Darkest Hour

by Nielsen, Helen

  He wanted to get back to Hannah with the verification of her identity of the dead man, but Lieutenant Rickey was still at his elbow and a black-and-white police car was sidling to the curb.

  “Mr. Drake,” Rickey said, “I think you’ll need a ride to the courthouse.”

  • • •

  Simon’s reentry into the La Verde courthouse was less impressive than the initial performance. Hannah always added color to any scene, but Hannah was resting at the Seville Inn and a great many people who were blandly indifferent to Monte Monterey’s battered half profile made up the dramatis personae of the second show. Lieutenant Rickey wasted no time contacting Officer Quentin, and when the wallet taken from the dead man’s body disclosed a receipt for rental of the black Ford, and an international driver’s license issued to Martin Montgomery, the hit-and-run charge involving Hannah and a battered Rolls reached an abrupt termination.

  The La Verde courthouse wasn’t the Pentagon. Nobody seemed interested when Simon walked boldly into the anteroom to the morgue and watched the conscientious clerk list the personal effects that had been taken from Monterey’s body. One wafer-thin wrist watch (worth at least $1000, Simon reckoned). One gold-plated cigarillo case inscribed: O Amoroso. One black leather wallet containing $1821 and a matching coin purse containing nearly $3 in United States coin, five Mexican centavos and a Brazilian 100-cruzeiro note. One ebony cuff link. One silver St. Christopher’s medal attached to a key chain. One house key from the Seville Inn, room 464. One plain gold man’s wedding ring inscribed: JO to JM—10-24-41.

  Simon studied the ring thoughtfully and replaced it on the desk. No identification except the international driver’s license and the receipt from Able Rentals, the agency in Santa Monica. The clerk had emptied the pockets of the dead man’s suit and found nothing that could establish his correct identity. He now took the key chain and unlocked the smart black traveling case that had been sent over from the Seville Inn. It contained the usual items: brushes, men’s cosmetics (an expensive brand), underwear, socks, four white dress shirts, two Italian sweaters, a pair of white swimming trunks, half a dozen narrow silk ties and a small black leather case containing a pair of diamond cuff links that were at least a half karat each. Nothing about Monterey’s possessions bore out Hannah’s description of him as a deadbeat. The suit was hand-tailored but carried no label. The raincoat, to which the clerk now turned his attention, came from an exclusive shop in San Diego. The pockets of the coat yielded a gold lighter—a mate to the cigar case. It was not inscribed. Also a small box containing a pair of undamaged contact lenses, and a pair of dark driving glasses with one lens shattered and the frame twisted out of shape. The coat itself was undamaged and spotless. The suit coat bore extensive bloodstains and reeked of whisky.

  “There was a crushed half pint in the left pocket,” the clerk explained. “Don’t touch. The fabric’s full of splintered glass.”

  “Scotch or bourbon?” Simon asked.

  “Funny man!” the clerk said. His hands ran along the inside of the coat and removed from the inner pocket a small black notebook containing what, at the glance Simon had, appeared to be telephone numbers. The final item listed was a pair of custom-made black suede shoes with lifts on the heels and very oily soles.

  Simon had seen as much as he was going to be allowed to see, and there was something more to be done while waiting for the release of the pathologist’s report. For whatever reason, drunk or sober, the man identified as Montgomery had rammed his car into Hannah’s Rolls, and that meant there were damages to be repaired.

  The police garage was only steps away from the jail wing of the old courthouse. Both the Rolls and the rented Ford had been impounded, and the Ford had sustained much the worse damage. The front bumper was rammed back into the hood. The radiator was collapsed, and the cylinder head cracked. A wide pool of oil darkened the garage floor under the machine, and Simon remembered the stains on Monterey’s shoes and checked out another detail. The interior of the car was clean except for an edge of paper showing between the cushion and the back of the seat. He opened the door and retrieved a folded highway map: one item the police had missed. The front cover carried a bank’s advertising blurb and a rubber-stamped notation: “Courtesy of The Palms Hotel, Santa Monica.” Simon slipped it into his coat pocket and turned his attention to the Rolls.

  The Rolls had an ugly dent in the left front fender and one cracked headlamp lens. But the motor responded at the turn of the key, and Simon decided to drive the car back to Marina Beach himself. He would send Hannah home in the limousine. The sooner the better. It was only a matter of time until some evidence would establish the dead man’s true identity, and he didn’t want Hannah involved in the ensuing publicity. Whatever motivated Monterey’s plunge to the bottom of the stair well, it wasn’t a nice way to go.

  But to move the Rolls required authorization, and that meant returning to Lieutenant Rickey’s office to await the arrival of the full set of accident photos required before anything could be released. It wasn’t a long wait. The police photographer’s name was Dirk Holman. He was good at his job and he knew it. He produced a set of glossies complete enough to satisfy even Rickey’s exacting demands and then, with a touch of macabre delight, added to the stack on the desk a set of shots he had made of the dead man. The top photo was a close-up of the mutilated side of his face.

  Only the unexpected could shock an old pro like Rickey. Holman watched for the reaction and chuckled when it came.

  “Not so pretty, is he?” he taunted. “Now look at the next one.”

  Holman peeled off the top photo. The contrast with this shot—the right side of the face that was unscarred and un-bruised—was even more startling than viewing the dead man on the stretcher.

  Holman leaned forward, his hands braced against the desk. “Well, what do you see?” he demanded brightly.

  Rickey frowned. “This guy looks familiar.”

  “You bet he does! That’s the Latin Lothario, the Prince of Peons, the Citrus Belt Caballero. That’s Monte Monterey, pride of La Verde Public High School, 1925. That’s the year he enrolled. He graduated on Gower Gulch in Hollywood.”

  A good listener could pick up things all the time. “Monterey was a native son of La Verde?” Simon asked.

  Holman liked taking the play from Lieutenant Rickey.

  “That’s what it says in the newspaper morgue. I’ve got a photographic memory for faces. The instant I trained my camera on this one, I knew it was familiar. Yes, sir. Monte Monterey was born on a citrus ranch just beyond what used to be the city limits. His father was an orange picker named Morales. Our hero, Monte, was christened Manuel Morales and was one of six Mex kids—”

  “Okay, save the information to impress your girlfriend,” Rickey growled.

  “Girlfriends,” Holman corrected. “I just thought you’d like to know who it really is on that slab in the morgue.”

  It was important for Simon to get Hannah out of La Verde before the story broke and somebody, perhaps Dirk Holman, realized she was Monterey’s contemporary and might well have recognized him. It could be embarrassing trying to explain why her attorney hadn’t correctly identified the body.

  The chimes in the old chapel at the Seville Inn were tolling eleven when Simon returned to the hotel lobby. There was more activity now. The restaurant was open. A few late risers were breakfasting, a few early risers were preparing for lunch, and in the sunny courtyard the first group of tourists was being assembled for the guided tour. It was peaceful and serene: a world of beautiful people doing beautiful things just like in the travel folders.

  A new girl had taken over at the reception desk: bright-eyed, auburn-haired, green-eyed daughter of the light touch. Simon looked at her and felt ten years younger.

  The name plate read: MISS PENNY.

  “Miss Copper Penny?” Simon mused aloud. “Miss Pennies-from-Heaven?”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “A penny saved is a penny earned,” she remarked.<
br />
  “Beautiful! How do I go about saving you?”

  Her eyes stopped laughing. She donned a pair of black-rimmed half lenses and peered at him more closely. She was even prettier with glasses.

  “Now you look like a schoolteacher,” he said. “Chemistry is my favorite subject. What’s yours?”

  “History—personal,” she said. “Do you wish to register for a room?”

  “I already have a room—two-eleven.” He dangled the key before her eyes. “And don’t tell me that I should have left it at the desk because I know that. What are your hours?”

  “Too long,” Miss Penny said, “and I always go straight home—”

  “I don’t mean today. I mean last night.”

  Miss Penny had the registration file before her. She rifled through it as Simon spoke. He saw her tense a bit and go on the alert. “Two-eleven,” she repeated. And then she removed the glasses and stared directly into his eyes. It was like receiving a high-voltage shock. “You aren’t local,” she said. “What are you? L.A. press?”

  “No,” Simon said, “a friend of the court. Don’t crack your brain over that one; it’s not worth it. I’m just curious to know how drunk Martin Montgomery was when he checked in last night.”

  “But he wasn’t—”

  “Then you were on duty?”

  “Yes. My regular shift is four P.M. to midnight. I’m only here now because the morning gal is sick. But Mr. Montgomery wasn’t drunk at all when I talked to him. He was just tired.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “Yes. As soon as he got up to his room, he called down and asked me to ring him at eleven-thirty. It was nine-thirty then and I asked if he meant P.M. or A.M. He said P.M. because he had an appointment.”

  “Did you see him go out at eleven-thirty?”

  “Well, thereabouts. Give or take a few minutes, Mr. Drake. Shall I ring two-eleven and say that you’re coming up?”

  Simon distinctly remembered signing the registration card: “Hannah Lee.” He wondered if Lieutenant Rickey had been name dropping, or if the bright Miss Penny was a courtroom and crime fan. He decided not to ask.

  “No,” he answered, “I’m going up to have a passionate orgy with my paramour and I don’t want to be disturbed.”

  Simon turned away from the desk with the irritating certainty that Miss Penny wasn’t at all jealous. That was a shame. She was very attractive and that thought reminded him that he had forgotten to telephone Wanda, who was in New York rehearsing a play. The romantic hazard in clearing a beautiful entertainer of a sensational murder charge was that the ensuing publicity had sparked a new career. Wanda was too unsure of herself after the tragedy to start a second marriage without some ego-boosting therapy. An offer to appear in a new Broadway play appealed to this need, and Simon was agreeable. The separation gave him time to adjust to the impending loss of his long-cherished bachelorhood. The field was still stimulating, but it was Wanda who came to mind when he left Miss Penny. That was a good sign. By the time he reached this conclusion, Simon was in the automatic elevator. His hand hovered over the floor selector and then touched four. He would call Wanda later.

  • • •

  He was the sole passenger. The elevator rose rapidly and opened into the corridor that terminated at the patiolike passageway separating the deluxe suites. The sky was a clear, smog-free blue against which the Spanish towers rose proudly to cut off the graceless commercial clutter below. Looking down, he could see gardens and treetops on one hand, the mosaic tile floor of the chapel courtyard on the other. Unfamiliar with the inn, Simon had to search for room 464. He located it only steps away from a circular staircase leading down to the spot where the dead man had been found. Encircled by an iron grille railing and closed to public use by a securely padlocked iron gate, the stairs were inaccessible to anyone not intent on self-destruction or made reckless by drink. Below, a heavy tarp weighted by sawhorses concealed the bloodstained tiles where Monterey had landed. To the uninformed observer, the obstruction merely marked a workman’s repair zone, and around it the mundane commerce of the day continued without pause.

  Simon turned back to room 464. He approached the door with the key to Hannah’s room; there was always an outside chance that it might fit the lock. He was laboring over the keyhole when a familiar voice at his shoulder put an end to operation lock-pick.

  “I think this pass key will work much better,” Miss Penny said.

  Simon sighed and stepped away from the door. “You followed me,” he scolded.

  “You left tracks,” she said. “What was I to think when one passenger entered the elevator bound for the second floor, and the indicator didn’t stop until it reached four?”

  “I’m just curious,” Simon said.

  “I think morbid is the word. Do you really want to go inside?”

  She did have a pass key in her hand, and she seemed serious. She was also much more attractive without a registration desk to block off some of the more interesting areas of her anatomy.

  “Why isn’t there a police guard?” Simon asked.

  “Why should there be? There’s no criminal investigation to my knowledge, and the management certainly doesn’t want to draw attention to a suicide’s room. It might get jinxed and we’d have an unrentable suite on our hands.”

  As she spoke Miss Penny unlocked the door. It was a heavy, cloister type that swung inward on the huge room where the drapes were still drawn, but there was no sign of recent occupancy. All of Monterey’s belongings were at the police station. The room was clean.

  “Satisfied?” she asked.

  Simon frowned. “Something’s missing,” he said.

  The room was beautifully furnished: huge bed, dresser, lounge chair and side tables, desk …

  “Where’s the desk chair?” Simon asked.

  “Oh—it’s being cleaned. It has a fabric seat cover. There was a stain on it. Oil.”

  “Oil?” Simon scanned the carpet. It was gray with a deep pile and had been recently cleaned. But there were some traces of oil. “Montgomery’s shoes were oil stained,” he said. “I wonder why he stood on the chair.”

  There was no molding on the high vaulted ceiling, no hiding places, no chandelier. He opened the closet. The shelf was easily accessible, and Monterey, Simon remembered, had lifts on his heels. He found a luggage rack that opened to the approximate height of the desk chair and climbed up on it. There was a row of cloister windows above the bed that opened out through a section of saw-tooth roof; but they were securely locked and out of reach even from the luggage rack. He stepped down and took the rack to the bathroom. There was no window at all and no cupboards or shelves above normal reach. Outside the bathroom a pair of steel-framed French doors opened onto a tiny balcony looking down on the service yard. Each suite on this side of the wing had a similar balcony. Simon set up the rack again and climbed onto it.

  “Don’t!” Miss Penny cried. “You’ll fall!”

  He looked down. The guard rail came to his ankles and the drop would have flattened anyone’s profile.

  “I wonder why Montgomery didn’t make his leap from here,” he mused, and at that instant the luggage rack gave way. Simon grabbed wildly for the top of the steel window frame. Clinging to it by one hand, he twisted his body and grasped the heavy copper rain gutter with the other and then hung spread-eagled, his feet dangling just inside the low railing, until Miss Penny could react and remove the rack, leaving space for him to drop to the balcony floor.

  He landed, facing her, only inches away. She was very soft and feminine and smelled good.

  Simon inhaled. “Chanel Number Five?” he guessed.

  “Avon, two-fifty,” she said. “Now, sir, please stop reenacting the suicide and get out of here before we have another ambulance case. I shouldn’t have allowed you inside the room at all.”

  “Why did you?” Simon asked.

  “I don’t know … Yes, I do. I saw the name Hannah Lee on the registration card, and I knew that
Simon Drake was her attorney.”

  “Her slave,” Simon corrected. “Go on.”

  “That’s all there is to it. I saw you on TV when you defended Wanda Call. I wanted to see you in person.”

  “Disappointed?” Simon asked.

  “I can’t answer that question on so short an acquaintance, and I must get back to the desk.”

  Miss Penny picked up the broken luggage rack and walked to the door. She stood there jangling the large key in her free hand until Simon took the hint, and followed her out of the room.

  “One more question,” he persisted. “You said that you took Monterey’s call last night when he asked to be awakened at eleven-thirty. Did he mention where he was going at that hour?”

  “He did not. And I didn’t ask. Discretion, Mr. Drake, is the better part of hotel management.”

  She locked the door, tested it and then marched off toward the elevator. It was too bad. With such devotion to duty, she was probably the manager’s girl.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Hannah was holding court in room 211. Seated in an armchair before the cold fireplace, a silver service on the low table before her, she had made a remarkable recovery of vitality, poise and elegance. Sleep was forgotten. Hannah had an audience, and she never missed a curtain. Simon unlocked the door and found himself facing this tableau: Hannah flanked by two handsome males of widely contrasting ages. The one who leaned against the mantel, nervously twisting a key chain with an astrological symbol, was indecently young and slim of hip. He wore bright blue cords, white thongs and a white jersey about one centimeter tighter than his skin. The mane of carefully groomed long hair and the vibrations of nervous intensity could mean only that this was Buddy Jenks of the magic horn. The other male was a giant: at least six-foot-four, wiry and mature. His oiled-teak skin contrasted sharply with the military-cut cap of snow-white hair. His eyebrows were white, his teeth were white, his jeans and jacket were white. He wore black field boots and looked as if he slept, if at all, on his feet.