by Amanda Quick
Willie picked up another glass and started polishing it. “The boss makes his own rules. If he was there with you, it was because he wanted to be there.”
“That’s more or less what he told me.”
“It’s the truth. We all know he’s worried about your safety. He’s always had good security here at the hotel, but during the past few days he’s given orders to double down on the routine patrols, and he’s cranked up the lighting at night. The grounds are lit up like a stage at three in the morning now. That said, you seem to be running free today.”
Irene wrinkled her nose. “For a while. He’s handling some business in his office. I didn’t want to sit there, staring at him or reading a magazine while he made telephone calls and did whatever hotel executives do. He figured I’d be safe here in the bar.”
“He’s right. We’ve got good security in here, too. There’s a button I can push if I don’t like what’s going on. One of the guards would be here in a minute or two at the most.”
“That’s good to know.” Irene patted her handbag. “I’m not helpless. I’ve got a gun.”
“So do I,” Willie said. She held the martini glass up to the light to check her work. “I keep it under the bar.”
Interest and curiosity sparked in Irene’s eyes. “Really?”
“Old habit from the days when we were on the road. Some towns were rougher than others. Every so often some jerk decided to rob the ticket office or hassle one of the assistants.”
“You, for instance?”
Willie gave her a humorless smile. “Me, for instance.”
“Does Oliver know about the gun under the bar?”
“Yes.”
“He told me he doesn’t like guns.”
“What do you expect? He almost got killed by one.”
“He says guns give people a false sense of security. He says you never know when one will jam on you.”
“Sounds like the two of you had an extensive conversation on the subject.”
“Uh-huh.” Irene drank some more coffee and put the cup down with great care. “Once, in another life, I had an employer who owned a gun. But in the end it didn’t do her any good. She was murdered by some bastard who used a knife.”
“What happened?”
“She made the mistake of trusting the wrong person.”
“Trust is a dangerous thing.”
“Yes, it is,” Irene said. “But you get very lonely if you don’t have someone you can trust.”
“You can trust the boss.”
Irene smiled. “He obviously trusts you.”
“We go back a ways.”
Irene turned thoughtful. “He says you can read people as well as he can.”
“Bartenders in general are good at reading people. You could say it’s a job requirement.”
Irene met her eyes. “You probably know that I’m suspicious of Nick Tremayne.”
“Everyone who reads the newspapers knows that.”
“Care to give me your take on him?”
Willie chuckled. “Funny you should ask.”
“Why?”
“Because the boss asked the same question the morning your story broke in Whispers. I’ll tell you the same thing I told him. I think Nick Tremayne is very, very ambitious. I also think he’s got a temper.”
“Ever seen him lose it?”
“No. But the other day I happened to see that personal assistant of his after she came out of his villa. She looked shaken. Downright scared, I think.”
“Claudia Picton? I think she’s terrified of losing her job.” Irene took a sip and set her cup down on the saucer with a clink. “My intuition tells me she’s the weak link in this thing. I need to speak with her again. That means I have to get her alone.”
“The boss might not approve.”
“I’ve seen enough of Claudia Picton to know that she’ll never open up if Oliver is with me. He’ll intimidate her.”
“You’re probably right. It’s obvious that Miss Picton’s nerves are in bad shape. Wouldn’t take much to send her into a complete panic.”
“What else do you know about her?” Irene asked.
“Not a lot. She doesn’t come into my bar.”
“Maybe she doesn’t drink.”
“Either that or the studio won’t cover her bar tab,” Willie said.
“I didn’t see her in the restaurant last night but I guess that’s no surprise. Most women don’t like to be seen dining alone.”
“Maybe she went out to a local café,” Willie suggested.
“Who would know?”
Willie smiled. “The concierge, Mr. Fontaine. When it comes to the habits and preferences of the guests, a good concierge is better than a private detective.”
“Think Mr. Fontaine will talk to me?”
“Only if Mr. Ward tells him to talk to you.”
“I need to call Oliver.”
“There’s a house telephone behind the bar.”
“May I use it?”
“Help yourself.”
Irene moved around behind the bar and reached for the receiver.
“Thanks, Willie,” she said. “You’ve been very helpful.”
Willie held another glass up to the light to check her polishing job. “Happy to be of service. Out of curiosity, how do you plan to persuade Miss Picton to meet with you in private?”
“I don’t. I’m going to stage an ambush.” Irene concentrated on the telephone. “Please connect me with Mr. Ward’s private office. Thank you. Yes, I’ll wait.”
Willie smiled to herself.
“Something amusing?” Irene asked.
“I was just thinking that you’re a good influence on the boss.”
“A good influence? Are you joking? I found a dead body in his spa and I nearly got him killed.”
“You wouldn’t believe how he’s perked up since you arrived at the hotel. You’ve done wonders. A regular tonic.”
Chapter 46
Elena appeared in the office doorway.
“I just received Detective Brandon’s list of guests who recently checked in at the other hotels, inns, and B and Bs in town,” she said.
Oliver looked up from the list of new arrivals at the Burning Cove Hotel. “Several of the so-called singles from back east on my list are actually traveling with a personal maid or a private secretary. I’ve excluded them. That leaves me with eight names. How many on Brandon’s list?”
“Another twenty in all, but most are from California—L.A. or San Francisco for the most part. Our hotel gets the majority of the East Coast crowd here because, like the Beverly Hills Hotel and the Biltmore in L.A., we are quite well-known.”
“The benefits of advertising. Thanks, Elena.”
This was, he concluded, probably one of the few times in the history of the industry that the proprietor of a hotel hoped his establishment’s reputation for elegance and service had served as a lure to attract a killer.
Never a dull moment these days. Not with Irene around.
Elena put the list on his desk and went back to the doorway, where she paused and gently cleared her throat.
Oliver looked up again, suddenly wary.
“What is it?” he said.
“I just wanted to say that you are looking very well today.”
“Have I been looking unwell previously?”
“No, sir. It’s just that you seem to be in excellent spirits today. Especially considering the circumstances.”
Nothing like hunting for a killer to put a man in an upbeat mood, Oliver reflected.
“Probably the three cups of coffee I drank at breakfast,” he said.
Elena chuckled. “No doubt.”
“Remember, not a word about these lists and the people on them.”
“Underst
ood.”
She was about to close the door but stopped when the outer door burst open. Chester charged into the front office.
“Where’s Oliver?” he demanded.
“Right here,” Oliver called through the opening. “Come on in, Chester.”
Chester rushed into the room, bristling with excitement. He had Atherton’s notebook in one hand.
“Wait until I tell you what’s in this thing,” he said.
“Sit down,” Oliver said. He looked at Elena. “That’s all for now. Thanks.”
She left, closing the door quietly behind her.
Chester put the notebook down on the desk and dropped into one of the chairs. “What do you know about radio waves?”
“I know how to turn on a radio and I know how to turn it off. Why?”
“Radio waves are a form of electromagnetic radiation and they have several very interesting properties. Most metal objects, for example, reflect radio waves.”
“So?”
“So the British and the U.S. military have been conducting secret research designed to see if radio waves can be used to detect airplanes at a considerable distance and ships at sea.”
Understanding began to dawn. “I’m listening,” Oliver said.
“The work is still in the experimental stage. I’m told the Brits are ahead of us because they’re so damned worried about Germany. But other nations, including Russia, Germany, and Japan, are also doing research in this area. There are serious limitations with the current equipment—the antennas are huge and the wavelengths are too long—but, theoretically, utilizing a pulsing technique and shorter wavelengths, it should be possible to build a compact device that would allow radio waves to detect ships at sea.”
“To help avoid collisions?”
“Sure, but what interests the U.S. Navy is the possibility of using radio waves to find enemy vessels at a distance. Currently, the process for aiming a battleship’s big guns involves the risk of getting close enough to the target to see where the shells land. After you get a visual on the first shot, you calibrate the next shot and so on. In addition, all sorts of other information must be cranked into the calculations—the pitch and roll of the ship, for example. It’s complicated work that must be done at close range, which entails a lot of risk.”
Oliver picked up the notebook. “Are you telling me that Atherton’s calculations have something to do with engineering a device that uses radio waves to detect enemy ships?”
“Not just that,” Chester said. He popped up out of his seat and began to pace the office. “If I’m right, that book contains the calculations and specifications needed to construct a very advanced rangekeeper, one that incorporates the radio wave detector I just told you about.”
“A rangekeeper?”
“They’re the calculating machines that the Navy uses to direct the firing of long-range guns on board a ship. If the machine described in that notebook gets built—and if it works as it’s designed to work—it will give the Navy a very big advantage in the next war.”
“If there is another war.”
Chester stopped pacing. He heaved a sigh, took out a handkerchief, and began polishing his glasses.
“As long as human nature is what it is, I’m afraid there will always be another war,” he said quietly.
“And people tell me that I’m cynical.” Oliver tapped the notebook. “What about the laboratory where Atherton worked?”
Chester put on his glasses. “It will probably come as no surprise to you that the Saltwood Laboratory is rumored to be working on a secret military project. They’ve got a contract with the Navy. Very hush-hush.”
“And Atherton?”
Chester grunted. “No one seems to know anything about him aside from the fact that he’s dead. Car accident.”
“I suppose it would be too easy to just telephone the Saltwood lab and ask them to send someone out to Burning Cove to pick up this damned notebook.”
Chester gave him a grim look. “You do that and the next thing you know this hotel will be crawling with government agents. You’re in the middle of a major espionage case, Oliver. Anyone who knows anything about the notebook, including Miss Glasson and you, will become suspects. You might be able to talk yourselves out of trouble eventually, but once you get on a government list, you’re on it for life.”
“You know, my job was a lot simpler when all I had to worry about was catching a couple of killers.”
Chapter 47
Irene was in the tearoom, positioned behind a massive potted palm, when Claudia arrived at precisely three fifteen just as the concierge, Mr. Fontaine, had predicted.
The waiter seated Claudia in a corner behind another potted palm. As soon as the first cup of tea had been poured, she took her notebook and a pencil out of her handbag. She opened the notebook and bent over it industriously.
Irene rose and moved as unobtrusively as possible around the room until she could approach Claudia from behind.
“Hello,” she said, trying for a warm, cheery tone. She glanced at a page of Claudia’s notes. “I see you know shorthand. I hadn’t realized that you trained as a secretary.”
Claudia jerked violently and looked up with an expression of near panic.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said. Her fear metamorphosed into irritation. She closed the notebook with a sharp snap. “What do you want?”
“Just a short chat. May I sit down?”
She seated herself quickly before Claudia could decide how to handle the situation.
Claudia picked up her teacup. “Mr. Ogden said you got fired from your job at Whispers.”
“Good news travels fast.”
“If you’re no longer a reporter, why should I talk to you?”
“Because I plan to get my job back. To do that I need a scoop.”
“If you think I’m going to help you pin Gloria Maitland’s death on Nick Tremayne, you’re crazy. If anything happens to Tremayne, I’m the one who will be unemployed.”
“Look, you told me from the start that Tremayne’s alibi for the Maitland death was solid. I didn’t believe you at first but I do now.”
Claudia looked wary. “Is that so?”
“I’m no longer trying to prove that Tremayne killed anyone. But I would like to know more about Daisy Jennings.”
“I can’t help you. I never met the woman. According to the local paper, you found the body.”
“I was not alone that time. Mr. Ward was with me.”
“Regardless, it strikes me as something of a coincidence that you were on the scene when another woman was found dead,” Claudia said.
“Believe me, that thought did occur to me. Shortly before she died, Daisy Jennings contacted me. She claimed she had something important to tell me. Do you have any idea what it was?”
“Not unless she was trying to get revenge on Mr. Tremayne.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Women are always throwing themselves at Mr. Tremayne, but the only thing he’s serious about is his career.”
“Where is Nick Tremayne right now?”
“At this very minute? Playing golf, not that it’s any of your business.”
“Alone?”
“Of course not. Men don’t play golf alone. He’s with a friend.”
“Someone from L.A.? Another star?”
“What?” Claudia frowned. “No. Someone he met here at the hotel. Another guest. Mr. Enright. Stop asking me questions. I would have thought you’d have learned your lesson by now.”
“What lesson is that?”
“According to Mr. Ogden at the studio, you lost your job and your landlady tossed you out of your apartment,” Claudia said. “Isn’t that bad enough? The men who run Mr. Tremayne’s studio are very powerful people. If you keep asking questions about Nick Tremayne, your life will get
even more unpleasant, believe me.”
“Are you threatening me, Claudia?”
“Me? No. I’m just a lowly assistant. But I’ve worked at the studio long enough to know that men like Ogden can do a great deal of damage to people who get in their way. If I were you, Miss Glasson, I’d find another story. Leave Nick Tremayne alone.”
“Sounds like you’re afraid of this Mr. Ogden.”
“No, Miss Glasson, I’m not afraid of Earnest Ogden. I’m absolutely terrified of him.”
“Because he could get you fired?”
“In a heartbeat. Look, I’ll tell you the truth. Hollywood was the biggest mistake of my life. I’m not cut out for that world or this one here in Burning Cove, either. I’m just trying to keep my job long enough to get some money together so that I can go home.”
“What will you do when you go home?”
“What everyone told me I should do the day I graduated from high school.” Claudia got to her feet and collected her book and her handbag. “Get a job in a department store. Meet a nice guy who can support me. Get married.”
“Where is home?” Irene asked.
“A place where you don’t need to wear sunglasses every day of the year.”
Claudia walked swiftly toward the door of the glass-walled tearoom and disappeared out into the gardens.
Chapter 48
Irene sat quietly, thinking about what Claudia had said. After a while she got to her feet and went along the arched walkway to Oliver’s office.
Elena smiled when she opened the door. “Hello, Irene. How are you today?”
“I’m fine, thank you, Elena. And you?”
“Excellent, thanks. Are you here to see Mr. Ward?”
“Yes. Is he in his office?”
“He is. I’ll let him know you’re here.” Elena pressed the intercom button. “Miss Glasson is here, sir.”
“Send her in. I was about to go looking for her.”
Elena started to get to her feet to open the door.
“Don’t bother, please, I’ll get it.” Irene crossed the room. She paused, her hand on the knob, and looked back at Elena. “Do you ever get tired of all the sunshine here in California?”