by Jay Flynn
She nodded. “That’s why I went to San Francisco.”
“But you didn’t bring the package into The Door.”
“I didn’t bring it at all. I couldn’t.”
“Why? Was it stolen?” McHugh signaled the cocktail waitress for more drinks. He saw he was going to have to drag information from this girl word by word.
“No. It was where I couldn’t get it. I put it in a safety deposit box in a Monterey bank, because I was going to be away from the studio for several days. If it was valuable, I didn’t want to leave it lying around.”
“But you couldn’t get it.”
“It was one of those things. Gilbert called me that afternoon, about one o’clock. He asked me to bring the package to the bar and be there before ten o’clock that night. I told him it would be inconvenient to make the trip, but he promised to make it well worthwhile. I agreed, largely because he’s spent more than seven thousand dollars with me and that made him a good customer. But I had a flat tire driving up to Monterey, and when I got there the bank was closed. I had no way to let him know, and it seemed the only thing was to go on and explain what had happened. That neighborhood made me nervous. So did the people in your bar. Somehow I knew something bad was going to happen. When a man was found dead, I just decided to get out of there fast. I found the back door while everyone else was at the front.”
“And then what?”
“I caught a cab and went to the bar in the St. Francis. I had several drinks. The bartender may remember me. Then I began to think about leaving the car where I had. I took another cab back about two o’clock. I saw the car had been broken into, and that disturbed me even more. I got in and drove back to Carmel.”
“You could have gone to the police. As you tell it, you’d done nothing wrong. Why didn’t you?”
“Because I didn’t want to get mixed up in anything. As soon as I walked into your bar, I sensed something funny was going on. Mister, I’m perfectly happy whittling on a chunk of driftwood. I want no part of dead people and intrigues.”
“It looks like you’ve got a piece of one anyway. Let’s see if this Gilbert is our man.” McHugh described him.
The girl nodded. “I’m sure that’s the one.”
“You’ll probably be asked to identify him.”
She bit her lip. “But I don’t know him. Not really.”
“You can say whether or not he’s the man who visited you. And what about the package. Is it still in the bank?”
“Yes.”
“That’s hard to believe.” He grinned a little. “Mysterious packages usually disappear in mysterious ways. We’ll have to take a look in the morning.”
“You look, mister. I want no part of any of this.”
“You rented the box. You have to open it.”
She shut her eyes, as though she did not want to think about it “Got a place to stay?”
She nodded. Her face was the face of an exhausted child. “I keep a cottage in the village.”
“I’ll walk you over. And it might be a good idea to have the police keep an eye on the place tonight.”
“I—”
He paid the check and took her arm as they left “You are a very lucky girl. Why the killers didn’t find you before I did I can’t figure out.”
“But how could...”
“I told you they knew about your car. There were three. Two are dead now. We know Gilbert got into their car; that’s where he was knifed. He must have said something about you. Maybe he didn’t speak your name, and the one that got away from me evidently didn’t get the license number on the car.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered. It isn’t my car. It belongs to a friend who is safely in Europe.” She trembled in the cold night air. “And I like my solitude, Mr. McHugh. My studio is in a canyon that’s almost impossible to find. When I want people, I come to them. In Carmel, nobody knows where I five. They don’t even know my full name. Even Tony doesn’t.”
“Tony is special?”
They walked up a street where the live oaks and pines were darker blotches against the sky. An owl hooted, and a small animal scurried away from them.
“Tony is gentle, and he doesn’t make demands.”
“And this is enough, Cece?”
“It is for now.”
She led him to the door of a guest cottage hidden behind a larger house. McHugh took the key from her, moving in front of her as he fitted it to the lock. He shoved the door open with his foot slid his gun from the holster and played the flashlight around the interior. He saw the light switch beside the door and flipped it. A floor lamp came on low, revealing a small fireplace in a corner and the usual mismatched furniture that comes with a rented place.
“Bedroom?”
“That door,” she said, eyes on the gun.
McHugh crossed the room and checked the bedroom quickly. It was empty. When he came back, the girl was standing in the front room, a puzzled expression on her face.
“Someone’s been here.” She pointed at a window. “I didn’t leave the curtains closed.”
“Oh, no!” McHugh scowled. “See what’s missing. Quick.”
She hurried into the bedroom, and was back almost immediately. “Nothing was taken. I just keep a few clothes...”
“And maybe the key to a safety deposit box?”
She went to a small desk and pulled open the drawer.
She shut the drawer quickly and turned to face him. “Gone,” he growled.
“Yes.” She nibbled at a fingernail “But what good would it do anyone? You have to have more than the key. You have to sign a card. And how did they find this place?”
“There are ways, little girl. There are ways.” McHugh realized he was still holding the gun. He rammed it back in the holster. “Anything around with your signature on it?”
“In the desk. I keep my papers, what few there are, there.”
McHugh pawed through the desk. He found several letters and studied the handwriting. He closed the drawer in disgust.
“Lady, you don’t write your name. You print it.” He grabbed a pad of paper and a pencil. “Just like this. See?”
“You’re right,” she admitted. “It could pass for my signature.”
“It sure could. How about the bank. Do they know you there?”
She shook her head. “I don’t have an account. I rented the box there because it was the first place I came to.”
“And when were you last here, in the cottage?”
“Early this morning. Very early. I was walking the beach before sunrise.” She lit a cigarette. “Looking for driftwood.”
“And the key was there then?”
“I’m certain it was.”
“I’ll have to use the phone.” He went into the bedroom. He called the Monterey Police and asked the radio operator to contact Hudson and have the FBI man meet him. He hung up, scrubbed at his hair with his fingers and said, “Got anything to drink in this nest?”
“Some beer. And a little bourbon.”
“Bring ‘em both,” he said ruefully. “I’ll need all the help I can thinking up a story to feed this guy.”
FBI Special Agent Hudson had fire in his eye and ice in his voice. He looked the cottage over briefly, chewing on his cigar. He glared at McHugh.
“You goofed this one, buddy, but that’s not my worry. You can explain it to your boss, and he can explain it to mine.”
“But Mr. McHugh didn’t—” Cece began.
“Miss, you made all the wrong moves, but I’m not blaming you. Honest citizens often don’t act with good sense when they’re confronted with something like this. But that hard head swilling liquor over there knows better. He knows that if he gave us your name when Gilbert was killed, we’d have found you in time and recovered that package. And, lady, he does this sort of thing all the time.”
“Quit beating a dead horse,” McHugh growled. He swigged from a can of beer. “What are we going to do about it?”
“Were going to Monterey. They’re o
pening a bank in the middle of the night just for us.” He bit down on his cigar and added ominously, “The only reason you’re coming is I’m afraid of what you’d do if I let you out of my sight again.”
An assistant cashier, eyes still swollen with sleep, unlocked the big doors. He ushered them to seats in the officers’ area and said, “You realize we cannot get into the vault now. The time lock is on.”
“We won’t need to. For now, we’ll settle for a talk with the man in charge of that department.”
“Well, here he is.” The cashier got up and unlocked the doors again, closing them after a middle-aged man with a fringe of sandy hair around his bald head had entered.
Hudson introduced himself. ‘We want a look at your box records for today.”
“All of them?” the man said. “We were very busy. I imagine at least two hundred customers used the vaults.”
“Start with a box rented by Miss Cecille Harnois.”
“One moment.” The man went to the rear of the bank and returned in a minute with a card file. He fingered through it and nodded silently to himself. “Yes. Miss Harnois was one of our visitors today.”
The girl started to protest, but was silenced by a gesture from Hudson.
“May I see the signature card?” the FBI man asked. He studied the card glumly and handed it back. “Would you remember the lady?”
“Not specifically.” He consulted the card. “Although at the time noted I was the official who assisted the customers. I might recall if I saw the lady.”
Hudson pointed at Cece. “Do you recognize her?”
The banker nibbled his lip. “I—I’m not sure. Would you stand up, Miss?”
She stood, looked squarely at him.
“No,” the man said decisively. “This young lady was not in today. I recall one who looked quite a bit like her. But she was a little taller, and I’m sure several pounds heavier. She wore a bandanna of some sort. And sunglasses.”
Hudson scowled. “This is Miss Harnois. Now we’ve got a theft case to deal with as well as all the rest.”
The casher blanched. He grabbed the vault card, eyeing it and his employee accusingly. “Mr. Hudson, to me the signature certainly looks valid. Are you sure...”
“We’re sure,” Hudson said coldly. “Whether the bank is at fault or not is another matter. I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it at the moment. I’ll be back for a look at the box in the morning.”
McHugh followed the FBI agent and the girl from the bank. He felt increasingly glum.
General Harts was going to raise hell.
CHAPTER 8
NOTHING IN THERE BUT DUST,” Hudson said darkly, with a glance from the deposit box to McHugh. “And not much of that.”
A corps of bank officials stood on the fringes of the group, a mass of discomfort. They were confronted not only with a theft that might have been prevented by precautions on the part of the bank, but a ruined receptacle. With Cece’s key missing, it had been necessary to pry the box from its slot with a hammer and chisel.
“We want to discuss a few points with you, McHugh,” Nick Foote said. He and Jim Murrell had flown down from San Francisco to back up the local men.
“I’ve talked with Washington,” McHugh replied. “My instructions are to co-operate with you.”
“You can’t beat us so you co-operate us to death,” Murrell put in. “It’s happened before.”
“You want what I have or not?” McHugh demanded.
The FBI men did. They repaired to a room in the back of the local police station. McHugh told them everything.
“Except for the girl, who is sticking to her story, you’ve got nothing but a rumble on Girolamo,” Foote said.
McHugh shrugged. “I poked him in the eye with a sharp stick I think he’s part of it, all right. And I doubt it ends with him smuggling this Gilbert into the States.”
“We’ll run a check on Girolamo from here,” Hudson said. “We do it every month or so, just for drill.”
A policeman came into the room and handed Murrell a teletype message. He read it and folded it into his pocket.
“The Los Angeles office managed to run Gilbert down. He’s a substantial citizen of Beverly Hills. What you might call a financier.”
“Let’s take our corpse’s picture down and make sure we have the right one,” McHugh suggested.
“I used the present tense, not the past” Murrell retorted. “Mr. Gilbert is the picture of health. At last look, he was setting out to play a game of golf.”
The Los Angeles office sent a car and driver to the airport. The car sped over the net of freeways, then slowed as it turned off onto the broad boulevards of the millionaires’ town.
The house was set on about two acres of rolling, wooded land, a two-story Spanish-Moorish structure with its own manicured tennis courts and a swimming pool that could have accommodated a small whale.
“What do we have so far on Gilbert?” Foote asked the local man.
“First, it is Gilbert, without a doubt Second, he hasn’t been out of the area for at least three months. We didn’t know just what you had going up north, so he hasn’t been contacted directly yet Were not through backtracking him yet, but the man looks so far like what he purports to be. A big investor, and clean.”
The car passed through the shade of a small palm grove and stopped at a gravel parking lot near a side entrance to the house. Several other cars, two of them chauffeured limousines, were already there.
“He keeps an office and a six-man staff here,” the local man explained as they climbed the broad tiled steps.
A houseman answered the bell. Murrell presented his identification.
“We’d like to speak with Mr. Gilbert.”
The houseman’s eyes narrowed. He wet his lips, seemed ready to protest, then said, “Please come in, gentlemen. I’ll see if Mr. Gilbert is available.”
They were ushered into a waiting room lined with deep, comfortable leather chairs. An air conditioner whispered softly. Ten minutes passed before the inner door opened. The man was lean and tall and well-barbered. He wore a tropical-weight suit, and his mild eyes missed nothing as he looked them over.
“I’ve never had business with the FBI before,” he said pleasantly. “Please come in.”
They followed him into an inner office that was the essence of conservative luxury. Murrell made the introductions and declined the offer of a drink. McHugh shot him a dark look. He could see some prime Scotch on the bar in the far corner.
Foote produced a picture of the dead man. “Know him?”
Mild surprise showed on Gilbert’s face. “Yes. Of course. I must say he doesn’t look very well.”
“Possibly because he’s dead, Mr. Gilbert,” Foote said. “Tell us about him.”
Gilbert sank into a chair behind his desk and rocked back in it. McHugh decided the shock on his face might be genuine.
“Dead...I...” He took a cigarette from a box on the desk and used a heavy fighter. “His name is Dant. Deane Dant. He is—was—my secretary. One of my secretaries. I have several. Would you mind telling me what happened?”
“He was killed in San Francisco,” Foote said. “By professional hoodlums. At the time, he was using your name.”
“My name!” Gilbert went to the bar, dropped ice cubes into a glass and poured whisky over them. He took a long drink, added more whisky and sat down again, the glass in his hand. “Gentlemen—this is beyond me. Utterly beyond me.”
“Suppose you tell us about Dant,” Foote persisted. “Who he was, when you last saw him. Everything.”
“It would be several weeks, possibly two months, since he left. He was going to Latin America.”
“He had been fired?” Murrell put in.
“Oh, no. Not at all. He was extremely capable, and had considered establishing his own business. Dealing in foreign securities. He was an expert in that field and in charge of such operations for my group. He took a leave of absence.”
“So, whatever h
e was doing, he was not representing you?” Foote said.
“No. Certainly not. I told him he was welcome to use me as a business reference, however.”
“He had a passport?” Murrell put in.
“I’m sure he did. He also had permission from the government of Mexico to transact business. I saw the papers, and as a matter of fact had several telephone conversations with the Mexican Consul on the matter.”
McHugh had been studying the bar, conscious of the growing thirst inside him. He leaned forward in his chair and said, “Mr. Gilbert, do you know a lady named Cecille Marie Harnois?”
“Why, yes. I’ve bought several sculptings from her.”
“How well do you know her?”
“I’m sorry. I meant to say I knew of her. We’ve never met.”
“Dant called on her a couple of days before he was killed. He claimed to be you. He gave her a package that he said was important. Can you enlighten us on that score?”
“Certainly not.” Gilbert’s eyebrows came together in a fleeting scowl. “Why would he do that?”
“That is what I’ve been trying to figure out,” McHugh replied. “The world is full of places for keeping such things safe. Yet he chose to leave it with a young lady whom he’d never seen before. And in your name.”
“I can think of no reason.”
McHugh’s pale brown eyes were guileless. “I can think of only one reason. He was playing with some rough people. If anything happened to him—as it most definitely did—he might have wanted the package to reach you. It could be he left it with her in the hope that if anything went wrong, the girl would eventually get tired of keeping the thing and send it to you here. Or at least get in touch with you.”
Gilbert’s jaw tightened. “I suppose that is reasoning of a sort, sir. As I said, I know nothing about a package. As a matter of fact, I know nothing about any of this.” He rose. “I can say this—Dant’s accounts have been audited and are in excellent shape. He did his work well, and that was all I required of him. If you want to see his personnel record, I will have it for you in a few minutes.”
“That would be a help,” Foote said “How about family?”