Darkest Hour

by Nielsen, Helen

  “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.

  • • •

  When the limousine deposited Simon and Hannah at the Seville Inn, the great lobby was bereft of guests. The bar had closed at 2 A.M., the breakfast room wouldn’t open until seven, and the only signs of life were the waiters emerging from the kitchen with trays for the hardy variety of early-rising patrons and a grim, officious-looking man in a gray tweed suit who was in earnest conversation with the night manager. Simon approached the reservation desk and tried to get the attention of a very young, very blonde female who looked as if she had just donated too much blood to the Red Cross. She would recover, but not while the tweed-suit man impaled her with an inquisitive stare.

  “I suppose I’m the last person to see him alive,” she was saying. “I was on duty when he came in—”

  “The second time?” Tweed Suit demanded.

  “The second time—yes. I came on duty at twelve midnight. It was a couple of hours later—almost two—when he came back. Now that I think about it, he did look drunk—or sick.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “Yes. He said I wasn’t to ring him or send anyone up to his room. ‘I’m beat,’ he said. He looked it.”

  “And then he went up to his room alone? I mean, a bellhop or a porter didn’t go up with him?”

  Tweed Suit spoke sentences which came out questions, and the blonde answered accordingly.

  “Nobody went with him. He went alone. Gee, I wish I’d sent Sammy up with him, but I didn’t realize—”

  It was then that the service doors opened and two husky young men in white suits started to roll a stretcher into the lobby. Tweed Suit turned toward them angrily.

  “Not in here!” he yelled. “Go to the Orange Street Arcade. The manager doesn’t want a stretcher rolled through the main lobby!”

  When the huskies hesitated, Tweed Suit broke off his interrogation and went to show them the way. Simon took advantage of the moment to catch the attention of the blonde and remind her of Hannah’s reservation. The girl, whose desk name plate identified her as Miss Hawks, tried to make an easy transition back to her normal work, but certain things had been overheard and both Simon and Hannah looked puzzled.

  Miss Hawks smiled wanly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t notice when you came in. There’s been an accident.”

  “Fatal?” Simon asked.

  A direct question couldn’t be evaded.

  “Yes,” she answered. “It’s pretty awful but we don’t want to alarm the clientele. One of the guests got drunk last night and fell down the stair well from the fourth floor. His body was found just a few minutes ago when one of the businessmen in the arcade came to unlock his shop. I get the shivers when I think how he might have been lying there all night. The arcade’s locked off by steel gates at 6 P.M. and nobody uses the stairs—”

  Miss Hawks broke off abruptly. “I shouldn’t be telling you all these things,” she apologized. “It’s just that I’ve got so much bottled up inside. Poor Mr. Montgomery—”

  “Montgomery?” Hannah echoed. “Was that his name?”

  Miss Hawks rebottled immediately. “Did you know him?” she asked.

  “No,” Simon said quickly. “She’s just curious, and this is the wrong time for it.”

  He registered and got the key from Miss Hawks before Hannah could get any more deeply involved, and then he took Hannah to her room where the walls were thick and the doors solid.

  “You’re to stay here,” he ordered. “I know you’re dying to see what’s being scooped up from the arcade floor, but this could get messy. Take a sleeping powder. Forget everything. I’ll do the investigating.”

  Luckily, Hannah was too weary to protest. But she wasn’t too weary to think.

  “Simon,” she said, as he moved toward the door, “if Montgomery is Monte Monterey, and he is dead, I can identify that expression I saw on his face last night. It was panic, Simon. It was pure panic.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Simon left Hannah locked securely in her second-floor room and took the automatic elevator down to the lobby. There was still no indication of tragedy to mar the stately opulence of that area. Affluence has a genius for tidiness. He crossed the thickly carpeted floors to the patio exit and hurried toward Orange Street. There, backed up to the shopping arcade entrance, stood an ambulance—doors open to receive the inert passenger being carried toward it on a blanketed stretcher. Simon sprinted to the scene as the tweedy man approached the ambulance. Seeing Simon, he stepped between him and the stretcher. From his jacket he took a badge and I.D. card. He was Police Lieutenant Job Rickey, stocky, sandy-haired and terse.

  “If you’re from the newspaper,” he said, “get your story at the General Hospital.”

  “How about the city morgue?” Simon suggested.

  Rickey sighed and returned the credentials to his pocket. “Now I remember—you were at the registration desk. All right, so you know he’s dead.”

  “Can I look at the body?”

  “Why?”

  “I may be able to make an identification.”

  “Don’t need one. The dead man is a Mr. Montgomery—a registered guest of the hotel.”

  “The same Montgomery the traffic department is looking for on a hit and run?” Simon asked. This was news to Rickey. Simon took advantage of the reaction to drive home his point. “You people at the courthouse should maintain better communication between departments,” he said. “My name is Simon Drake and I’m a lawyer. I represent Miss Hannah Lee, whose automobile was struck by a man named Montgomery in the parking lot of the Gateway Bar late last night. She’s been released to my custody pending a formal hearing, so, you see, I do have a legitimate interest in the dead man under that blanket.”

  “Do you know Montgomery?” Rickey demanded. />
  “No, but I have a detailed description.”

  The sun was getting higher in the sky. Within the hour all of those picturesque little shops in the arcade would be open and the ever-mobile species tourista Americana would be promenading to the recorded rhythm that still played gaily from the speakers on the mall. Rickey wanted to get the ugly work of the night out of the way before business hours, but he was as eager as Simon to identify the corpse. He stepped aside and pulled back the top of the blanket. Simon was startled. Death had drained the man’s face of natural color, and the sun-lamp tan looked muddy in the early light. But it wasn’t the coloration that shocked him; it was the sense of time regression. The side of the dead man’s face that was closer to him had escaped injury, and it was the face of a man of twenty-five or thirty—the nose profile perfect, the ears laid close to the expensive hair style, the eyebrows trained to provocative arches. Every feature was familiar and doors opened into the past when Monte Monterey, larger than life, rode into two score sunsets while the theme music swelled to a triumphant finale. Hannah couldn’t have been mistaken. This was the Monterey she remembered. Only when Simon leaned closer did he see the telltale scars of surgery.

  But the opposite side of Monterey’s face resembled something that had collided with a meat grinder and a well-aimed mallet.

  Rickey cleared his throat and drew the blanket back over the dead man’s face. “Well?” he asked.

  “It’s the same Montgomery,” Simon said. “How do you make the death—accident or suicide?”

  Rickey signaled and the attendants lifted the stretcher into the ambulance. “Ask the coroner,” he said. “I only make pickups and deliveries.”

  The ambulance doors closed. Moments later, sans sirens, the vehicle moved off down Orange Street. Clean. Tidy. Silent. No distracting evidence to disturb the trade. In a window of the arcade florist shop a slim-hipped young man in white jeans and T shirt was arranging a display of gladioli, and up and down the mall echoed a sprightly madrigal for electric guitars and vibraharps. Sunrise, Simon mused, was as good a thing to ride into as sunset.