The Simeon Chamber (25 page)

Sam turned off the engine and looked at Jennifer. “How about if you stay here while I check to see if he’s home?”

“I didn’t come all this way to sit in the car.” Jennifer reached for the door latch and was out of the Porsche before Sam could respond. “This really is lovely.” She breathed deeply, sucking in the fresh marine air, stretching her arms over her head and rising up on her toes to stretch her legs.

Sam couldn’t help but notice the gentle contours of her body. The tight-fitting wool slacks captured the curve of her buttocks and her long tapered legs. Her breasts pressed against the shimmering silk of her blouse as she arched her back. But any erotic urge was quickly dispelled. The feminine silhouette framed against the gray Pacific sky only served to invoke memories of Pat and to remind him of the reason for their journey.

“Are you going to get out or just sit there?”

He diverted his eyes from her, placed his dark glasses in the console near the gearshift and got out of the car.

Leaving Jennifer tracking in his 5

wake, Sam walked up the path to the front door of the house and gave two raps with the heavy brass door knocker. But for that day’s newspaper on the front porch Sam might have believed that the house was deserted. Several seconds passed. No one came and he knocked a second time. “Hello? Is anybody here?” There was no response.

Sam was about to check the rear of the house when a woman peered over a fence twenty feet away. “Can I help you?”

Under the disheveled gray hair the woman’s wrinkled face took on the character of an overripe sun-dried apple. She had been kneeling behind a low fence, pruning a vine.

“We’re looking for Arthur Symington,” said Sam. “Can you tell us where we might find him?”

“Mr. Symington keeps to himself mostly,” said the woman. “But I would imagine he would be at work at this hour.”

“Do you know where he works?”

“Where does anybody work around here? At the castle. Where else?”

“The castle?”

“Hearst Castle—up the road at San Simeon.”

“Do you know what he does there?”

“I have no idea. If you have to see him today you might try the visitor’s center up the road.

They should be able to help you.” She pointed with her finger in a casual northerly direction and disappeared behind the fence.

Five minutes later Sam and Jennifer were back on Highway 1, heading north.

“Arthur Symington appears to have more moves than a boa constrictor,” said Sam. “If Lamonge is to be believed, Symington was up to his hips in the black market back during the war and now he turns up on the payroll at Hearst Castle.”

Jennifer paid no attention. Her mind kept turning over something the old lady had said. It had come to the fore again as they passed a road sign: “San Simeon: Population 653.”

“What was the name written in pencil on the parchments?” she asked. “Simeon, wasn’t it? Simeon C.”

“Of course!” Sam took one hand from the steering wheel and slapped his forehead in a mock 307

gesture of stupidity. “How could we have missed it?”

“It begins to fit, doesn’t it?” Jennifer looked at him. “The foremost collector of antiquities in his day. One of the wealthiest men in the world. Which newspaper gave you Symington’s address?”

“God, am I dense or what? Of course, it’s still part of the Hearst chain.”

“I don’t know about you,” said Jennifer, “but my interest in Mr. Symington is growing by the minute.”

“Listen. Unless I get some answers, and get ‘em now, you’re headed for the bucket and you’re gonna stay there until you tell me what’s going on.” Nick Jorgensen sat in the chair across from Fletcher’s desk like a stone idol. As if Fletcher didn’t have enough to deal with, now he had another body on his hands—an oversized chauffeur with a rap sheet a yard long and a head that matched the contour of a Chinatown sidewalk. All he could get from Jorgensen was a request to see his lawyer. Fletcher had managed to get a little information out of the hysterical Jeannette Lamonge before she was sedated—enough to know that Bogardus was involved, and that the second death was somehow tied to the Paterson killing.

“Listen, Mr. Jorgensen. You’re a bright man. According to the information in your wallet, you’re on the faculty at Berkeley. Why don’t you put some of that intelligence to practical use and tell me what this is all about?” He was trying a little sugar for a change. He knew he couldn’t hold Jorgensen or Carns for long. Phillipe Lamonge had proved equally stubborn. All the old man would say was that he had been assaulted by the chauffeur in his own shop and that Jorgensen and Carns had come to his assistance. Given the story of the shopkeeper, that the chauffeur had used deadly force on Jorgensen before Carns had ended it, Fletcher knew that it was an open-and-shut case of justifiable homicide. But he was equally certain that the three of them knew more than they were saying.

“Despite what you might think, I’m not stupid, Mr. Jorgensen. I know damn well that this has something to do with the Paterson murder. Where is Sam Bogardus?”

“I wish I knew,” said Nick. “He’s my lawyer and it looks like I could use 309

him right now, that is if you’re charging me with anything.” Nick arched an eyebrow and looked to Fletcher for some hint as to his intentions.

“What I want right now is a little information. What were you doing at the Jade House?”

“Would you believe shopping?”

“In the middle of the night? The place was closed.”

“Sorry, but without a lawyer that’s the best i can do,” said Nick.

“No one would like to see your lawyer more than I,” said Fletcher. “Do you know where he is?

I’d be happy to call him for you. Call him—

hell, I’ll send a patrol car for him.”

There was no response from Nick.

“Well, this is getting us nowhere. i suppose I’ll just have to wait and talk to the girl.”

Both Fletcher and Nick knew that Jeannette Lamonge was the weak link. If Fletcher pressed she would crack like an egg. Nick wasn’t sure how much she knew. But she knew about the parchments and for Nick that was enough. He wasn’t enamored with the prospect of a night in jail, but he weighed the alternatives and took a deep breath. “I’m not saying a thing, Lieutenant.”

“Very well.” Fletcher picked up the phone and pressed the intercom. “Come in here.” A moment later a uniformed officer opened the door.

“Take Mr. Jorgensen back to the lock-up and bring in Carns.”

Five minutes later Jake sat in the chair across from Fletcher.

“Well, your friend’s hanging it all on you.

He says you killed the chauffeur. What about it?” Fletcher looked Carns straight in the eye. If Jake was concerned, it didn’t register on his face.

He looked at the detective. “I want to see my lawyer.” Jake smiled.

“And let me guess who that might be—Sam Bogardus?”

Jake nodded.

Damn, thought Fletcher. He was getting nowhere. He was determined not to question Carns once the request for counsel had been made. He’d pushed it to the limit with Jorgensen. But Carns was streetwise. He had a minor record 311

for assault and was not the least bit intimidated by his surroundings in the holding cell or Fletcher’s office. If there was more to the chauffeur’s killing than self-defense, a court might toss the evidence if there was any hint that Carns was denied counsel or coerced into a confession.

“Very well,” said Fletcher. “Sergeant,” he called in a loud voice. A moment later the officer opened the door. “Take Mr. Carns back to his cell.”

Fletcher turned his attention to the rap sheet on his desk. The dead man had done time in two other states for strong-arm robbery and assault with a deadly weapon. No great loss to society, he mused. He pushed the rap sheet to one side and opened the plastic bag containing the man’s personal belongings. There was a little change, a wallet with a driver’s license and some other identification, a small tool that Fletcher was certain had been designed for picking locks, a pinkie ring and the switchblade knife that officers had found under the sofa. Fletcher pressed the button on the side of the knife handle and a four-inch blade sprang from the handle. It was razor-sharp on both edges. He touched the needlelike point lightly with his index finger as Jack Mayhew entered the office.

“The boys are going through the limo right now, Lieutenant.”

“Who’s it registered to?”

“It’s leased to an import-export company located here in the city.”

“Any information on the company? Who owns it?”

“Nothing so far, but we’re checking corporate records in Sacramento. We should have something by this afternoon. What are we gonna do with Jorgensen and Carns? We can’t hold ‘em much longer, not without bringing some charges.” Mayhew leaned on Fletcher’s desk.

The detective looked up, balancing the switchblade delicately in his fingers like a straight-edged razor. “This’d do a pretty good job on somebody, wouldn’t you say?”

Mayhew plucked the perennial toothpick from his mouth.

Fletcher laid the knife on the desk.

“Take it to forensics and see if it matches the wound in the girl’s back. Also ask ‘em if they checked the lock on the door of the apartment 313

for any scratches inside—signs that it might have been picked. Hold Jorgensen ‘til the wee hours, then release him and tail him. Take somebody with you. See where he goes. Maybe if he’s tired enough and confused he’ll lead us to Bogardus and we can get to the bottom of this thing. Hold Carns ‘til noon tomorrow then release him.”

Mayhew started toward the door and stopped.

“Do you want me to put a tail on Carns as well?”

“No,” Fletcher smiled. “He’d shake it in ten minutes. But let me know the minute the girl, Lamonge, is well enough to be questioned.”

Fletcher was beginning to question his original theory that Susan Paterson knew her killer and had opened the door for him. There were no signs of forced entry at the girl’s apartment, which meant either that she let the killer in or that whoever committed the crime had a key—or had picked the lock cleanly.

It took Sam and Jennifer nearly forty minutes to find someone who could locate Arthur Symington. Sam spun a plausible tale for the benefit of a park ranger: He represented an art dealer in San Francisco who’d come into possession of some rare items believed to have once belonged to Hearst and to have been part of the San Simeon collection. He refused to discuss the particulars of the matter with anyone but Symington. After some telephone conversations between the guide center on the highway and the top of the hill, Sam and Jennifer were ushered to a state vehicle and driven up the steep road to the castle. They parked near a cluster of small trailers that served as offices for the guides. Sam went into one of the trailers briefly to sign a guest register and then he and Jennifer were led on foot to the main house. A tall, slender man wearing wire-rimmed spectacles and a tweed suit met them at a side entrance.

“You’re the gentleman from San Francisco —the one they called about from below?” The man stood a shade under six feet tall, with fine, straight gray hair. His sunken cheeks ran like two furrows under deep-set, coal gray eyes that were transfused with suspicion.

Jennifer looked a little sheepish as she hung back. Sam merely shot a broad grin and extended a hand. “Yes, Sam 5

Bogardus is the name.” He’d already used his business card to establish credentials at the visitor’s center. “I’m authorized to speak only with Mr. Symington.”

“I’m Arthur Symington.”

“Could we speak in private?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” said Symington. “What is it that you have?” Symington fixed him with an icy gaze.

“Very well,” said Sam, “we have some parchments that I believe were acquired by a group called the Committee of Acquisition sometime back during the war.” Taking the tone of a salesman about to close a deal, Sam said, “I believe you may be familiar with the committee?”

Symington’s face turned ashen and his eyes darted to the guide whose blank expression confirmed a lack of any comprehension, at least so far.

“Henry,” Symington said to the guide, “perhaps I should speak with these people in private. This could take some time, and on reflection I think we would be more comfortable in my office.”

In the brief span of ten seconds, the time it took Bogardus to utter the words “Committee of Acquisition,” Symington’s manner had gone from belligerent to solicitous. Sam leaned over and whispered into Jennifer’s ear. “My goodness, but the man is mercurial.”

The guide smiled broadly and courteously excused himself from the group.

“If you’ll follow me.” Symington led the way toward a small, inconspicuous door tucked in the shadows at the side of the main house.

The bus was only half-full. The crowds of summer had departed. Weekday tours no longer taxed the guides to the point of exhaustion. The clustered herds of visitors were now smaller and the buses not always full.

“La Casa Grande is situated atop the Enchanted Hill at about sixteen hundred feet above sea level. During the years that it was used as a private residence, this road was bound by more than a mile of box hedges. A gardener’s nightmare …”

The taped introduction used on the bus was coming to its conclusion as the vehicle lumbered up the steep road and entered an area of more formal gardens. They neared the top of the hill and passed through the chainlink gates that separated 7

Hearst Corporation land from the relatively small parcel of state park property that embraced the castle and its three guest houses.

The corporation still owned and continued to operate the vast majority of the 270,000 acres that had composed the Piedra Blanca Ranch purchased in the 1800’s by George Hearst, an enterprising mining engineer and later a United States senator. Off to the left were the concrete columns of the now-abandoned pergola. Remnants of clinging vines hung from its overhead wooden trellis.

Beneath the trail built into the slope of the hill were the rusted bars and moats of the animal enclosures, long abandoned and now overgrown with shrubbery.

The tape continued: “During its heyday the Hearst zoo was recognized as the world’s largest privately owned aggregation of wild animals.