by Amanda Quick
“They found him unconscious,” Bad Jacket explained. “Lot of blood.”
Julian listened very closely.
“Ambulance attendants told someone Ward probably broke some bones, but it’s the head injury they’re worried about,” Baldy added. “They’re taking him to the hospital. They don’t know if he’ll make it.”
“Hell of a thing.” Bad Jacket shook his head. “He survives that warehouse fire only to fall down a flight of stairs.”
“Wonder what he was doing going up and down stairs with that bad leg,” Baldy mused.
Bad Jacket snickered. “Five will get you ten he went up those stairs to pay his houseguest a late-night visit. Heard she was the one who called the ambulance. Someone said she went to the hospital with him.”
“Women,” Baldy said. “They’ll get you one way or another.”
Willie dabbed at her eyes with a white towel. A moment later she said something to the other bartender, a middle-aged man, and disappeared through a side door.
Julian made his way to the bar.
“What can I get for you?” the bartender asked.
“Another Manhattan,” Julian said. “And one for my friend. I heard there’s been an accident.”
“Yeah. Just found out they took the boss to the hospital.”
“Why did the other bartender leave?”
“Willie said she was going to drive to the hospital to see for herself just how bad things are. They don’t know if he’ll make it. If he doesn’t, we’ll all be looking for new jobs.”
The bartender set two Manhattans on the bar. Julian carried them back to the booth. Nick grabbed his glass and took a long swallow.
A short time later Julian guided a very drunk Nick Tremayne to his villa. He did not bother to turn on the lights. He eased Tremayne down onto the bed.
Tremayne muttered something unintelligible.
Julian paused. “What?”
“Said when are you gonna take care of that damned reporter?”
“Soon.”
“Good.”
Julian let himself out into the night.
Chapter 52
The only light inside the darkened villa came from the moon. It was all Julian needed to find his way down the hall. He had brought along a small flashlight to use once he began a serious search. But first he wanted to get an overview of the place.
He had come in through the patio. The lock on the back door was good quality but it was standard issue. You’d think a magician would have installed better locks.
He did a quick walk-through, noting the exit points. There were several but they all opened onto the gardens that surrounded the villa. There were only two ways out of the gardens—the front gate and the one at the back.
Upstairs in the guest bedroom he discovered a narrow, decorative balcony. In a pinch he could go over the railing and drop down into the gardens.
Satisfied that he had noted all the exits, he took a good look around the guest bedroom. It was obvious from the clothes in the closet and the items arranged on the dressing table that it was the room Irene Glasson was using.
He didn’t expect to find the notebook conveniently stashed in a dresser drawer or under the mattress, but you never knew. People made odd decisions when it came to choosing a hiding place. Helen Spencer came to mind. She’d had a very fine safe, one he’d wasted several minutes cracking. But the only thing he found inside was the necklace.
He’d considered helping himself to the jewelry—the gems were of excellent quality—but by then he knew enough about Spencer to be certain that the damned thing was hot. He didn’t have any connections in the underground gemstone market. Locating a fence he could trust would have been a high-risk venture. The old man would not have approved. Besides, he didn’t need the money.
When he was satisfied that the notebook was not in the bedroom, he went downstairs to continue the search. On his initial foray, he had noted the safe in the magician’s study, but he had learned his lesson at Spencer’s mansion. He saved the safe for last.
Unlike the door locks, the one that secured the safe was modern and fairly sophisticated in design. He took that as a good sign. Something valuable was inside.
He slipped the knife out of its sheath and set it on the floor within easy reach. Then he took out the stethoscope and went to work.
When he heard the last muffled click, a thrill of anticipation swept through him. He took a deep breath and opened the door. There was a thick envelope inside.
He removed the envelope, opened the unsealed flap, and switched on his flashlight.
There was a leather-bound notebook inside.
He took it out, flipped it open, and aimed the flashlight at a few of the pages. They were covered in numbers and equations. A euphoric triumph jolted through him. He had the notebook. Once it had been safely delivered to the old man, he could return to Burning Cove to take his time with Irene Glasson. She would pay for putting him to so much trouble.
He closed the safe, picked up the knife, and got to his feet.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Enright.”
Ward’s voice came from somewhere out in the shadowed hallway.
Julian froze. The realization that he had walked into a trap sent a shock of panic through him.
“Where are you, Ward? Show yourself, you bastard.”
There was no response.
Now he had a choice to make. There were only two ways out of the study: the hallway and the glass doors that opened onto the patio. It seemed unlikely that Ward was working alone.
“Congratulations on your speedy recovery,” Julian said. “The rumors in the bar had you at death’s door.”
“Don’t bother running,” Ward said. “All the exits from this villa are covered.”
Julian listened intently. Ward’s voice seemed to emanate from the living room. He had to assume Ward was armed. If he wasn’t lying about the cops, they were no doubt covering all the other escape routes.
That left his one last foolproof exit strategy. The old man wouldn’t be thrilled that Julian had been forced to use it. There would be another boring lecture about his inclination toward impulsive action. But the present situation was a perfect example of why he carried the license in the first place.
He went to the doorway of the study.
“I’m coming out with my hands up, Ward. This is all a huge misunderstanding.”
“Let’s clear up that misunderstanding,” Ward said. “Who hired you to kill Helen Spencer?”
“I didn’t kill her. I’m a private detective from New York. I’ve got a license I can show you. I work for a company called Enright Investigations. Family firm. We were hired to find the woman you know as Irene Glasson. She stole a certain notebook. Her real name is Anna Harris, by the way.”
“Who hired you?”
“Let’s just say our client represents a certain foreign government, one that is willing to pay very well for the notebook, no questions asked.”
“What about Saltwood Laboratory?”
“I see you’ve been doing some investigating of your own. Unfortunately, Saltwood made the mistake of going to the FBI for help. The investigation has ground to a standstill. The G-men are wringing their hands. Their biggest fear, of course, is that Atherton’s notes will wind up in the possession of an unfriendly foreign power.”
“Which is exactly what you intend, right?”
Julian tried to curb his impatience but he was getting nervous. It was time to end things.
“Business is business,” he said. “The notebook will go to the highest bidder. Isn’t that what you had planned? Your problem is that you don’t have the connections it takes to find the deep-pocket customers for an item as exotic as Atherton’s notes. You’re just an innkeeper. Enright has a buyer lined up. In fact, it looks like there will be an auction. I
suggest that you and I negotiate.”
“What makes you think I’m trying to figure out how to market the notebook?”
“I’m not a fool. You figured out the notebook is worth a fortune. You need Enright’s help to sell it.”
“I’m interested.”
Julian was almost giddy with relief. Now he was on firm ground. Suddenly everything made sense. He’d walked into a trap, all right, but not the kind he’d assumed at first. There were no cops waiting outside. Ward wouldn’t be talking about a deal if that were the case.
Julian allowed himself a small smile. You have no idea what you’re doing, you son of a bitch. You’re just a washed-up magician who bungled his last performance so badly he nearly died. You’re way out of your depth. I’ll show you how the Enrights do business.
“What price did you have in mind?” he said.
“I know the notebook is worth killing for,” Ward said. “That tells me it’s worth a great deal to the people who hired you.”
“A hundred grand,” Julian said, plucking a figure out of thin air.
“Not good enough. I need to clear a quarter mil.”
“That’s a lot of money,” Julian said. “Planning to buy another hotel?”
He tried to sound reluctant, but it was all he could do to keep the rising tide of triumph out of his voice.
“I owe Luther Pell two fifty,” Ward said.
That explained a lot, Julian thought.
“How did a smart guy like you get himself in so deep?” he said. “They say Pell’s got mob connections.”
“You don’t need to know the details. I doubt if your client will argue about the price—not if the notebook is as important as you seem to think.”
“It is. Trust me.”
“All right. Make the deal. When I get the money, you’ll get the notebook. Until then it stays in my safe.”
Ward didn’t realize that his safe had been cracked. He assumed the notebook was still inside.
Julian was dazed by his own good luck; a euphoric relief set fire to his blood.
“All right,” he said. He had to fight to keep his voice reasonably cool. “I’ll telephone my boss first thing in the morning. He’ll have to set up the auction. It’s going to take a little time to put the deal together. Maybe a couple of days.”
“Fine. But meanwhile you will continue to be a guest here at my hotel where I can keep an eye on you. You don’t leave the grounds.”
“Understood,” Julian said.
“My security people will be watching you.”
“Sure.”
Julian adjusted his right hand on the hilt of the knife, finding the position that allowed him the most control. Now that the bargain had been made, there was a very good possibility that the target would get careless. Talking about large sums of money had a tendency to do that to people—especially when you were having the discussion with a man who was in trouble with a shady character like Pell.
Come on, you bastard. All I need is one clear opportunity.
“Are we finished here?” he asked.
“Looks like it. See you tomorrow.”
“Sure.”
Just a dumb, failed magician, Julian thought.
He made his way down the shadowed hallway. When he reached the living room, he held his breath. There was always the possibility that Ward had lied to him about wanting to make a deal. But that was unlikely. He wouldn’t have set up the trap if he wasn’t desperate to find a buyer for the notebook.
Julian crossed the living room, hurrying through the wedge of moonlight. It was the point at which he was most visible and, therefore, most vulnerable. If Ward had deceived him, the shot would come during the second or two it took him to gain the shadows of the kitchen.
There was no flash of light. No gun roared.
He made it into the darkened front hall and paused to look back across the living room. A figure was clearly silhouetted against the glass doors that opened onto the patio. Ward’s cane thudded softly on the tiles. Julian heard the rasp of shoe leather on the tiled floor.
Got you, Julian thought.
The throw was so fast and so clean that Ward never even got off a shot.
The blade went home, sinking deep into human flesh.
His target collapsed with a heavy, very final-sounding thud. The cane clattered on the floor.
Julian did not waste any time making certain of the kill. He trusted his own skill and talent. If Ward wasn’t dead already, he would bleed out as soon as someone removed the knife.
He raced outside into the night. He had the notebook, but now there was a dead man, and that was a problem. Escape was his first priority. Ward’s car was parked in front of the villa. The fastest car in California.
He ran across the street and opened the car door. He could start a car without a key if necessary, but he wasn’t worried about having to waste time doing so. It was not uncommon for people to leave the key in the ignition. That went double in crime-free small towns like Burning Cove. Besides, who would dare to steal Oliver Ward’s car? Everyone in town probably recognized it on sight. But it was unlikely that anyone in L.A. would know it. He would be in the city by dawn.
He was not disappointed. The key was in the ignition. His luck was holding.
He got behind the wheel and started the vehicle. The big engine purred to life.
He had a hundred miles to drive on a foggy, twisty road but he was a very skilled driver. The light mist would serve him well, because it would keep other drivers from venturing out.
Julian piloted the sleek vehicle quietly away from the villa, found Cliff Road, and settled down to drive.
He’d been forced to leave some good clothes and a few personal items behind in his hotel room, but they could easily be replaced. He had to get the notebook to New York as soon as possible. He would catch a plane in L.A. Once Atherton’s notes were safely in the old man’s hands, he would return to California to take his time with Irene Glasson.
Chapter 53
Julian had been driving for half an hour or so when the lights of another car sparked briefly in his rearview mirror.
Just another motorist braving the fog. No need to be alarmed.
He eased his foot down on the throttle and accelerated out of a tight curve.
The lights vanished from his mirror.
Five minutes went by. Ten. The lights from the other vehicle flashed again, briefly, in the mirror. Again he accelerated. Again the lights disappeared.
He sped up but almost immediately had to brake for a sharp curve in the road. The tires squealed in protest. There was no barrier at the edge of the pavement. If he miscalculated, he risked going off the high cliffs. He would plunge straight down onto the rocks at the water’s edge.
He came out of the next curve a little too fast and immediately had to stomp on the brakes again. He glanced at the mirror. The lights were gone.
There was no wailing siren. The other car didn’t seem to be trying to overtake him. Not the cops, he told himself. Just another late-night driver trying to make it to L.A. by dawn.
But the fog was growing thicker now. He could not risk driving any faster.
The thrill of his escape from Burning Cove faded.
He started to sweat but he reminded himself that he was driving the fastest car in California. So much power under the hood. He could outrun any other vehicle on the road.
Chapter 54
“Faster,” Luther said. “We can’t risk losing him in this fog.”
“If he makes it to New York,” Irene said, “the police and the FBI won’t be able to touch him.”
“We won’t lose him,” Oliver said.
The Oldsmobile belonged to Chester, who had done some work on it, but it wasn’t nearly as fast as the modified Cord. Speed wasn’t necessary, Oliver thought. The only thing that
mattered was that they didn’t lose the Cord. But that was unlikely. On a twisting ribbon of pavement like Cliff Road, what mattered most was the driver’s skill and his knowledge of the curves.
Oliver was behind the wheel because they had all agreed that he was the best driver. Luther was in the front passenger seat. In the dim glow of the instrument panel, he looked intense. Irene was in the back, draped over the front seat, peering through the windshield.
“If he turns off on a side road—” Luther began.
“He won’t,” Oliver said. “I know that bastard. He thinks he won.”
The first part of the act had gone off without a hitch, which was somewhat amazing given the very short span of time they’d had to put it together, Oliver thought. There had been no practical way to rehearse. He and Luther had done several walk-throughs at the villa, trying to anticipate Enright’s every move. Chester had pulled a couple of the old props out of the storage locker and reworked them. He had padded a figure with material that he claimed would sound a lot like human flesh when a knife or bullet struck it.
Based on the description of Helen Spencer’s murder, Oliver had been almost certain that the killer preferred to use a knife, not only because it made less noise but because he liked his work. But it hadn’t really mattered which weapon Enright chose to use.
Willie had been briefed on her role, and she had performed it brilliantly. Just like old times, Oliver thought. He had a sneaking hunch that Willie had enjoyed herself.
Some of the guests had witnessed Irene following the stretcher into the back of the ambulance. She appeared to be sobbing hysterically. Persuading the ambulance crew to make a practice run to the villa that night was simple enough. Oliver had told the hospital authorities that he wanted to test the hotel’s emergency response system. He had also offered a hefty donation to the hospital and paid the driver and attendants for their time.
It had all been an elaborate show for an audience of one, but until the curtain rose there had been no way to be certain that the killer would attend the performance.
Oliver had tried to persuade Irene not to accompany Luther and him on the Cliff Road chase, but there was no talking her out of it.