Darkest Hour

by Nielsen, Helen

  Simon closed the door behind him. “I’m Simon Drake,” he said, “and you’re Whitey Sanders and Buddy Jenks.”

  “Simon,” Hannah remarked, “would you like a cup of coffee? It’s hot.”

  “Later. Right now I’d rather talk to Sanders. I’ve just been looking at a dead man he used to know.”

  Hannah poured the coffee anyway, and Sanders accepted the cup without taking his eyes from Simon’s face.

  “Monterey,” he said. “Hannah told me. He tried to reach me at the club last night.”

  “How do you know?”

  “My bar manager told me when I got in a couple of hours ago. He also told me that Hannah was in town and I had all the hotels checked out to find where she was staying. Buddy told me about the accident in the parking lot. Weird, isn’t it?”

  “Do you know why Monterey wanted to kill himself?”

  “No idea—unless it was money trouble. He usually lived beyond his means. I would have helped him. No need to panic because I was a few hours late.”

  “It wasn’t money trouble,” Simon said.

  Hannah had poured a second cup of coffee for Buddy, who accepted because he needed something to do with his hands besides twirl the key chain.

  “Monterey was carrying nearly two thousand dollars. His clothes were hand-tailored and he had a lot of expensive items; cuff links, cigar case—”

  “Two thousand dollars was small change for the Monterey I remember,” Sanders said. “It could have been pocket money for the weekend.”

  “That was in his heyday. He hasn’t worked in years.”

  “In films, no. But he made investments. He made most of his piles before the big income tax hit. Remember the prewar days, Hannah?”

  “I remember all of the prewar days,” Hannah said dryly, “and I still went broke. So did Monterey. He had exhausted every source of credit in Hollywood before he left the area. What are you driving at, Simon?”

  “Your infallible eye, Hannah. You said Monterey looked panic-stricken last night. Running scared. Suicide is an act of despair. It happens when a man can’t run any farther.”

  Whitey Sanders’ eyes were an icy blue, and they glittered over the rim of his cup. He lowered it slowly. “Are you insinuating that Monterey didn’t commit suicide?” he asked.

  “I never insinuate,” Simon said. “All I know is that he was very much alive last night when he rammed Hannah’s Rolls with a rented car. He got out and ran toward her—clung to her car and then, and who knows why, cut and ran. This morning he’s found at the bottom of a four-story stairwell.”

  “And what’s Monterey to you?” Sanders snapped.

  “Nothing. But Hannah is my dearly beloved friend and the best poker player west of Vegas. If hanky-panky is in the air, I don’t want the hanky-pankying near her. Was Monterey married?”

  “How the hell would I know?” Sanders said.

  “Never,” Hannah observed. “I know about such things, children, and Monte wasn’t the marrying kind.”

  “Was he a queer?”

  “Horrors, no! He’d duel you with sabers if he were alive and heard you say that! His Latin manhood would boil up like a volcano! No, Monte was normal. He just wasn’t the domestic type.”

  “Then why did he have a wedding ring?”

  Simon didn’t mention the inscription. He let the question stand and watched Hannah’s surprised gasp and the way Sanders’ white eyebrows shot upward. He didn’t let anybody comment. At the instant before Hannah’s mouth began to move he added:

  “And why did he rent a car in Santa Monica and drive all the way to La Verde, and then ask the desk to call him at eleven-thirty because he had an appointment? And don’t get touchy, nice people. I’m not needling you for the fun of it. I’m trying to think like the La Verde County D.A. will be thinking when he holds the inquest into the death of Monte Monterey.”

  “And if anyone has anything to hide, let him speak now or beware of the consequences,” Hannah concluded.

  “Exactly. Now I’ll have a cup of that coffee, if you please, and accept any contributions from the audience.”

  Whitey Sanders put down his cup and went to the telephone. “Alex?” Sanders asked. “I need a simple answer to a simple question: Alex, what time did you get that call from Monterey last night? … Before ten…. Right. And then he set up the appointment to meet me at the bar at eleven-thirty? … Right. Okay, Alex, thanks.” Sanders dropped the telephone into the cradle and turned to Simon. “That explains your appointment,” he said.

  “And you have no idea what it was for?”

  “If it wasn’t money—no. I haven’t seen Monte in more years than I can remember. I didn’t know he was in the country, let alone in La Verde, until I talked to Alex this morning. How could I know why he came back?”

  “Maybe to die,” Buddy suggested.

  He was a nice, quiet boy: very intense and aware of all that had been said. His statement was startling, and so he put down his empty cup on the mantel and explained: “Like an elephant. I mean, if a guy’s going to kill himself, he might want to come home to do it—sort of subconsciously. You know?”

  “I think Buddy’s analysis is very sound,” Whitey said. “In any event, as you suggested, Drake, the coroner and the inquest will make the decision. I’ll see that Monte has a fine funeral. He wasn’t religious, but he would appreciate the send-off. I’m not sure how many of his family are still alive. He lost a brother in the war. I think there were several sisters, too. One was a real beauty. She tried the Hollywood scene for a bit with Monte and then got smart and made a good marriage. Died a good many years ago. You remember her husband, Hannah. Sam Goddard. He published a newspaper. Flamboyant son of a gun. I think he retired—”

  Simon drained his coffee cup. It was clear to the last drop with no sediment at the bottom. Carefully noting this completely irrelevant detail, be put down the cup on the service table and removed an almost forgotten newspaper from his pocket.

  “Are there any reviews?” Buddy asked.

  Hannah and Buddy were two of a kind. Simon didn’t answer. He shook open the paper and handed it to Sanders.

  “This Sam Goddard?” he asked.

  Nobody said anything then for several minutes. Sanders’ white eyebrows crouched over the bridge of his nose, and he seemed to pale to a kind of putty color under the tan. “Sam’s dead,” he said hollowly. “Sam was killed when his car went off the highway in the fog yesterday.” He ran one finger down the news column. “Yes, here it is. ‘Goddard’s wife, the former actress Lola Morales, preceded him in death fifteen years ago—’ My God, imagine them remembering that she was an actress! I handled her, you know. She didn’t have more than six or seven minor roles, and most of them were in Monte’s early Westerns. As long as she worked with Monte she could sleep alone. Then Sam met her at a studio party and swept her off her feet. He was quite a lady-killer in those days, and Lola was the only eighteen-year-old virgin outside convent walls. It was a real love match. Lola did all right for herself. She died young and still lovely.”

  Whitey Sanders fell silent. It was Time moving in to make the scene. Old Father Time with his scythe and hour glass and the cold wind hovering about him. Buddy was still too young to sense that special kind of cold, but the others knew what it was. A silent bell was tolling, taking a bit of each of them with it as it knelled. Brusquely, Sanders shoved the newspaper back into Simon’s hand.

  “Coincidence,” he said. “Damned eerie coincidence. Well, what do you say, Buddy? Shall we get back to the motel? You need a rest before rehearsal. Have to be sharp tonight. After the send-off you got last night, the word will be out and we’ll be packed.” Sanders turned to Hannah. “Hannah, sure I can’t put you up for a few days?”

  “Hannah’s checking out,” Simon said. “I’m sending her home in a limousine. I’ll drive the Rolls back myself.”

  He used his man-of-the-house voice which left no room for argument, but while he was ushering Sanders and Buddy out of t
he room Hannah got hold of the newspaper and wouldn’t give it up until she had read every word of Sam’s obituary.

  “I wonder if Monte knew about this before he died,” she mused.

  “Were they such close friends that the news of Sam’s death would have triggered suicide?”

  Hannah knew about such things. Her long years of semi-invalidism had given her the time (she needed no incentive) to collect all the local gossip. It was filed away in bright purple compartments in her mind.

  “I doubt that,” she answered. “It’s fifteen years since Lola died, and she never had much to do with Monte after she married. Old Hollywood had more castes than India—it still does. When Lola became a publisher’s wife she automatically moved into another sphere. Society-page clique. Not that Sam was wealthy—that came later. Oh yes, she was a beautiful girl; Whitey’s right about that. But she wasn’t Sam’s great love. I could tell you that story.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Simon said, “but later.”

  He managed to get her out of the building and into the limousine without attracting any attention and then returned to the room. Hannah, if so inclined, could sleep on the way, but Simon hadn’t been near a mattress for more than twenty-four hours. He slept for a couple of hours and then awakened very suddenly. The autopsy report. He decided to play a hunch and picked up the telephone and called the Gateway Bar. Whitey Sanders wasn’t on the premises. He gave his name and was given a private number which connected him with the swimming pool at Sanders’ private cottage on the motel grounds.

  Sanders recognized his voice and said, “Come over and have a swim. The water’s fine and the scenery is better than centerfold.”

  Simon could hear feminine laughter and a lot of splashing in the background. “You tempt me,” he said, “but I’ve got to get back to The Mansion. I called to ask a favor.”

  “Want to borrow a plane?”

  “No, I’m driving Hannah’s Rolls back. What I want is a photostatic copy of the pathologist’s report when they get through carving up Monterey. I have a feeling you might have a few connections at City Hall.”

  “I may have. What’s up? Have you learned something I don’t know?”

  “Nothing,” Simon answered. “I just remembered that Monterey had a broken whisky bottle in his jacket pocket. Some of it spilled on his clothes. I’d like to know how much was inside.”

  He heard Whitey Sanders breathing into the telephone for several seconds. “Okay,” he said finally. “Can and will do. Drive carefully.”

  By the time Simon checked out of the hotel there was no indication that any tragedy had occurred on the premises. Miss Penny wasn’t at the desk when he paid his bill. A slight, balding gentleman with a Rotary Club smile officiated over the money changing.

  “Just for the record,” Simon said, “what is Miss Penny’s first name? Or is that a management secret?”

  The smile hovered cautiously over the signature on Simon’s check, approved and said: “Bonnie, Mr. Drake.”

  Bonnie. It had a good ring to it. Simon walked slowly across the lobby to the wide glass doors keeping an eye peeled on the off chance she was nearby. Once outside the doors, he strolled through the patio to the shopping arcade for one last inspection of the death scene. The arcade was getting pretty good traffic at this hour. The curio shops and dress shops were open and the tourists were in buying moods. They walked briskly across the mosaic tile floor completely unaware that a man had died with his face flattened against those tiles mere hours ago. The canned music from the mall set a smart tempo in the background, and nobody but Simon Drake was interested in that circle of tile at the bottom of the stair well.

  Almost nobody.

  Simon stood alone in the center of the circle, half listening to the music and trying to straighten out a puzzle in his mind. And then, quite naturally, his gaze rose and he looked up the round stair well along the steps that were never used because of the iron gate at the top of the well. And there, as his eyes reached the gates, he saw a watcher.

  It was a man. Tall and striking in appearance. He stood close to the railing gripping the top bar with one hand. He wore black shoes, a black suit and a black hat with a wide, stiff Spanish-style brim. His face was shaded and his features indistinct but he didn’t move, and Simon had a sense of standing all alone in that tile corridor like a specimen on display. A light flashed. The figure moved slightly and the sunlight captured a brilliant jewel on his hand. A gust of wind swirled down the arcade blowing dust and debris, and Simon turned away to wipe a particle from his eye. When he looked up again, the figure was gone. At the witching hour, with Hannah’s imagination to weave a spell, the incident might have seemed an apparition. But it was midafternoon, and Simon had no respect for any spirits less than eighty proof. He left the hotel and walked down the musical mall to the old courthouse.

  • • •

  Lieutenant Rickey was waiting with a release for the Rolls. “Drive carefully,” he said.

  That was the second time Simon had been so advised. It was nice to have people concerned about him. It was the small-town flavor coming through.

  He got the Rolls out of the garage and started driving back toward the coast. It was a bright and shining afternoon, typical tourist weather without a cloud on the horizon. Simon had just about convinced himself that Hannah had overdramatized the parking-lot incident and that there were no loose ends in the unexpected death of Monte Monterey when he became aware of a strange, irritating sound under the hood of the Rolls. Motor-listening was automatic when he drove Hannah’s car—particularly so after the accident. Usually a stethoscope was required to hear anything once the hood was closed. The sound was metallic. The sound was a rattle. Apparently there had been some engine damage after all. He watched for an off-highway parking area and pulled off at the first opportunity. He got out of the car and raised the hood and found a small lead container with a timing device wired to the carburetor.

  At the moment Simon wasn’t of a scientific bent of mind. He didn’t pause to examine the object. He wrenched it loose and hurled it as far as he could from the highway. The almost instant blast that followed defoliated two orange trees and wrecked an “Impeach Earl Warren” sign.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Simon didn’t wait for the highway patrol’s investigation of a new blight on the orange industry; he drove on to the Marina Beach off-ramp and followed the gentle slope of a country road into the booming seaside development. He parked the Rolls in front of Jake’s Lock Shop on Ocean Street and ordered two cable locks. Then he borrowed Jake’s telephone long enough to put in a call to a watchdog service in a nearby industrial area. He ordered a trained dog to be delivered to The Mansion before sundown and then returned to the Rolls. The last stage of his homecoming was a twist-and-turn spiral up through the new suburbia to the older section called the Heights where, high above the stucco and plate glass explosion, The Mansion still reigned in restored splendor. The great white house was surrounded by well-kept grounds and a high wrought-iron fence. The gates of the fence, both front and rear, had never been locked. The cable locks were to change that condition immediately. The watchdog was added protection, which would be more difficult to explain to Hannah.

  • • •

  Simon found her in the gymnasium working out on a rowing machine. She wore black leotards and a sweat shirt over a figure that might have been twenty years old except for the painful contraction in her right leg each time the exercise went into the stretching back sweep. One had to be observant to catch the tightening of her mouth which was her sole tribute to pain. Seeing Simon, she switched off the machine and pulled herself to her feet by means of the wall rail.

  “What took you so long?” she demanded. “Were you shacked up with that pretty blonde clerk at the Seville?”

  Hannah never missed a trick.

  “No such luck,” Simon said. “She was off duty when I checked out.”

  “Then you better call Wanda. She’s telephoned from New York tw
ice since I got home. Director trouble.”

  “Wanda will have to wait one moment,” Simon said. He draped a heavy towel about Hannah’s shoulders and escorted her into the den. He needed a drink. He poured himself a double Scotch and downed it neat, and then he placed the empty glass on the old-fashioned bar top and propped one foot on the brass rail.

  Hannah watched him carefully. “What’s bothering you that I don’t know about?” she demanded.

  “I was late getting back,” he said quietly, “because someone planted a bomb under the hood of the Rolls.” Hannah gasped. He quickly reassured her. “No, there was no damage. I heard the rattle and stopped and tossed it into someone’s orange grove. But think, Hannah, it would have been you driving the car if I hadn’t sent you home in the limousine. If you’re right and Monterey was in terror of his life last night, whoever was on his tail must have seen him approach you in the car. He ran. That proves he was either afraid of the police or of someone on the lot he had seen that you weren’t aware of. Obviously, there was something he wanted to tell you or to give you.”

  “And you think the party who put the bang-bang in my car thought Monte had succeeded.” And then the truth hit her like Simon’s Scotch on an empty stomach. “My God,” she said. “Somebody tried to kill me.”

  The worst was over. Hannah would now accept the locks on the gates and the guard dog without too much protest. But that still left a sticky situation that wouldn’t blow away like a morning fog.

  “Was Monterey a heavy drinker?” Simon asked.

  “No, that’s the peculiar thing about his death. That girl at the desk this morning said he had gotten drunk and fallen over the railing. Monte was always very proud of his body. He did all his own stunts, you know. Really. That wasn’t just a press agent’s gag. He watched his diet—he was a health-food faddist. He had wine with meals because it aids digestion, and sometimes a cocktail or two. But I never knew him to drink to excess. That’s more of an Anglo custom.”

  “But that was all years ago,” Simon reminded her. “Monterey was getting older. His body began to slow down and needed a booster. He might have started hitting the bottle in later years.”