’s better than silence.”

  Carole found a handkerchief and blew her nose. “I’m all right now,” she said. “I couldn’t go immediately anyway. My passport’s expired. Barney always kept his up to date, but I didn’t travel as much as he did.”

  “My passport’s good,” Hannah said eagerly.

  Everybody looked at her strangely. It wasn’t the time for levity, but Hannah was serious. “I’ve kept it up religiously ever since my accident,” she said. “Even when I was bed-ridden. It kept my hope alive. What’s more important, Carole, is that I have friends in South America. One of them living in Buenos Aires was in the CIA in world war two, only they didn’t call it that then. He would have excellent connections.”

  “Carole wants to help Barney—not have him arrested,” Simon said.

  “Oh, you don’t have to worry about Alex. He hasn’t been a cloak-and-dagger man since we were the arsenal of democracy instead of hypocrisy. He’s married to one of my dearest friends and they’ve lived in Argentina for years. I can get off a cable right away—”

  “You’re serious” Simon gasped.

  “Of course I am, darling. Isn’t Carole serious?”

  “But you can’t go alone.”

  “Of course I can. Nobody will be watching my movements—not even J. Edgar Hoover.”

  “Simon, if there’s any chance of finding Barney,” Carole said, “wouldn’t it be easier to do so before he has time to hole in somewhere?”

  “Of course there’s a chance—but not this way. He needs someone who knows him and can talk like a Dutch uncle. Wait, I’ve got it. I can call my pilot friend and arrange for a private flight to Miami. My passport’s in order, too. From Miami I can take a scheduled flight south without arousing suspicion.”

  “We can take a scheduled flight,” Hannah said. “Do you speak Spanish?”

  “Do you?”

  “No, but my friends do. They’ll have the proper contacts and know how to cut red tape. Time really is important, isn’t it?”

  Carole’s face gave the answer to that question. “All right,” Simon conceded, “we’ll go.”

  “Good!” Hannah cried. “I’ll get a cable off to my friends—”

  “Not until I’ve finished with the telephone. Carole—?”

  “There’s one in the entry hall,” Carole said. “I’m going into the kitchen to make coffee.”

  By the time Simon completed his call all the others were in the kitchen. He joined them there and explained over coffee that the flight was set. “All we have to do is be at the Grange County airport at ten o’clock sharp tomorrow morning. He’s calling ahead to get us ticketed through to Buenos Aires. The reservations will be waiting for us at the Miami international.”

  Hannah’s eyes were shining with excitement. “That doesn’t leave much time to pack. Oh, well. It’s summer in South America. We won’t need much luggage.”

  “It doesn’t leave much time to sleep,” Simon said. “We’ll have to start back to The Mansion right away. Are you staying over, Larson?”

  The doctor nodded. “For as long as Carole needs me.”

  “Good. The reporters will be around asking for a statement as soon as they find out Carole’s here. Keep it brief and noncommittal. Don’t let anyone mention the cable—above all, don’t let the reporters get under your skin. I’ll call you as soon as we land in Buenos Aires. Now, about Barney. Does he take any particular medication?”

  Carole seemed puzzled. “Medication? No, I don’t think so. Vitamins—occasionally an aspirin. Why do you ask?”

  “Because if he needs a doctor he’ll want an English-speaking one. There may be an English hospital. There’s bound to be an American-type drug store for tourists.”

  “Good idea,” Larson said. “What about newstands selling English-language newspapers? I’ve seen a copy of an excellent one printed in Buenos Aires.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Simon said. “Buenos Aires is a big city but Barney’s a North American and we have a way of being obvious wherever we go.”

  “He wears glasses for reading,” Carole added thoughtfully. “He mentioned not long ago that he needed a new prescription.”

  “Good. That’s a help, too. Believe me, Carole, I’ll do everything I can to find Barney before—” Simon hesitated. He was about to say “—before anyone else recognizes him and tries to get that bag of money”. That idea was a bit rough for Carole to cope with. “—before he finds that hideout,” he concluded.

  • • •

  Simon managed to get a few hours’ sleep after the drive back to Marina Beach. Hannah spent her night packing. In the morning Wanda packed a light bag for Simon while he brought her up to date on the situation. He had taken the cable with him in the hope that the office of origin would be identifiable in Buenos Aires. There was no question of Wanda joining the search. She had a promotion tour on schedule that would keep her busy.

  She read the cable and gave it back to Simon. “If you do find Barney Amling will you bring him back?” she asked.

  “I’ll try.”

  “To what, Simon?”

  “If he has the money—to make restitution.”

  “But it will mean prison.”

  “Yes, but we can plead temporary insanity—amnesia. If he’s got the money and doesn’t want to come back I’ll borrow Hannah’s cane and crack him over the skull until he has amnesia.”

  Wanda didn’t smile. “Simon, be careful,” she said. “This isn’t a boyhood hero you’re going after. It’s a man who’s probably committed a major felony.”

  “Now you sound like a lawyer’s wife.”

  “That’s the general idea. I am a lawyer’s wife and I’d like to preserve that condition for so long as we both shall live—like the nice man in Las Vegas said. If Barney’s desperate—”

  “Stop worrying or I’ll think you love me.”

  Simon put his arms around her and Wanda didn’t have a chance to say anything at all.

  Chester drove them to the airport in Hannah’s Rolls. He was transferring the baggage into the waiting plane when he suddenly slapped his hand to his forehead and exclaimed, “I almost forgot to tell you! There was a call for you, Simon, after you left the house last night. A man named Adler wanted you to call him as soon as you came back. He said it was important.”

  Hannah was already on board and the pilot was warming up the engines. He received a clear runway signal from the tower. “If we don’t take off now it may be half an hour before I get another clearance,” he said. “There’s an Air West landing within a few minutes.”

  Simon glanced back at the terminal building where he could find a telephone and call Adler.

  “Let’s go now,” he said. “If it’s all that important Adler will call again and Wanda can take the message.”

  He didn’t mean to doom a man to death by that decision, but it was exactly what he did.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE PLANE CARRYING Simon and Hannah to Buenos Aires landed at Ezeiza International Airport approximately 24 hours later. Getting through customs was easy. Only a passport and smallpox vaccination certificate were needed for clearance. Nothing like the tight security measures at Miami where even h
and luggage and purses were searched and every boarding passenger passed through a magnetic doorway in the effort to avoid hijacking. Hannah’s friend was waiting at the information desk: a man named Alex Laurentis, a former documentary film producer in his early fifties. American born of Italian parentage, he embraced Hannah with an enveloping hug and a verbal stream of affectionate phrases. Waiting in the parking-lot was a new Fiat sports sedan which, Laurentis explained, was a product of Argentine industry. Five years in the country had made him an enthusiastic booster.

  “Hannah,” he explained, “this country is heaven! Half the population is either Italian or of Italian descent. It’s like New York City with good climate, scenery and grace.”

  Driving into the city along a tree-lined super-highway, he explained that he had reserved rooms for them at the Presidente Hotel on the magnificent 9th of July Avenue where they would be centrally located—but this only because Hannah had insisted on such accommodation.

  “You are both welcome at my home in San Isidro,” he added. “We expect you. Elise will be devastated if you don’t come.”

  “That’s fine for Hannah,” Simon said. “I’ll be too busy. Besides, I’m a stranger.”

  “Elise is Hungarian,” Hannah remarked. “She doesn’t believe in strangers.”

  Laurentis had heard about Barney Amling’s disappearance. The Buenos Aires Herald, an English-language newspaper, had carried the full story. He was also aware of Simon’s reputation and his mission.

  “If you don’t want to get involved,” Simon said, “this is the time to cut out.”

  Laurentis’s eyes sparkled. “I am never involved,” he said brightly. “I am retired. I do some writing and have an interest in the local theatre. You must let Elise take you to our street theatre, Hannah. You’ll be enchanted.”

  “I am already.” Hannah’s eyes swept the tree-lined artery leading into the city. “It’s like Paris.”

  The Presidente was everything a first-class metropolitan hotel should be. They checked their passports at the registration desk and were taken up to a suite of rooms overlooking one of the widest avenues in the world. Laurentis again offered his home for their convenience and added: “We dine at ten o’clock. Elise will be disappointed if you don’t come.”