The man explained to Steve and the soldier, “When I heard in Phoenix about weather conditions, I wired ahead to have a car sent out.” He laughed, “I’ve ridden the bus from Palmdale before.” The invitation was proffered easily, no pressure, “If you men would like to ride along—”
The soldier accepted without hesitation. “Sure. Thanks.”
Steve wasn’t so sure. He’d like to know how this guy could find out where they’d be landing before the hostess knew. Possibly Mr. Big had ordered a car to proceed to all possible points. Even while he hesitated, Steve was telling himself it couldn’t be a trap. The man and the girl and the soldier couldn’t all be together on this, to prevent Steve Wintress from reaching Davidian. To excuse his hesitation, he said, “I’d have to go to the airport anyway.”
The man stepped on his words. “Any place you like.” His smile was almost as professional as that of the air-line hostess. “I’m Haig Armour.” He tossed it out as if he expected them to know the name.
Steve’s eyes didn’t waver. Haig Armour, attorney with the Justice Department. Haig Armour, former big noise of the F.B.I. Steve had heard enough about Haig Armour, but he’d never run into the man before. He didn’t know if tonight was an open move or accidental. Mildly he returned, “My name is Wintress. Steve Wintress.”
If Armour recognized the name, he didn’t admit it.
The soldier said, “Private first class Reuben St. Clair. Call me Rube.” His smile was comic relief.
Armour set down his briefcase and reached into the pocket of his handsome weatherproof. “How about a little heat for that coffee?” He pulled out a leather-encased flask. “Brandy.” It was out of character that he didn’t give the Napoleonic date.
The girl said, “No thanks,” and the private refused, “Afraid it might put me to sleep.”
It could have been drugged and the three working together. But it didn’t smell like anything but the best brandy. It was what Steve needed. He said, “Thanks. I was just wishing I had a drink.”
Armour’s assistant was coming across from the doorway with quick little steps. Steve began to drink his coffee. The sandy man had a sandy voice. “The car is here, Haig.”
“Fine.” Armour shared his smile with the three. “You ready?”
“You bet.” Pfc. St. Clair pushed up on his long legs. He carried his sandwich with him.
Steve went on drinking the coffee. They wouldn’t leave without him.
Armour took the Talle girl’s cup and helped her to her feet. “You tell the hostess we’re off, Tim. We’ll want our bags.” He remembered. “Timothy Leonard, Miss Talle, Steve Wintress, Reuben St. Clair.” The name Leonard wasn’t familiar to Steve. “These kids are going to ride in with us.”
Steve didn’t qualify as a kid but maybe he looked it to Armour. Or maybe Armour was considering Steve’s stature, not the lines in his face. He drained his cup before joining the parade led by Haig to the door. He’d taken it too fast, he felt a little giddy. And again he wondered if the lacing could have been tainted, if the oddly matched trio actually were linked. The first blast of night air helped him to clarity. And standing around in the cold while the reluctant attendant unearthed their bags from the jumble helped more. There was nothing out of character in the luggage; the girl had expensive matched stuff, excess weight; Armour’s was as expensive and as heavy. Rube carried only a small khaki bag as shabby as his uniform; Timothy Leonard’s suitcase was unobtrusive. Steve retrieved his worn valise.
It was Timothy who directed them to an oversized black limousine, bigger than a hearse. But it was Haig who arranged the seating, stowing the soldier up front by the shadowy driver, relegating Timothy to an anachronistic jump seat, and deftly spotting Steve in the rear between himself and the girl. It might be accidental, but Armour knew how to fence in a man.
2
Steve fought sleep. It twas essential he reach the airport and not some destination Haig Armour might prefer. But the brandy had been heavy and taken too fast. He knew he’d slept when the boom of Armour’s voice shook him into consciousness.
The big man was leaning towards the driver’s shoulder. He’d pushed aside the glass panel separating the tonneau from the cab. “My God, Wilton, how can you see anything?”
The machine was creeping through gray fur. They were on some planet where there was no light, no shadow, no presence, nothing but the shell in which they were encased, and the amber beams of their fog lights bending into the engulfing fog. The driver undertoned something without taking his eyes from the windshield.
Reuben commented cheerfully over his shoulder, “You can’t see nothing. Nothing at all.”
After a moment Haig decided to leave it up to the driver. He shoved the dividing partition tight and settled back again into the upholstery. “He said we’re at Sherman Oaks. How can he tell!” He passed his cigarette case. Steve alone accepted; the girl might have been asleep.
“I’ve got to go to the airport,” Steve reminded him. He had no idea of its direction. He took a light. “But you can let me off at any taxi stand.”
“Nonsense,” Haig refused heartily. “On a night like this? Private St. Clair wants to go to the airport too.” He leaned across Steve, raised his voice. “What’s your destination, Miss Talle?”
She turned her head slowly. Her eyes were blurred with sleep. “Benedict Canyon. In Beverly Hills.” The yellow-gloved hands pressed together.
Timothy Leonard said, “Haig and I are stopping at the Beverly Hills Hotel. The same neighborhood.”
“You don’t mind riding first to the airport?” Haig said. It wasn’t a question; it was the way it was going to be.
Steve protested uselessly, “Rube and I could hop a cab along the way. It would save you the trip.” He knew before he spoke that Haig Armour had made up his mind on this before they left Palmdale. It was almost as if he knew that Albion was waiting for Steve Wintress and that it was a meeting he intended to witness. Let him: He’d see two old friends say hello, no more than that. Steve gave up. Actually at two in the morning in this pea-souper, a cab might be hard to materialize.
As they crept through Sepulveda Canyon, without reason the fog thinned out into tattered veils. They could see the dark walls of the pass, the white guardrails, even glimpse white stars in the overhead sky. And with no more reason, as they emerged into Westwood at the opposite end of the canyon, the night reverted to another furry density. Again they crawled tortuously along the highway. But there was some evidence of life here, a neon-decorated, all-night garage, the occasional glisten of pale headlight. It was long to the airport; Haig Armour hadn’t realized how far out of the way it was. He was silently restive, his face against his window. The Talle girl seemed to be sleeping again. Timothy slept. Up front Rube St. Clair was gabbing with the driver, but the glass partition withheld their words.
They reached the airport at last, turning off in pale fog by the large blinking green arrow, following the road to the in-turn, past the empty acres reserved for parking, up to the curb in front of their terminal. Armour swung out of the car first. It was courteous, and the man’s long legs must need a stretch after this run. But Steve wasn’t happy about it; he wasn’t taking any nursemaid into the terminal with him. He didn’t want more trouble. This had been as ill-met a night as he’d had in years, he couldn’t take any more.
Reuben was on the walk; he began to make his manners while the driver was bringing Steve’s valise and the soldier’s khaki bag from the trunk.
“Don’t mention it,” Armour pushed aside the appreciation. “You boys find out if your friends are around. If not, come back and ride in with me. I’ll wait.”
Steve’s fists tightened on the valise handle. But he managed to speak quietly, even pleasantly to the bastard. “Don’t wait. We’ll be all right from here on in. Thanks for the lift.” He walked away fast, the soldier on his heels. They separated inside the door, without any word, each on his own errand.
The terminal was as crowded as the d
esert shack had been, with those dogged friends and relatives who wouldn’t give up. The loud-speaker rasped endlessly, “Flight Nine arriving by bus from Palmdale. Pick up your baggage at the street entrance. Flight Fifty-nine arriving—”
Albion wasn’t in the milling crowd, wasn’t leaning on the ticket counters or on the newsstand. Steve began a slow pace past the chairs. Each one was occupied by a stranger. The phone booths were empty. He went into the men’s room, this too was empty. It didn’t add up. Albion would not have left the air terminal until Steve got there, no matter what the hour. Unless something had gone wrong earlier and Albie hadn’t come at all. But that didn’t add up either. There’d have been a substitute. Albie was thorough.
Steve covered the room again, as if he could have missed Albie on the first count. He wasn’t there on the second either. While he was knuckling his brains, his conscious eye beheld the two doors leading to the court in the rear. He strode to the nearest, the one on the right, and pushed out into the fine fog. Albion must have ducked out here for some reason, possibly because he’d spotted something off color within. Something Steve couldn’t be expected to recognize; he hadn’t met the California boys.
There were no shapes in the fog, no one on the bench just outside the door, no one leaning over the fence looking out to the blurred landing field. Steve walked over to peer down the empty ramp. No one. Nothing. Turning back he saw what he had missed before. Across the court on a smaller bench, there was someone or something, a darker mass against the fogged dark. For a moment he was motionless, conscious only of sounds, his breath and the dripping of fog from the roof. Then he moved quickly, quietly. It was Albion, hunched there in his worn raincoat, a shapeless, colorless hat pulled over his eyebrows. He might have been asleep, but his knees were placed together too neatly, his hands crossed over them in peace. Steve didn’t touch him. He tilted the man’s hat brim with one careful finger, but he had known before that. He walked away, returning to the lighted, busy terminal by the far door.
No one seemed to notice his re-entrance. He lit a cigarette, steadying it with cold fingers. The immediate move was to get a cab into Hollywood. He was heading for the street exit when the soldier emerged from Men’s. Reuben’s face had grown old again from fatigue or disappointment. From both. He said, “Your friends not wait either?”
“Looks like they didn’t,” Steve admitted. He couldn’t have been as long outside as it seemed. Unless the kid had been told to wait for him.
Reuben walked along towards the door. “You don’t suppose that Armour guy’ll still be hanging around?” It was a wishful query.
“No,” Steve said. Although he wasn’t sure of the soldier, he offered, “I’m getting a cab. You can ride along with me to Hollywood if it’ll do you any good.”
Reuben was appreciative. “I’m heading that way.”
And then they saw the big car, the rear door still wide, Haig Armour emerging from the tonneau. “No luck?” Armour’s voice implied that he’d known there wouldn’t be. “You two must have taken the place apart, nail by nail.” He’d changed the seating, he had Timothy by the driver and he himself took the jump seat. The girl slept on in her corner. She didn’t stir when Reuben shoved beside her, making room for Steve. But if you touched her she wouldn’t topple; she was breathing.
“And now?” Armour asked.
“We’ll get off in Beverly Hills.” Steve settled his valise under his heels.
“Where are you going?” There was a hint of impatience in the big voice and Steve wanted to answer it straight: None of your God-damn business! But he said. “Hollywood. We’ll take a cab from Beverly Hills. I’m sure Miss Talle isn’t up to any more side trips.”
“Yes.” Armour agreed too readily. “You can drop us and then Wilton will take you two wherever you want.” He blocked Steve’s protest. “It’s a hired car.”
Steve shut his mouth. Rube was already accepting in his lackadaisical fashion, “Well, thanks, Mr. Armour. Someday I’ll give you a lift.”
Fatigue silenced all of them. The fog ebbed and flowed about the car through Westwood and into Beverly Hills. They turned away from the city on a broad avenue sentineled with giant palms, slender and tall as Watusis. The fronds were lost in the dark white mists overhead.
The driver held speed to a walk. The avenue was sparsely lit, the intersections lost in the fog. Again theirs seemed the only vehicle in motion, themselves the only living organisms in a vanished world. The Beverly Hills Hotel was a beacon, its yellow lights penetrating the gray. The car didn’t hesitate at the hotel. For a moment anger seized Steve. And then he realized from the growing darkness that they were moving into Benedict Canyon. The climb was tortoise slow, the driver pulling under far-spaced and dim street lights to decipher the street signs.
The girl said, “I don’t know where we are.” It was the first thing she’d said since leaving the airport.
Haig Armour didn’t sound too sure. “Wilton will find it. You know your aunt’s place?”
“I can’t see a thing.” Her yellow-crocheted forefinger rubbed against the window as if she could make a hole in the density.
One estate was like another on the Benedict Canyon road, shrubs and trees, the mass of big houses fading into the white shadows. Wilton was out of the car, turning a flashlight on the country-style white mailbox, lettered in black. And he was again in the car, heading further up the Canyon. It wasn’t more than a long city block before be repeated the routine, this time returning to open the rear door.
“This is it, Miss Talle.” He didn’t talk like a chauffeur, there was a quiet authority in his voice.
Miss Talle said, “Good night.” She didn’t say thank you, possibly she’d said it before, or was too sleepy to care. Armour helped her out of the car. Wilton carried her expensive luggage through the gate. She stumbled after the man. He could have driven closer to the house; the iron gates of the drive were closed for the night but he could have opened them. Steve wondered.
Haig Armour took the place she’d vacated. It shoved the soldier closer to Steve, Armour was bulkier than the slip of a girl. Through a yawn, he commented, “Her uncle is Eldon Moritz.”
The name was nothing to Steve. Or to Reuben.
“She dances. Ballet.”
It meant no more than that Haig Armour had asked her a few questions while they’d waited at the airport.
Rube asked, “Is she in the movies?”
“She’s been in a couple. Just background motion.”
Steve asked, “What does her uncle do?” If the name meant something to Armour, it wouldn’t hurt him to know.
“He’s a director,” Armour said.
Wilton’s steps crunched on the gravel. He came out of the fog, climbed under the wheel without a word. He somehow managed to turn the car in the narrow lane and it crawled down the long winding hill again to the lighted oasis of the hotel. End of the run for Haig Armour and Timothy Leonard. Armour tried once more. “You boys want to put up here for the night? I can take care of you.”
Steve spoke up before Reuben could get in an acceptance. “Thanks. I’ve got to check into Hollywood.”
If the private was disappointed, he didn’t let on. “I guess I better find my outfit before they think I’m lost. I’ll go on in with Steve.”
They repeated their thanks, watched Armour’s confidence climb the broad steps to the hotel porch, the silent Leonard at his heels. A uniformed attendant appeared for the luggage. And Wilton was suddenly standing at the car door, looking in.
Steve said, “You can drop me at the Roosevelt.” Reuben didn’t say anything.
The fog held, now faint, now furry, along Sunset and the Strip into Hollywood, turning over La Brea to the boulevard. Both Steve and Rube swung out at the tall lighted hotel. They had their bags in hand, there was no reason for the man to leave the wheel. Reuben said, “Thanks for the ride.” Steve added. “Thanks.” He gave a half salute. You wouldn’t be expected to tip Armour’s driver, and besides, he wasn
’t a driver.
Steve stood there on the walk until the car had pulled away, filing in his memory what he had seen of the man. Not a hired driver. Plain-clothes cop? Federal Bureau? Haig Armour wouldn’t be in town on an unimportant assignment. No one could say with certainty that Armour had actually left the F.B.I. Certainly he’d been prosecuting Justice cases, he was a lawyer, wasn’t he? Weren’t they all who had joined in Armour’s generation? But it could be a cover-up for more secret Bureau work.
Reuben was eyeing the big hotel dubiously. “You going to stay here?”
Steve didn’t like the way he was sticking, yet it needn’t mean anything. It could be the kid didn’t know his way around town and didn’t have much coin. “No. I’m heading for a flea-bag up the street. I didn’t think His Worship had to know.” It wouldn’t hurt to offer. “You can bunk with me tonight.”
Rube spoke quickly. “I’m not broke. I didn’t want any more handouts from Mr. Armour. Next thing he’d be winning the war single-handed.” He crimped the grin. “It’s too late tonight to start looking for the guys I was supposed to meet—”
“I said you could bunk with me,” Steve repeated. It was too brusque. He softened it. “I already won one war. I don’t want any more medals.”
The hotel he was heading for was past Highland, halfway between the Roosevelt and the Drake. An easy walk even with the valise to carry. There didn’t seem to be any big black car cruising the empty street. Rube had another dubious eye when they came abreast the Balboa.
Steve reassured him. “It’s a flea-bag. But Hollywood style.” The lobby was small and fancy, glassed like a conservatory. It had enough red leather banquettes to set up a cocktail lounge. “A friend recommended it.” Albion had said it was convenient.
The desk clerk asked no questions, only the rent in advance of registration. He was a blenched old man, his sparse hair dyed a ruddy brown. Steve paid, handed over his valise to the soldier. The key he put in his pocket; let the hop pick up a duplicate.
Davidian Report Page 2