Darkest Hour (3 page)

When the last cable car of the day has completed its run, the streets of San Francisco start to growl. Actually, they have been growling all day; it is only when the traffic noises and the people noises cease that the cable noises can be heard. At two o’clock in the morning, driving downtown from a party, Simon Drake became acutely aware of this fact. Perhaps, because of the hour, or of the stimulating company he had just left, or merely because it was a lovely night when profound realities seemed to spring forth from the darkness like great blazing stars in an ebony sky, it struck him, sharply, that this discovery had deep significance. Cables do not cease to roll when the day is done. Rivers do not flow only when they are watched. Nothing is without motion. In this mellow and mildly intoxicated mood Simon rolled the black XK-E into Del Webb’s Townhouse parking lot, parked and sauntered into the lobby. There, awaiting his room key, he learned how really mobile everything could be.

He had received an important long-distance call from La Verde. Immediate answer was requested. It sounded sticky so he asked for his key and took the elevator up to his room. The maid had been in to turn down the bed and close the drapes. Very nice. He switched on the bathroom light and checked the soap dish. This was one of the few motels in the country that supplied a full-sized cake of soap, and Simon grinned in anticipation of a quick shower, a deep sleep and a warm breakfast. He paused briefly before the lavatory mirror and loosened his tie. Success had come quickly and he still had to remind himself who it really was in that hand-tailored dinner jacket and pleated shirt—really Simon Drake who had worked as a garage mechanic days and studied law and investment programs nights until he was admitted to the bar and exchanged the tool box for a brief case. He was holding up well, he admitted to the reflection in the mirror. Only a touch of gray at the temples, still clear-eyed after the four-day struggle to complete Brad Merton’s divorce settlement, and the subsequent eight-hour celebration in Brad’s newly established bachelor quarters. Removing the dinner jacket, Simon frowned. The stomach could be leaner. It called for a renewal of workouts in the torture chamber Hannah called her gymnasium. He tossed the jacket onto the chair and watched the desk clerk’s memorandum flutter to the floor. The call to La Verde. He retrieved the paper and put through the call, puzzling sleepily over what possible contact he might have in that unpretentious settlement.

And then he was told.

“La Verde Police Department,” the man said.

Simon stopped being sleepy.

“Simon Drake here. I have a message to call—”

“Simon Drake? Thank God! Hey, lady, your lawyer is on the phone. Now will you stop threatening to contact the American Civil Liberties Union?”

“Hannah,” Simon said, “what are you doing in La Verde?”

With the exception of his fiancée, Wanda Call, whom he had saved from a murder charge when her young husband was found dead in their honeymoon apartment, Hannah Lee was Simon’s only true love. Independent and outspoken, she was still the eternal woman, passing from cycle to cycle with the grace of Aphrodite and the humor of the Marquis de Sade.

“I’m in the drunk tank,” Hannah responded, “but I won’t cooperate. They want to make a film of me walking the chalk line and all that jazz. The blood, breath and urine routine. I’m pleading the fifth. I refuse to allow my body to testify against myself. I demanded my constitutional right to speak to my lawyer.”

Had there been no such constitutional right, Simon reflected, Hannah would have staged a revolution and created one. Aloud, he said:

“Are you drunk?”

“No,” she answered.

“Then why are you in the drunk tank?”

“Because I told the officer I was drunk when the accident occurred.”

“Accident? What accident?”

“Oh, stop wasting my dime,” Hannah fumed, “and come down here and get me out of this mess.”

And then the man’s voice, which Simon later learned belonged to Officer Glenn Quentin, broke in on the line.

“Mr. Drake, do what the lady says, please! I’m supposed to be a
peace
officer!”

And so that was the end of the quick shower, the deep sleep and the warm breakfast. As soon as Simon was certain Hannah had sustained no injuries, he called the airport and arranged for a private plane to take him to La Verde.

• • •

La Verde. It was just before dawn when all the world is pastel-soft from the sky, and even the freeways are deserted except for the regular truck traffic and a few hardy tourists determined to cross the desert by night. The plane Simon chartered in San Francisco dropped gently down to the runway and nosed into the disembarking area without incident. It was a small private field with no regular bus or taxi service to the city proper; but he had telephoned ahead for a car and chauffeur and was met in the reception room. Before leaving San Francisco he had taken time only to change from the tuxedo into tweeds and a light waterproof that was comfortable in the chill of a morning that promised shirt-sleeve weather by high noon; and a short nap en route was enough to take the ragged edge off Brad Merton’s party.

The courthouse stood at the end of a mall running through the commercial area. Simon told his driver to wait, and then he went inside to find Hannah seated on a bench in the booking room, a steaming cup of coffee in her hands and an expression of deep-rooted contempt directed toward the two officers at the desk. At the sight of Simon she shoved the cup to the end of the bench and came to her feet.

“Now,” she said brightly, thumping her cane on the tile floor, “I can get out of this dungeon. Simon, pay the man a fine, or something, and take me out to breakfast. I’m starved.”

It wasn’t that simple. La Verde had adopted a strict sobriety test and Hannah had admitted her guilt. Moreover, there had been an accident, the details of which Simon received from Officer Quentin, a quiet-spoken man of infinite patience. The Rolls, he learned, was in the police garage with an ugly dent in the right fender and other minor damage. The car responsible for the dent had been impounded pending arrest of the escaped driver. It was registered to a car-leasing agency in Santa Monica and rented on the previous evening to a Mr. M. Montgomery. Watching Hannah’s face, which still masked the mystery of why she was in this bizarre situation, Simon saw what appeared to be a sign of recognition as this information was received.

“Where is Montgomery?” he demanded.

“We haven’t located him yet,” Quentin confessed. “We just verified the name with the rental agency about twenty minutes ago.”

“Then it was hit and run,” Simon said.

“That’s what the eyewitness said. All Miss Lee says is that she was too drunk to see what happened, and then she refuses to take the sobriety test. A law is a law, Mr. Drake, even in a little out-of-the-way place like La Verde.”

“And fleeing the scene of an accident is a violation of the law,” Simon retorted, “even in a little place like La Verde. If I were you I would be much more concerned with why Mr. M. Montgomery ran away than whether or not Miss Lee had one drink too many.”

“He might have been confused—in a state of shock.”

“And so might Miss Lee. In fact, if her doctor knew that she had spent all night on a police-station bench without even a physician in attendance after being in an accident—” Simon paused ominously. “I don’t think it’s improper to suggest that my client be released in my custody until the other party to this accident is found and the matter can be placed before the court.”

Quentin was touchy but not foolhardy. And he seemed relieved to relinquish Hannah, apparently having suffered enough civilian brutality for one evening. Once outside the building Simon posed a question.

“How much did you drink?”

“One glass of champagne,” Hannah said.

“Then you weren’t drunk. Why did you say that you were?”

“That’s a long story. I’m famished, Simon. I won’t tell you one more word until you buy me some
edible
food.”

The rented limousine was waiting. The driver took them to an all-night restaurant not frequented by truck drivers, and as soon as Hannah had a plate of soft scrambled eggs and a pot of tea before her she began to explain the details of her journey to hear young Buddy Jenks’ professional debut. “He’s terribly good, Simon. Raw and still scared, but really good.”

“How does he look?” Simon asked.

“Adorable!”

Simon nodded knowingly. “There’s no substitute for talent, is there? Now that we have Buddy Jenks’ future settled, I’ll ask you again. Why did you tell the police that you were drunk?”

“Because I wanted to be arrested.”

“Why?”

“Because when that car rammed the Rolls, Simon, it wasn’t an accident. It was very deliberate and I was scared silly.”

Hannah was a woman of great wit, but this wasn’t one of her lighter moments. She seemed suddenly to grow very tired. Her hand trembled slightly as she raised the cup of tea. Instantly, she recovered her poise.

“I don’t think I shall ever enjoy another cup of coffee,” she announced. “They served me lye. Hot lye. No wonder so many people favor police-review boards.”

“Do you know why the Rolls was rammed?” Simon asked.

“No, I don’t.”

“Do you know who was driving the car?”

“Yes. His name isn’t M. Montgomery; it’s Monte Monterey. I saw him in the bar just after Buddy completed his last show. I made Buddy dance with me in order to get away from him.”

“Monterey—” Simon mused. “The name sounds familiar. He was an actor, wasn’t he?”

“Allegedly. What did you like to see at the movies when you were five years old?”

“The Cisco Kid,” Simon said.

“You’re on the right track. Monterey never made it that big. His films were a sort of B-minus. He was too intense. In show business you’ve got to be able to stand off and laugh at yourself or the little people get you. Monterey hung onto the fringes until the early Forties and then sank without trace. I heard that he went to South America. He probably had to. He owed money to everybody on the West Coast. When I saw him tonight my first thought was that he wanted to make a loan.”

“What was your second thought?”

Hannah reflected. “At the time I had no second thought. Then, when he deliberately rammed into my car and got out of his and ran toward me, well, I thought he was out of his mind. He looked wild, Simon. Really wild.”

“Drunk?” Simon suggested.

“No, at least that’s not how I felt at the time. I’ve never been afraid of a drunk. All I could think of was getting away from him and getting you down here.”

“If I had known you were planning this trek, I would never have allowed you to come.”

“I know that. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

“But you did come. You got all keyed up about Buddy Jenks’ bright future, because you’ve never really been off-stage since they gave your dressing room to Baby Le Roy, and then you saw a face in the crowd that resembled Monte Monterey. How many years since you’ve seen him, Hannah? Twenty at least—right? He must have changed a great deal.”

Hannah was very quiet. She frowned into her teacup and then glared at Simon.

“I’m not a dotty old woman,” she said firmly. “I saw Monte Monterey and no one else. He hasn’t changed much. Some people don’t, you know. Some people take care of themselves and don’t get flabby around the waist—or the hatband.”

“Touché,”
Simon said. “What do we do now? Go back and tell Officer Quentin to look for Monte Monterey instead of a man named Montgomery?”

“Tell him?” Hannah gasped. “Simon, let the man do his own detecting! This is the age of specialization. I can’t even get the gardener to trim the hedges unless I tip him. So far as I’m concerned, I don’t care if they ever find the driver of that car. All I want now is a hot bath and about ten hours of uninterrupted sleep.”

“At Whitey Sanders’ Gateway Motel?” Simon suggested.

“No! I’m furious with Whitey for not flying in last night as he promised. None of this would have happened if I’d started swapping memories with Whitey. Simon, I wonder … That could be where Monte’s hiding—at Whitey’s! Whitey managed him for a while when things were going good. Whitey was as generous as a saber-toothed tiger in those days; that’s why he’s rich enough to be charitable now. You might check with him. I’d be a lot happier if I knew why Monte ran me down before the police caught up with him.”

“Secrets?” Simon asked.

“Blackmail, you mean?” Hannah laughed from deep in the diaphragm. “Simon, you flatter me. I’m beyond being hurt! In this world only the dead are respected and sometimes not then. No, it’s just that I get chills up my spine when I think of the way Monte looked at me last night. Faces reveal things, Simon, and Monte’s message was no valentine. I was really shook.”

Hannah wasn’t lying, and this was like saying Gibraltar had split down the middle. She needed that ten hours’ sleep. Simon left her to finish the tea and located a telephone booth near the cashier’s counter. The old Seville Inn had a therapeutic atmosphere and foot-thick walls. He placed a call and made a room reservation and then checked the telephone book for Whitey Sanders’ telephone number. Hannah’s old friends and contacts were familiar by virtue of her art as a raconteur practiced regularly at the table of their continuous poker game, which was set up in the bar of the old Victorian mansion. Hannah might stretch a point in business or cheat wantonly at cards, but she wasn’t fey or addicted to fabricating attention-getting fables. If Hannah said she was shook, she was shook. Simon intended to learn why.

Leaving the telephone booth, he stopped at the cashier’s desk to pay for Hannah’s breakfast and pick up a morning paper. Hannah joined him there.

“Turn to the entertainment page and see if there’s a review of Buddy’s opening,” she urged.

“This isn’t New York,” Simon scolded. He glanced at the front page before stuffing the paper into his raincoat pocket. There was a small photo of Sam Goddard and a two-column spread on his fatal accident. The name clicked into place along with the other names in Hannah’s repertory of the past, but it didn’t seem important at the time.