Verdict Suspended

by Nielsen, Helen

  “So?” Simon queried.

  “Didn’t you tell me on the phone that you were taking your boat home from Marina Del Rey? What’s it doing there anyway?”

  “I loaned it to Cappy Anderson,” Simon said. “You know Cappy. He’s a sky pilot on this line. He’s having a thing with one of the new stewardesses and boats are romantic. I left it with him when I went to Vegas with Wanda.”

  “You’ll have a rough trip home.”

  “Maybe not if I hurry.”

  Keith was still loathe to leave. Simon followed the direction of his gaze and frowned. “I don’t see her,” he mused. “It has to be a girl to keep you that fascinated.”

  “It’s not a girl,” Keith said. “It’s the profile in the ice cream suit. I know that face.”

  Now that he knew what to look for, Simon located the man in the light-coloured suit. “I know him too,” he admitted, “but I didn’t see him on the plane with me.”

  “He wasn’t on the plane. He’s been waiting here for it to come in.”

  “Then he must have come in on an earlier flight because I saw him in Vegas yesterday. He’s been there all week—about as inconspicuous as a Marine band. I heard that he dropped $40,000 at one dice table and acted as if it were small change. They call him Johnny Sands.”

  “Johnny Sands,” Keith repeated. “It doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “It would be a pseudonym. Wanda says the rumours have him as an international playboy who’s been seen making the rounds in London and Madrid.”

  “Is that so?” Keith mused. “Why then, I wonder, is he greeting Angie Cerva like an old fraternity brother?”

  The man called Johnny Sands had stopped searching for faces in the dispersing crowd and stepped forward to grasp the arm of a barrel-chested giant with steel grey hair and a strong, swarthy face. The good arm, the arm that carried a neatly-folded camel-tan overcoat, not the right arm that hung loosely under the sleeve of a dark, expensively tailored suit. Simon watched the meeting with puzzled eyes.

  “Are you sure that’s Cerva?” he asked.

  “I couldn’t mistake the big boy himself,” Keith insisted. “The organization calls him ‘the banker’. He’s the financial wizard of the east coast branch.”

  “This isn’t the east coast.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. Times change. Operations grow. See that limp arm. There’s a dozen stories about that. Some say he was knifed in an intra-family feud. Some say a jealous mistress took a shot at him and was never seen again. Others say a shark got it when one of the Miami brothers had him thrown off his yacht. But that was ten years before Angie moved up to the boardroom. The international playboy plays with a rough crowd.”

  “There was talk in Vegas that Sands was dickering for a Strip hotel,” Simon said. “Cerva could be selling.”

  “It’s possible. Anyway, it explains the presence of the screws over near the telephones. See how interested they are in the glad-hand greeting?”

  Jack Keith was right. Two men were standing near the row of telephones in view of the gate. One was about six foot four, ruddy faced and clean shaven. He was wearing a nondescript grey suit, a black raincoat and rubbers on his size twelve shoes. He was about fifty and did have the look of a veteran policeman. His companion was about twenty years younger, of a much lighter build, wore tortoise-rimmed glasses and a small dark beard. His clothes had an ivy league cut and he might have been a professor or a drop-out from a peace march.

  “Screws?” Simon repeated doubtfully.

  “Federal screws. They drove up in a black Caddy and parked in a VIP zone just as I came into the terminal. I noticed the plates were from Washington DC. Interesting, isn’t it?”

  “If that’s how you get your kicks while waiting for a plane to land, I suppose it’s interesting,” Simon admitted. “Everybody needs a hobby.”

  “And everybody who isn’t as successful as the fabulous Simon Drake needs to work for a living,” Keith responded, “which, for me, means keeping my eyes open for off-beat characters who float into any beautiful Los Angeles smog alert. Look, man, your baggage won’t be down for a while. You could at least buy me a drink after rousting me down here at this ungodly daylight hour. You know that I’m night people.”

  Keith had apparently decided to leave Johnny Sands and Angie Cerva to the competent surveillance of the men he had identified as federal agents. It was almost noon. The bar was open and Keith was right about the baggage, and, since he never discussed his other cases, there might be some reason why he wanted to remain within observation distance of the tableau in the waiting room. “All right,” Simon agreed. “One Bloody Mary for an eye-opener. Just one. Then you drive me down to the boat.”

  “I still think you should hire a car and drive back to Marina Beach,” Keith said.

  “And I still think you sound menopausal.”

  Simon stepped inside an archway that led to the bar and ordered the drinks. A matter-of-fact voice on the PA system was announcing that the New York flight, already twenty minutes late, would be further delayed. The disembarking passengers had now cleared the gate at the Las Vegas landing, but Johnny Sands and his unorthodox companion still lingered just outside the bar entrance. The two men standing near the telephones hadn’t moved. The drinks appeared and Keith grabbed his with both hands.

  “Now you’ve got me doing it,” Simon said.

  “Doing what?”

  “People-watching.”

  “Sure. It’s my favourite pastime for fun and profit. Well, here’s to the lovely Wanda and the bridegroom-to-be—hopefully.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Simon demanded.

  Keith didn’t answer. He was too busy draining his glass. Simon hadn’t touched his. The PA came on again with another bland announcement concerning the flight from New York. Persons meeting the plane were requested to go to the upstairs information booth. Sands and Cerva stopped conversing and listened to the announcement. Sands took a step towards the information centre, hesitated, and then moved out of Simon’s range of vision leaving Angie Cerva standing alone.

  “It’s rough upstairs,” Simon reflected. “A lot of people are going to be waiting for planes today.”

  “And should be waiting for boats—” Keith began. He got no further with his protest. At that moment two men in dark blue flight uniforms strode briskly across the floor. Simon, still holding the untouched glass in his hand, stepped out into the foyer as they approached. “Hey, Chris,” he called. “Nice flight. Thanks for the ride.”

  Both uniformed men stopped. The one wearing the captain’s insignia stared at Simon blankly. Recognition came slowly as if his mind was returning from another sphere. “Oh, Simon Drake, isn’t it?” he said.

  “That’s right. We’ve met a few times at Cappy Anderson’s place. If I had known you were the pilot on that flight, I would have come up front for a chat. How’s Ruth?”

  The captain was still reacting slowly.

  “Ruth—your wife,” Simon prodded. “What’s the matter? Have I said something wrong?”

  “Then you didn’t see it,” the captain said.

  The junior officer tugged at his arm. “Chris, we’ve got to make a report—”

  “That’s all right,” Chris said. “Drake knows Cappy. He can do me a favour. Listen, Drake, maybe you weren’t aware of it but we were holding a pattern up there for about five minutes so a special flight could get off the runway. I took an extra sweep out over the ocean. That New York flight was up there too—just coming in. Something went wrong—God only knows what—and it went down. Straight down—all the way into the drink. Are you going to use that booze, or are you holding it for a friend?”

  “It’s all yours,” Simon said.

  The captain took the glass and drank quickly. “Thanks,” he said. “Not that it helps much. Now I’ve got to go to operations and report on what I radioed in when I saw the plane go down. If you can call Cappy—”

  “I’m on my way to his apartment,” Simon sai
d.

  “That’s even better. Tell him what I told you. The plane went into the sea. We made another pass over it—Sam saw it, too. The damn plane didn’t float at all. It nosed straight down and just kept going. There were ninety-six people on that flight, Drake, and now they’re all under water. One of them—the pilot—was Cappy’s brother-in-law.” All of the blood seemed to have drained from the captain’s face and his hand shook as he returned the glass. “Damndest thing I ever saw,” he added. “Straight down into the sea. Nothing but the tail showing when we came in to land.”

  Simon stood with the empty glass in his hand and watched the two flight officers walk briskly off. The PA came on with another non-committal announcement and, when Simon turned about, Keith had his car keys in his hand.

  “I heard,” he said brusquely. “Let’s get rolling.”

  Jack Keith’s bronze Cadillac was parked, characteristically, in a restricted area. They didn’t wait for Simon’s baggage. It was Saturday and the traffic lanes leading away from the airport were packed. Once over the overpass, Keith made a sharp right turn and curved down on to Sepulveda Boulevard. A few blocks farther and he was able to cut off to the left, pick up speed and proceed to the marina at a slightly-over-legal speed. The radio was turned on from the instant they entered the car, and luck was with them. They reached the marina, sped past the rows of towering masts of the small craft berths and nosed into the guest parking area at the smart apartment complex where Cappy Anderson and many others of the airline and engineering personnel made their residence, before any report of the recent tragedy reached the newscasters. This gave Cappy a cushion, slight as it was. He took the news stoically and then went into action. He immediately called his sister and then drove off to meet her. By that time the coast guard was on its way to the crash area, and many of the small boats in the marina were beginning to move out of the harbour to join the search for survivors. Simon’s small cruiser was docked at the foot of the complex. It was in the same condition as when he had delivered it—immaculate and fully fuelled. Simon took out enough time to telephone Hannah Lee at The Mansion, the old Victorian house he had purchased and restored in Marina Beach—some fifty miles down the coast. Hannah, perennially youthful at sixty-odd, was in residence at the time of purchase, living in faded grandeur among the souvenirs of a tempestuous theatrical past. Two talents she still possessed: charm and wit, and it was unthinkable that a handsome young bachelor, flush with early success, should be left to find his way in the social jungle without an experienced guide at his shoulder. The Mansion changed ownership and Simon became its master, but Hannah Lee remained as resident queen. When Simon successfully defended Wanda Warren on the charge of killing her husband, it was Hannah who engineered the ensuing romance. When Wanda’s attempt to re-establish a badly battered ego via the Broadway stage failed, it was Hannah who discovered the girl’s singing voice and coached her into a new career. Now, on the telephone, she was eager to learn of Wanda’s debut. Instead, she was told of tragedy.

  “I’m taking the boat out to help look for survivors,” Simon explained. “Don’t expect me home tonight.”

  Hannah’s protest was a lost cause. “Isn’t there a coast guard for that sort of thing?” she queried. “Oh, I know you! Take care.”

  When Simon reached the boat slip, Keith was already on board. “I’m going with you,” he announced. “What do I do first?”

  The sky was now leaden, and even the sheltered area of the harbour was getting choppy.

  “Find the seasickness pills in the first aid kit in the forward locker,” Simon directed, “and then break out the oilskins. We’re going to get wet once we pass the breakwater whether it rains or not. I’ll contact the coast guard on the ship-to-shore and get our bearings.”

  Word of the airline crash had spread rapidly since the first terse radio announcement, and there was no area of the marina where some activity at the boat slips wasn’t in evidence as Simon steered the small cruiser through the channel and headed out to open sea. Beyond the harbour the world was a grey palette with no visible horizon line. The racing clouds were no less restless than the steadily rising sea, and only the hardiest of the amateur sailors would be able to reach the search area. Boats smaller or less seaworthy than Simon’s were forced to turn about and put back to harbour long before Jack Keith, equipped with a pair of binoculars found in the cabin, gave a shout and pointed towards a coast guard cutter that was moving in a circling pattern some 300 yards ahead. A swell of the sea temporarily hid the cutter and dished out the black pattern of an oil slick. They had reached the scene of the crash.

  Simon cut the motor and rode the sea in closer to the slick. Now, without binoculars, he could see that the cutter had lowered a small boat and several men were raking the water with grappling hooks. The oil slick disappeared in the next swell, and then the sea vomited up a grim apostrophe to disaster: a ragged section of fuselage and part of a tail assembly from which was escaping an assortment of vari-coloured luggage to rainbow the sea with silent markers for a mass grave. Simon ordered Keith to put down the binoculars and break out the grappling hooks. Together they fished the peculiar plunder along with a growing armada of small boats and circling planes. Occasionally, Simon returned to the radio. It was a fishing trawler that reported recovery of the first body: a male in flight uniform. Cappy Anderson’s brother-in-law, possibly. Before darkness and heavier seas brought the search to a compulsory end, there would be two more bodies recovered, one male, one female, and a fair portion of the floating luggage. In waters so shark-infested there could be little doubt as to the fate of the other ninety-three persons aboard the plane. The remainder of the luggage would be carried away by the current, perhaps to be deposited on some small channel island.

  Simon’s catch was one small cosmetic case: pale blue airline luggage embossed with the gold initials—S.T. It slipped from his hands as he deposited it on the deck and slid back against the rail. The impact loosened the catch and the lid sprang open. It was a woman’s case. All the scents and baubles of femininity spread out before him. He had the swift sense of someone who had been very young and lovely, and so he quickly closed the case and stowed it below deck. Emerging from the cabin, he saw Jack Keith remove a soggy, furry object from the end of his hook. He stared at it and handed it to Simon without a word. It was a child’s toy dog—their last trophy from the sea. The radio barked an order from the coast guard that all volunteer searchers return to harbour before dark. Only the coast guard cutter was still searching the area when they turned about.

  It was much rougher sailing than when they had put out to sea. Simon wrestled the wheel all the way to the breakwater. Cutting the motor, he noticed that one finger was bleeding from a badly split nail. Keith, seeing the wound, located the cosmetic case Simon had taken from the sea and began to dig through the contents.

  “Women usually carry a manicure scissors in these things,” he said. “—And here it is—all cosy in a little zipper case. You snip off that nail before it splits to the quick. I can take the boat in from here.”

  “It’s rougher than you think,” Simon said, but he relinquished the wheel. It was dusk. Most of the boats now gliding into the marina like chickens heading for roost carried side lights, but a small sloop, unlighted came along portside a little too close for comfort. Simon, having just finished clipping the loose nail, shoved the scissors and the zipper case into the pocket of his oilskin jacket and grabbed the wheel from Keith’s hands.

  “Watch it!” he yelled. “You’re never home free in one of these things until the tie-up.”

  He steered in past the breakwater and through to the harbour. Normally at this time of the evening there would have been sounds of music and laughter from the restaurants that faced the harbour. Tonight was different. Activity centred at the dock nearest the Harbour Master’s office, and the sound was from the police PA and bullhorns directing the unloading of crash débris. Light splayed out over the dock at the entrance to a warehouse where a
crowd of silent watchers had gathered near a mobile television unit, and uniformed police were opening lanes of admittance for official cars. Seeing no place to dock, Simon took the cruiser back to the slip outside Cappy’s apartment and made it fast. Both he and Keith peeled off their oilskins and then, carrying the cosmetic case and the toy dog, drove in Keith’s car back to the warehouse they had so recently passed.

  A white-helmeted motorcycle policeman met them and pointed the way to a parking area.

  “Got to keep the entrance clear for the ambulances,” he announced.

  “Any more recoveries?” Simon asked.

  “Two. One man and one woman. The coroner has just arrived. We’re only letting friends and families of the passengers through now to make identification. What have you got?”

  Keith held up the soggy toy. “Fished this out of the sea,” he explained.

  The officer was a young man and the sight of a child’s toy struck home. He blinked the sudden moisture out of his eyes and led them back through a cluster of people to the warehouse where the collection of rescued articles was being stored for identification. Pieces of the broken plane were there along with fifteen or twenty pieces of luggage, a few wet blankets and a flight officer’s cap. Simon added the cosmetic case to the accumulation and Keith placed the toy beside the officer’s cap. A harbour official gravely added the items to his official list as Simon scanned the faces in the crowd, grateful that Cappy Anderson hadn’t brought his sister to this depressing arena. Jack Keith brought out a pack of cigarettes, gave one to Simon, and was striking a match for a light when a primitive cry came from the group of spectators. It was a man’s voice—high pitched in grief.

  “Sigrid! Oh, my God! Why, Sigrid? Why?”

  Simon looked over the flame of the proffered match. The anguished questions had come from a haggard young man who now stood transfixed before the small blue case with the gold initials. He was about twenty-four, slender, with wind-tangled pale blond hair and tortured blue eyes. When he dropped to his knees and began clawing on the latch of the cosmetic case, Simon could read the words: GERARD RENTALS lettered on the back of his grey overalls. One of the guards stepped forward and pulled him away from the luggage just as a reporter with a mini-camera slung over his shoulder shoved through the crowd. Wildly, the young man faced his inquisitor.