At the end of the film, General Spindler was joined on the platform by a tall, leggy girl with close-cropped black hair. She was wearing dark leather boots, and they reached almost to her knees. “Thank you, thank you,” Spindler said, responding to the scattering of applause at the conclusion of the movie. “Now we’ll take a little break before our discussion period, and Zelda will be serving you coffee and doughnuts.”
Clinton followed Jane Boone through the suddenly active audience. While the dark-haired Zelda began dispensing refreshments, they cornered General Spindler on the platform. “This is Sam Clinton,” Jane said. “I told you about him.”
“Yes,” the General acknowledged, nodding his white mane. “You’re the man from Chicago. I read about that killing in the papers.”
Clinton shook hands with the man, and felt the dampness of his palm. “I hope you can shed some light on it, General.”
The older man’s eyes clouded over for a moment. “All I know is what I read. Do you have any further details?”
Clinton glanced around at the crowd lined up for coffee and doughnuts. “Can we go some place and talk?”
“I only have five minutes before the discussion begins.”
“Let them linger over their coffee. I won’t take long.”
“Very well,” the General agreed, and Jane Boone led them behind the platform to a little storeroom cluttered with prizes.
Clinton seated himself gingerly on a carton filled with dusty bingo boards. “Well, as you probably know from the papers, Felix Waterton was murdered in Chicago last Monday night. He was shot twice in the head, and his body was dumped by the side of a country road and set afire with gasoline. He was a client of mine, a very good client.”
General Spindler shrugged. “Outside of the newspapers, the name means nothing to me. Should it?”
“Waterton was involved in certain financial transactions in Chicago. As near as I’ve been able to piece together since his death, large quantities of money were being siphoned off and hidden somewhere. I know he often made mysterious trips east, and I believe he was planning to come here tonight.”
Spindler nodded. “Miss Boone told me about the note. But that’s no connection with me, or with the Noahites.”
“What else is happening at the Bayshore Amusement Park today?” Clinton asked. He started to light a cigarette but then thought better of it. The place was a firetrap just waiting for a spark to set it off.
General Spindler glanced at Jane. “Perhaps you should ask Miss Boone.”
She seemed to resent the implication of it. “You’re the only thing happening here today, General Spindler. And, frankly, I don’t think my father would have rented you the place if he knew what he was getting into.”
The door of the storeroom swung open and the dark-haired Zelda entered. “They’re waiting for you,” she said quietly, without changing expression.
General Spindler got to his feet. “You must excuse me. My public awaits. Perhaps later we can continue this.”
Clinton and Jane drifted back to their places at the rear of the bingo hall and settled down to witnessing a protracted discussion of the film they’d seen earlier. After a somber young man had risen to ask why the Great Powers conspired to keep the truth of human origin such a closely guarded secret, Jane apparently decided she’d had enough. “I have to go,” she said, giving his arm a slight and unexpected squeeze. “Dick’s probably looking all over for me.”
“I’ll see you later,” Clinton told her. “I have to talk with the General some more.”
He stood, leaned, and finally sat through another hour of questions, answers, and general discussion. The mood of the meeting was a gloomy seriousness that pervaded to the end, when the would-be space people began filing slowly out. Only a few remained grouped around the platform, and those seemed as intent upon the girl, Zelda, as upon anything else.
“Can we continue our discussion?” Clinton asked the General.
“Not here. There’s a little bar across the street that’s usually open.”
“I know the place,” Clinton replied, wondering if Mallow would be there with his hand in Jane’s.
Spindler turned to the girl. “Zelda, pack up the projector and screen. I’ll be back shortly.”
As they crossed the rapidly emptying parking lot toward the glow of light from the little bar, Clinton said, “That Zelda is a very attractive girl.”
Spindler snorted. “Thank you, she’s my daughter. Her looks get her into trouble occasionally.”
When they were settled for a drink, Clinton continued, “Do you really believe all this bunk about the ark coming from another planet, General?”
“I see that you are a doubting man. Of course I believe it—publicly. And you’ll never get me to say anything else.”
“What does the government think of your activities?”
“I’m retired, sir. Have been since just after Korea. While I was an army man, I gave it a full measure of devotion and ability. Now I’m something else.”
But Clinton wondered if he was. “Did you start the Noahites?”
“I did. They’re all mine.”
“Your own private army.”
General Spindler smiled, but there was no humor in his eyes. “They are believers, every last one of them. They believe with an intensity that would be hard for someone like yourself to imagine. Some of these people drove all the way from Boston to be here tonight.”
The bar was empty except for them, and Clinton wondered vaguely where Mallow and Jane might be. Back at the merry-go-round, probably. “There are always people like that, General, waiting to be found and herded together by someone like you.”
“I admit it. Perhaps that is the basis of our civilization.”
“Would they do anything for you?”
“I think so.”
“Would they kill for you? Did they kill Waterton?”
The General closed his eyes. “You are a devious man, Mr. Clinton. What is it you want?”
“The truth, only that. I worked for Felix Waterton all these years, and I want to know what he was up to. I want to find the money he was stealing from a lot of people.”
“I know nothing of any money.”
Clinton leaned back against the firm leather of the booth. “I’m a tax lawyer, General. My mind works in devious ways. It took me a long time to tumble to what Waterton was up to, but once I did the rest of it wasn’t too tough. I gather your Noahites is incorporated? And it’s probably a non-profit institution, a quasi-religious group of sorts. As such, it would pay no income tax on donations. Felix Waterton was looking for such an organization. He could have made donations to you through his various corporations, and achieved a double purpose. He would have avoided tax payments on his sizeable profits, and at the same time he would have removed the money to a perfect hiding place, a place where it would be waiting for him. I think you and the Noahites have a good big chunk of Waterton’s money, General.”
Spindler’s frown deepened. “You’d have a difficult time proving all this, just on the basis of that piece of paper. Perhaps Waterton was delivering the money to Miss Boone, or even to that friend of hers who’s always around.”
But Sam Clinton shook his head. “First of all, an amusement park wouldn’t be in a position to hide large profits in their books. And, more important, if Waterton’s contact all these years had been the amusement park itself, he’d hardly have needed to write down its name. I’m sure he’d have remembered it. No, he wrote down the name because he wasn’t familiar with it, because you’ve only been holding your monthly meetings here since the park closed in the fall. I suppose he usually sent you the money by check at regular intervals, but this time he decided to visit you for some reason, perhaps because he knew I was starting to uncover the truth about his operations.”
“I repeat, prove it!”
“You’ll have to open the Noahite books to an investigation. And, of course, the whole set-up makes you the logical suspect in
Waterton’s killing. You can explain that away too, if you’d like.”
“I was in New York last Monday. A dozen people saw me.”
“Maybe.”
The white-haired man’s eyes flicked with an icy fury. “What do you want? Money?”
“The money.”
He let out his breath, “You asked me if they’d kill for me. They will.”
“I don’t scare,” Clinton said, getting to his feet. The beer was half-finished on the table between them. “Think it over.”
He walked out of the bar and back across the street to the towering darkness of the amusement park. It was colder now, and the intermittent drizzle gave hints of turning to snow.
Clinton followed the lights and found Jane Boone cleaning up in the bingo hall after the meeting. Spindler’s daughter, Zelda, was still in evidence, talking quietly with two younger members of the departed audience.
“Hello,” he said. “Where’s Dick tonight?”
“He’s working. He said maybe he’d drop by later.” She was busy picking up paper cups with coffee dregs and damp cigarette butts in their bottoms. “Did you talk to the General?”
Clinton nodded. “I think we understand each other.”
She brushed some gray ashes from the table-top. “You know something? I read mysteries once in a while, and I’ve got a theory about your murder case.”
“Oh?”
“I heard you and the General talking about Waterton’s body being burned.”
Clinton nodded. “Almost beyond recognition. They weren’t sure it was he until Tuesday.”
“That’s my theory. Maybe it wasn’t Waterton at all, see!” She faced him with sparkling eyes. “He killed someone else, poured gasoline on the body and set it afire. Now that he’s declared dead, he can safely collect this money you say he’s hidden.”
But Sam Clinton shook his head. “It was Waterton, all right. They got a couple of fingerprints off the body. The Chicago police think it was more an attempt to make the killing look like a gang job, rather than hide the identity.”
“Why is it so important to you, all of it?”
He sat on the edge of the table. “I don’t know. Maybe just because I was a sucker for so many years. I never tumbled to what he was doing until too late, and now I want to find that money.”
Suddenly the dark-haired Zelda had joined them, her booted feet moving silently across the floor. Clinton didn’t know if she’d heard their conversation, but she said softly, “I can tell you about my father and Felix Waterton—all about them. I’ll meet you back here in an hour.” Then she was gone, as quickly as she’d come, and they saw her join General Spindler and the two young men outside.
“Well,” Jane breathed. “What was all that?”
“The break I’d been hoping for. If she tells me what I think…”
“Come on,” Jane Boone said. “I’ll make you a cup of coffee.”
“Thanks. Guess I’ll be around for a bit longer tonight.”
They sat in the merry-go-round pavilion and drank black coffee, and after a while Jane Boone threw the switch that started it turning. “There’s no music,” she explained a bit sadly. “The loudspeaker’s disconnected. But I left the rest of the power on for when I was working in here.”
Clinton watched it turning, slowly at first, but with the inevitable quickening of pace. “That’s too bad. It doesn’t seem quite real without the music.”
“In the winter nothing’s quite real around here,” she said.
“To me it never seemed real in the summertime, either. I remember going to these places as a boy and, after a few hours of the unreality, crying to go home. I guess I was afraid of staying too long, of losing touch with the real world outside.”
She nodded vaguely, her eyes on the prancing, revolving animals. “Some times I think I’ve been here too long. I think of the whole world as a merry-go-round without music, or a fun house boarded up for the winter.”
“Maybe it is, these days. Maybe that’s the reality of it.”
She hopped aboard the slowing carousel and threw a leg over one of the gaily colored horses. “Zelda will be back soon, if she’s coming.”
“And Dick?”
“You’re a strange guy, Clinton.”
The merry-go-round was picking up speed again, and he was about to join her on it when the door slid open to admit Zelda Spindler. “I couldn’t find you at first,” she said quietly.
Clinton walked over to her. She was shorter, close up, than she appeared. The leggy look was somehow a trick of distance, and the black boots. “I’m here,” he said. “What have you got to tell me?”
Zelda shot a glance at Jane Boone, still riding the silent carousel horse. “Can I talk in front of her?”
“Of course.”
“All right. What you suspected is true. Felix Waterton met my father during the war. He has been giving my father money for years. I have the financial records of the Noahites in the car. They show assets of more than a half-million dollars.”
Clinton’s heart pounded a bit faster. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because once my father was a good man, a highly respected army officer. I’ve seen him change since he retired, or maybe not change enough. I’ve seen him form the Noahites into an army to follow his crazy dreams. These old ladies, and lonely middle-aged men, and insecure kids—they follow him without knowing where they’re going. And all the time he’s using the Noahites as a front for his schemes with Felix Waterton. I took a lot, but I’m not taking murder. I’m telling all about it, to you and anyone else who wants to listen.”
And at that moment the angry, unmistakable voice of General Spindler boomed out from the door. “A very nice speech, Zelda. I’m pleased I arrived in time for it.”
Clinton saw the two men moving in behind the General, saw them circling to flank him, and knew that the battle was joined.
In the instant of frozen fear that followed, it was Jane Boone who was the first to act. She swung suddenly off the revolving merry-go-round and yanked Zelda away from her father’s menacing approach. Clinton used the distraction to stiff-arm one of the men out of the way, and when the other reached for his pocket, the lawyer hit him hard in the stomach. Then he was outside, running, and he saw that Jane was close behind him. “They’ve got guns!” she gasped out. “We’ve got to get the police!”
As if in confirmation of her statement, a dull, flat crack sounded behind them. Clinton dived for cover, pulling the girl with him. They were behind the sheltering entrance to the Fun House, with only a few inches of plywood for protection. “Keep down,” he warned. “They mean serious business.”
“What about Zelda?”
“She’ll have to take care of herself. Right now I’m more interested in getting those records from her car.”
In a brief burst of moonlight through the patchwork clouds, they saw the two cars parked near the bingo hall. “The foreign one is Zelda’s,” Jane confirmed.
“Can you get into this place?” he asked, indicating the padlocked door of the Fun House.
“I’ve got a key.”
“Stay there, out of sight. I’ll be back for you.” Then he was gone, running bent over across the slushy midway.
He reached the shelter of the bingo hall, and was about to make a dash for the car when he saw Spindler suddenly loom up before him, holding Zelda by the arm in a steely grip. “Stay right there,” Spindler commanded. “I have a gun.”
Sam Clinton froze. “All right,” he answered, trying to keep his voice calm. “Can’t we talk this over?”
“The time for talking is past,” General Spindler said.
“You can’t kill me and get away with it.”
“No? You could die the way Felix did. These buildings would make a wonderful funeral pyre.”
Clinton was trying to determine where the other two men were, but he wasn’t sure of their location. Perhaps they were searching for the girl. But then, out on the highway, he saw a car
begin to turn into the parking lot. Dick Mallow was arriving for his belated visit with Jane.
As in slow motion, he saw the General turn toward the approaching car, saw the gun waver only for an instant. But that was the instant he needed. His own gun was out before Spindler’s weapon could quite get back, and the road of the two pistols blended simultaneously with Zelda’s scream.
Clinton found Jane in the darkened passage of the Fun House, huddled in a corner against some unknown terror. “I heard a shot,” she said.
“Two shots. We both fired at once.”
“Spindler?”
“I think he’s dead. I didn’t wait to see. I guess your boy friend’s calling the police.”
“What’s the matter with your voice?”
“His bullet caught me in the side. I’m bleeding a bit.” He sat down on the floor next to her.
“We have to get a doctor!” Her hands touched him, but quickly withdrew on contact with the bleeding.
“Stay here! At least till the police come. Those two goons are still prowling around. I’m not hurt badly.”
“What about Zelda?”
“She seemed all right. She was screaming when I shot her father.”
Somewhere far off, a world away, a siren began its mournful wail. “Where is it all going to end?” Jane Boone asked, her voice almost a sob.
“It’s ended.”
“Is it?”
In the distance, the sound of the siren was building steadily. She shuddered at the sound. “They’re coming,” he said simply.
“You wanted the money, didn’t you? That’s why you came here.”
Suddenly he seemed too tired to answer. “What?”
“I have a new theory about Waterton’s murder, Sam. Do you want to hear it?”
“No.”
Night My Friend Page 13
