The Dark Mirror (A Mike Faraday Mystery Book 1)

by Basil Copper

  This was something I couldn’t sleep on; I had to contact Tucker as soon as possible and we had to get things moving, all the way up. I looked through the papers once again. I daren’t abstract any of them but I could take a note or two of the salient points. I decided to leave everything in the vault, where it would be safe and then examine the papers again with Tucker. But first I had some explaining to do.

  I had picked up the papers to put them back in the plastic cover, when I glanced at the last sheet; I couldn’t make out what its rows of printed figures meant — they looked like something turned out by an electronic computer. There was just one word, scrawled faintly in pencil on the bottom. I copied it out; it was in wavering letters and looked like: CRTIS. It might have no significance but one never knew. I stashed all the stuff in the locker again and pressed the buzzer. The phone rang.

  “I’m ready now, Miss Gorlinsky,” I said.

  *

  When we had gone through the pantomime of restoring the deposit box to the vault, Miss Gorlinsky took me back to the outer office. I asked the girl for some packing paper and string. When she brought it I made up another little parcel. Then I thanked her and left. When I got outside the heat hit me like a trip-hammer. I wilted behind the wheel of the car and drove across town.

  When I got to the main post office building I went on in and found an empty cubicle; I addressed the package, in ink, to Stella at her private address this time; I wrote the name and address on it several times to make sure. Then I handed it over to Uncle Sam’s mail, registered it and pocketed the receipt. It was now getting on for five and judged by my standards it had been a pretty smooth day; certainly the most progressive so far as this case was concerned.

  Provided I could avoid getting shot at, beaten up, flung into jail or seduced before nightfall, I should have about ten points out of ten. I reflected for a minute and then took the last item off my prohibited list. I went into a booth in the post office building and called Stella. I arranged to pick her up at the office at about seven and run her home. Then I drove over to Jinty’s.

  I needed time to think. I had been congratulating myself on my keenness of mind and all the time Horvis had been playing me for a sucker; well, the laugh was on him now. He hadn’t dared go to the police but he had engaged me as a front. Not surprisingly, in view of the circumstances, I had jumped to a number of wrong conclusions; he had encouraged me, knowing that I was unlikely to uncover the true facts about Braganza’s death.

  Working from the wrong assumption in the beginning, I should have failed to tie in any of the subsequent information. That the police and other official bodies had done no better was no consolation. But there it was. It seemed to be brewing up for a storm; it was as hot as all hell and heavy cloud was beginning to pile up the sky. I ordered an iced lager and took it over to a booth in the corner of the bar. Music was playing somewhere far off; something dreamy and Cole Porter-ish, and the conversation in the bar was low. I leaned against the padded seating of the booth and took a long, cold pull at the beer.

  Later, I got in the car and drove on over to the office. I had a job to park, as usual and finally slotted the car in about two blocks away. It was as I began to walk back that I heard an ambulance siren screaming in the far distance. I took no particular notice; sirens are always sounding off in L.A. about something.

  Then, when I got to my own building I smelt trouble. The ambulance was standing outside and one or two people were looking curiously towards the entrance. I had a funny hunch as I went on in. I rode up in the elevator and went along the corridor. As I turned the corner I heard the noise of many voices; there were people packing the corridor, flash bulbs going off, blue uniforms and the occasional staccato noise of a typewriter. I pushed my way through the crowd, a certain conviction a dead weight in my stomach.

  A big cop barred my way. “Sorry, mister,” he said. I slipped my card at him; my mouth had gone dry all of a sudden. Faces were turned towards me. The big cop took my arm.

  “This is my office,” I said. I needn’t have worried; he was only pushing me through. When I got the other side of the crowd there were more flash bulbs going. I could see the door of the office now. There was a big hole drilled clean through the middle of the frosted glass and fragments of glass were all over the carpet. We went on in. There was a sudden hush and the typewriter stopped clacking. The room seemed full of people. I thought I recognized McGiver but colours and impressions seemed to be going. I didn’t want to ask any questions and kept on walking.

  “Says his name’s Faraday,” the big cop said to someone at my elbow.

  “Says this is his office.” He sounded disbelieving.

  I didn’t know why I expected anything different but there had to be a reason for the carnival; I took another pace forward and stopped. There was quite a lot of blood for such a small person, I thought curiously. A policeman and two men in plain clothes stepped back.

  There was something lying in front of my desk. It was covered in a white sheet but I had seen death too many times to mistake that ultimate rigidity. There was something lying the other side of the sheet, too. I didn’t need to look again to see it was Stella’s handbag.

  10 - Uncle Tom

  I stood stock-still. I had wondered for a long time what a moment like this might be like. Now I knew. McGiver knelt down and very gently pulled back the sheet from the face. No woman ever looked like this before. I stared for quite half a minute before comprehending.

  Bert Dexter looked very surprised. His eyes were wide open and his mouth looked like he was right in the middle of a sentence when the blast caught him. There was that strange look of peace, though, like they all have. I put back the cloth myself and stood up. There was a scraping noise behind the alcove screen where we made the coffee. The two plain clothes men standing by the typewriter coughed awkwardly. Stella came towards me. Her face was whiter than white. She came into my arms without a word. I caught her and held her very close.

  Over her shoulder McGiver blinked. I led Stella to the table and she sat down.

  “What gives here?” said the big cop who had come in with me.

  “If this guy owns the office then who’s this?”

  I saved him the trouble. “He was mistaken for somebody else,” I said. “Whoever shot him was gunning for me. I expect he saw him through the frosted glass and as we’re about the same height came to the wrong conclusion.”

  The big cop shook his head. “Pretty expensive mistake,” he said. “Poor guy.” He went on out. Stella took a cup of coffee from one of the plain clothes men and started to drink. The colour was coming back into her face. It had looked like the shade of a choir-boy’s crime sheet. Now it was only off-pink.

  “Bert was full of some baseball game he was going to see tomorrow,” she said. “He sat down on the edge of the desk and was just saying something about how he must be getting along when there was a funny plop. Then all the glass in the door smashed in.”

  She stopped for a moment and took another sip of coffee.

  “I ran over to the door; I should have known better, I suppose, but I didn’t see any danger in it. All I heard was the lift going down. There was no one there. Then I saw Bert’s feet sticking out from behind the desk. I phoned for the police and then I felt sick.”

  I put my hand on her shoulder and turned to McGiver. “Does Dan Tucker know?” I said.

  He shook his head. “I just tried to reach him but I can’t get him at the office or at home.”

  We sat down near Bert Dexter’s desk. I could still see the same spider in the window on my side of the office. Nothing had changed; yet everything had changed. MacNamara appeared in the doorway. He stopped and blinked.

  “Over there,” I said.

  “The cases come to you now, then,” he said dryly. He went on over and pulled back the sheet. A few minutes later we left; Stella and me and McGiver, that is. I drove Stella in my car and McGiver followed in a prowl car. When we got to Stella’s address, I went ba
ck to see McGiver. He sat behind with his engine running. He wound down the window.

  “I think this business will blow wide open in the next few hours,” I said. “If you can get hold of Tucker tell him to contact me. I’m going straight home and I’ll wait for his call. It’s just about top urgent. Sorry I can’t tell you any more.”

  “That’s all right,” he said. “I’ll get the message to him somehow. I’m on duty all night if you want me for anything.”

  I went back to Stella. “Ring me if you need anything,” I said. We stood looking at one another. We didn’t kiss, but she looked at me like she wasn’t sure she was going to see me again. Then she smiled. Her step was brisk and confident as she walked towards the elevator. I went on out and drove home. On the way across town I got a paper.

  The latest edition on the street was screaming Bert Dexter’s murder and the police measures being taken to turn the State inside out — all the usual crap. When I got home I found two fresh cops on duty; they were brewing coffee in the kitchen and listening to the baseball reports.

  “There was a phone call for you a while back,” said the youngest, a slim, red-haired lad with big shoulders. “I got the number somewhere.”

  He produced a piece of crumpled notepaper from behind the toaster. I went on into the living-room and took off my jacket. The air was freshening a little but it was still pretty hot. Crickets were chirping outside the window and when I looked at my watch I was surprised to see it was almost nine o’clock. I put the registered package receipt in my hideout under the table; I didn’t want that found on me. I drank a cup of coffee the young cop brought in and grabbed a sandwich.

  He left an almost full pot on my side table and I emptied that. Afterwards I felt I might live.

  I dialled the Morningdale number. As I had thought, it was a director of Gimpel’s, the agency Bert Dexter worked for. We didn’t start off too happily though.

  “This is Adzel Q. Chote II,” he said.

  “That must be nice for you,” I said. He spluttered. “This is a serious matter, Mr. Faraday.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Chote,” I said. “But I’ve had a hard day. Do you mind stating your business?”

  “My business, sir, concerns the dreadful affair of Mr. Dexter, one of my most highly valued employees.”

  “I see,” I said. I sobered down after that. Put briefly the old boy wanted to sever any connection with the most highly uninsurable P.I. in L.A. Can’t say I blamed him. We compromised in the end by my suggesting a division of the office into two, building another door and a dividing wall.

  “Dear, dear,” he bleated. “This business has caused a great deal of upset and unpleasantness at head office.”

  “It hasn’t done Bert Dexter much good either,” I told him.

  “Quite so, Mr. Faraday, quite so,” he said. “I didn’t mean to imply …”

  I put the phone down on the old goat and finished my coffee. I was just getting ready to take a shower when the phone rang. I thought it might be Stella, but it was a man’s voice.

  “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Faraday,” it said, “but this is urgent. This is Sergeant Clark down at Central HQ I’ve got a message from Captain Tucker. Have you got a pencil?”

  I got one and waited.

  “I gave him your message, but he couldn’t wait. He seemed pretty excited. He wants you to meet him as soon as you can at the old Acme Quarry Company’s place over on Sunset Canyon. I expect you know the layout.”

  “I don’t but I can soon find it,” I said.

  “Well,” he said, “you take the old Sunset Turnpike and turn off after about seven miles and it’s three miles up the side turning. The place is a cul-de-sac, so you can’t overshoot. The captain said it was urgent and in strict confidence — the message is personal to you only.”

  “Do you know what it’s all about?” I said.

  The sergeant sounded amused. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “The captain doesn’t take me into his confidence. But he seemed awful excited about it and he said it was most important.”

  “When was this?” I asked.

  “About half an hour ago,” he said.

  “O.K., Sergeant,” I said. “Many thanks. I’m on my way.” I put down the phone and sat smoking for a few moments. Then I went up top, checked on the Smith-Wesson, the silencer and the state of my ammunition. I put a few loose shells into the pouch of my shoulder holster. Then I went downstairs again. I frowned at the phone. I sat down and dialled the Central Police HQ. The grounds in the bottom of my coffee cup grinned up at me.

  “Police,” said a metallic voice.

  “Could you tell me if you have a desk sergeant there named Clark?” I said.

  “Certainly, sir,” said the cop. “He’s on the other phone. Can you hang on, or could I help you?”

  “I’d like to speak to him personally,” I said. There was a short delay and then another voice.

  “Faraday here,” I said. “Are you the officer who spoke to me a few minutes ago about a message from Captain Tucker?”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” he said. “Anything wrong? You got the address okay?”

  “It’s all right,” I said. “Just checking.” I put down the phone and said good night to the two cops. I leaned against the car and smoked. Nothing moved in the street, but farther down, a sudden freak gust of wind whirled over a piece of paper in the gutter. There was a scent of lilacs in the air, probably from one of the public parks. Driving across town I almost caught myself smiling.

  *

  Sunset Canyon was about fourteen miles from where I was living and I figured it was about forty minutes’ drive, over the twisting roads in the dark. I stopped at a gas station on my way and filled up the tank; while I was waiting I got the large-scale map of L.A. out of my dash pocket and studied the terrain. I soon spotted the turning I wanted on the turnpike and though the quarry wasn’t marked, I had no doubt that it would be where the police said it was.

  I wondered what Tucker had unearthed that had sent him haring out there. It surely couldn’t be the marksman’s hideout and yet it was a perfect place, nestling up in the maze of hills and canyons around L.A. Something else I had forgotten too; it was only about two miles from where Braganza’s body had been found; a muscle in my cheek began to twitch.

  It was a pretty warm night so I put the Buick’s hood down and got the gas station attendant to sponge off the windscreen to leave the glass as clear as possible. My lights would be spotted for miles coming up the canyon road and if Tucker and his men had unearthed any ugly customers I wanted to be able to see plainly in case I had to take any evasive action. I put the car radio on and the dance music lulled me into a fine sense of security all the way across town.

  The traffic was surprisingly light and the headlamp beams along the dark tarmac had partly mesmerized me when I crossed the city, so that I almost missed the turning on to the old turnpike. The road was bad and the tyres drummed on the uneven surface so that I reduced speed to a crawl. When I had gone a few hundred yards, I doused my lights, stopped and switched off the engine. All was silent except for the cigales shurring.

  It was about a quarter to ten before I finally hit the turn off the turnpike; I had delayed a bit at the gas station and the trip had taken me longer than I figured. I stopped again on the secondary road; this was a lot worse than the turnpike and was really nothing more than a dirt track full of holes and gullies. I sat and listened again but nothing stirred. Then I drove on. I had to keep coasting at about five miles an hour in places as the surface flung the car all over the place. The road started to go uphill pretty steeply after about a mile and I had to change gear.

  And I couldn’t turn round either, I realized, for the road was too narrow, the edges fell away into steep gullies fringed with scrub and bushes. Some place for an ambush. I doused my dash lights. That way, I shouldn’t make a side-target at any rate. After a few more minutes there was a hollow rumble under the wheels and I was going over some sort of metal bridge. The head beam p
icked up the white walls of cliffs, there were several large buildings and piles of rusting machinery.

  I drove in an arc and fetched up in front of a row of sheds. The lights caught a large hoarding tilted at an angle. I saw the faded letters: Acme Quarry — the rest was eroded. I killed my lights and the motor and eased myself out of the car. I loosened the gun in my holster and got hold of a large, rubber-mounted flashlight from the dashboard; it would make a pretty hefty club in case of emergency, as well as lighting my way.

  Nothing moved in all the wide world except for the tips of the grass around me in a soft night wind which had sprung up in the hills. A scratching noise set my nerves on edge, until I saw a puffball flicker along the body of the car and roll rapidly towards the sheds in the sudden breeze. The moon was brighter than I would have liked, but that couldn’t be helped. I thought I’d go back off the open space into the grass and work around to where I could creep up behind some sheds. I couldn’t see any sign of Tucker or his men and that way I shouldn’t run into the wrong parties.

  The grass was about three feet tall and surprisingly wet, considering the heat of the day. From somewhere far off an owl hooted and I stopped dead at the suddenness of the sound. Then I went on again. I had gone about two hundred yards and had worked near the out-buildings when I made out a dark shape in between me and the sheds. I gum-shoed through the grass, making at little noise as possible. When I got up close I could see that it was a large black car, parked round out of sight of the road. I eased myself on to the tarmac of the hard standing and found myself looking at one of the L.A. police prowl cars; I risked a quick flash at the number plate and saw that it was Tucker’s.

  Something was going on, that was for sure, or there would be lights and police in evidence. For no reason at all I decided to keep on behind the sheds. In the shadow and moving as quietly as I could I padded along, with the wall of an outbuilding on my right hand. Way off in back some sort of machinery was silhouetted against the night sky; presently I came to another open space. In front was a bright patch of moonlight and beyond, a large iron staircase went up to a balcony and another big building.