Darkest Hour (12 page)

“Si—! Simon Drake! Wait for me.”

It was Jack Keith. He covered the distance between them in a matter of seconds. He was a rangy, long-legged man of thirty who wore field boots with his business suit and carried a snub-nosed pistol strapped to his hip. Self-consciously, he buttoned his jacket to conceal the weapon.

“I called The Mansion,” Keith said, “and Hannah told me that you were called to city hall. She thinks you’re in trouble. What’s going on here?”

“Murder,” Simon said.

“So I heard. Is this a private beach or may I join you?”

“Be my guest,” Simon said.

They walked together and Keith made his report. “N. B. Kwan,” he began. “Oh, you do pick the pretties for me! Kwan was skewered on a balcony at the Balboa Hotel in San Diego—but you knew that when you called me. Where shall I begin?”

“‘Begin at the beginning and continue until it seems that something has been said,’” quoted Simon.

“You sound more like Hannah all the time. All right, I checked out Kwan at the university. Science major. Brilliant student. No bad habits, no women. He lived like a monk and worked like a dog. Born in Hong Kong in 1942. Chinese father, English mother. N. B. stands for Norman Bryce so it seems that Britannia ruled. British passport, and don’t ask me where I got the photograph.”

It was small—passport size. Kwan. Simon fitted it to the group photo in Sam Goddard’s pilfered file and it matched. “Back up,” he said. “No women?”

“I know what you’re thinking. Death came from a brutal, sadistic beating but there doesn’t seem to be a sex angle. There’s speculation in unquotable circles that it was a crime of vengeance.”

“Why?”

“No answer. I told you this was a pretty one. The law’s clamped a lid on it and the story’s dead in the press. I smell federals.”

“FBI?”

“Among others. Kwan’s clothing was confiscated—everything he wore and everything he had in his suitcase. He had a history of periodically going to hotels and motels to write class papers. A complete loner. Not even a protest movement in his curriculum.”

“Our group-happy society would find him guilty of heinous crimes on that basis alone. Who has the clothing?”

“I’m not sure. My informant knows only that everything was searched by every means in the police lab and specimens were taken of deposits in the pockets.”

“Marijuana?”

“I suspect something stronger. You don’t call in the feds because an undergrad smokes pot. Somebody bought Kwan a new suit for his funeral.”

“He wasn’t buried,” Simon said.

“I know. I followed your trail to the mortuary. How did you get hooked on this case, Simon? Who’s the client?”

“It could be me,” Simon reflected. “I’ll fill you in later. What do you know about Max Berlin?”

Apparently everybody but Simon read
Chic
, or else Keith had done some very fast leg work.

“Nobody
knows
about Max Berlin,” Keith answered, “but a lot of people are wondering. He doesn’t seem worried. A mysterious reputation, especially if it’s off color, only makes a man like Berlin more attractive. Berlin’s made a fortune from woman’s vanity. One rumor is that he provides clients at his spas with more than the advertised services.”

“Reducing, relaxation and sex,” Simon mused. “Sounds like a going combination.”

“I’d buy stock in the company if it was on the board. Berlin has no criminal record—not under that name, anyway. He travels freely all over the world and lives high, high on the hog. Kwan had no record nor does the alleged brother-in-law, Dr. Wong of El Centro. But if Berlin’s mixed up in Kwan’s murder, he’s playing it very cool. He went to the mortuary with Wong knowing he might be seen and recognized.”

“Maybe he wasn’t worried because he knew Kwan’s murderer was already dead,” Simon said. He couldn’t stop there. He had to tell Keith about Hannah’s frantic call from the La Verde drunk tank and the subsequent plunge of the late Monte Monterey. The tale then led naturally to Sam Goddard’s funeral and the pictures found in his darkroom.

Keith’s eyes were intense with excitement. “Now, that’s interesting,” he said. “Kwan’s body wasn’t discovered until Monday morning when a cleaning woman stepped out on the adjacent balcony and screamed up a storm. The room she was cleaning was occupied by a Miss Eve Potter of San Diego, whose landlord was decorating her apartment and she couldn’t stand the smell of fresh paint. She didn’t hear the fight because she’d taken a sleeping powder. At least, that’s what she told a reporter on one of the dailies.”

“Eve Potter,” Simon repeated. “I know something she didn’t tell that reporter. She had another name. Eve Necchi.”

They had reached the pile of ragged rocks, bleak and wet from the churning sea, that formed a wall at one end of the sand bar. No cement steps led up to the street at this end of the beach; it was the turning-back place. Simon swung about and faced Jack Keith, who was still absorbing that last revelation.

“Necchi,” Simon repeated.

“I know. I got it the first time.”

“Did you check out Eve Potter’s apartment to see if it really was freshly painted?”

“Of course not! My assignment was Kwan, not the girl next door. What’s the inside on the Necchi murder? Was she an addict?”

“A boozer,” Simon said, “but that’s not why she came to Marina Beach. Her motive was blackmail. The intended victim was Simon Drake.”

“You? So that’s what you meant by saying you were ‘the client.’ What did she have on you?”

“Nothing but a bad case of mistaken identity. What she did have was something on Kwan’s murder and now even that slim evidence is missing. Jack, keep digging on Kwan. See if you can find a point of contact between Kwan, Berlin and Monte Monterey. I don’t want to tell you all I’ve learned because it may color your approach, but I think this is a very messy show and somebody is willing to do anything to keep it from getting on the road.”

The rocks formed an elbow of shelter from the wind. Keith dug out a pipe and tobacco pouch from the pocket of his jacket, filled the pipe and lighted it with an old-fashioned torch match. The action loosened the trench coat again and the pistol strapped to his hips reminded Simon that men on dangerous jobs still carried arms and that Sam Goddard’s gun was missing.

When the pipe began to draw Keith took it from his mouth and said, “Berlin, Kwan and Monterey. That’s an interesting triangle.”

“Make it a quadrangle,” Simon said. “A man named Sam Goddard was on his way to Santa Monica where Monterey was waiting for him in the Palms Hotel—and don’t ask me how I know that because we don’t have time for a full résumé—when his car ran off the Coast Highway in the fog and landed in a ravine. You can read his obituary in Tuesday’s papers. Check your public library.”

“Accident?”

“Officially.”

“It does happen, Simon. You’re getting to be a nervous Nellie.”

“You could be right,” Simon admitted.

Keith raised one finger in a jaunty salute and started back down the beach toward the cement steps. Simon wasn’t ready to leave. There wasn’t another living thing on the beach but the busy sandpipers, and yet he felt vulnerable. High above the shoreline the bland glass faces of the beach houses stared out to sea, and all that was needed was a strong pair of binoculars and a murderer suffering morning-after qualms to give identity to two men in an apparent casual encounter. He squatted on the rocks and watched the surf until Keith was safely up the steps and the Caddy had pulled away from the viewpoint before making his own slow-paced return to the Jaguar.

The sheet of memo paper Simon had taken from Goddard’s desk was still in his coat pocket, and on it was the description and serial number of Goddard’s gun. Simon drove to the nearest telephone and placed a call to Vera Raymond. Her voice came on strong and steady. A good cry and a night’s sleep could work wonders in any situation. He asked as casually as possible if Sam owned a gun and received an affirmative answer. He asked if it was in its usual place and allowed her time to look. Her voice had trouble in it when she returned to the telephone. The gun was gone. No, she hadn’t seen him take it when he left for Santa Monica Monday, but that didn’t mean that it hadn’t been taken. Sam’s personal effects had been returned by the Enchanto police and they said nothing about a gun having been found in the wreckage.

“Maybe he sold the gun,” Simon suggested.

“That doesn’t make sense,” she protested. “Just a week ago he said something about teaching me how to use it. He was worried about all the hooliganism going on in the beach towns. He said that if the law couldn’t protect people from vandals they had a right to protect themselves. Do you suppose he took the gun to be oiled or repaired?”

“Is there a gun shop in Enchanto?”

“There’s a sporting-goods store. Quite a good one. It’s called Smitty’s.”

“I’ll call them and ask,” Simon said.

News traveled more slowly along the highway than it did in Marina Beach. Vera hadn’t mentioned the motel murder, and that either meant that she hadn’t heard of it or didn’t make a connection with Simon, which was the way he liked to leave it. He concluded the call and placed another to Smitty’s gun shop. Smitty answered. He didn’t need a description; he knew Sam’s gun. He had sold it to him five years ago.

“It was beautiful,” he recalled. “Steel-blue barrel…. No, I never worked on the gun. Sam was in about a week ago to buy a box of shells. Said he was going to set up a target and get in some practice. He would have told me if anything was wrong with the weapon. Why are you asking?”

“It’s missing,” Simon said.

“Missing? Say, shouldn’t that be reported to the police?”

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” Simon answered.

• • •

Simon liked to see a policeman’s eyes when, he talked to him. He left the phone booth and drove down the coast to Enchanto-by-the-Sea, which looked even more disenchanted in the gray of the morning. The city offices were housed in an ugly yellow stucco building with a red tile roof and arched windows. Everything was under one roof: police department, fire station and the Chamber of Commerce housed in a small office off the tile courtyard. The whole arrangement gave the impression of a taco house that had gone out of business. There was no morgue. All accident and homicide victims were taken directly to Willows Mortuary because Willows owned the only ambulance in town. But the officers had made a complete listing of Goddard’s effects, and the .38 Smith and Wesson wasn’t one of them.

Simon gave them the serial number.

“You might want to contact the highway patrol and have the accident area searched,” he suggested. “I think Goddard carried the gun. It might have been thrown out of the car on impact. You don’t want some wild kid to find it and use it on a cop for target practice.”

It wasn’t a hard sell. Simon left the police station with the distinct impression that no stones, proverbial or otherwise, would be left unturned at the scene of the crash and proceeded to Graybar’s Garage, where he was told the remains of the Porsche awaited its fate.

“The body’s shot,” Graybar said laconically, “but the motor’s in fine shape. I don’t know who this wreck belongs to now, but if it belongs to Miss Raymond ask her what she wants for it. I can put the motor in a dune buggy I’m building for my kid brother.”

“What happened to the right side?” Simon asked. “Why isn’t it scraped like that all over?”

“I think she sideswiped something. There’s a steel mesh fence separating the highway up where the wreck was found. It looks to me like Goddard bounced off it a few times in the fog before he went over the embankment. Sam Goddard drove like a crazy man. He was sharp but he only had to miss once. The car has a roll bar, but you can see what happened. The door sprung open and he went out of it head first. He never would use the seat belts I installed for him.”

“Instantaneous death?” Simon asked.

“Man, I’m a mechanic, not a medic. I’ve seen guys walk away from a mess like this. Goddard’s number was up. That’s the only way you can look at it.”

Simon didn’t argue the point of view. He examined the inside of the car and found a road map of California folded open to the southernmost area including a part of Mexico, a small set of wrenches, a screwdriver and a flashlight that wouldn’t light. Graybar assured him there was no gun in the car and suggested that he report the missing weapon to the police.

“With all these wild, hooligan kids running loose,” he said, “you can’t be too careful who gets hold of a loaded gun.”

“Now, why didn’t I think of that?” Simon murmured and left to make the next stop.

He found Willows in a mellow mood. His funeral schedule was clear for the week. He had time to recall the condition of Sam Goddard’s body when it was delivered.

“I’m not a coroner, mind,” he said. “Doc Moore up at Dover Point did the pathology work. I can tell you pretty much what he found. Goddard rode the Porsche down the ravine, but not all the way. His body was found nearly twenty feet above the wreckage where there’s a wall of solid rock. He was lucky; he must have died instantly. He had some fractured ribs and a lot of bruises, but it was the blow on the head that killed him. He must have died instantly. Anyway, that’s what Doc Moore told Miss Raymond, and he’s not a soft-soaper. He’s seen too much to be very delicate in his speech.”

“A blow on the head,” Simon mused. “Could he have sustained the same injury if a rock had hit him instead of him hitting the rock?”

The idea intrigued Willows. “It could be done,” he said slowly. “Yes, it could be done if it was a hard blow at close range. But no! That’s a silly thought. A motorist saw the accident and reported it to the police.”

“That’s news to me,” Simon said, surprised. “Who was the motorist?”

“Don’t ask me. Ask the highway patrol. They answered the call.”

It was a reasonable suggestion and Simon decided to act upon it at his earliest convenience. He left the mortuary and took the Coast Highway back along the route Sam traveled to his death. There was no fog to contend with this trip, only the heavy gray sky that seemed to melt into the crumpled silver of the sea. It was off season for tourists and traffic was surprisingly light; it would have been lighter on a Monday afternoon. Simon drove at a moderate speed trying to simulate the rate Sam might have held in a heavy fog and soon reached the stretch of highway divided by a steel wire fence so tautly stretched that the little Porsche might well have bounced against it without leaving noticeable damage. Simon wasn’t certain where the accident had occurred, but when he saw a black and white highway patrol car and a bevy of motorcycles parked on the shoulder, he swung over to the outer lane and parked just behind them. The Enchanto police had wasted no time. Simon crawled out of the XK-E and approached the scene. Only one lawman was immediately visible: a uniformed deputy who was carefully inhaling from a bottle of nose drops while staring down at the ravine beyond the edge of the shoulder. Simon followed his gaze. Three other deputies were searching the bottom of the rocky area where some damaged brush and a small tree with a splintered branch indicated recent violence.

“Lose somebody?” Simon asked.

The deputy lowered the nose drops and transferred his stare to Simon. “Maybe,” he said.

“I’m a lawyer—” Simon began.

“Sorry, no ambulance case this time.”

“—who was a friend of Sam Goddard,” Simon added. “I’m curious. Is this the place where his body was found?”

The deputy raised the nose drops to the other nostril and inhaled. “This is the place,” he admitted.

Simon looked back down the highway he had just traversed. It was a stretch free from curves or hills and afforded no approach that would provide a view of the ravine on a clear day—let alone in a heavy fog. Willows’ information might have been gossip. He decided to play it dumb.

“It was a foggy day,” he said. “How did you fellows find the wreck if you didn’t know where to look?”

The deputy took the bait.

“We didn’t find it. We got a call from a motorist who saw the car go over. He stopped his car and tried to get down to the wreck, but he was afraid of getting trapped himself and drove up the highway a couple of miles to a gas station with a pay phone.”

“That was lucky,” Simon admitted. “Who was the motorist? Somebody from Enchanto?”

“We don’t know who he was. He didn’t give a name. He called in and said there was a wrecked car in the ditch two miles south of the Sampson Road intersection. I came out on the call myself. Checked out the station owner and he told me the fellow drove on north as soon as he put in the call.”

“It’s a wonder he wasn’t curious about the wreck.”

“Maybe he wasn’t a lawyer,” the deputy said wryly, “and being a lawyer you should know how little citizens like to volunteer accident information. Surprising he called in at all. Hey, down there. Find anything?” The deputy stepped closer to the edge of the cutoff and watched one of his partners claw something out of a crevice between two boulders. It glinted brightly for an instant and then clattered down to the floor of the ravine as the finder tossed away a twisted beer can.

The top-side deputy screwed the cap on the nose drops and looked suspiciously at Simon. “What kind of lawyer are you—insurance?”

“Maybe,” Simon said.

“Well, if you really want to question that motorist maybe you can find him for us. The station owner said he was driving a dark green Cougar. He didn’t see the plates. He thought there might have been one or two other people in the car, and maybe it was black instead of dark green, and maybe it was a Barracuda or a T-Bird. Would you like my job, mister?”

“Not particularly,” Simon said. The search at the bottom of the ravine had resumed, but he was more interested in the surface of the shoulder. It wasn’t paved and there were rocks within reach large enough to crack the toughest skull. Simon kicked one loose and watched it roll a few feet, and then he noticed something shining in the dust and stooped to pick up a cartridge shell. He turned it over and read the markings: .38 Special center fire.

“Find something?” asked the deputy.

“Just a bottle cap,” Simon lied. “But I’ll give you a tip for what it’s worth. I don’t think you’re going to find Goddard’s gun in that ravine.”