Hoodwink

by Rhonda Roberts

  He came back out to glare up at the Oath, his mind ticking like a time bomb.

  ‘What’s going on here, Honeycutt? This basement is purpose-built … There are Columbia Libraries in every major city across the United States. What if they all have one of those?’ I nodded back at the arsenal.

  ‘Okay, Dupree! Tell me exactly what happened since I last saw you … and don’t leave anything out!’

  I told him.

  At first Honeycutt ribbed me because I was a private investigator and didn’t know that Dashiell Hammett wrote The Maltese Falcon.

  He sobered when I told him about Elise Reichman, the missing German nuclear scientist.

  ‘A missing nuclear scientist and a closet full of city maps and weapons.’ Honeycutt was dazed. ‘I just don’t understand what is going on here. I’ve never heard about the Society of the Iron Key. Who the fuck are these people?’

  We spread out and searched the room in earnest.

  There was a pile of books stacked in one corner underneath a nineteenth century portrait in oils. They were entitled My Destiny.

  I lifted my gaze back up to the portrait for a closer look.

  ‘Honeycutt, come over here. I know this man’s face. Who is he?’

  The man was in his fifties, handsome in an aristocratic kind of way, with an aquiline nose and high cheekbones. His hair was a longish blond, his cold eyes the palest blue I’d ever seen.

  His sinister stare made my hackles rise.

  This guy worried me more than the hidden arsenal.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Honeycutt studied the painting for a moment. ‘He looks different, a lot older … but that could be General George Montfort.’ He frowned, not liking the uncertainty.

  ‘The same Montfort who owned the Redbud desk?’ That Life journalist had mentioned him too. ‘Is he the one Bourke was hunting … the Confederate spy master who had Lincoln assassinated?’

  ‘If that’s Montfort, then yes.’

  Bloody hell!

  ‘Wasn’t Montfort wanted for war crimes at the end of the Civil War?’ I checked the bottom of the painting. ‘Honeycutt, this portrait is dated 1882.’

  Honeycutt bent to examine the painting in more detail. ‘That’s an Iron Key pin on his lapel.’

  We both simultaneously grabbed one of the books piled below the portrait.

  My Destiny was General George LeRoy Montfort’s autobiography.

  We exchanged a stunned glance.

  What the hell kind of mess had Earl blundered his way into?

  Honeycutt flipped through the book then stopped. ‘According to this, in 1866 Montfort fled to Argentina where he started the Society of the Iron Key.’

  I went back to studying the portrait — it nagged at me. I knew that self-righteous visage!

  But from where? And from what time?

  Had I seen it in a history book back home?

  ‘It says here,’ stated Honeycutt, ‘that Montfort’s three daughters married members of the Society of the Iron Key. His sons-in-law went into business with him, and in 1910 his eldest daughter gave birth to the grandson who would succeed him as commander of the Iron Key.’

  I interrogated the general’s arctic blue eyes …

  They were so pale he looked blind.

  I’d seen those eyes at MacVille Park, at the Guild Ball … sitting next to the mayor of Los Angeles.

  ‘Honeycutt, I think I know who Montfort’s grandson is.’ And he’d been staring at Earl Curtis like an eagle contemplating a spring lamb.

  Honeycutt stopped reading, alert.

  ‘I wonder,’ I mused, ‘just how far Charles Gibson is prepared to go … to get the Redbud desk back?’

  45

  THE GIBSON ESTATE

  After locking the unconscious guard in the weapons closet we got in our cars and drove one block down to the park running along the back of Santa Monica Beach. I got into Honeycutt’s Speedster and together we sat there watching the wind rush through the palm fronds.

  ‘So what do you do now, Dupree?’

  ‘Is this a test, Honeycutt?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I ran through the alternatives. There wasn’t enough time left to make a false move.

  ‘The safe option would seem to be to go back to the studio and sit it out … Wait to see who comes for Earl.’ But I really didn’t want to do that.

  ‘What’s the other option, Dupree?’

  ‘We make a slight detour on the way back to the studio.’ I checked his expression. It was shuttered, so there was no help there. ‘And find out whether Charles Gibson is really Montfort’s grandson and whether he’d kill Earl to get the Redbud desk back. I know it’s risky but —’

  ‘Get to the point!’ Now Honeycutt was too impatient to be objective. He already knew what he wanted to do.

  We both did.

  I checked my watch. ‘I think I can afford a few hours to —’

  Honeycutt slapped the dashboard hard. ‘Kannon, if you don’t find out what this missing nuclear scientist and the Iron Key bullshit is about before we go back through the portal, then I’ll not only fail you for having no backbone … but I’ll have you kicked out of the program for refusing to investigate issues central to the national interest!’

  ‘Sure, Honeycutt,’ I said, humouring him. ‘And they called me reckless.’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you think Brigham is going to see it your way?’

  ‘Fuck Brigham!’

  ‘For once we agree.’

  ‘You’re supposed to be a red-hot stalker, Kannon, so let’s see just how good you really are. But remember: you get in, get your information and then get out. I don’t want anything disturbed, and no one can know you’ve been there. And then we go back to the studio and wait for the killer to come for Earl.’

  I was speechless … practically. ‘What, no intervention?’ I shoved my watch in his face. ‘And all that in less than five hours? How am I supposed to —’

  ‘Can’t you do it, Dupree?’

  ‘Screw you, Honeycutt!’

  ‘Maybe later, if you’re good … But for now, are you going to do your duty or not?’

  Grrrr.

  I ignored him to get out of the Speedster and slam the door behind me.

  There was a phone booth across the road. I went to work with a pile of nickels and my address book.

  First I rang Eve Manning.

  She was hard to hear over the sounds of mayhem in the background. Someone was shouting in her ear about a load of Confederate uniforms that were needed for the train depot extras.

  Eve barked, ‘Just one moment, please!’ to whoever was yelling and then said, ‘Sorry, darling, it’s chaos in here today. You need what?’

  ‘Charles Gibson — you know, the millionaire industrialist — do you have any idea where he’d be today? Or where he lives.’

  Silence.

  ‘Darling, are you tired of that gorgeous Frenchman and want to branch out into rich Americans now?’

  Honeycutt was standing close enough to listen and caught Eve’s words. He blew me a kiss.

  ‘No,’ I said, turning my back on him. ‘I need to find Charles Gibson for my New York Torch article.’

  ‘Charles Gibson? Darling, what does he have to do with Earl —’

  Eve was warming up for a gossip session, so I cut in. ‘Sorry, Eve. I can’t tell you why just yet but I will later.’ That seemed to mollify her. ‘Now, do you know how I can find out about him?’

  ‘Wiley Jennings knows him but he’s gone sailing today, thank God! So if you can just wait until tomorrow …’

  ‘Nope, I can’t. What about Carole Lombard? Can you give me her number?’

  ‘Oh, that’s right, Clark Gable did that spooky play for Gibson’s radio network …’

  Eve found Carole’s home telephone number and gave it to me. I dialled it but the phone rang and rang. I’d almost given up when she finally answered.

  ‘Yes?’ croaked Carole, still recovering from last night.

  ‘Caro
le, it’s Kay here —’

  She jumped straight in, babbling, ‘My God, Kay, are you all right? When I came down from Mount Warning there were ambulances everywhere. It was like the end of the world. I couldn’t believe it! The Guild Council is completely hysterical. There was an earthquake … the hall was struck by lightning and they keep talking about dire omens. They’ve already evacuated the park …’

  Her voice became shrill. ‘Then I heard you were both in Merlin’s tomb for the séance. What happened in there? I keep hearing all these horrific stories. Were you there when Bumstead and Hubert Humbolt died? Is Daniel okay? Are you —’

  I rode in over the top. ‘We’re both fine thanks, Carole. We managed to get out in time. Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t talk about it now. I’ve got a bit of an emergency.’

  ‘But, Kay, what happened? They said on the radio that over eight hundred people were killed in the stands overlooking the tomb. Half of them were crushed and the other half —’

  Honeycutt was giving me hurry-up signals and tapping his watch.

  ‘Carole, why don’t we meet tomorrow night and I’ll tell you everything?’

  She reluctantly agreed.

  I’d be gone by then and time would’ve snapped back to its normal course.

  ‘But I need a favour, Carole … I need some information about Charles Gibson. Daniel is thinking of doing business with him.’

  She was flummoxed at the change of subject, but happy to help. ‘Sure, Kay. What do you need to know?’

  ‘Do you know anything about his family background?’

  She was taken aback but didn’t ask why Daniel Devereaux would possibly want that kind of information. ‘I know Charles has an East Coast accent because he went to Harvard, but he’s actually Texan.’

  Carole rattled off more details of Gibson’s career and personal background but I wasn’t sure how they could help me. She ended by saying, ‘I don’t know Charles very well. He’s very …’ She paused long enough to show her unease. ‘Reserved.’

  Hmm. ‘You wouldn’t know where I could find Gibson today?’ I asked.

  ‘No, but I can give you his address and phone number …’

  I listened.

  ‘So that’s the Gibson Estate, Sunset Boulevard, Pacific Palisades.’ I finished writing and looked up to study Honeycutt’s tense expression. He was panting to get on the trail of a possible traitor. ‘The estate is way up in the hills. Thanks, Carole. Yes, I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  I dropped the receiver back on the hook.

  ‘Charles Gibson lives on a big estate up in the Santa Monica Mountains, not that far from here. It’s up from the ocean end of Sunset Boulevard. Carole said he’s a bit eccentric and his estate is guarded.’

  I gave Honeycutt a meaningful stare. ‘Apparently Gibson hates people dropping by so I’ll need to make an appointment …’ I paused. ‘But I’m guessing we’re going to do some hiking.’

  ‘Good.’ Honeycutt rubbed his hands at the thought of some decent action. ‘I’m sick of sitting around. Have you got your stalking kit with you?’

  ‘Yep.’

  My clothes, my backpack, a couple of torches, a pair of binoculars, some ropes and street and topographic maps of the LA region were all in a suitcase in my trunk.

  We parked our cars on Sunset Boulevard then hiked up into the Santa Monica Mountains.

  Carole was right, Gibson certainly didn’t want any unannounced visitors. The barbed wire fence was guarded by men armed with rifles, roving up and down the perimeter.

  Maybe all millionaires were paranoid during the Depression?

  Or maybe not.

  Honeycutt and I hiked along Rustic Canyon at a safe distance from the fence until we found a spot where we could climb up onto the mountain ridge above his estate. Then we were through the fence in a matter of minutes.

  Now, we squatted on the side of the mountain at the edge of the Gibson residential cluster.

  To our left was a long narrow wood and stone eyrie held onto the side of the mountain by huge steel girders. It had a magnificent view out over Los Angeles but was far too small to be a millionaire’s home.

  A much more likely candidate sat on the flat acreage about two hundred yards below us. Studying it, my belief that Gibson was a Confederate general’s grandson and the commander of the Society of the Iron Key faltered. Had I been wrong about the resemblance?

  ‘Damn!’ I’d sacrificed too much precious time to get here.

  Gibson’s home was a magnificent two-storey love affair, with the beauty of the house as a living machine. The style was called Art Moderne, a title that summed up the belief that function and industry were beautiful and should be celebrated as art.

  It was all curved white surfaces, highlighted by glass bricks and shining steel railings. The walls and roof were flat and smooth and there was no decoration other than four two-storey-high rounded promontories, a pair each front and back. They were filled with curved glass bricks and the round motif was echoed in the set of circular stairs that led up to the front door.

  The house looked like the upper deck of some fantasy cruise ship.

  For this era it was modern with a capital M.

  ‘I don’t like the look of Gibson’s house, Honeycutt. It’s certainly not what I expected. This isn’t the private residence of some stuck-in-the-past autocrat yearning for the Old South. And there’s no sign of the schmaltzy secret society nostalgia we found in that library basement.’

  ‘You’re right, it’s not Tara,’ said Honeycutt, chewing one full lip. ‘But that doesn’t mean a thing.’

  I gave him an assessing glance. On the way here he’d made it perfectly clear he was happy with any lead that took us straight to Charles Gibson.

  ‘Kannon, we’re not leaving until we find out if he’s Montfort’s grandson or not. If he is — then you have your murderer. I’m telling you that if Gibson had Montfort as a grand pappy, then he’ll do anything to get that fucking desk back.’

  Honeycutt was starting to worry me.

  He hadn’t been thinking clearly ever since we escaped from Merlin’s tomb. The confrontation with Matz over his brother’s death had squashed Honeycutt’s ability to be objective. He was now carrying so much rage inside he was looking around for anyone or anything to vent it on.

  The memory of Honeycutt dressed as a Confederate soldier and Gibson in his Union officer’s uniform at the Guild Ball flashed past my mind’s eye.

  They’d loathed each other on sight.

  Maybe I should try and bring some calm back into the situation …

  ‘Wasn’t Charles Gibson offended by you wearing a Confederate uniform to the Guild Ball? And he was dressed as General Sherman — so we could be jumping to —’

  ‘Gibson’s a traitor and I know it,’ growled Honeycutt. ‘If I’m right, he was angry because I was wearing Jubal Pierce’s uniform … not because it was Confederate! If he’s Montfort blood then he’ll hate everything Jubal stands for.’

  Hmm. He had a point.

  Even so, I was getting nervous. It was going to take us hours to hike back out of here. I had to be present when they came for Earl.

  ‘I think I was wrong about this detour, Honeycutt. We don’t have time to search —’

  ‘What … just because of Gibson’s nice new house?’

  ‘Not just that,’ I said, exasperated. ‘According to Carole, Gibson’s from Texas, not Argentina.’

  Honeycutt shook his head. ‘A lot of Rebels ended up in Texas after the Civil War. If Montfort wanted to set up an operation against the US government then Texas would be a perfect place to use as headquarters.’

  That made sense. ‘Yeah, it’s also where that light manufacturing plant is, the one where the missing nuclear physicist was sent.’

  ‘So what else did Carole Lombard tell you?’

  ‘That Gibson’s family struck oil in Texas in the early 1900s. They sent him to Harvard to learn business but he ended up doing engineering instead. He invested their m
oney in developing new technology for the oil industry and made a killing. Now he’s gone into Show Business as Carole put it — newspapers, radio and film.’ I shrugged. ‘Doesn’t sound like he’s stuck in some Civil War fantasy.’

  ‘Developing new technology? Why that sounds plum Yankee, darlin’,’ said Honeycutt in his thickest Louisiana drawl.

  Now that he was on the prowl for a real prey he was enjoying himself.

  ‘You’re not helping,’ I grunted back.

  ‘So what do you think, Dupree?’ Honeycutt switched to serious NTA supervisor mode. ‘What do we do now?’

  I tapped his knee and pointed.

  We got out our binoculars.

  Three men had barrelled out of Gibson’s house and were striding towards a parked car.

  The big, hulking one was waving his hands around, as though arguing a point.

  ‘Hey, that’s that guy from last night. The one who was dressed as Abraham Lincoln,’ said Honeycutt. ‘He was sitting next to Gibson at the Guild Ball.’

  ‘Elden.’ The gone-to-seed wrestler. ‘Yeah, he writes those radio plays about The Grave Digger. The gang was listening to it the night before.’

  Then the shorter one sent a sly glance up at the eyrie, as though reluctant to leave it.

  The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

  It was Muller — the LAPD detective who attacked me on the bridge in Venice.

  ‘Isn’t that one of the detectives who was out front of the Church of the Queen of the Yucatan yesterday?’ asked Honeycutt.

  I was glad the binoculars masked my reaction. I’d told Honeycutt far too many lies to start unravelling them here and now.

  If I told him about the attack on the bridge in Venice Honeycutt’s heat signature would probably be seen from orbit.

  ‘Yeah, I think so,’ I replied casually. ‘So Gibson has the LAPD in his back pocket too, from the looks of it.’

  ‘Kannon,’ Honeycutt’s tone had dropped to a low growl. ‘Take a look at that third man.’

  I moved to get a better view. My jaw dropped open.

  It was Purcell. The creepy producer who got fresh with me, the one who Honeycutt beat to a pulp at the Selznick party and then threw over the gate.