Presently, he took his hands away and raised his head. “If I could just have—have guessed,” he said.
“That it would end this way, with Amos dead?”
Guthrie closed his eyes and did not answer him.
“What did you expect?” demanded Timuroff. “What were you trying to accomplish?”
“It was after Marianne dropped out of sight. You know about her? About Marianne?”
“I know.”
“She disappeared. Somehow I knew she’d gone down the drain. After that, because I knew that Hemmet was responsible—in a minute, I’ll tell you about that—I tried to figure out some way of wrecking him.” He looked down at his lean powerful hands. “I could’ve killed him anytime, but then my life would’ve been finished too. I—I’d hoped that maybe I still could have a life to lead.”
“Amos told me about your river plans.”
“Yes, we got started on that almost right away. Meanwhile, I hired a detective agency to tail Hemmet. It wasn’t long before they started running into things, mostly about the kind of life he leads, the cash he drops in Vegas, and his women. You knew he was a sadist, didn’t you? Nothing as crude as torture, no whips or anything like that. He just likes to destroy his girls, that’s all, and sleep with them while they’re being destroyed. Or—or maybe he just picks the ones he feels are certain to destroy themselves.” Guthrie shuddered. “Marianne started on the softer drugs, then turned to acid. Finally, it was heroin. And—and then he had her killed.”
“Van Zaam,” said Timuroff.
“How did you know?”
“He was seen leaving her apartment. And how did you find out? By bugging Hemmet’s office?”
“Not his office, no. We learned that once a week at least he’d drive out to an old three-floor office building way out on Balboa, park out of sight, and meet Miranda Gardner. She has a first-floor storefront business there. It calls itself a kind of letter shop, Xeroxing, multigraphing, all that sort of stuff, and with a sour old battle-axe running it—but it’s a fake. In back, she had a little office, with a few filing cases and a wall safe, and that’s where she kept her really private records and did her private dirty work. At that point, I told the agency I didn’t need them anymore, and brought a friend of mine in. He was with me in Vietnam, and now he’s a deputy and criminalist in Santa Clara County, and a real genius when it comes to electronics. There was a vacant office on the second floor, not right above, but just one notch over and in back, close enough so he could get his bugs installed without a hitch. I rented it, had a false name painted on the door, and he set up a sound-actuated rig inside an old TV set, and we just left it running. It picked up everything they said downstairs. Believe me, it was interesting. Finally, we got the two of them planning to kill Munrooney.”
“Motive?” Timuroff asked sharply.
“Because he ratted out on them, they said. I never did find out exactly how, but it was all tied in with Caldwell, Jolly and that Master Plan. Also, it sounded like he told them he was going to clamp down on their personal rackets. Both she and Hemmet are knee-deep in narcotics. Not directly—that can’t be pinned on them. But she owns people—people who manufacture them, importers, wholesale pushers—or she owns the companies that own the buildings where they operate. And Hemmet represents all of them. She owns that police lieutenant, Kielty, and she’s got mortgages on several other cops, the chief included. Most of it’s through her loan sharks or her own contacts in the underworld.”
“How much of all this did Munrooney know?”
“Most of it, but he pretended not to. Baltesar—they used to laugh at him—never once guessed. Maybe he didn’t dare.”
To the dusty porcelain socket of the light bulb, a small brown spider had attached her geometric web. Now, quickened by the unaccustomed warmth, she was traversing it as though on an inspection tour. Timuroff regarded her admiringly, was reminded that the black widow spins the most mysteriously untidy webs of all, and realized that he had never heard what had become of Mr. Gardner.
“Women’s Lib is wonderful,” he commented. “Miranda sounds like a one-woman Mafia.”
“She is. The plan to kill Munrooney was all hers—the plan, the place, all but the weapon and the date. At first, Hemmet was scared, but she pointed out that Grimwood and his man were perfect pigeons—and that they’d have a damn good chance to get this house and find whatever lies beyond that door.”
“She knew about this?”
“Hemmet told her. I guess you know how he found out.”
“Braidstone?” said Timuroff.
“Right. After Braidstone died, Hemmet found secret instructions left by old man Albright ‘to be opened only so many years after my death.’”
“And he kept them secret?”
“Yes—except from Miranda. Anyhow, they took awhile to decide about Munrooney, maybe hoping he’d change his mind. But finally it was set—all except who’d do the actual job. Hemmet put it up to her, and she came back at him immediately. I can remember every word—I’ve listened to the tape too many times. ‘Don’t be a fool, Jud,’ she told him. ‘That man Hanno found to dust the girl off for you—that Denham girl—he’s the man we want.’”
Guthrie’s mouth twisted; for a moment, his hands fought each other on his lap. “Th-that was the first I really knew that she had died,” he said. ‘The rest I found out later on. About the time she’d built up to a two-hundred-dollar habit—two hundred every day, that is—she started threatening Hemmet. And she’d picked up enough so that they had to silence her. I don’t know how van Zaam got to her, but it was he who gave the overdose.” He paused. ‘That was when I knew I’d have to take a hand.”
“I see your point,” said Timuroff.
“At first I thought of tipping off Munrooney, then I decided what the hell! He was the kind who makes it possible for people like Hemmet and Miranda—yes, and van Zaam—to survive and prosper. And suppose anybody had believed me? I’d have been trapped into investigations, trials, suits, and countersuits. I knew I could catch the next flight to Rio anytime I wanted to. I was already spending almost every other week in South America, getting the groundwork laid, but between trips I always made Grimwood’s poker games. When I found out he had a master key and didn’t even know it, I borrowed it one night to give some friends the guided tour, took an impression, and had a copy made. Then a few times I came in the alley door to learn my way around.
“They’d planned, when Grimwood gave the party, to have almost no one there who’d distract attention from Hanson and the doctor—and Hemmet was supposed to engineer it through Baltesar. But when Penny Anne told Jessica about it, I stepped quietly in. I made damn sure that almost everyone tied up with Caldwell, Jolly would be there, and all the arms collectors I could think of. And then there was the weapon. Hemmet had planned to use a boning knife from Grimwood’s kitchen. He was going to hide it in the passage for van Zaam. I wanted something a lot more conspicuous, so I got hold of that fancy dagger Voukos had.”
“At his ceremonial viewing, I suppose?”
“Naturally. Amos invited me along, after I’d hinted I’d like to come. I didn’t think I’d get away with it, but I brought a bowie knife—not one of those enormous ones, but heavy enough to be taken for the dagger in the case. If Voukos hadn’t served so many drinks, I’d never had the chance, but toward the end he crossed the room to show off a silver chalice or something of the sort, and they all drifted over with him—all but me. It didn’t take a second. Voukos still had to put the case away, and I got ready to slip the dagger down between the cushions of the couch in case he opened it. But he came back, higher than a kite and talking a Greek streak and picked the case up, and kissed it, and locked it in his safe.”
Timuroff nodded.
“I guess you’ve figured out the rest of it,” Guthrie went on, a thin thread of despa
ir still in his voice. “Hemmet’s getting Munrooney up to Lucrece’s room was simple. He kidded him with the spread-her-legs-apart bit, started upstairs with him, then happened to remember something he had to do—he’d follow in a minute. Munrooney went on ahead, and by that time van Zaam was ready in the passage. Hemmet and Miranda had it all worked out. As for me, I’d come in through the back door, taken the boning knife, and left the dagger in its place. I waited for van Zaam to use it, which he did, and when he came back down I killed him in the passageway—I’ve been well trained—and hung him up in the armoire. I took a business card out of his billfold, rumpled it up, and put it where you found it, and I took the key Hemmet had given him—he wasn’t told about the iron door and all that. It had a chain with a St. Christopher medallion, the kind they peddle everyplace. I took a chance of being seen and chucked it out where somebody’d be sure to find it.”
“Kielty found it. He took the chain and medal off, probably because he was afraid it might be traced to Hemmet or just to make it easier to pin on Hanson. And after that you went upstairs again and peeled the mayor’s pants off?”
“Right. I wanted to stir up all the fuss I could, in the news especially. That’s why I chose the weapon—that and so they’d bring you in. Amos always told me that once you get your teeth into a problem you don’t give up until you have it solved.”
“I try not to,” said Timuroff, acknowledging the compliment. “I suppose that’s also why you used the Turkish bowstring?”
Guthrie nodded. “I set out with two aims—to foul their plans up so they’d hang themselves, and to make sure Grimwood and Hanson weren’t railroaded.” Again his mouth twisted. “I’ve failed. Hemmet and Miranda are still riding high. Things look bad for Hanson and the doctor. My tapes are worthless because an officer obtained them for me; they’re inadmissible as evidence. All I’ve accomplished is to get my best friend murdered.”
Timuroff examined him. By now, he understood him well. He had known many men like Reese Guthrie. Some he had met only in the books they’d written. Some, like his Uncle Cedric, had been relatives. Others he had encountered in armies here and there—on horses, in tank turrets, flying aircraft. Others still had shown up in unexpected roles and places. Timuroff thought about them, and realized that, given the opportunity, every one of them—himself included—would have killed van Zaam.
“No, Reese,” he said softly, “that’s not all you have accomplished. Your tapes aren’t any good as evidence in court—but they’re not worthless. Their value’s in their information—and information can be used to get hard evidence. You have them, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Can we assume that Hemmet and Miranda found out about them? At least about your bugs?”
“The day after they killed Munrooney, Hanno’s boys turned the place upside down. I don’t know what they found, but there was some equipment which might have been identified as Santa Clara County property; we aren’t quite sure. Upstairs, we had to sneak the stuff out of the office in a hurry.”
Timuroff thought about it. He said, “Reese, did Hemmet and Miranda say anything at all about what they’d do if they were really pushed?”
“Miranda talked about a rigged jail suicide, with a hearsay confession witnessed by a couple of Hanson’s fellow prisoners. Hemmet argued that they couldn’t sustain it in court, and then she pointed out that with it the media would convict Grimwood before he ever came to trial. They wanted Heck and Hanson indicted and arrested before election day, for the publicity. Of course, that was when they still expected to get Hanson for Munrooney’s murder, not for the killing of van Zaam.”
“They’ve done some clever jumping, considering the surprises you’ve arranged for them,” commented Timuroff. “Perhaps we can arrange some more.” He leaned forward. “From what you know of me, would you trust my judgment, Reese?”
“I…would,” Guthrie answered slowly.
“Enough to gamble your whole future on it? Your freedom?”
“Yes.”
“How many hours do your tapes rim, all told?”
“Those between Hemmet and Miranda, or between her and people like that Hanno bunch? Twenty at least, maybe more. Also, we caught a lot of unimportant stuff, her talking to the old bat who runs the shop, or about more or less straight business deals. Why?”
“I’d like you to copy all of them without delay—even the unimportant ones. Do you have equipment?”
“I can rent it.”
“Then I’d like you to take the copies out to Ledenthal’s, and put them in a filing cabinet—I’m sure Amos had at least two or three. You can tell Jessica they’re business records. When is he going to be buried, by the way?”
“Not buried, cremated. The service is on Saturday, at eleven in the morning.”
“All right. Can you make sure that no one will be in the house? That there won’t be anybody guarding it?”
“You sound as if you’re setting up a burglary.”
“Merely the opportunity for one. Hemmet’ll have to carry through and try to find those tapes. Even if they can’t be used in evidence, they’re still deadly dangerous. Probably he’ll have Hanno’s boys do the job, and I want to make absolutely sure they succeed. Then he’ll feel safe again, and that’s just what we want.”
“That makes sense,” Guthrie said. “And then?”
“Think very carefully—did any of those tapes contain information which, if it could be used legally, would result in airtight federal charges against either or both of them? Or, more to the point, were there explicit references to concrete evidence which, seized with a legal warrant, would accomplish that?”
“I’m no lawyer, but I’m sure of it. On the narcotics end alone there ought to be enough to send them up forever and a day.”
“And do the tapes tell where this evidence is kept?”
“She had most of it in her wall safe.”
Timuroff frowned. “Yes, I suppose the past tense is appropriate. She must’ve cleared it out immediately. Do you suppose that she’s destroyed it?”
“She can’t,” Reese Guthrie told him. “Most of it’s blackmail material against her zombies. It’s her weaponry—her life insurance.”
“Then it must be somewhere, and Hemmet certainly will know. Somehow, we’ll have to jar the information out of him.”
“Just how do you propose to go about it?”
Timuroff looked judiciously at Guthrie, seated there; at Muriel Fawzi, still smiling imperturbably; at the huge lead-filled padlock and the iron door. He listened to the whispering timbers of the house, and his fencer’s mind engaged the several problems confronting him. “I have one idea,” he said. “I’m going to try to work it out. But the federal people are already interested. If we can get them to listen to your tapes, if we can show them that a search warrant will really bring convicting evidence, if we can outweigh Miranda’s money and all their power and hidden influence, then perhaps we’ll get results. I can’t imagine what else can save Hanson, and perhaps Heck too, at this point.”
“I can.” Guthrie looked him squarely in the eye. “I can confess.”
“That,” said Timuroff, “is what I’m trying to avoid. Your confession would get Hanson off the hook, but it would ruin our chances of clobbering Hemmet and Miranda, and I’m not sure it’d clear Heck. If, through you, the federal agencies get legal evidence that will convict everyone from Miranda down, I doubt that they’ll pursue you very eagerly. But I don’t see any need, at this point, to tell them who you are. Tomorrow I’m having lunch with Judge Clayton Faraday—you’ve heard of him, I’m sure. He’s an old friend of mine and Liselotte’s. I’m going to ask a Treasury narcotics man to join us, and Pete Cominazzo too—I’ll phone him in San Diego when we’ve finished here. Besides that, I’ll have to fill Heck in on most of it, keeping your name out of it for now.
Reese, you have two choices. You can take off for Rio immediately, and leave Hemmet and Miranda riding high, or you can take a chance and play along.”
“I’ll take the chance,” Reese Guthrie told him. “After the tapes are copied and—and taken out to Amos’s place, what do I do?”
“Phone me at the shop around four tomorrow. I’ll tell you what the situation is.”
Simultaneously, they stood. Timuroff held out his hand. Guthrie took it hesitantly, as though the responsibility for his partner’s death had deprived him of any right to do so.
“Good night, Reese,” Timuroff said quietly. “You aren’t to blame for Hemmet murdering Amos. Amos wouldn’t have blamed you. Nor will Jessica.”
“I wish I could believe that, sir,” Guthrie answered. “But—but thank you anyhow. I’ll call tomorrow.”
He said good-night and turned away, and started slowly through the passage, his head bent.
Timuroff watched him for a moment. Then he let himself back into the house through the armoire. Using the phone in the poker parlor, he rang the library. Bill Traeger answered.
“All clear,” Timuroff told him. “You can call in your man at the alley door.”
“I have,” said Traeger.
Timuroffs brows drew down. After an instant’s pause, he said, “I’ll be right up.”
He took the elevator, opened the library door, and found Traeger at a side table on which he had just put a set of headphones.
“You have been listening.” He made the statement in a voice abruptly very low and hard. “I told you I’d given him my word that everything between us would be confidential.”
The Second Reginald Bretnor Megapack Page 66