“It’s easy to arrange anywhere if you know how,” Verna said, “and Knox Reardon always knew how to arrange anything. He almost killed me, too, after he thought the Olds was destroyed. It was his idea to keep the car as evidence in case Amling ever tried to squirm loose.”
“All of which means that you owe me your life.”
Verna thanked Simon with characteristic sentiment. “So strike yourself a medal,” she said.
• • •
Nine hundred thousand dollars was found over a period of weeks in safe-deposit boxes Reardon had rented in various banks. Fifty thousand, obviously, was what he paid Anthony Castile before the final payment was made with a hired assassin’s knife. But long before the money was found Lieutenant Wabash led an operation in search of the one thing Barney Amling had taken with him when he left his office the last day that hadn’t been recovered in Buenos Aires: a watch-case containing pictures of his family. Simon told Wabash where to look for it. The police tore up the section of parking-lot at Vincent Pucci’s new development that had been put down on the Monday following Amling’s disappearance. Pucci was on hand, complete with bodyguard, to protest the invasion of his property, but Wabash had a court order that even Pucci’s political clout couldn’t countermand. While the working crew manned the jack-hammers, Simon filled in the story as he saw it.
“Barney must have selected the place to meet Reardon and divide the stolen money,” he explained. “He lunched with Pucci and made sure that the area was about to be paved. He went there with a loaded gun from which one bullet was missing. I think he had decided there was only one way to get rid of a blackmailer and meant to kill Reardon. He fired one shot but he wasn’t a killer at heart. He missed. Reardon didn’t.”
“You think Reardon buried Amling’s body where Amling intended to bury him,” Wabash said.
“Why not? He ordered that beach raid, didn’t he? He knew the action down there would leave him free to come and go as he pleased. He must have shot Barney. Why else did he pull his gun at the bar if he wasn’t already a murderer? If Barney’s body had been unearthed by the paving crew it would have been the man he sent to Buenos Aires who took the heat and he, as we now know, would never live to tell tales. When my investigation turned to Mary Sutton and I asked her on the telephone about a matter that would lead to Verna Castle, Reardon was the first to know. Her telephone was tapped, wasn’t it? Reardon knew I would come at four and got there in time to arrange a death that would be written off as an accident or suicide. He probably planted the heroin he had taken from your desk while I was with him searching the apartment.”
“But when did you begin to suspect Reardon?” Wabash asked.
“As soon as I knew the man we saw die in Buenos Aires wasn’t Barney Amling. Since Amling didn’t send a message to his wife it had to originate with someone who was close enough to both of them to know their pet names for one another. I thought of Larson but he couldn’t have known about my call to Mary Sutton and I was sure she had been thrown out of that window. The clincher was Barney’s gun—the one the Buenos Aires police found in Castile’s room. Reardon planted it there. He had to do that because the anti-hijacking measures being taken at major airports, especially on southbound flights, made it too risky for Castile to carry a gun. But a police officer can carry weapons without arousing suspicion anywhere. I knew it was Reardon when I came to his office. I deliberately fed him the information about the blood-stains on my coat just to stir him up a little.”
Wabash sighed. “Lawyer,” he said, “you’ve got a sense of humour like that guy de Sade.”
And so there was Lieutenant Wabash waiting to close the Amling case with newspaper photographers, TV cameramen and the ambulance to take Barney’s remains to the morgue standing by, and the only thing wrong with the arrangement was that no body was found. It was mid-afternoon before the digging was finally stopped. Simon looked back at the place where Vincent Pucci’s car had been parked to see how furious he was but the car was gone.
“What do we do now, lawyer,” Wabash chided, “cast nets in the Pacific Ocean?”
“Where’s Vincent Pucci?” Simon asked.
“He left as soon as the digging got under way. I guess the big shot couldn’t take the humiliation of learning he wasn’t as powerful as a court order.”
“That’s interesting,” Simon mused. “In Pucci’s place I would have been curious enough to stick around for the finish.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THERE ARE PLACES in Baja California that can be reached only by private plane and Vincent Pucci owned one of them. It was about 11 a.m. of the following morning when a slender Cessna slipped out of the sky and made a perfect landing on the airstrip at the edge of the settlement. Simon and his companion alighted and found an ancient station-wagon available for rent. Simon drove as far as the locked gates of the Pucci villa and parked in the driveway. He noticed a narrow path leading down the rocky cliff to a wide sand bar below, and when he had climbed down the path he could see a lone fisherman tending a line on the beach a hundred yards away. The man wore a wide straw hat and a Mexican-style shirt over his jeans but he wasn’t Mexican. When he removed the hat to wipe perspiration from his forehead the sun lighted gold fires in his hair. When he moved to adjust the long fishing pole planted deep in the sand he walked with a limp.
“Barney!” Simon called. “Barney Amling.”
This time the identity wasn’t mistaken. The man didn’t move. He waited beside the pole as Simon ran up the beach to meet him. When Simon arrived he said:
“You shouldn’t have come, Si. I’m a dead man now.”
Barney Amling pulled in the line and began to unwind a seaweed boa from the hook. “I intend to stay dead,” he added. “I heard about that excavation job up north yesterday. You had the right idea. Reardon did shoot me and left me for dead in a shallow grave, but his bullet struck an old watch-case I had in my vest pocket and missed my heart. Waking up with dirt in your face is a traumatic experience.” When the hook was clean Barney cast it back into the sea again. Simon’s presence didn’t seem to disturb him. He continued his story in a quiet voice. “It was raining, as I recall. I guess that was what washed away the earth so I didn’t suffocate. I managed to crawl out of the hole and drag myself over to the first level of Pucci’s new construction. That’s where I spent the night—more dead than alive. In the morning the sun came out and my head cleared a little. I’d lost a lot of blood but I was able to make it to the construction office where I knew I’d find a telephone. Knox had taken my wallet but I had a pocketful of change. I couldn’t even remember my own telephone number so I called the one printed on a card beside the telephone. It was Pucci’s private number.”
“And Pucci picked you up and brought you here,” Simon said. “No wonder he had me watched.”
Barney nodded. “Pucci came out in his own car as soon as I told him what had happened. I was scooped up and taken first to a doctor who doesn’t sweat about reporting gunshot wounds to the police. I was unconscious for at least twenty-four hours. When I came to I told Pucci the whole story. He’s smart. He knew the odds against nailing a police captain. He advised me to keep quiet and await further developments. Then he had me flown down here to recuperate.”
“Leaving me to do all the work,” Simon said.
Barney grinned wryly. “Something like that. I’ve had a radio all the time and read some of the newspapers that were flown down. When I read about the limping man who flew to South America using the name Barry Anderson I knew Reardon had planned to kill me from the first. I booked passage under that name and had the ticket on me when I was shot. I didn’t even know Verna Castle had a brother.”
“I know about the automobile accident twelve years ago,” Simon said. “Didn’t it ever occur to you how strange it was that you had the concussion if you were driving? I’ve seen the Olds, Barney. Verna Castle told me Reardon kept it as evidence against you. I think it was evidence against her that he wanted. The point of
contact that shattered the windshield is on the passenger side—not the driver’s. I think you were too drunk to drive that night and too confused afterwards to remember that it was Verna at the wheel.”
To Simon’s surprise Barney didn’t respond with any show of emotion. “I must have figured that out years ago,” he said. “By that time I was in too deep. It’s a funny thing, Si. We start out in life with an image of ourselves but we keep giving away bits and pieces, hacking away with chisels of compromise, until everything turns out wrong. We step back and look at what’s left and find too many cracks in the marble. That’s why I want to stay dead. I can’t go back to PG or to any position of trust again. The crazy thing is that I don’t really care, I was too good at the money game. I learned where to give favour and when to turn a deaf ear. Human values had nothing to do with it. It was all making the right contacts, pleasing the right people. Favours to men like Pucci, favours to Verna. Favours to Knox Reardon. Everything legal and lucrative until the day on the golf course when Knox proposed stealing a million dollars from the vault. I thought it was fantasy at first. I didn’t start to worry until he told me how he had set up Kevin for arrest twice and what he would do to him next if I didn’t go along with the scheme.”
For the first time Barney’s voice trembled with anger. “Maybe I deserved being used but not my son. I thought of sending him away to school but there was still Little Jake and Reardon was desperate. He had lost heavily on the market. He was about to lose his house in Hawaii and was reaching an age when there wasn’t a chance of recouping his fortune without my help. I knew he would keep on hurting me through my family if I didn’t take the money, and then I realized that he couldn’t use me again if I did. I would be in a self-imposed exile. I thought it through and decided the theft was the only way I could protect my family. I took the money—a little less than a million as it turned out—just as Reardon planned. One thing was my own idea.”
“Meeting at Pucci’s to divide the spoils,” Simon said.
“Right. Since I was being forced to give up everything I valued in life, I determined to make sure Reardon couldn’t take any more from me. He was always jealous of me. He often talked about his hard times in Korea when I was safe in college winning trophies and making big money contracts. He wanted everything I had. That’s why I decided to kill him before I went to South America. He wanted everything, Si. Do you understand what I mean?”
“He wanted Carole,” Simon said.
“Exactly. With me gone and in disgrace what would be more natural than an old family friend moving in to take my place? Eric Larson’s been in love with Carole for years but he’s not aggressive. If he thought Carole preferred Reardon he would step out of the way. I could relinquish my reputation, my future and the money from the PG vault, but I couldn’t let Knox Reardon have my wife. That’s why I have to stay dead, Si. The money may have been found in boxes rented by Knox Reardon, but I’m still the man who took it from the vault. I’m still the man who loaded my gun and went out with intent to kill. I stood at the brink of murder.”
“Under duress,” Simon said. “If every man who was emotionally ready to kill could be jailed half the population would be behind bars. The law deals with facts. The facts, as you have just told them to me, prove that Reardon shot first and that makes your shot self-defence. Did Pucci’s doctor find the bullet?”
“He has it in a glass jar.”
“Then it can be matched to Reardon’s gun. Let me handle your defence, Barney. Give me the chance to prove Reardon a murderer instead of knowing it without proof.”
But Barney Amling was adamant. “I won’t go back with you, Si. Pucci owes me a few favours. He won’t let you take me back against my will.”
“I don’t want to take you back against your will. I want you to grow up, Barney. Forget about crossing the goal line with the winning run. That marble statue you’ve been working on doesn’t have to be bigger than life. Pacific Guaranty may not even want to prosecute now that the money’s been recovered. You may lose nothing but a life-style nobody needs.”
“Carole needs it,” Barney said.
“Are you sure? Why don’t you at least give her the chance to tell you whether she wants to be a widow or a wife? Barney, the crowds in the grandstands aren’t cheering any more. You’ve got only one kind of love left for the rest of your life. Let Carole tell you what she wants—now.”
It had taken Carole longer to climb down the cliff to the beach. When Barney raised his head and saw her she was stumbling towards him on high heels that just wouldn’t track in the sand. She paused long enough to remove her shoes and toss them away, and then she ran all the rest of the distance between them with both arms outstretched.
She needed both arms to grab him, hold him close and bring him back to life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
SIMON LEFT CAROLE and Barney in Baja and flew back to The Mansion to start preparing his case for the defence. He found Wanda rehearsing a new song in the music room, Hannah reading a script for a commercial offered by an agency that had seen her interviewed on television when they returned from Buenos Aires, and Chester unpacking a crate of new books on child psychology. Unnoticed, Simon went into his den alone. Moments later the telephone rang.
The voice was Jack Keith’s.
“I’ve been away on vacation,” he reported. “I thought you might have some work lined up for me.”
“Not a thing,” Simon said.
“All quiet? You’re getting too domesticated, Si. You should have been on vacation with me. Man, did I have myself a time scoring with a bevy of Latin chicks. Two weeks in South America. You should hop down there sometime.”
“I’ll make a note of that,” Simon said.
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Copyright © 1976 by Helen Nielsen
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Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
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The Brink of Murder Page 21