Power Plays (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  Wearing a dark-gray flannel skirt and a tailored pink oxford-cloth shirt, a woman reclined in a chaise longue placed to face the glass wall. She was a small, compactly made woman of about forty. Her closely cut auburn hair was softly, deftly styled. Her features were delicately drawn on a classic oval face. Beneath gracefully arching brows, her eyes were a dark, vivid brown. It was a patrician face—a contessa’s face.

  While Friedman made the introductions and stated our business, I watched the woman’s eyes for a reaction. I saw nothing. Both her body and her face were inert, utterly composed. She held a copy of a brightly jacketed novel in her lap. Using a tooled-leather bookmark, she marked her place, closed the book and put it on a small table beside the chaise. I noticed that the book, like the vase of flowers in the entryway, had been placed precisely in the center of the table. I heard her sigh faintly. Plainly, she regretted leaving the story.

  “Would you like to sit down?” She gestured to a pair of matching chairs. Her voice was soft and low-pitched, curiously uninflected. Her dark eyes still revealed nothing. When we’d seated ourselves, she simply looked at Friedman, waiting for him to begin. He repeated the same lie he’d told the maid, with embellishments. When he finished speaking, she looked at him for a long, inscrutable moment before she said, “I think Baxter got in yesterday from London. I’m not sure whether he’s still in town. Usually, if he’s in town, it’s not for more than a day or two. Still, it’s Friday. He might stay for the weekend.”

  “Does he—” I hesitated. “Does he live here?”

  She transferred her unfathomable gaze to me. Another moment of empty silence passed before she said, “Baxter has an apartment at the City Club.”

  “Then he—doesn’t live here.”

  “Sometimes he gives dinner parties here. That’s all.” She spoke in the same low, expressionless voice.

  “You say you think your husband arrived in San Francisco yesterday. Now—” Friedman waved a deprecating hand. “Now, I don’t mean to put you on the spot. But are you reasonably sure of his schedule? For instance, are you sure he arrived from London yesterday?”

  As he asked the question, her unreadable eyes moved deliberately from me to Friedman. “Reasonably sure,” she said.

  “But not entirely sure.”

  “No, not entirely.”

  As if he’d been expecting the answer, Friedman nodded. Then, casually, he said, “Several years ago there was a death threat made against your husband. I was one of his bodyguards. Here—” He waved his hand. “In this house.”

  “How many years ago, Lieutenant?”

  “Ten or twelve. Maybe more.”

  “Then I wouldn’t remember. Baxter and I have only been married for five years.”

  Friedman didn’t respond but instead allowed another long silence to fall. I knew why he’d done it. He wanted to discomfort the woman—wanted to force some flicker of reaction from her. Questioned by police, most people reveal uneasiness, or annoyance, or excitement, or outright hostility. Not Mrs. Wardell. Half reclining on the chaise, fingers interlaced across a smooth, flat stomach, she betrayed no emotion, no anxiety. She simply waited for the next question. Watching her, I found myself remembering the abused wives I’d interrogated during my years as a policeman. Like Mrs. Wardell, many of them were curiously passive, awaiting the pleasure of others. At first glance, they sometimes seemed serene: fulfilled, at peace. But the truth always showed deep in their eyes. They were women without hope.

  Finally Friedman spoke. “Do you read the newspapers, Mrs. Wardell?”

  She nodded—a single, grave, measured inclination of her classic head. “Yes.”

  “Have you read about the man who was killed Wednesday night in North Beach? Eliot Murdock?”

  Again, she nodded. “Yes, I read about that.”

  “We have reason to believe that Mr. Murdock was an—associate of your husband’s. We also believe that Mr. Murdock may have come to San Francisco to see your husband.”

  She didn’t respond, either by word or gesture.

  “Did you ever hear your husband mention Eliot Murdock?”

  Now she shook her head in a single measured, mechanical arc. “No. Never.” She allowed a moment to pass before she added tonelessly, “My husband has hundreds of associates.”

  “Does he have many friends?” I asked.

  With the typical slow, deliberate movement of her head, she turned to me. She looked at me silently for a moment before she said, “No, I don’t think my husband has any friends, Lieutenant. When he was younger, I think he had friends. But not now.” As she spoke, she turned her head until she was staring at the Golden Gate Bridge and the low green hills of the Marin headlands, framed so spectacularly by the glass wall. I thought she was about to retreat inside herself—into some secret place where she fought for her own sanity. I exchanged a look with Friedman. He shrugged, raised his eyes helplessly toward the ceiling, then moved his head to the door. I nodded, and was about to rise when the woman spoke. “You’re lying, aren’t you?”

  I exchanged another look with Friedman, who said, “What do you mean, Mrs. Wardell?”

  “I mean that you’re here because you suspect Baxter caused that man’s death.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Wardell,” Friedman answered steadily. “Yes, that’s why we’re here.” He let a beat pass, then said, “But how did you know?”

  “I didn’t know. But I suspected.”

  “Why?” Friedman spoke very softly, very cautiously—as if he were afraid of jarring her out of a shallow trance. “How?”

  “Because of the things you didn’t say,” she answered, still staring out through the glass wall. “And because men like Baxter make people die.”

  “Make people die?”

  She nodded. “Yes.” She sat silently for another moment before she said, “Some men succeed because they’re stronger than other men—or smarter—or better. But Baxter succeeds because he’s cruel. So people die, because of Baxter.”

  “What you’re really saying,” Friedman said, “is that your husband ruins other people. He might cause them to commit suicide, for instance.”

  “Yes.” To herself, she nodded. “Yes, that’s what I’m saying. Baxter is like a—a sorcerer. He has a strange power over people. First he attracts people. Then he possesses them. And then, finally, he destroys them.” She paused, then repeated, “He destroys them. Sometimes they don’t know until Baxter tells them. And then it’s too late.” Again she paused, still gazing off across the Golden Gate. And then her mouth moved in a small, pensive smile. “I’m waiting for Baxter to tell me,” she said softly. “I’ve been waiting for a long time.” Her voice was eerily disembodied. Her eyes were round and wondering, as if she were seeing a vision.

  Slowly, respectfully, Friedman rose to his feet. Speaking softly, as if we were at a graveside, we said goodbye.

  Twelve

  “HAVE YOU EVER BEEN in here?” Friedman asked.

  “No.”

  “Someone told me once that, literally, you have to be worth a million dollars before the City Club even lets you fill out a membership application.”

  “I can believe it.”

  We were sitting in a small reception room that opened off the City Club’s entry hall. With its dark wood paneling, lofty ceiling, high casement windows and somber paintings of stern-looking men, the reception room was almost a caricature of the ultra-exclusive men’s club. It was an austere room, not a comfortable one. There were no magazines on the long refectory table, no books on the shelves. The room was furnished with only four chairs, each of them rigidly straight-backed. Plainly, visitors weren’t meant to feel at home. The room was the City Club’s version of a holding cell, reserved for nonmembers and other undesirables.

  “What’d you think of Mrs. Wardell?” I asked.

  “I think she’s a very strange lady.” As he spoke, Friedman extracted a cigar from an inside pocket. Then, as he was unwrapping the cigar he glanced at a small metal ashtray placed in
the center of the refectory table. Hardly larger than a coaster, the ashtray was spotless. Grunting, Friedman rewrapped the cigar and returned it to his pocket. “I also think she’s probably a little crazy,” he added.

  “I wonder whether she was crazy before she married Wardell.”

  “I doubt it. I think Mrs. Wardell is damaged goods. Badly damaged goods.”

  “I had the feeling that she hates him.”

  “I had the feeling that she’s lost the capacity for hatred,” Friedman said. “I don’t think she’s got the energy. I think she had the energy. But I don’t think she’s got it now.”

  “She said Wardell was a sorcerer. I wonder whether she really believes it.”

  “If she believes it,” Friedman said, “it’s because that’s what Wardell wants her to believe. He—”

  The massive oak door suddenly swung open. A man stepped quickly into the room, swung the door closed, then stood with his back to the door, staring at us. His age was the middle fifties. His height was about six feet. He weighed about one hundred seventy-five. Wearing a belted, khaki bush jacket, brown whipcord trousers and wear-burnished Wellington boots, with a soft cotton shirt open at the throat, he could have been dressed for a high-style African safari. His body was trim and taut: broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, long-legged. His face was an arresting study of strength and purpose, with a squared-off jaw, a straight-across mouth and a high-bridged Roman nose. Beneath the dark, bold arch of thick eyebrows, his eyes were a clear, cold gray. His hair was coarse and graying, and grew low across a broad forehead. He had the face of a centurion—and the eyes of a gunfighter.

  “Hello, Mr. Wardell—” Friedman rose to his feet and extended his hand. “I’m Lieutenant Peter Friedman. Several years ago I worked as your bodyguard.” Friedman’s smile was uncharacteristically ingratiating. Frowning, Wardell looked thoughtfully at Friedman’s face, then glanced down at the outstretched hand.

  “Friedman, you say.” With obvious disinterest, Wardell shook hands. “I’m afraid I don’t remember.”

  I introduced myself but didn’t offer my hand. I already knew that I didn’t like Baxter Wardell. And during that first moment of quick, uncompromising appraisal, I knew he didn’t like me either.

  Still standing with his back to the door, Wardell looked inquiringly at Friedman. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” He spoke coldly, impersonally.

  “Are you acquainted with Eliot Murdock?” Friedman asked. “The columnist?”

  Wardell frowned, then nodded impatiently. “I remember him, yes. He did a Washington gossip column. Several years ago.”

  Friedman nodded in return. “Right. Did you know him personally? Or just by reputation?”

  “Just by reputation.”

  “Did you know that Murdock died?”

  “Recently, you mean?”

  “Very recently.”

  “No, I didn’t know. But I can’t say that I’m really interested, if you want the truth. Why? What’s it all about?” As he spoke, he glanced pointedly at his watch. Countering subtly, Friedman gestured to the elaborately carved straight-backed chairs. “Can we sit down for a few minutes, Mr. Wardell?”

  Wardell’s eyes narrowed as he studied Friedman. In that moment it seemed as if everything about Friedman’s past, present and future was being assessed, analyzed and computed behind Wardell’s clear gray eyes. Finally, with his decision made, he said, “It’ll have to be a very few minutes, Lieutenant. I’m already behind schedule, I’m afraid.” Wardell tossed a leather portfolio on the table and sat in the chair closest to the door. He moved gracefully and economically, utterly assured. Yet his movements, like his speech, seemed subtly calculated, as if he were programmed by the same internal computer that had just assessed Friedman.

  “Eliot Murdock was killed the night before last, Mr. Wardell,” I said. “Wednesday night. Here. In San Francisco.”

  Shifting his attention from Friedman, Wardell studied me for a brief, patronizing moment before he said, “I don’t understand what Eliot Murdock’s death has to do with me. And I must tell you that I don’t have time for guessing games. You’ll either have to come to the point, or else you’ll have to excuse me.”

  “We’re trying to find out who murdered him. To do that, we need a motive. We’ve discovered that Murdock had information relating to a—” I hesitated. I didn’t want to reveal too much. And I didn’t want to antagonize him, giving him an excuse for angrily breaking off the interrogation. “Murdock was investigating what could turn out to be a multimillion-dollar kickback scheme, Mr. Wardell,” Friedman interposed smoothly. “We have his notes, and your name appeared in them. So we thought you might be able to help us put some of the pieces together.”

  The gunfighter’s eyes shifted to Friedman. “I hope,” Wardell said, “that you aren’t suggesting I had any part in this so-called scheme, Lieutenant.” He spoke softly—ominously.

  Once more flashing his improbably ingratiating smile, Friedman spread his hands. “As Lieutenant Hastings says, we’re interested in Murdock’s murder, not his investigations. We have no way of knowing whether his facts were right or wrong. We’re only trying to determine whether his facts, so called, could have been a motive for murder.”

  “What are these ‘facts’ he had?” Wardell accented the single word with scornful precision.

  “They apparently involve Pentagon arms sales,” Friedman answered. He paused, then added, “We understand that you’ve been involved in similar deals in the past. That’s probably why Murdock had your name in his notes.”

  Surreptitiously, I glanced at Friedman. Did he know that Wardell had been involved in the past sale of arms? Or was he fishing? His poker-player’s eyes revealed nothing. But, privately, I decided he was fishing.

  Wardell rose to his feet, picked up his slim leather portfolio and stood looking down at Friedman. He allowed a moment of intimidating silence to pass. Then, speaking in an aloof voice, he said, “I’ve been involved in literally thousands of ‘deals,’ as you call them. Some of them I’m personally involved in. Others I simply finance, after my subordinates have checked out the numbers. So, to answer the question, I couldn’t tell you whether I’ve ever been involved in the sale of surplus munitions—not without checking the records. And checking the records, Lieutenant, can be a long, time-consuming process.” He let another supercilious moment pass, allowing us to consider the value of his time. Then, speaking in the same cool, contemptuous voice, he continued: “I can tell you, though, that people like Eliot Murdock have been harassing me for years. They’re a built-in nuisance, like flies or mosquitoes. And they are, in fact, the reason I pay people—several people—to keep my name out of the newspapers.” As he paused again, for emphasis, he looked from Friedman to me, then back to Friedman. Speaking with slow, bludgeoning emphasis, he said, “Eliot Murdock was a hack and a muckraker and a pimp. And I can give you my personal assurance that any exposé he contemplated doing on me was, at best, a flimsy tissue of lies with just enough truth sprinkled through to beat the libel laws. That’s the way Murdock always operated. And I’m sure twelve years of alcoholic silence hadn’t changed him.” To signify that his remarks were concluded, and the subject closed, Wardell let another beat pass. Then, in a lighter, all-is-forgiven voice, he said, “And now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I’ve got a date with a B-25.”

  Spontaneously surprised, Friedman looked up sharply. During World War II he’d been a pilot. “Did you say a B-25?”

  Patronizingly, Wardell nodded. “That’s right. It’s a propeller-driven bomber.”

  “I know,” Friedman answered, giving Wardell his full, frank attention. “I used to fly one, for God’s sake.”

  Already half turned toward the door, Wardell turned back, for the first time facing Friedman squarely. “You did? Really?” Characteristically, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Where?”

  “North Africa,” Friedman answered. “And Europe, too, with the Eighth Air Force. In ’forty-four and ’forty-f
ive, out of England.”

  “My God, I flew fighters out of England. I’ve got one of them, too. A P-51.”

  “You’ve got a P-51 and a B-25?” Friedman asked incredulously. Then, wonderingly, “My God.”

  Decisively, Wardell nodded. “I’ve had a P-51 for ten years. I bought it for ten thousand dollars. It’s worth eight times that now. The B-25 I just got. I’m taking delivery on it now, in fact. Right now. At the Schellville airport.” Watching the sudden animation in Wardell’s eyes, hearing the lift in his voice, I could see two aspects of the same man in conflict: Wardell, the aviation enthusiast versus Wardell the overbearing financier, conditioned to keep everyone a haughty, self-protective arm’s length away. Inevitably, the financier’s persona prevailed. As I watched, his eyes chilled, his face tightened. His shoulders shifted arrogantly, conveying an aura of imperial impatience. The great world was calling.

  “Do you keep the ’51 at Schellville?” Friedman asked.

  “No.” Wardell answered shortly. “I have an eighty-acre tract up in Marin County, with an airstrip. That’s where I keep the ’51. I think I can use the strip for the B-25, too, if I fly it unloaded.”

  “How long is your airstrip?”

  “Almost three thousand feet.”

  Friedman was about to respond, but Wardell curtly cut him off, nodded to me, and disappeared through the carved oak door.

  “Jesus,” Friedman said, staring at the closed door and shaking his head. “Jesus. A ’51 and a B-25. I can’t believe it.”

  “Did you really fly one in the war? A B-25?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “How many engines does it have?”

  “Two,” he answered absently. Then: “My God, do you have any idea how much hundred octane gas it takes, just to get a B-25 off the ground?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “I would like to see that airstrip,” Friedman said. “I would really like to see that airstrip. I’ll bet it’s more like a private airport than an airstrip. I’ll bet it’s got a goddamn snack bar.”