The Brink of Murder

by Helen Nielsen

  Simon examined the gun. One chamber was empty. He called it to Reardon’s attention.

  “Some people keep one chamber empty for safety,” he said.

  “It might have been fired.”

  “We’ll check that out at the police lab when I get home. Right now I’m trying to get permission to take all these things back with me. The federal men can negotiate for the money. God only knows what Barney did with the rest of it. Some was probably on his body when he plunged into the water. Some went for that Buick—they’re expensive down here. Some may have been lost at the race-track. But that still leaves about nine hundred thousand dollars unaccounted for and that’s a bundle in anybody’s currency.”

  “Maybe he has stashed it away somewhere,” Simon said.

  “That’s a possibility. Hell, isn’t it, Drake? You start out on a case working every angle to prove that a nice guy didn’t go sour, and all the time you know in your guts that he did. I knew Carole was staying with Dr Larson in Ojai. I knew about that message from Buenos Aires almost as soon as she did. That’s why I came down here. I called Carole last night and told her that Barney was dead so she wouldn’t hear it first on some TV newscast.”

  “I called her, too,” Simon said.

  “Did you tell her how we found him? How he had been living?”

  “No, I didn’t tell her that.”

  Reardon’s face was as grim as his words. “And you won’t ever tell her,” he said, “unless you want me, personally, to break up your face like a sliced pizza. No white convertible, no waterfront dives, no cheap women. Understand? What we can’t explain we keep to ourselves. Carole and the boys have that much coming to them.”

  “I’m way ahead of you,” Simon said.

  “Then get rid of that jacket you were wearing when we found him. I don’t want Carole to ever see the stains of Barney’s blood.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  SIMON, HANNAH AND Reardon returned to Los Angeles on the same flight. They were met at LAX by a barrage of television and newspaper reporters as well as Lieutenant Wabash and Chester. As soon as possible Simon lured Hannah away from the cameras and put her in Chester’s charge with instructions to pick up the luggage and take her straight to The Mansion at Marina Beach. When that was accomplished, he went to an auto rental desk and ordered a car. He was awaiting delivery when Reardon joined him.

  “If you’re going to the Amling house I’d like to hitch a ride,” he said.

  The visit was obligatory. The weather had turned balmy and they found Carole on the patio with Eric Larson. At the sight of Knox Reardon, who preceded Simon through the doorway, she ran towards him with arms outstretched. Reardon’s arms folded about her shoulders and for a few moments no one spoke.

  “I’m so sorry, Carole,” Reardon said at last.

  Fighting back tears, she answered: “Don’t be, Knox. I don’t know what went wrong with Barney but I do know that he never could have come back.” Then she saw Simon and managed a pathetic smile. “Si, darling—thank you. I know you tried to save Barney. I heard you were hurt.”

  “Only a scratch,” Simon said. “My fault. I’m not the hero type.”

  “I think you are—all of you. I didn’t know I had such loyal friends. Eric’s been with me ever since you left.”

  “And I’ll stay as long as I’m needed,” Larson added.

  “I have a great idea,” Reardon said. “I own a little beach house in Hawaii—something I’m saving for my retirement. Why don’t you take the boys and fly over for as long as you like. The schools are good and there’s nothing to hold you here now.”

  “Won’t there be a hearing?” Larson asked.

  “Anything needed from Carole can be obtained by deposition. I have a few things to clear up and then I’m overdue for a vacation. You’re invited too, Larson. Think it over.”

  The necessary words were said but the emotional void remained. Surgeons lost patients and lawyers failed clients. Hell was just the distance between aspiration and reality. When Larson offered to mix drinks Simon was relieved at Reardon’s insistence that he must report back to his office. Some other time Simon would tell Carole about Barney’s disposition of the property. Reardon’s apartment was in one of the new condominiums about a mile up the coast where the views were of the ocean and the bright emerald greens of the Shoreline Country Club. High fashion and expensive. Reardon invited Simon to come up for a drink.

  “We’ve never really had a chance to talk about why you went to see Mary Sutton the day she died,” he said.

  “I thought the book was closed on that,” Simon remarked.

  “I’d like to close it. That’s why we should talk.”

  “Some other time. Right now I’m going home to my wife. This whole affair has made me feel very domesticated.”

  • • •

  And so Simon went home to Wanda who made a fuss over his wounded arm until he felt like a soldier returned from combat; who babied him and loved him and drove away the ghost of Barney Amling.

  Almost.

  It was when she was unpacking the luggage that Wanda found his blood-stained jacket. She let out a howl of dismay and Simon explained that only a small stain on the sleeve was his own blood—the rest was Barney’s.

  “You were that close?” she marvelled.

  “I tried to hold him, Wanda. It was like trying to hold a maddened bull. If only I had reached him sooner I might have learned a few answers and saved his life.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want it saved.”

  “It seems that way. Perhaps Hannah was right and he was a schizo. Everything happened too fast. Now it’s too late.”

  “Stop blaming yourself,” Wanda scolded. “You did all you could, and came back safely. I may be selfish but that’s all I care about now. I found your revolver in your desk after you left and I kept thinking that you had gone looking for Barney without any protection. I wanted to run after you and catch you at the airport.”

  Simon laughed. “Good thing you didn’t. The way airport security is since all the hijacking I’d probably have landed in a Miami jail.”

  It was after Wanda had gone downstairs to the rubbish bin with the jacket that Simon listened to a mental playback of his own words. They nagged him to the telephone. He dialled David Adler’s number and waited until the detective’s dry, cynical voice came to him through the receiver.

  “I saw on the tube that you were back,” he said. “I guess it’s all right for me to send you my bill now.”

  “Any time,” Simon said. “Right now I’m returning the call you made when I was leaving for South America. What was so important?”

  “Just some of the stuff I dug up about Verna Castle. For instance, the loan she carried with Pacific Guaranty was four per cent below normal rates at the time of issue.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “And there’s the matter of her half-brother, Anthony Castile. He got a parole about two months ago. Now he’s disappeared. Hasn’t reported to his parole officer at all.”

  “Two months ago,” Simon mused.

  “That’s really what I wanted to tell you before you made that quickie trip. I got a mug shot and description. Castile’s six-foot-one, one-ninety pounds and walks with a limp.”

  Something electric was beginning to move up Simon’s spine. “A limp!” he yelled.

  “Don’t break my ear drums. Sure, a limp. I told you he was knifed in a prison fight.”

  “You didn’t tell me that he limped.”

  “I didn’t know it then. He got slashed in the leg by a prisoner named Torres.”

  “Miguel?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Psychic. One question: does Anthony Castile have blue eyes?”

  Adler consulted his file. “Right again,” he said.

  “Then you’re not fired yet. Carry on with the previous instructions and stand by for my call.”

  “Wait—you might let me know what I’m working on.”

  “A miracl
e,” Simon answered. “The resurrection of Barney Amling.”

  He put down the telephone and went looking for Wanda. He found her stuffing the jacket in the trash-for-burning can. Some day, when there was time, he would explain why he grabbed the garment out of her hands and ran for the garage. Some day—not now. Lieutenant Pete Franzen of the Marina Beach police owed him a favour or two. He could start paying off by having the blood on that jacket analysed at the local police laboratory.

  An hour later, having left the jacket and certain instructions with Franzen, Simon called the Amling house and asked for Eric Larson. “Larson,” he said, “I’m going to ask what may seem a strange question. You’ll have to trust me when I tell you the answer is important. Also, you’ll have to keep the purpose of this call to yourself and not discuss it with Carole.”

  “Sounds mysterious,” Larson responded, “but ask away.”

  “I know you’re a paediatrician now but you were a GP at one time. Did you ever make a blood test of Barney Amling?”

  “That is a peculiar question,” Larson answered, “but it so happens that I did. Little Jake had a bad fall a few years ago and lost a lot of blood. I thought he might require a transfusion so I tested Barney for type.”

  “Do you have a record of that test?”

  “At the clinic, yes.”

  “Can you get it for me. The quickest way would be to call whoever is in charge and tell him what I want. Then have him call me.”

  “If it’s that important I can.”

  “It is, doctor. It just may be the most important thing you ever do.”

  Simon now had two pots boiling and just enough time to drive into Hollywood and visit the Laurelwood Sanatorium before visiting hours were over for the day. It was an old stucco and stone building set deep in enough acreage to delight the avaricious heart of Vincent Pucci. Only one member of the staff was a veteran of the period when Barney Amling took the cure. Her name was Miss Sorensen, the head nurse, a buxom Viking of 60. Current headlines had given stimulus to her memories of Barney Amling.

  “At my age,” she explained, “it’s easier to remember something that happened twelve or thirteen years ago than whether or not I had my lunch. Amling was a good patient. He had an incentive to overcome his problem and tackled it with the same intensity that got him into it in the first place. In the beginning, of course, we had to treat the concussion.”

  “I didn’t know he had a concussion,” Simon said.

  “Oh, yes. I was on duty the night his sister brought him in—early in the morning, actually. Ordinarily we don’t take admissions at that hour but we knew Mrs Carnes.”

  “Carnes?” Simon echoed.

  “Mrs Joseph Carnes. Her husband had been with us for some time prior to his death a few years earlier. Tragic, isn’t it? Alcoholism hitting twice in the same family? Mrs Carnes said that her brother had fallen trying to walk up some stairs. He had a nasty cut on the forehead. She tried to take care of him herself but he was such a large man and she’s quite small. But then you aren’t interested in Mrs Carnes.”

  Simon was very much interested in Mrs Carnes but managed to restrain his excitement.

  “I recall that Dr Metcalf took several stitches,” Miss Sorensen continued. “That was Lance Metcalf. He passed away about five years ago. But there I go reminiscing again.”

  “Would you still have record of anyone who visited Amling while he was a patient here?” Simon asked.

  “I think so.” Miss Sorensen seemed to be the sort who would keep meticulous files. She left the room for a time and returned with a time-yellowed cardboard filler full of data. She skimmed through it with professional ease. “Mrs Carnes visited twice—both times within the first three weeks after admission. The second visitor was a Mr Fred Smathers, insurance adjuster. The only other visitor was Dr Eric Larson who didn’t come until Mr Amling was almost ready to be released. The second time he came was to take the patient home.”

  “Then Amling didn’t have his own car here?”

  “I’m sure he didn’t. There’s no listing of a charge for garaging a car which would be normal for anyone who stayed for so long a period.”

  It wasn’t electricity going up Simon’s spine by this time; it was nuclear fission. “The insurance adjuster, Smathers,” he queried. “Did he state the name of his company?”

  Miss Sorensen smiled and it was as if someone had retouched a face on Mount Rushmore. “We wouldn’t have that information, Mr Drake.”

  “You would if an insurance company paid the bill.”

  “But Mr Amling paid the bill. You may think it strange that Mrs Amling didn’t visit her husband, but he was determined not to let her know where he was.”

  “They were separated at the time,” Simon explained. “Amling didn’t want to see his wife again until he kicked the booze.”

  “Now, isn’t that nice to hear?” Miss Sorensen looked as if she might smile again and Simon wasn’t sure he could cope with the experience a second time. He thanked her for her trouble and left the cold stone walls of Laurelwood a happier man than when he arrived.

  • • •

  He reached home well after dark and joined Hannah and Wanda at dinner. Wanda was on a rigid diet under Hannah’s supervision. “The trick is to never deviate,” Hannah explained. “Feel sorry for yourself and over-indulge once and you’ll be sorrier and sorrier as time goes on.” Simon wasn’t hungry anyway so he excused himself and went into his den where he could stare at the telephone without interruption. The first call to come through was from Larson’s clinic. The records disclosed that Amling’s blood type was type A—Rh. Simon entered the information on his list of facts and then called Lieutenant Franzen who was often too busy to return a call. He was in luck. Franzen was still on duty.

  “I lighted a fire under the lab, Simon,” he said, “and the report came in a few minutes ago. There are two different types of blood on that coat you brought in.”

  “I could have told you that,” Simon answered. “The stain on the sleeve is my blood.”

  “You’ve been playing too rough,” Franzen scolded. “Luckily, the stains are only a few days old so there was no haemolyzation.”

  “If I take this information to court I’ll need the six-dollar words,” Simon interrupted. “Just give me the results.”

  “Right on. There are four blood groups: ?, ?, ? and AB. Forty per cent of the white race is in group A; forty-five per cent in group O. That includes you, Simon. You’re with the majority. But the large stain on the front of your jacket is in a relatively rare group. Only ten per cent of the white race has it: group B.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “Positive.”

  “Beautiful.”

  “I’m glad you’re pleased. We’re here to serve the public. Now, about that other matter we discussed. I put in a call to San Quentin where Anthony Castile was serving time when another con worked him over with a knife. He lost a lot of blood—all of it type B.”

  “Then it could be Castile’s blood on my coat.”

  “Could be—if you can prove it.”

  “I don’t have to prove it. I only have to prove whose blood it isn’t, and you’ve already done that. Thanks, Pete.”

  Barney Amling: blood group A.

  Anthony Castile: blood group ?.

  Add these items to Simon’s list of evidence and there was only one thing left to do. He called David Adler and received a growl or recognition. “You’re interrupting Mannix,” Adler complained.

  “I’ve got something more exciting,” Simon said. “I want you to trace an automobile.”

  “Routine,” Adler muttered.

  “Not so routine. This one was sold to Barney Amling in late nineteen fifty-nine. It’s an Olds, two-tone white and blue sedan. Licence number—” Simon picked up a magnifying glass and studied the snapshot he had borrowed from Carole Amling. “—California LEY-957. He bought it from surplus stock just before the nineteen-sixty models came out so it must have been
from a new-car dealer.”

  “An oldie,” Adler mused. “That takes more time.”

  “Especially since Amling had it only a few months. Try to find a record of re-sale, re-registration—anything you can get. Check the insurance companies. See if a claim was filed for damages. An insurance agent visited Amling when he was in the sanatorium and it wasn’t concerning pre-paid medical. Barney Amling had a concussion when he entered Laurelwood.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Adler exclaimed.

  “That’s because you watch too much TV. I think he had an accident with that car and that’s why he got rid of it so soon. Now, here’s the clincher, I want you to check out the LA newspaper on the night of the date Amling was admitted to Laurelwood. Check for any serious accidents—hit and run. Probably involving a fatality.”

  “I detect the putrid stench of blackmail,” Adler said. “All this research is going to cost you.”

  “Not as much as it cost Barney Amling,” Simon said. “He was admitted to Laurelwood by a woman who claimed to be his sister: a Mrs Joseph Carnes.”

  “Oy vey,” Adler groaned.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ON THE FOLLOWING day Simon went to see Knox Reardon. The captain was in conference when he arrived at division headquarters and Lieutenant Wabash, who told Simon to wait, was muttering over his desk work. “I joined the police force to see some action,” he complained. “I should have taken a course in typing. Do you know a good lawyer, Drake? I’m going to need one if I don’t find all of the heroin we confiscated in a beach house raid a few weeks ago. The commission will throw the book at me so hard I’ll have to turn private snoop to support my family.”

  “Where did you leave it?” Simon asked.

  “In the lower drawer of my desk—one that locks. The captain’s going to say, ‘Why did you wait so long to file your report?’ “