by Basil Copper
His name was the grandiloquent one of Napoleon Latour Jones. Alias “Buck” Jones, alias Charles Jackson and about a dozen more. He had served ten years on one capital charge, reduced to six for good behaviour. Born in New Orleans, his jail sentences overlapped Sirocco’s at San Quentin by two years; there was the link between them.
I leaned back in the chair and drank my second cup of coffee. I was beginning to feel as much at home in Tucker’s office as my own. I wondered if I shouldn’t make him an offer towards the rent. Tucker had some teleprinter messages sent off. Half an hour later he had some more information.
“Goes under the name of Charlie Jackson now,” he said. “That’s something.”
I sat it out with him for another hour or so and then thought I’d better blow; it was already gone one and I’d done only half the things I intended. Though the day hadn’t been at all bad.
“See you later,” said Tucker. “I gotta burn the wires up. Thanks again.”
“Call me if anything urgent turns up,” I said. When I drove off I made a few turns into side streets and kept my eyes peeled in the mirror; no reason really, and there was no ground for thinking I might be tailed, but I had an idea things would get hotter than the weather in a couple of days.
I was pretty sure the artist with the gun would stick around to see what turned up at the Paul Mellow trial and I was certain that the end of the string, whatever it was, would be found in L.A. Though the heat haze, smog and my dark glasses made observation difficult I could see nobody behind so I stopped playing games and drove over by the straight route. It was still a roaster and the shop was open, I could see, as I drew up underneath the sun-blind.
The door was propped back with a brass ornament, which saved me the carillon when I went in. Though I walked silently on the thick rug, Margaret Standish had seen me coming, for she suddenly appeared at the back of the salon. I supposed she must have a mirror somewhere in the office. It may have been imagination but I thought she looked a little pale and drawn.
I followed her into a small office, panelled in sapele and soft-woods; in contrast to the shop, everything was modern. There was a red plastic phone, a bright green German typewriter on a table with tubular steel U legs, grey metal filing cabinets and a Swedish paper lampshade on the flush-sunk ceiling light. The only concession to the past was the carpet, which was plain grey but thick and very, very expensive.
She sat down at the desk with a sudden shirring of sheer stockings and smoothed her skirt. “It’s been a long time,” she said.
“All of three days,” I said. She laughed suddenly; perhaps more from nervous strain than good humour, showing fine teeth.
“What have you found out?” she said.
“You know all about Jacoby?” I said.
“I read the papers,” she said.
“All linked up,” I said. “Johnson, Braganza, Adrian Horvis, Jacoby and the boy who took a shot at me — bullets match, everything.”
She went white and her hands trembled. “I had no idea,” she said. She fumbled in the desk drawer and came up with a cigarette packet.
“Take it easy,” I said. “Things are clearing up. We’ve identified the men responsible and now it’s only a question of time.” I held out a match and she lit the cigarette.
“Thank God,” she said, between puffs. “This is beginning to get me down. And then this business last night …”
“You must tell me about this,” I said.
“Nothing to tell, apart from what I said then,” she said. “I disturbed somebody at the door and that was it. I phoned the police and they sent somebody over. Anyway, the officer who came, Mr. McGiver, seemed very capable. He had a look round and said I’d be hearing from him.”
I was glad it had been McGiver; Tucker had told me he had had him transferred to HQ from Jacoby’s goon squad.
“We’d better have a look at that door,” I said.
We went outside and up the staircase. At the main entrance I bent down and examined the door. The lock plate was all scarred and scratched; a piece of wood about two inches long had been gouged from the woodwork, evidently where the instrument being used — something like a cold chisel — had slipped. And there was further splitting on the edge of the door, where the chisel had been inserted to get additional leverage. From a cursory glance it looked exactly like my own front door after the night visit, but I didn’t tell Margaret that.
“What do you think, Mike?” she asked. I rubbed my chin.
“I shouldn’t worry,” I said. “I’ll ask Tucker to keep an eye on you at night. Another week or so should see things cleared up.”
“I’d rather you do that,” she said.
“Do what?” I said.
“Keep an eye on me at night,” she said.
“It’s the hot weather,” I told her.
She was standing at the top of the steps; she was wearing a white dress with blue polka dots and she hadn’t got on her glasses. The sun was strong and it shone clear through the thin material of the dress. She had only underpants and a bra about two inches wide underneath. They were peach-coloured. I didn’t have to guess that. The sun sure was strong that afternoon.
The sight of her standing there stopped me in my train of thought. She stayed there, sort of pirouetting, one hand shading her eyes against the light. Her legs were pretty statuesque and she wore black velvet stiletto-heeled shoes. I thought to myself if I took as much notice of the facts of my cases when I was working, I would make Sherlock Holmes look like a two-bit amateur, However, like a lot of things, this set-up would have to be left for the time being.
She must have read my thoughts anyway, for she chuckled abruptly and went down the steps. She sounded pretty pleased with herself. I was feeling pretty randy to tell the truth, but it was as hot as hell and I had a lot of things to do. When we got back into the office I gave her some good advice about keeping the phone by her bed and making sure the alarm was on the door; I didn’t really think she was in any danger now. I had got it in my head that Sirocco and his dark chum were after that key.
I was pretty certain, though, that they wouldn’t kill again in L.A. unless it was absolutely imperative. Even they had stuck at eliminating Paul Mellow, though it would have been easy to do, and with the newspapers screaming the Jacoby killing all over town they were sure to hole up for a bit unless they were prodded into the open. I figured it was up to Tucker and me to do that prodding; to make them break out, and it had to be something to do with the key.
“Right,” I said. “I’m away. I’ll let you know what happens.”
She saw me to the door. I waved from the driving seat, edged into the traffic and drove across town.
*
The Chase National Bank was a big pink granite building on one of the main intersections of L.A. It looked too grand to deal with anything so sordid as money and the resplendent commissionaire in the main concourse evidently shared that view. At any rate he eyed me up and down as though I had a bad case of fallen bank-rate. The manager was in, fortunately.
A woman with a square figure, orange cardigan and a face to match showed me through into a wall-to-wall carpeted hall. We stopped in front of a mahogany door; on it was stencilled in pale yellow the legend: OGILVY L. WHIPPLEBY.
“I don’t believe it,” I told the girl. She goggled anxiously and then suppressed a giggle.
“Come in,” a mellifluous voice boomed from inside. St. Peter couldn’t have worked reception better at the Pearly Gates. I went on in. There was about three acres of carpet; way off in the distance I could see a desk, set in front of frosted glass panelling. When I got up to the desk that was about an acre wide too.
Seated in back was an enormously tall man dressed in a blue pinstripe with a pale blue bow tie. He had a face like a frightened camel, long and lean, with receding white hair. He was leaning back in a brown leather and steel arm-chair making with the papers like he was busy.
“Please sit down,” he said, waving me towards a chair in
front of the desk. This was steel and wood and uncomfortable too; probably to discourage visitors from staying to ask for an overdraft.
“What can I do for you, Mr … er …”
“Faraday,” I said. I handed over my P.I. licence. His eyes widened.
“Well, Mr. Faraday,” he said. “You’ve been having a busy time lately. Haven’t I been reading something about you in the papers?”
“You have,” I said. “I’d like some cooperation if you’d be so good.”
“I’d be glad to help if I can,” he said. “Might I ask if this has any connection with these terrible things I see in the papers?”
“I’m afraid you may not,” I said. “My business is highly confidential, Mr. Whippleby, just as yours is. Suppose I came in and asked you for details of a customer’s financial standing?”
“Quite so, Mr. Faraday, quite so,” he said hastily. “You must forgive me. I shouldn’t have asked you that, of course.” He had quite the plummiest voice I ever heard. “Just what is it I can do for you, Mr. Faraday?”
I threw the key on to his desk. “I’d like to open the box that belongs to,” I said. “Perhaps you’d like to have the contents brought here or could I open it myself?”
He said nothing but took the key. He examined it and then got up and crossed to a set of filing cabinets in one corner. He was about six feet seven when he stood up and he walked like he was trying to hold a pea between the cheeks of his ass. He came back with a small ledger and sat down again. He ran his finger down a column.
“Ah, here we are. Mr. Horvis. Oh, dear, the will hasn’t been read yet, I believe.”
“I have the beneficiary’s permission,” I said.
“Mrs. Standish,” he said. “I understand, quite unofficially you know, that she will inherit. It’s a mere technicality, but still …”
“If you have any doubts, Mr. Whippleby,” I said, indicating the phone. “I’ve just come from her place.”
He relaxed. “That won’t really be necessary, Mr. Faraday. I like to help where I can. As long as you’re sure there won’t be … shall we say … any difficulties?”
“Absolute discretion, Mr. Whippleby,” I said.
“Ah, that’s grand,” he said in that plummy voice. “Very good. In that case there’s no need for further delay.”
He pressed a button and a buzzer sounded somewhere. He spoke into an intercom. “Miss Gorlinsky? Will you come in a moment, please?”
A short while later the door opened and the square job in the orange sweater wheeled in. Whippleby spoke to her in muffled tones and handed her the key. She turned to me.
“Will you come this way, Mr. Faraday, please?” They were laying the courtesy on with a trowel. Whippleby held out his hand. I took it. It was cool and firm.
“Many thanks, Mr. Whippleby,” I said.
“Not at all,” he said smoothly. “Only too pleased.” He was already miles away. I followed Miss Gorlinsky through a door at the rear of Whippleby’s office and down another corridor. Here we waited while an attendant unlocked a door and let us through; he locked it again behind us. We went along another corridor and into an office furnished with functional furniture and a desk. Here I signed a paper which Miss Gorlinsky put in a drawer; we went through another door and into a sort of vault. This place made the Bastille seem like open house. The room was lined with green-painted steel lockers. Miss Gorlinsky took me down several aisles and then handed me the key.
We stopped in front of a locker in the fourth tier. It had the letters 791 painted on it in white. I must say it was quite a moment when I put the key in the lock and turned it; when I lifted the steel door flap downwards I saw there was another steel box inside the locker, completely filling it. This had a steel handle in the middle of it and when I pulled this the whole thing lifted out; it was about the same size as a wine-crate, but not quite so heavy.
“Will you follow me, please?” said Miss Gorlinsky. We walked about another three miles between the lockers; she left the door of 791 open. Presently we came to another small office; this was comfortably furnished, with a large table, easy chairs, a telephone and a good carpet. I put down the box on the table with some relief. Miss Gorlinsky handed me a piece of paper and went out.
“Please ring if you need anything, Mr. Faraday,” she said. “When you have finished, sound the buzzer and I will come and conduct you out.”
“Thanks,” I said.
She went out a second door communicating with the room and when I looked up again I could see the shadow of a guard’s peaked cap against the frosted glass. It was very quiet in here, except for the faint hum of the air-conditioning from far away; it was cool too, probably the coolest place I had been in for weeks, but I was beginning to sweat.
Then I sat down at the table and pulled the box towards me; I saw that it had another lock on top of it, set in flush with the lid. This had a dial like a telephone with numbers and letters on it. Then I saw the purpose of the paper Miss Gorlinsky had left behind her. She had written the combination on it.
I dialled the number; there was a sweet click and the next moment the top lid of the box came away in my hands. When I got it out, the whole thing came away from the hinge pivots inside and I laid it down on the table out of the way. I sat back and lit a cigarette and stared at what was in the box.
It was a battered old brown leather valise which completely filled the interior of the case. I prodded it with my finger and it felt heavy. I had already made up my mind what it was, but what it contained was another matter. If it was locked, I was sunk, but I wanted to relax for a minute or two before I went on to the next stage.
*
I was pretty sure that what I was looking at was Braganza’s missing case; the case that half the police of L.A. had been searching months for. The case that might contain the solution of the whole problem. But if that were so it made my part in the affair completely pointless and forced me to revise my opinion of Horvis from top to bottom. The story about the jade ornaments had been exploded, then the motor automation plant, but I couldn’t understand this angle at all.
If this was Braganza’s case, then it might equally well contain the article I had been retained to recover; the case might even belong to Horvis. But why had he called me in if he had the case himself safely under lock and key? And if Braganza had been killed while carrying the case, why hadn’t Sirocco, the negro gunman or the people behind them stolen it at the same time?
I lifted the case out and pushed the steel locker to one side. The valise was pretty worn, the handle was rubbed as though it had been carried many times; more to the point, it was as anonymous as a case of that sort might well be. It was neither too expensive or unduly cheap and hundreds of thousands of them were sold the length and breadth of the States.
Any hopes that Horvis or Braganza’s initials might be stamped on the side of it, weak as they were, were completely dashed as I held it up. In view of what it contained the thought was as plausible as a rummy’s dream of life without alcohol. However, I was in luck in one respect. The key of the valise was tied to the handle with a piece of thick twine.
There was only one but it was of rather a peculiar pattern, which would make it difficult to duplicate. It was quite impossible, as we found later, for it was a rather special valise after all. It had been heavily doctored after purchase; the lining was made of mesh steel so that it was impossible to cut it open; the contents were sealed in an opaque plastic binding; and if any attempt was made to force the lock, an alarm bell sounded and valves emitted a type of tear gas. It was fortunate I didn’t have to try anything like that in the bank.
As it turned out, I merely unlocked the case, took out the plastic wrapped bundle and laid that down on the table. This was beginning to feel like the Chinese mystery puzzle. The plastic was done up with sellotape and I peeled it off, layer after layer, until the thick bundle of paper inside was revealed. I sighed, sat back at the table and started to read. The documents were mostly printed or t
yped. At the head of the first sheet I looked at it had printed: Atomic Energy Authority.
I read on for over an hour, my cigarette burning out unnoticed in the ash tray. There was page after page of top secret information; tables of figures and coded groups; photostat memos; diagrams, drawings of circuits so complicated that I didn’t even begin to comprehend; directives from Government agencies and other stuff so hot that I felt the table might melt if I read on too long.
The minutes wheeled by and I finally gave up halfway through the bundle. There was enough stuff there to make me realize why four men had been murdered; their deaths began to look like chicken feed as I started to comprehend what was involved. I riffed through the paper again; the addresses, installations, factories and agencies mentioned in this pile ranged the whole country across. The implications were so serious that far more than State-wide measures would be needed; we would have to go to the top.
I lit my cigarette again. The dates on the documents covered a period of a few months and finished up — here I did some rough checking — about a week before Braganza had been killed. Though there were some pieces which needed to be filled in we now had our motive and the general pattern. The negro Jackson, Paul Mellow and Sirocco were the crudest, minute cogs in a vast network; the hammer which was controlled by shadowy men, obviously in positions of power and scattered throughout the country.
It was obvious why Adrian Horvis had been frightened for his life; why Braganza, his agent had been killed and I was even beginning to realize, however foggily, why I had been called in; as a front possibly, to convince desperate men that Horvis was on the level? That he hadn’t betrayed his associates?