Were the cases separate or connected? Corey would not have fared as well with Mr. Five-by-five as I had. And getting involved with Joe Farini was no work for a novice. The cases weren’t connected, I told myself. At least, not yet.
Cyrus Reed Allingham, Luther had informed me while my assailant was still on the floor, lived in a veritable fortified castle on a hill above Veronica Village, a retirement sanctuary for the overprivileged about forty miles north of here.
I was on the last lap of my twenty-lap pool workout when Jan came home.
“Have you been in there all day?” she asked me.
“Mostly. There’s a pitcher of iced coffee in the fridge. Bring it out.”
No need to tell her that I had visited lower Main Street. I’d had enough I-knew-you-would at breakfast.
“And your day?” I asked when she brought out the coffee.
“Fair. Mrs. Casey just informed me that you went downtown before lunch.”
“What is this, an interrogation?”
“Not at all. She simply happened to mention to me that you didn’t tell her you wouldn’t be home for lunch.”
“You mean she complained to you.”
She took a deep breath. “Let’s not quarrel, Brock. My day has not been that fair. You have a right to remain silent and if you desire an attorney, one—”
“All right, already! I went down to talk with a snitch and then stopped to gas with Bernie on the way home. Damn it, I’m worried about Corey.”
“You should be. And I’m glad you are. Why are you being so defensive about it?”
I didn’t answer.
“What were my last words to you this morning?”
“Let’s see—‘Go, man!’”
She nodded. “I’ll repeat them. Go, man!”
I now had her official blessing, and it decided the issue for me. Corey could handle his adultery investigation; I would work on the heavy stuff. If I could only figure out an opening move. …
I phoned Corey’s house after dinner and he was home. “Busy day?” I asked him.
“Sitting, that’s all. She never left the house. What did you want with my uncle? Mom said she gave you his phone number.”
“Ask your uncle.”
“I did. He told me it was none of my business.”
“He was right. I called you to find out about that party you watched in Donegal Valley. Was that at the Eller ranch, up near the bluff?”
“No. About halfway down. The name on the mailbox was Kratzert. Are you taking over this case?”
“Of course not! I happen to know the Ellers, and I thought if you wanted to question them, I could make it easier for you.”
“Brock!”
“Corey, believe me, I wouldn’t lie to you any more than you would lie to me. The information I wanted from your uncle concerns a different case, I am almost sure. If I learn it doesn’t, we’ll work together. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Did Mr. Baker come home from Los Angeles?”
“Yup. That’s why I have the night off. Maybe we could work together now? You could take the night shift.”
“How much are you paying?”
“Same as you paid me last time we worked together—three dollars and sixty-five cents an hour.”
“We’ll see. Remember now, if things get heavy—”
“I’ll call on my muscle,” he agreed. “Stay available.”
Kratzert … another scenario had been shot down. It probably had been Mr. and Mrs. Detterwald who had gone to the Kratzert party with Felicia. She had not even taken the opportunity to drive the quarter mile or so to the beach to visit her old friend. But maybe Mike had been at the party?
Don’t dream up another errant scenario, I told myself. Facts are what make successful cases.
What case? I had no case. Nobody had hired me; I had turned down Baker’s offer. I’d had an excuse, even if a lame one, to travel to Donegal Bay. What excuse could I have for going to Veronica Village?
I could call it an adventure, I decided. My mother had taken me to Hearst Castle on a picnic trip when I was thirteen, and I still remembered it. Now that my taste had matured, a visit to the Allingham fortress might be just as memorable when I reached my final adolescence.
Even if I didn’t get inside it, it would be a pleasant drive. My disenchantment with Hearst Castle had started when we went inside.
I had Jan’s blessing and Bernie’s approval. I had the rest of that day and the next morning to compose my opening lines. I would use my own name; Cyrus Allingham had had a season box at the Coliseum when I was a Ram.
Corey and Vogel were right; I had a big mouth. But that was only half of it. I also had a big nose.
Chapter Seven
PASTORAL AND PEACEFUL, THAT is Veronica Village. The homes were medium-large to large. All the lawns were large and studded with flower beds. The shops were small. The board of trustees permitted no supermarkets or chain stores in their village. The residents could afford to pay the full markup retail, and did.
There was nothing pastoral or peaceful about the castle that brooded over the village from a small hill to the north. The outer wall, the living quarters, and the keep were all constructed of immense gray stones. There were two rows of apertures in the circular keep, all of them barred.
The entire area had been part of the Farrow ranch at one time; the village had been named after Cyrus’s matriarchal grandmother, Veronica Farrow Allingham. She had been one of the Farrows, a ranch family. The Allinghams had been engineers, specializing in oil-drilling equipment.
The two-lane macadam road that led past the castle was well maintained, threading into the low mountain range in the distance and disappearing into the agricultural valley on the far side.
It wasn’t until I came to the end of Allingham’s three-hundred-yard driveway that I saw the dry moat bordering the rampart. Old Cyrus was not missing a trick.
There was a small stone building about the size of a telephone booth short of the drawbridge. It was a telephone booth. About fifteen seconds after I lifted the phone from its cradle, a man’s voice said, “Hello.”
“My name is Brock Callahan,” I said, “and I meant to phone Mr. Allingham from San Valdesto last night but learned he had an unlisted number. I would like to speak with him about a personal matter.”
“That name again, please.”
“Brock Callahan. He might remember who I am. I used to play football for the Los Angeles Rams.”
“One moment, please.”
Less than a minute later, I could hear the grinding sound of the drawbridge lowering as the voice said, “Mr. Allingham will see you.”
The iron-plated portcullis was already lifting when I drove over the drawbridge. Cyrus ran a tight ship.
He was standing on the top stone step in front of his heavy double doors as I walked over from my car. He was thin and tall, dressed in gray flannel trousers and a short-sleeved white cotton shirt. He was smiling.
“The Rock,” he said. “It has been some time since I’ve seen you in action. Do you miss it?”
His hand was bony, his grip strong. I shook my head. “Not much. Nice little place you have here. I wish I could afford one like it.”
He smiled again. “Come in.”
To the right of the entry hall, an immense two-story living room was furnished in a décor only two or three centuries closer to the modern mode than the castle.
He indicated a tapestried armchair near the front windows, and I sat down. I asked, “Who designed this place for you?”
“I did most of the designing,” he told me. “Of course, I had an architectural consultant. But I’m sure you didn’t drive all the way from San Valdesto just to see the house.”
“No. But I’ve been investing rather heavily in gold lately, and I’m beginning to believe I might need a place like this, the way things are going in our country.”
He nodded. “I heard about your inheritance from your uncle. I knew your Uncle Homer. We sol
d him most of his oil-drilling equipment.”
“He died at the right time,” I said, “for him and for me. When my Aunt Sheila divorced him, he had no more reason to live. And he wouldn’t have understood what’s going on in our country today.”
“Who does?” he said. “Well, about the house, I studied the work of a French designer named Sebastian le Prestre de Vau-ban before I started work on this place. He was the master of fortification. And also, I might add, of siegecraft. I added some minor innovations of my own. Vauban had water in his moats. My moat is mined.”
“Uncle Homer had water in his,” I said. I paused to study him, then said, “You will probably think I’m being intrusive, but I came up here to talk about your former son-in-law.”
“Go on,” he said quietly.
“He phoned me,” I said, “shortly after he came to San Valdesto. I guess he assumed I was still a private investigator. I was annoyed by his call and told him so. When I was still in my second year with the Rams, he tried to cheat me out of five thousand dollars. I had to threaten him with physical violence to get my money back.”
His smile was thin. “I wish I had. Go on.”
“A few nights after that, I was in a poker game with several of the police officers I know in San Valdesto. I overheard some remarks that led me to believe that Baker is … threatening you. Is that right?”
“It is. Have you decided to go back into investigative work?”
“Not for pay,” I said. “But if there is any way I can be of help, I want to volunteer my services. Not that I’m vindictive, I hope you understand, but—” I smiled. “We Ram fans must stick together. And I don’t want the ideals you represent to be besmirched by a foul ball like Alan Arthur Baker.”
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “Thank you very much. If I need your help, I will certainly call on you. But I think my present problem with Alan will soon be resolved. You could call it the fight-fire-with-fire technique. He won’t get another dime out of me.”
“Good,” I said. “May I intrude with one more suggestion?”
“Of course.”
“I hope,” I said, “that you are not being represented in San Valdesto by Joe Farini. He has a reputation of being unreliable. He could double-cross you.”
He shook his head. “He represents Alan. But thank you for the information. It could be useful. Even buying a crooked lawyer could cost less than Alan.” He stood up. “I’d like to ask you to stay for lunch, Brock, but I have another appointment in ten minutes.”
I went out without seeing Luther’s cousin. The butler held the door open for me. The portcullis closed behind me as I drove over the drawbridge, and the drawbridge lifted as I reached the other side of the moat. The precise mechanics of today’s science are awesome.
At the far end of the long driveway, a gray car was just turning in off the road. This must be the appointment Allingham had mentioned.
I stopped my car, got out, and lifted the hood. When the gray car, a Volvo, drew abreast, I had the dip stick in my hand and was examining it.
“Trouble?” the driver of the Volvo called.
“My oil-pressure needle was quivering,” I explained, “and I wanted to check the level.”
I turned around—and saw the beefy, red face of Max Kronen. Max ran a fairly large investigative office in the San Fernando Valley.
“Callahan,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“You first,” I said.
“Come on, muscles! You’re retired. I’m not.”
“Ask Mr. Allingham,” I advised him.
“I’ll not only ask him,” he said. “I’ll warn him.”
He went into the stone phone booth; I put the dip stick back into its socket. I was almost out of the long driveway when he left the booth.
Fight fire with fire, Allingham had said. He wasn’t going to pay Alan another dime. That could mean he had uncovered something that he could trade, some counterblackmail on Alan. Or maybe on Felicia? That might be the link where the cases were connected.
The flabby brawn of Maximillian Kronen against the wily rain of Alan Arthur Baker? That should make an interesting confrontation.
It was still short of noon and I was going down the coast road. I decided to take the Donegal Bay exit and learn if dapper Duane Detterwald had sold another ranch. Or could tell me bout that party at the Kratzerts’.
He was in the office, talking on the phone, when I entered. He glared at me and said, “Something has come up, Marilyn. I’ll call you back as soon as I’m free.”
When he hung up, I asked, “The redhead?”
He nodded curtly. “You are one lying bastard, aren’t you?”
“At times,” I admitted. “What’s bugging you now?”
“That phony story about looking for your young friend. You were checking on Mike.”
“I was not. I was looking for my friend. He was here; he even ate at Mike’s place, but he wasn’t checking on him either. What’s got you so hot?”
He didn’t answer.
“Something has happened. Speak up.”
He said, “There was another peeper here asking about Mike, guy named Max Kronen. Are you working with him?”
“I am not, nor would I. I talked with him about a half an hour ago, though, up in Veronica Village. He had an appointment with the man I had gone to see, a man named Cyrus Allingham. Do you know him?”
“That Nazi creep? Only by name. Is he mixed up in this, too?”
“I don’t know. This I do know—your friend Mike’s old girl friend might be involved with him through her husband. I am speaking of Felicia Baker, the former Felicia Rowan.”
“Who told you she’s Mike’s old girl friend?”
“My wife. Mike brought Mrs. Baker to a party at her house before we were married. You might remember my wife. He name was Jan Bonnet when you went to high school with her.
He stared at me. “You married Jan Bonnet? How come you didn’t mention it when you were up here before?”
“I saw no reason to.”
He shook his head. “A doll like that? You? I sure expected better from her. She was one classy girl.”
“She still is. Keep running me down, shorty, and earn yourself a fat lip.”
He picked up a brass letter opener from his desk and glare at me again. “Take your best shot, King Kong, and then I’d open your jugular.”
I started to laugh. When he came around the desk, the needle pointed opener still in his hand, I stopped laughing. “Duane, I said quietly, “put it down. You know you’re not going to us it. I’m almost sure we’re on the same side in this mess. Believe me!”
There was some doubt in his glare now.
“All right,” he said finally, “but lay off that shorty crap.”
“I apologize. Remember, though, you took some shots at me. Is there any place besides Mike’s where we can have lunch I don’t want him to see us together.”
“Mike’s is the only place in town,” he told me. “But he won be there. He’s out fishing today. My nephew’s girl friend working the kitchen. She’s great with fish. We can have that.
The Rusty Anchor was busier that day than at my first visit. About two-thirds of the tables in the room were occupied, an two more diners were eating at the bar.
“Don’t order the clam chowder,” Duane said. “Mike makes that. In clam country, he uses canned clams.”
“I know,” I said. “I’ve had it.”
We sat at a small, round table in a corner of the room. How much, I wondered, could I confide in Duane Detterwald?
A thin, middle-aged waitress in jeans and a flowered blouse took our order. We ordered a pitcher of Einlicher and the broiled red snapper and rye rolls.
As I poured our beer, I asked, “Do you know Felicia Baker?”
He nodded. “She stayed at our house a few nights ago. I introduced her to Mike. The title to this place is in her name.”
“Mike told me it was his place. He told me he bought it from his
cousin.”
“He did. He bought it from his cousin with money he got from Felicia. She wanted to give it to him. I nixed that. Mike would have sold the place and taken off. It’s his, rent-free, as long as he runs it. All the profits are his.”
“You nixed it? I thought Mike was your buddy.”
“He is. But that’s emotional, right? Who should understand that better than you? Mike is a bum. If it wasn’t for his fists, he would have been a vagrant. Felicia and I know that.”
“Are Mike and Felicia still friends?”
He shook his head. “With Mike, women are lays, not people. Felicia steers clear of him now that she’s married.”
New patterns were forming, a new scenario was building in my mind. Slow down, I told myself.
Duane ran a forefinger slowly around the rim of his beaker. He didn’t look at me as he said, “I’m getting a picture.”
I said nothing.
He looked up at me. “This young peeper friend of yours, he was checking out Felicia for her husband, wasn’t he? Her husband thinks she’s still hot for Mike. You can tell him to forget it.”
I continued to say nothing.
“I owe Mike,” he said. “Since high school, I owe Mike. He protected me from the kind of guys who use words like ‘midget.’”
“Or ‘weasel,’” I said.
He smiled. “Jan told you that, didn’t she?”
I nodded. “I’m sorry I called you ‘shorty.’”
“And I’m sorry,” he told me, “that I said you weren’t good enough for Jan. You almost are.”
Our red snapper came then, along with the rye rolls—plus cole slaw, compliments of the house for Uncle Duane.
“Your nephew,” I told Duane, “is even dumber than Mike is if he doesn’t marry this girl. This is tops!”
“Marry? Today’s kids?” He snorted. “They’re all Mikes today—rootless, careless drifters.”
Duane Detterwald was my kind of man, if my instincts were sound. Unfortunately, my instincts are not always sound.
Chapter Eight
WHEN WE PARTED, I told Duane to drop in any time he was down our way. He and Jan could reminisce about their high-school days.
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