Darkest Hour

by Nielsen, Helen

  He was dressed in cords and boots and a peasant’s shirt unbuttoned to the belt line. He carried a braided leather riding crop that switched nervously against the calves of his boots. “So, you are awake!” he said, as if an entertainment were about to begin. “Welcome to Mexico. I chose this room for you so you could admire the view. A part of the spa’s therapy. Expectancy speeds recovery. Life is worth living, isn’t it?”

  “I can’t think of a better alternative.”

  “Nor can I. Feast your eyes, Drake. If you see anything you want, I’m sure it can be arranged. My guests are healthy, wealthy and eager for adventure.”

  “That’s generous of you,” Simon said, “but I’d rather have breakfast.”

  “Of course you would!” Berlin stepped eagerly to the telephone and spoke into the mouthpiece: “A menu for Simon Drake.”

  “Bring a pot of black coffee with the menu,” Simon said.

  “And a pot of black coffee,” Berlin ordered. “Anything else?”

  “A double brandy,” Simon said.

  “And a double brandy with the coffee. ¡De’se prisa!”

  Berlin slid the telephone back into the cradle. It was like Christmas. Ask and receive. The customer is always right. There had to be a catch in it.

  “What time is the execution?” Simon asked.

  Max Berlin laughed. “You are a good loser, Simon Drake,” he said, “—so far. I admire your spirit.”

  “Where’s Otto?” Simon asked.

  “Otto isn’t here. I’ve sent him on another mission. I must apologize for Otto. He was instructed to find you and bring you here without violence, but Otto enjoys violence. It does for him what looking at those lovely ladies at the pool must do for you. Do you understand?”

  “And Otto’s friend?”

  “You must mean Garcia, the tout. He’s dead.”

  “I know.”

  “Yes, but I won’t hold that against you. I never liked Garcia. Otto picked him up in Buenos Aires and I tolerated the companionship because Otto was my father’s orderly from the old days in Germany. No intelligence and no style, but a man of loyalty and great physical courage. He was most useful to us in the past. But times change. I’m afraid Otto’s usefulness is almost at an end. I will have to get rid of him, too.”

  “I would have been glad to oblige.”

  “I’m sure that you would have, Mr. Drake. But you didn’t, and you won’t. You will put down your gun now and use your brain, because that is your strongest weapon. That is why I found this paper in the pocket of your coat.”

  Max Berlin had taken a sheet of note paper from his shirt pocket. It was the page Simon had torn from Monterey’s notebook. “It’s a buyers’ market now, Drake. I make the terms.”

  “It must be valuable,” Simon said. “Four men and a woman are dead because of it.”

  “Not at my hand. Monterey killed Kwan—that fool, that unhorsed cowboy! I didn’t dream he had the guts—and what did he think he would do with the formula? He had no contacts. He would have had to come back and deal with me.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want contacts.”

  “Are you mad? Of course he wanted contacts! The formula Kwan obtained is worth millions, but only when one has production facilities—”

  “Like Severing and Di Miro?” Simon asked.

  “That is nothing to you, Drake. It was nothing to Monterey. I think he went mad. He killed Kwan in full knowledge that we would track him down when he failed to return here to the spa. I keep complete dossiers on all my staff. There was only one person who might have helped Monterey.”

  “Sam Goddard.”

  “Right. Goddard was here some time ago, under an assumed name. We found suddenly that we were overbooked and canceled his reservation. When Monterey failed to return to base, I sent Otto and Garcia to question Goddard.”

  “To kill him, you mean.”

  “No! What good was he to me dead? I sent them to question him but he was armed. Otto forced his car off the highway because there was too much risk trying to follow him in the fog. Goddard leaped out of the car and started shooting and Otto, responding in primitive fashion, picked up a rock and killed him. There was nothing to do then but stage the accident and look for Monterey elsewhere.”

  “In La Verde,” Simon said.

  “As it so happened, in La Verde. But once more it wasn’t murder. Monterey recognized Otto and Garcia when they came for him. He hurled himself over the iron railing to avoid questioning. It was Garcia’s idea to put a bottle of whisky in his pocket, smash it on the tiling and leave him to the police.”

  “Whose idea was it to put the bomb in Hannah Lee’s Rolls?”

  Berlin frowned. The riding crop flicked against the boot tops again.

  “Idiots!” he said. “Otto—Garcia. I sent them to La Verde because it seemed the logical place for Monterey to go. It was his birthplace. Also, he had known Whitey Sanders and, with Goddard dead, might turn in that direction. My men followed him to the Gateway Bar, but he saw them and got out of the club. He waited in his car for Miss Lee to come out and then rammed the Rolls trying to get away from Otto and Garcia. Later, after his death at the hotel, they searched his room and couldn’t find the packet. They decided he had left it in the wrecked car. It was locked in the police garage but Garcia got inside—”

  “And slashed the upholstery in the Ford—”

  “Yes, looking for the packet. The nightwatchman came before he could search the Rolls. It was possible, you see, that Monterey had passed the packet to Miss Lee when he ran toward her car after the collision. When you asked the police to release the Rolls to you, Otto was desperate. Without consulting me he made a small bomb and managed to get it under the hood while the Rolls was waiting for you outside the police station. It was meant to cause a wreck which would delay you until Otto and Garcia could arrive at the scene.”

  “A small bomb! That charge would have destroyed the car and everything in it!”

  “So I have heard. That’s why I called my men idiots. The size of the explosion frightened them off. Explosives are a specialty. Otto is no chemist.”

  “But I could have been killed,” Simon said. “That’s another near one for the boys. And Eve Potter was murdered.”

  “Because she occupied the room next to Kwan. I thought Monterey might have placed her there. When Otto questioned her the answers were unacceptable. He lost his temper and his control.”

  “Boys will be boys,” Simon said without humor. “Eve Potter had no answers to give. She was trying to run a very feeble con game.”

  “Then there’s no great loss, is there? But I forget. You’re suspected of complicity in her death. I feel generous. I’ll trade you Otto for the notebook and the sample. Otto is leaving on a holiday. Tonight he will get in a brawl at the Hi-Ho Bar in Ensenada. He will be fatally stabbed and in his room will be found a letter in a perfect simulation of his own handwriting, complete with grammatical errors, in which he confesses to the murder of Eve Potter and of his former friend, Garcia. You will be in the clear, Simon Drake, and in the good graces of your ambitious district attorney.”

  It seemed there was no end to Max Berlin’s knowledge. He was an organizational genius with a flair for the theatrical and the instinct of a good housekeeper. Simon sat on the edge of the bed and watched the lovely young things cavorting poolside, and he thought the very thought Berlin had seeded in his mind: the alternative to cooperation was something so terrible that Monterey chose death over capture.

  When Simon didn’t answer, Berlin added: “One thing puzzles me. How did you get the formula?”

  “From the Post Office Department,” Simon said. “Monterey mailed me a key to a storage locker in the La Verde airport.”

  “So that was it! But why mail it to you?”

  “Because he saw Hannah Lee a short time before. He must have known that Hannah lived with me.” It was a lie but it protected Vera Raymond. That seemed important. “Hannah knows nothing about it,” Simon added.
“She wouldn’t understand if she did. Chemistry isn’t her forte.”

  “And you?”

  “I have imagination. Anything worth a million dollars is worth more than Otto’s confession. Duane Thompson has nothing on me that I can’t handle.”

  “But I have, Drake.”

  Someone tapped on the carved wooden door and Max Berlin opened it. It was a young Mexican girl, slender, graceful with unspoiled innocence in her soft brown eyes, another reminder of the joys of life and freedom, wheeling the breakfast cart on which were a silver coffee service, a cup, and a hand-blown amber glass half filled with aromatic brandy. A folded newspaper was on the tray together with a printed breakfast menu. The girl smiled and waited and then disappeared from consciousness when Simon picked up the newspaper. It was the La Verde Daily Chronicle and the lead story concerned the police discovery of a murdered man in the utility plant building at Whitey Sanders’ Gateway Bar and Motel complex. Simon skimmed through the text of the story. “… shot at close range … a .22-caliber bullet … dead man clutching recently fired .38-caliber Smith and Wesson …” He restrained a triumphant smile. The police had Sam Goddard’s gun. Score one point for Simon Drake. He flipped the page to complete the coverage and the smile died painfully. Heading another story was a one-column cut of Wanda over the caption: “N.Y. actress still missing after two days.”

  “Two days!” Simon exclaimed. He glanced at the dateline and it was true. He looked up at Berlin and watched him slowly turning a small bright object between his fingers. Light danced from the object similar to the light from Berlin’s huge ring. Seeing that he had caught Simon’s attention, Berlin tossed the object onto the bed. Simon picked it up: a small gold setting holding a square-cut diamond. The inner side of the ring was inscribed: “W.C. from S.D. —All the way.” It was the engagement ring he had given to Wanda before she went to New York.

  Berlin was smiling now.

  “Where is she?” Simon shouted.

  Berlin gestured for the Mexican girl to leave the room. “Mr. Drake will order breakfast later,” he said.

  The girl left the room and closed the door.

  “Damn you!” Simon said. “What have you done with my girl?” He climbed off the bed and lunged toward Berlin, forgetting his wounded leg and the general soreness. He lurched forward against the tray, and it was only Berlin’s counterbalancing weight that kept it from collapsing with Simon on top of it. Simon fell back on the bed.

  “Take care,” Berlin said. “The coffee is replaceable but the brandy is from my private stock.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Safe and unharmed as you shall soon learn. Wait a few minutes.” Berlin stepped to the telephone and lifted it from the cradle. “Are you still holding that line open to New York? Good. Put the call through now. I’ll wait.” He turned back to Simon. “I take no chances with telephone service. Mexico is a charming country but one pays for charm with a lack of efficiency. And you must watch those emotional outbursts. If that bullet I took out of your leg had been in there much longer, or if it had been removed by less expert hands, you might be crippled for life.”

  So it was more than a flesh wound. That explained the lost day. “It was a .38 slug,” Simon said. “The police have the gun. By this time they must know that it was registered to Sam Goddard. What does that do to the ‘buyers’ market’?”

  Berlin was irritated. Sloppiness annoyed him as much as the slow telephone service. “Nothing,” he reflected. “I’ve already arranged to get rid of Otto. His journal lets you home free, Drake. No more problems with the Marina Beach police. Wait, I think this is our call … Yes? Good. Put her on now. Drake—”

  Simon grabbed the telephone and listened to Wanda’s voice.

  “Simon? Are you there? Honey, what kind of weird gag is this?”

  “Are you all right?” Simon asked.

  “Of course I’m all right, but I’m mad! I don’t mind so much that you had some character dress like an airport guard and whisk me off in a limousine on the pretext of taking a short cut to my plane, but you might have warned me. Simon, say something!”

  Simon decided to let Wanda’s version of the abduction stand. He didn’t want her to panic. “Sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t have you spoiling my plans by leading the fuzz to my doorstep.”

  “But where is your doorstep? Where are you?”

  “Can’t tell you. The line might be bugged.”

  “Then tell this creep making like a warden to take me home! I’ve got an eight o’clock rehearsal curtain tonight. I’ll get killed if I don’t make it.”

  “You’ll make it,” Simon promised. “Rehearsal at eight tonight. Definite.”

  “And you?”

  “Trust me, baby? Okay?”

  “Okay,” she conceded, “but when I see you! Oh—!”

  She was fighting mad and that was good. Simon liked to leave with the fire burning brightly. He handed the telephone back to Berlin and watched him replace it gently on the cradle. “That was wise,” Berlin said, “and I’m sure that Miss Call will make her rehearsal tonight if you will relinquish the notebook and the sample without any foolish and futile heroics.”

  There was a young man named Delaney whose body had been found with his tongue cut out. Max Berlin was an expert surgeon. Simon felt a bitter, brassy taste in his mouth. He hadn’t the strength to walk across the room without stumbling. He had to save Wanda the only way he knew how. He fell back on the bed and threw one arm over his eyes. He didn’t want to look at Berlin when he complied.

  “Why didn’t you stick to milking wealthy, genteel whores?” he asked.

  “Time passes,” Berlin said. “Youth doesn’t last forever. Besides, one gets bored with bedroom intrigues.”

  “And the traffic with top Nazis in need of facial adjustments runs out. But there are always speculators who find it necessary to migrate to a country where there’s no extradition agreement, which, incidentally, doesn’t include Mexico.”

  “I’m aware of that, Drake. Were you planning to have me extradited on some charge? There’s no need. I’m meeting Sanders in La Verde tomorrow afternoon. I’m buying that land from him.”

  “If Monterey hadn’t leaped over that stair rail at the Seville he would have been killed on your orders.”

  “True.”

  “And your men killed Sam Goddard and Eve Potter.”

  “True again. Where is the delivery Monterey took from Kwan?”

  “What is it, Berlin? The cure for malaria? That is it, of course. The scourge of the earth and innocent thousands will suffer and die for your profit. The Führer would be proud of you.”

  “Excellent speech, Drake, but we’re both too sophisticated for morality plays. How many innocent thousands died at Hiroshima? How many innocent thousands are dying on both sides of the mess in Viet Nam, and don’t other thousands profit? I lost my illusions at an early age. Man won’t reform; he only grows worse. In this world it is possible to use or be used. Having been educated by the latter experience, I choose to live by the first. I can give you only a short time to consider. If you prefer to be alone—”

  Berlin moved toward the door. Still holding one arm across his eyes, Simon said, “Wait!”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a man in Beverly Hills. A private detective named Jack Keith. Show him the ring. Tell him I said to get Wanda to rehearsal tonight.”

  That was enough. Berlin left the room and Simon heard the door lock. He turned his face to the wall shaking with humiliation. This was how the winners played the game. A defeated and restless populace needed a scapegoat to put them on their feet. Restore the ego with a scapegoat. Exterminate a race. The Nazis realized over six hundred a head from the victims of the gas chambers. Six million times six hundred restores a nation. God’s in his heaven, all’s right for the master race. “As the twig is bent—” Simon made a fist of his right hand and began to knead the air. Pain electrified his arm, but each fist made the arm stronger and the pain lessen
ed. He rolled over and slid his legs off the bed until his feet touched cold tile. Lean on the right leg first. The strong leg. Gradually rise. Gradually shift weight. Sharp, staggering pain. Try the brandy from Berlin’s private stock. Warm. Head-clearing. Try the wooden door. Yes, still locked. Try the glass door. Also locked. Those sensuous, life-instilling sounds were coming from a transom too high to be reached without a ladder. Looking up made him dizzy. Need strength. Try the coffee. Cold now. Try the telephone.

  “How’s about a fresh pot of coffee and a plate of ham and eggs in this room?” he asked.

  “Bueno, Señor Drake,” the soft voice replied. “How do you like your eggs, señor?”

  “Over easy,” Simon said. “And another glass of that brandy.”

  “Pronto, Señor Drake.”

  Nothing to it. Just like Death Row on the eve of an execution. Simon circled the room several times to strengthen his leg and then moved to the bathroom. The stubbled face that peered back at him from the bathroom mirror looked like something a park custodian should have picked up on the end of a stick. He opened the medicine chest and found an electric shaver and a toothbrush. He was completing the shave when he heard the hall door open and close. He returned to the bedroom and found the breakfast tray replenished. He ate hurriedly, trembling with hunger. Strength. He had to renew his strength.

  The girls left and he tired of watching the shimmering pool. He husbanded the brandy, drinking half and saving half, and then, after two more times around the room, he returned to the bed and fell into a deep sleep. It was hours later when the sound of the heavy door opening and closing awakened him. Past midday. Shadows across the pool now. A heavy silence in the air. Something missing. The breakfast cart. Something added. His clothes laid neatly on a straight-backed chair. Simon slid to the floor and tried his leg again. Less pain, more soreness. He made it to the chair and examined what had been deposited while he slept: the sweater and car coat he had taken from Buddy’s closet, his own shoes and shorts, a pair of new tan Levi’s with the manufacturer’s tag still stitched to the waistband. Apparently Buddy’s flannels had gone the way of a surgeon’s scalpel. He dressed and examined his coat pockets. His wallet, money and identification were intact. He looked at his watch. It was almost three o’clock. He tried the heavy carved door again and it was unlocked. He finished off the brandy and stepped out into the hall.