“Why did you?” Simon asked.
“Because we made it the same day your friend Amling disappeared. I thought I’d have a couple of weeks to get the paper work done and right in the middle of it I’m put on the Amling case. Now I have to try to remember the details of bringing in those punks from the Pucci property.”
“What Pucci property?”
Wabash grinned wickedly. “Legally it still belongs to the old lady who didn’t want to sell,” he admitted, “but I’ve seen Pucci operate before. He wants a certain property so he applies pressure and we start getting complaints about wild parties at the beach house. After enough complaints we have to raid. Sure enough, we find a bunch of bushy-haired kids with electric guitars, a stash of marijuana and about twenty thousand dollars’ worth of horse. For all we know he had the hard stuff planted himself. Anyway, I hear the old lady who owns the house is so uptight about renting to junkies that she’s ready to accept Pucci’s offer.”
“Don’t knock free enterprise,” Simon said.
Knox Reardon came to the door of his office then and invited Simon inside. It was roomier than Wabash’s and had a small artificial putting green on the floor near the windows. “I think better when I’m relaxed,” Reardon explained. “Sit down and unburden your soul, Drake, if that’s what you’ve come for.”
“Did Carole decide to go to Hawaii?” Simon asked.
“Not yet, but I’m seeing her again tonight. There’s a benefit dance at the Shoreside Country Club. It’s good public relations for me to be there and Carole’s coming with Larson. That takes guts, you know. Making a public appearance so soon after Barney’s death in Buenos Aires. She’s determined to keep up a front for the sake of the boys.”
“Barney didn’t die in Buenos Aires,” Simon said.
Reardon missed the putt he was about to sink. He turned around slowly and looked at Simon as if he had just announced the discovery of little green men on the moon. Simon took advantage of the conversational void to explain about the blood tests of the stains on his jacket and watched Reardon’s face turn to the colour of wet cement.
“There must be a mistake,” Reardon insisted. “I saw Barney. We both saw him.”
“We saw the man who was supposed to be Barney,” Simon said. “We both made an identification because we were looking for Barney and saw what we expected to see.”
Reardon shook his head incredulously. “But we found Barney’s things in the hotel: the luggage, the clothes, the passport—”
“Raincoat, wallet and gun,” Simon concluded. “There are still a few things missing. Nine hundred thousand dollars, to begin with.”
“Have you talked about this with Carole?”
“Not yet.”
“Then don’t—that’s an order. That woman’s been through enough hell without getting up false hopes. If Barney’s still in South America he may never be found. It will be easier for her to go on believing he’s dead.”
“That’s the way I see it,” Simon agreed. “If he’s in South America. Did you run a ballistics test on his gun?”
Reardon nodded. “It had been fired recently,” he said.
“Are you still interested in why I went to see Mary Sutton?”
“Very much so.”
“Then I’ll tell you. I called her and made an appointment to visit her apartment at four that afternoon because I was interested in the possibility that Barney was in some trouble at the office. She intimated there was some discussion about him giving special interest rates to favoured clients. She didn’t want to talk about it but I put on pressure. I told you that I had the impression she wasn’t alone in the apartment.”
Reardon nodded. “Paul Corman was with her. He told us that and said he left a few minutes after your call.”
“After which she set fire to herself and jumped out of the fourth-floor window backwards,” Simon said.
“Backwards? Are you sure?”
“I saw her. So did my wife.”
“Then you think she was pushed.”
“I’m not going to talk about that. I’m still Barney’s lawyer.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“Think about it,” Simon said, “and go to that dance tonight and pretend that you’re competing for an award as the tightest-mouthed policeman of the year.”
Reardon looked as gloomy as any law officer would look if he thought a nasty case was closed and it suddenly exploded in his face. “Drake,” he thundered, “I know your reputation. If you’re withholding evidence—”
“I’m only withholding hunches,” Simon said. “They don’t count.”
He didn’t want to say anything about Verna Castle until Adler completed his report. He left Reardon scowling at the imitation putting green and left the office. He returned to his car and drove to the Pacific Guaranty garage where he parked in Barney’s slot. He unfolded a map of the harbour area, checked the address on the card Pucci’s bodyguard had given him in the massage parlour and then set the trip-meter on the Jaguar to zero. He drove out of the garage and headed for the freeway. Half an hour later, after passing a row of billboards advertising the new Pucci development, he turned in at a gate marked “no admittance”, drove another 50 feet and was waved back by the gateman.
“I want to see the layout of the new apartments,” Simon explained. “I’m a prospective buyer.”
“Come back in about three weeks,” the gateman advised. “They’re still under construction.”
“It’s all right to let me in. I’m a friend of Pucci’s.”
Simon produced the card but it didn’t convince the gateman. “I never saw you come here with Mr Pucci,” he insisted.
“Did Barney Amling ever come here with Pucci?”
“Amling? Sure. With him and without him. It’s his company’s money. But Amling’s dead now.”
“When was the last time he came here?”
Simon had the feeling he was getting on sticky ground. The gateman’s face was getting red. “No you don’t,” he protested. “You don’t trick me into saying anything I shouldn’t. I got my orders. Mr Pucci don’t want no bad publicity connected with this place.”
“I’ll bet you never saw Barney Amling here at all.”
“Then you lose. If you want to know, I was the last person to see him before he skipped the country—but don’t you let Mr Pucci know I told you that.”
“Why do you think you were the last person to see him?”
“Because he was here the night he took that plane to South America. He drove out here in that big Continental of his and I said hello when he came past the gatehouse just like I always did.”
“Where did he go?”
“Up to the building site, I guess.”
“Alone?”
“Sure, alone. He was up there a while and then he drove out again. Had his hat on when he drove out. It was starting to rain.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police about that?”
“Because Mr Pucci don’t want bad publicity—like I told you.”
“Did anyone else come this way while he was here?”
The gateman shook his head in disgust. “You ask more questions than my five-year-old grandson. Sure, somebody came this way. Three or four police cars—only they took that left turn that goes down to the beach. Raided a house where some of those crazy potheads were living.”
“It must have been exciting,” Simon said. “Maybe you left the gatehouse for a few minutes to go down and watch the raid.”
Now the old man was livid. “I never leave my post!” he shouted. “Jobs ain’t so easy to come by when a man gets my age.” Then the man’s anger switched off and a sickly grin slipped over his face like a transparent mask. Simon heard the sound of a motor approaching behind him. He looked back as the black LTD crept up alongside the Jaguar and braked to a stop. Pucci’s bodyguard, Louis, slid out from behind the wheel. “What’s the trouble?” he asked the gateman. “Didn’t you tell Mr Drake that this area is closed to the public?”
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“He said he wanted to buy an apartment,” the gateman explained.
“Then give him a brochure.”
Simon grinned at Louis. “So it was Pucci who had me tailed,” he said. “Do you mind telling me why?”
“Nobody’s tailing you,” Louis answered. “I was just driving by. Now, take the brochure home and look at the pretty pictures. We can’t have an important man like you coming around and getting hurt on the equipment so you can sue Vincent, can we?”
Louis’s hands were balling into fists and Simon knew what kind of equipment he was about to be hurt on. He had lost enough of that group O blood in Buenos Aires. He accepted the brochure and shifted the gears into first. He stomped the accelerator into the floorboards, executed a fast U-turn around the gatehouse and watched the LTD in the rear-view mirror all the way to the freeway. He drove north on the freeway, watching the miles roll up on the trip-meter, and began to fit Barney’s last-day schedule in his mind. Barney had left the Pacific Guaranty building at about four-forty-five and driven to the Pucci development. It wasn’t a drive a man would take just prior to walking out on 40 years of his life unless his visit had a purpose. It was a lonely, deserted locale after working hours—a good place to meet someone he couldn’t contact in a public place. He had stayed a while and then driven out alone. Later he left the Continental at the airport.
Simon drove all the way to LAX, losing the LTD in the flow of traffic, and parked in the area where Barney’s car had been found. He checked the trip-meter and found it short a mere seven miles. He then drove to the Marina View Inn where the cocktail crowd was gathering for a late dusk drink before dinner and checked the trip-meter again. He had travelled 70 miles since leaving the Pacific Guaranty building and that was close enough.
• • •
He hadn’t planned to tackle Verna Castle again until Adler had more information, but Wabash’s complaint over the coincidence of a beach-house raid and Barney’s disappearance sparked a line of investigation that had led him full circle back to her domain. The welcome mat wasn’t out for him at the Funky Frigate but when he saw Cherry Lane, flanked by the two muscular lobster chefs, bounce off towards the shopping mall, the temptation to encounter Verna without her reserve troops was irresistible. He left the Jaguar and sprinted down to the dock. The gate stood open. Unmolested, he walked to where the big yacht still rode at anchor. Lights were showing in the aft cabin and no one was on deck. He found the boarding ladder and climbed up quickly. His feet had no more than touched the deck when the blinding beam of a flashlight hit his face and Verna’s voice said: “I’ve got a loaded .32 aimed right between your eyes, Drake, and you’re trespassing on my property again.”
Simon raised his hands. “You sure know how to make a stranger feel welcome,” he said.
“If you were a stranger I wouldn’t be about to shoot you,” Verna answered.
“If you shoot me,” Simon said, “I won’t be able to tell you how your half-brother, Anthony, was murdered in Buenos Aires.”
He must have said something right. The flashlight lowered and snapped off. He could see Verna framed in the lighted cabin doorway. She did have a gun in one hand but now it pointed listlessly towards the teakwood deck.
“You’re lying,” she said.
“If you believed that I would be dead now.”
“Tony isn’t in Buenos Aires. He’s in San Quentin.”
“Wrong. He was paroled two months ago. Whose idea was it to use him as a decoy for Barney Amling?”
Voices carried on the water. Verna seemed to remember that. Beckoning with the gun, she said: “If you’ve got anything to say you can say it inside.”
Simon lowered his hands and followed the woman into the lounge. Like the decking, it was done in teakwood with upholstered couches, printed drapes and wall-to-wall carpeting. It had a bar, a stereo and even a small metal fireplace with electric lights flickering on the logs. It would have seemed like a real home-from-home if the woman had put down the gun.
“I think you really want to shoot me,” Simon said, “but you can’t shoot evidence. I’m not the only one who knows it was Tony who died instead of Barney Amling. He got blood all over my jacket. It’s not Barney’s blood group. It is Tony’s.”
She put the gun down on the bar. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.
“Murder,” Simon answered. “Tony yelled something when he was bleeding on me. ‘They’re going to kill me,’ he said. Who are ‘they’, Miss Castle? Did you set up your own kin for early disposal if the ruse went sour?”
She muttered a few words that belonged in the category of her original profession but it was bravado. Inside she was crumbling. He hit her with another question before she could recover.
“Where is Barney Amling?”
“Dead,” she said.
“I just told you that he didn’t die in Buenos Aires. Listen to me when I tell you things, Verna Castle, because you’re in big trouble. I know you took Barney to the Laurelwood Sanatorium twelve years ago. There’s a nurse still working there who can identify the woman who signed in as Mrs Joseph Carnes. I know that he came in with a concussion. When I know the full story about that, I’ll probably know why you get such preferential interest rates from Pacific Guaranty. When did you first meet Barney Amling?”
“This isn’t a courtroom, Drake,” she said.
“Never mind. I’ll find out. That famous Love Chalet you operated was just the kind of place a hot-shot grid star might go for a fraternity romp. Was his name in your mysterious unpublished file? He was promising material. He turned pro’ and made big money until his accident. By that time he was married to a girl whose father had the contacts to get him started on an even more successful career. I think Barney was the kind of material you would have kept under scrutiny.”
“You shouldn’t be a lawyer, Drake. You should write romances.”
“We’re not discussing romance. We’re discussing business. Barney’s world fell apart when Carole left him. That social drinking route in the world of big business can get rough. Maybe that was when you met Barney. Carole was away from him for almost a year. That’s a long time for a healthy all-American boy to live like a monk. One way or another, he did get on your sucker list.”
A short flight of steps led from the lounge and galley deck to the sleeping quarters below. Carpeted, carefully lighted, a glimpse of stainless steel lavatory and tile shower. Simon was wondering where the famous queen-sized bed was housed when Verna seemed to read his mind.
“If you think Barney’s hidden below, look for yourself,” she said.
“You’ll have to admit that you don’t encourage visitors.”
“I like privacy. I’ve earned it.”
Simon took the steps down to the lower deck. He found the queen-sized bed and a pair of padded bunks forward. There were two heads, built-in closets and cupboards and stereo amplifiers throughout. He opened every door along the way. Barney wasn’t there. He came back upstairs and noticed a ship-to-shore near the wheel. He didn’t see a jack for a regular telephone which explained Verna’s sprint to the public telephone after his previous visit. Verna was still waiting at the bar. The gun was no longer in sight.
“Satisfied?” she asked.
“No,” Simon replied, “but I will be.”
Simon left the yacht and returned to his car but wasn’t ready to leave. Verna Castle reacted to shock by contacting an unidentified associate. Simon didn’t have long to wait. Minutes later Verna trotted up the dock, the long tail of a tent-like coat flapping in the chill wind. She entered the telephone booth and the light switched on. Simon reached behind him and picked up his binoculars from the jump seat. Trained on the booth he could see her pumping coins into the telephone. She dialled, waited, and then began to talk earnestly. It was a lengthy argument but she seemed to win. She came out of the booth at the conclusion of the call and walked into the parking-lot. Simon put away the glasses and ducked lower in the bucket seat. He th
ought she had spotted him but she walked past without so much as a side glance. Her destination was an orange Toyota that she drove out of the lot. Simon followed.
Verna drove to the nearest service station and spoke to the attendant. While the Toyota’s tank was being filled he carried a battery out of the station and deposited it in the trunk of the sedan before she drove away. Simon pulled into the station. While the Jaguar was being refuelled he mentioned the lady who had just bought a battery.
“I always carry a spare tyre,” he said. “Never thought of a spare battery.”
The attendant laughed. “That’s one of my regulars,” he explained. “She ordered that battery a week ago. She has another car up in the mountains. I wanted to check her radiator for antifreeze but she didn’t have time. If she’s going up there tonight she’ll wish she’d taken time.”
“You’re right,” Simon agreed. “It’s cold up at Mount Waterford.”
“How did you know that’s where she’s going?”
“She’s one of my regulars too,” Simon said.
He wanted to take time to call Adler but didn’t dare risk it. When the tank was filled he took off after Verna. He didn’t see the orange Toyota again for almost an hour in spite of nudging the posted freeway speed limit in an effort to clear the time lapse between them. It was when Verna turned off the freeway and began the winding climb into the mountains that he came within sight of the small sedan. He kept safe distance behind the tail-lights and began the ascent. They hit snow at 4,000 feet but the road was scraped free of hazards. At 5,000 there was a light packing under the treads and fresh snow falling. Simon switched on the defroster and windshield wipers. When the Toyota turned off on a side road progress slowed. Simon kept far enough behind so his headlamps wouldn’t show in the Toyota’s rear-view mirror. He had gone another two miles when he realized that he was gaining on the tail-lights too fast. He switched into low gear and still gained. He stopped completely and saw that the Toyota was no longer in motion. Simon switched off his lights and waited. The snow was falling heavier but he could still see the tail-lights and the probing fingers of the Toyota’s headlights reflected on the canyon wall. Then the lights went off. Simon waited a full five minutes and then drove forward slowly.
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