“Making allegations that can’t be backed up with testimony because he’s dead. Even the shell cases are useless now. Sam’s gun was stolen during the pretrial.”
“Berlin?”
“One of his men, I suppose. I don’t think Thompson would pull a trick like that just to avoid further investigation. But I do feel sorry for Vera. She gets the worst of all this. Honey, that woman has made me think. She stuck with Sam all these years and helped him keep alive his fantasy of believing to the last that he would find his big story and make a financial comeback. Well, he did find it but it’s Charley Leem who’ll do the marketing. But that’s love, baby. That’s a woman!”
“I know another woman,” Wanda said.
“So do I. You never did tell me what happened to the play.”
“It bombed out the first week.”
“So there’ll be another play that won’t bomb out. In the meantime—”
He pulled her down on the bed and found her mouth with his. She was warm and eager, and for a few moments the ugly world of Max Berlin disappeared. Sanity returned. Life was renewing itself: that miracle that all the sewage and moral erosion of the ages couldn’t erase. Max Berlin could complete his million-dollar deal. Severing and Di Miro could corner the quinine market and push up the prices of its lifesaving derivative until it was denied to millions, but no matter how dark the night might be somewhere a man and a woman would reach out to affirm life again. As long as anyone loved anyone else it was not too late.
Then, abruptly, Simon pushed Wanda aside and sat upright in the bed.
“Hey, mister, make up your mind!” she said.
He touched his hand to her lips. A woman commentator on the television screen was describing a flamboyant special event that was about to start in the ballroom at the Seville Inn in nearby La Verde: the ground-breaking ceremonies for Max Berlin’s latest spa. The commentator gave a brief preview of the style show on the evening’s agenda; the camera panned to the bandstand where the sensational new discovery, Buddy Jenks, was appearing with the orchestra from the Gateway Bar, and then continued to pan about the room where guests were arriving for a gala evening. Bonnie Penny was holding hands with Whitey Sanders while gazing longingly at Buddy. Still clutching the bird in the hand. The camera moved again and held for a moment on a face that was strikingly unsmiling. Tense and determined, Vera Raymond had gone to the ball.
Simon scrambled out of bed. “Where’re my pants?” he yelled. “Where’s my shirt? Where’s the phone?”
He found the telephone while Wanda located his clothes. He called The Mansion and talked to Hannah. “Are you watching the evening newscast?” he asked.
“With my blood pressure?” Hannah cried. “My doctor forbids it! I’m just sitting here counting my silver hoard. I’ve collected two hundred and thirteen dollars in quarters and dimes. If the government gives permission to have it melted down, I’m having mine cast in a silver calf. We’re apt to go off the gold standard one of these days. I don’t want to get caught with the wrong religion.”
“Never mind that now,” Simon said. “Max Berlin’s having a big party to celebrate the ground-breaking ceremonies for his new spa. It’s on the news.”
“Oh, I know about that. We received engraved invitations.”
“We would! Okay, grab the invitations and have Chester drive you to the Seville Inn immediately. We’ll meet you there.”
“Where are you now?”
“That’s not important. What is important is that Vera Raymond is at the Seville. I just saw her on camera.”
“Oh, that’s dreadful!”
“It could be worse than dreadful. She’s too near the breaking point for this kind of stunt. If you and Chester get there first, try to find her and get her away before she meets Berlin. I don’t think she can handle that—not yet.”
“We’re on our way,” Hannah said.
While Simon dressed Wanda exchanged the shorts and top for the dress she had laid out for dinner. Within five minutes from the time Simon called Hannah, they were in the XK-E headed for La Verde. Nobody felt like conversation except for the time Wanda said: “Honey, I don’t want to wait as long as Vera Raymond. When this is all over let’s drive on to Las Vegas and get married. I don’t have to have my name in lights to know who I am any more.”
“It’s a deal,” Simon said.
• • •
The red Rolls was in the parking lot when they arrived at the hotel. Chester met them at the main entrance. “Hannah’s gone upstairs to the ballroom,” he said. “It’s on the second floor. The fashion show just ended and Berlin’s getting ready to hold a press conference. I guess he thinks he’s the Chief Executive now.”
“Have you found Vera?” Simon asked.
“Not yet. This crowd—”
“If you haven’t found her what are we talking about? Let’s go!”
Chester sprinted ahead and caught the elevator. They rode up in silence and the elevator doors opened on a wave of laughter and happy talk that faded under the compelling persuasion of Buddy’s trumpet sounding a jazzy fanfare. Then Max Berlin, brilliant in a white brocade dinner jacket and black trousers, strode out onto a raised dais and faced a battery of cameras and reporters. Questions were fired at him from the working press. He answered with just the right balance of humor and humility. Berlin possessed a magnetism that made the truth about him seem unbelievable.
Wanda’s hand tightened on Simon’s arm. A small middle-aged woman with a ramrod for a spine had stepped forward from the group of reporters to address the dais in a quietly resonant voice: “Mr. Berlin, I am Vera Raymond of the Los Angeles Chronicle,” she said.
Berlin’s professionally trained smile didn’t fade, but he turned toward her as if she had become the only person in the room. He knew—he had to know because he knew about Sam Goddard—that the Chronicle had been defunct for many years. And he knew, too, because this was the slender thread by which his life had always hung, that there is a world of law and order and the best of people will not cross certain boundaries of conduct, except under unbearable pressure, because the civilized individual can no more live with anarchy within than a society can live with anarchy in the streets. The pressure had become unbearable for Vera Raymond. Berlin saw and his smile disappeared.
“No, don’t do that, please!” he said distinctly.
Vera Raymond had taken Sam Goddard’s gun from the trial room. It held five cartridges. She fired five times at close range. One shot would have been enough. Max Berlin was dead before his body hit the floor.
There was a great silence. Like an outgoing tide, the wall of humanity seemed to ebb away from Vera and she stood by herself in the loneliest place this side of hell.
From the corner of his eye Simon saw Hannah edging toward him through the stunned crowd. He pushed Wanda toward her. “Go home with Hannah and Chester,” he ordered. “Vegas will have to wait. I’m needed here now.” He must have had a look of terrible authority, because Wanda didn’t argue and the crowd pulled away like the parting of the Red Sea when he moved forward. Vera, still in shock, saw him approach and the first tears came to her eyes.
Simon walked toward her holding out both hands.
A Note About the Author
HELEN NIELSEN was born in Warren County, Illinois, then lived for some time in Chicago. Widely traveled in Europe, she now lives in Laguna Beach, California, where she also writes for magazines and television. Miss Nielsen is the author of many mysteries; the most recent, A Killer in the Street, was published in 1967.
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Copyright © 1969 by Helen Nielsen
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
eISBN 10: 1-4405-4125-6
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4125-4
Darkest Hour Page 25
