Desolation Flats

by Andrew Hunt

  I looked at Myron, already eyeing me, then returned my attention to the lad. “That’s Clive Underhill’s room,” I said. “I’m afraid there aren’t any visitors allowed.”

  The boy frowned. “Dang. I need him to sign for this. It’s registered mail.”

  “What is it?” asked Myron.

  The boy glanced at a label affixed to the package. “It’s from Knopf, New York City. Says here it’s a manuscript.”

  “I’ll sign for it,” I said, showing my badge. “I’m a police detective.”

  “Yes sir,” said the boy. “I hope there’s nothing wrong with Mr. Underhill.”

  “Not that we know of,” I said. “We’re on guard duty.”

  “Sure, of course.” The boy handed me a pencil and a pad to sign. I scribbled my signature and exchanged it for the package. “Here you go, sir.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “No C.O.D. charges?”

  “It’s all covered.” I gave the boy two bits and he tipped his cap. “Gee thanks! Have a swell day, gents!”

  He returned to the elevator and I waited for the doors to close. I ripped the package open and read a cover letter at the top of a thick stack of paper.

  “It’s a draft of his memoir with suggested edits,” I told Myron.

  Myron said, “Once the editors have picked it apart, I’m sure it’ll be as bland as those vanilla cones you love.”

  “It’s not quite there yet,” I said. “Not if there are still edits left. Maybe this is the unexpurgated version.”

  “The honest thing would be to give it to Underhill’s manager,” said Myron.

  “You’re right,” I said, looking over the package. “I’ll do just that. Later.”

  “When?” asked Myron.

  I grinned at him. “After I’ve read it.”

  * * *

  Myron and I questioned several of the hotel employees on duty late Saturday night and early Sunday morning, including the bellboy, desk clerk, night concierge, one of the elevator operators, and the doorman. The management let us use a spacious staff room in the basement, which housed a long table and several chairs around it. Unfortunately, the Negro eyewitness that Pace questioned—Winston Booker—was not working his shift while we were there, but we were still able to piece together a timeline of the night’s events.

  We kept the interrogations short. We encountered little variation in the accounts. Nobody saw Clive Underhill leave the hotel that night, but several witnessed him returning when I dropped him off. Even though I never asked about Nigel, to avoid overlap with Pace Newbold’s case, some of the eyewitnesses mentioned seeing him smoking outside after he quarreled with his brother, and then he went up to his room in the elevator. At one point in the afternoon, Myron and I went to the building’s rear and rode the service elevator up to the seventh floor, then we got back in and went down to the basement, then up once more to the main floor, to look for exits where Clive could have slipped out of the building unnoticed. A loading dock behind the building was one possible point of departure.

  The Hotel Utah’s rear exit doors, which opened up to the parking lot, were also left unattended in the wee hours of the morning. The doors were locked from the outside after 11:00 P.M., but hotel patrons could freely exit through them anytime. Only partially visible from the front desk, the rear doors were not always monitored by the hotel staff.

  By mid-afternoon, we’d completed our initial investigation of the Hotel Utah. We drove away in the unmarked police car, now hotter than a kiln, thanks to the windows being left up in the hot sun. I’d hidden Clive Underhill’s manuscript on the floor of the car’s backseat, and Myron and I agreed that I’d be the one to take a look at it. We arrived at Public Safety around three o’clock. Up on the second floor, a surprise awaited our return.

  Twelve

  Albert Shaw made good on his promise to bring Peter Insley and Julian Pangborn in to the police station for questioning. I thanked them for coming, offered assurances they weren’t under arrest, and introduced both men to Myron and DeVoy. I asked DeVoy if he’d transcribe the interview on his stenotype. He muttered under his breath about being overworked, but grudgingly accepted. Myron and I decided to question them one at a time in the office, while the other waited out in the corridor.

  First up was Pangborn. Unfortunately, we could hardly understand a word he said. He mumbled unintelligibly under a thick accent. I noticed DeVoy was struggling to transcribe the interview. “Could you repeat that?” he kept asking. Meantime, I studied Pangborn’s features. His hair looked even redder than it did on Saturday, and his pink lips formed a delicate oval mouth. His head bounced, he squirmed a lot in his seat, and his Adam’s apple often bounced. He sat hunched with his elbows on the table. I sensed him growing frustrated with DeVoy constantly asking him to restate what he’d just said.

  “It’s odd that his car would wipe out the day he disappeared,” I said.

  Pangborn shrugged, his sentences coming out garbled and broken.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Could you speak up a little?”

  “Wes a fook’n accident!” said Pangborn. “Scrattor drivin is wot it wes.”

  “You’re saying poor driving led to his accident?” asked Myron.

  More incoherent verbalizing, though I could make out the words “man a fookin’ cigar.” Then he added: “Steers it aal wrang. Owor corrected. Thin spun yeut.” He sighed. “Ess a accident.”

  “So it wasn’t any kind of mechanical failure?” I asked.

  “Nar na.”

  “Did you inspect the wreckage afterward?” asked Myron.

  “Wey aye.”

  “And you didn’t find anything that seemed amiss?” asked Myron.

  He tugged his ear. “Sa agyen.”

  “Amiss!” said Myron loudly.

  I translated: “He wants to make sure that you did not find anything wrong with the car that would have caused the accident.”

  “Wrang? Nah. Neewt wrang wi’ the screeve.”

  I was not certain of what he said. But I pretended to understand.

  “Did Clive seem unhappy or morose in any way?” I asked.

  Pangborn shook his head no.

  “Did he ever say anything to you that would lead you to believe that he intended to go away?” asked Myron.

  “Nah.”

  “How long have you worked for him?” I asked.

  He cast his eyes to the ceiling. “Three, ganin on fowa yeors.”

  “Four years?” I asked.

  “Wey aye. Abyeut that.”

  “Is he a good guy to work for?” asked Myron.

  “Aye, decent blurk,” said Pangborn. “Lightweet though. Cannit ’old ees liquor. Ah cud drink him undor the tyeble.”

  He began drumming loudly on the table with his hands, like playing a giant bongo. I glanced at Myron, who responded with closed eyes and a pained expression. I returned my attention to Pangborn.

  “Let me see if I’ve got this straight, and please correct me if I say anything wrong,” I said.

  He nodded again and stopped that obnoxious drumming so he could hear me.

  “You’re from Newcastle,” I said. “You’ve been his mechanic since roughly ’34. You travel with him wherever he goes, in England and overseas. You don’t have any idea where he is now. The crash out at the Salt Flats on Saturday was an accident, a fluke, probably due to faulty driving on his part. And Clive isn’t a very impressive drinker, in your estimation.”

  “Yas startin tuh unnerstan’. Ah wes worreed abyeut yee. Worreed mebbies yor brain in’t graftin properly.”

  “Some days I’m a little slow,” I said, feigning an apologetic tone.

  “Where’s the Spectre now?” Myron asked.

  “Undor lock an’ key, wheor neebody gan get tuh it,” he said, resuming his drumming. “Stop saboteurs.”

  Those last few words came out crystal clear. I exchanged glances with Myron. My slight nod put the ball in his court.

  “Who’d want to sabotage it?” asked My
ron.

  “Who ya think?”

  “Please tell us,” I said.

  “Nazis.”

  That came out clearly, too. DeVoy looked up from his stenotype.

  “Why would they want to harm the Spectre?” asked Myron.

  “Tuh win. Nar na mattor wot it teks.”

  “They want it that badly?”

  He stopped drumming and nodded slowly. “Aye.”

  “Do you know where it is?” I asked.

  “Aye.”

  “May we take a look at it?” Myron asked.

  “Ax Shaw. He’ll tells yee if yee gan or gannit. Ah suspects he’ll say aye.”

  “This has been an informative conversation,” I said. “Thank you for your time. Would you mind waiting in the hall while we talk to Mr. Insley?”

  “Gan aheed,” he said, rising from his chair. He left the room.

  “Did you get even half of that?” asked DeVoy, leaning back in his chair to take a small break from his stenographer duties.

  “He’s got a Geordie accent,” said Myron. “From northeastern England. His is particularly thick. He must’ve been born and raised there.”

  “Lucky for us the next fella talks like a BBC announcer,” I said.

  A tapping sounded at the door. Insley poked his head in. “May I?”

  “Please,” I said.

  Insley walked in, closing the door behind him, and took off his Panama hat. He hung it on the coat tree and straightened his lapels. Attired in a beige linen jacket and a sky-blue shirt, he radiated confidence as he took his seat. His blond hair did not appear to be slicked back as tightly as it’d been on Saturday night. If anything, Insley seemed more relaxed now than the last time I saw him. He propped his right ankle on his left knee and his gaze bounced back and forth between Myron and me. I kept quiet at first, letting Myron ask the questions. DeVoy resumed his transcription duties behind Insley’s back.

  “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  “We take it you’re aware that Clive Underhill is missing?” asked Myron.

  “Yes. I am.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Saturday night,” he said. He looked at me. “You were there, too, at the Coconut Grove. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

  I nodded.

  “Do you know where he is?” Myron asked.

  “If I knew, I’d tell you.”

  “How long have you known him?” Myron asked.

  “We met at Oxford, in the fall of ’22. We were both eighteen. We boarded together.”

  “How well would you say you know him?” I asked.

  “He’s my best friend.”

  “Does he feel the same way about you?”

  “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “Would you consider him a confidant?” asked Myron.

  “Oh certainly. Yes.”

  “At dinner on Saturday night Clive mentioned you’re a writer,” I said.

  “Yes. I’m not sure what that has to do with Clive going missing,” said Insley. “But I am an avid writer. I used to be a journalist. I’ve dabbled in poetry here and there.”

  “He said you’re working on a novel.”

  “That is true.”

  “Is it anywhere near being finished?” I asked.

  “I’ve completed a first draft. I’m revising it right now.”

  I said, “Uh huh. What’s it about? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “Not at all. It’s about a rather sizable family in Edwardian England, and how their lives are uprooted by the coming of the war. It’s rife with the usual themes. Family secrets. Love triangles. Class tensions. The protagonist goes AWOL from the Cavalry Corps to join the Bolshevik Revolution. That sort of thing.”

  “It sounds captivating,” I said. “Do you have a title picked out for it yet?”

  “My working title is Soul in the Window.”

  “I’d love to see it,” I said. “I’m quite the avid reader myself.”

  “I’ll consider it,” he said. “Will there be anything else?”

  “Yeah,” said Myron. “What are you to him?”

  Insley looked confused. “I beg your pardon?”

  Myron said: “I get that Shaw is the manager, Pangborn is the mechanic, Nigel is family and probably a business partner of some sort. But how do you fit into this entourage? What practical purpose do you serve?”

  “I’m his moral support.”

  “Meaning?” asked Myron.

  “I provide encouragement and act as a sounding board. He throws ideas at me. I’m brutally honest with him. Yet I also happen to believe in what he’s doing, and I push him hard to win.”

  “Push him? How?” Myron asked.

  “I tell Clive things like it’s his destiny to be victorious. Second place is not good enough. I urge him at all times to push himself beyond the limits of his endurance. I have promised him, on more than one occasion, that I’ll chronicle his achievements somehow, so that his name will live on through the ages. I am a voice of optimism when he is filled with despair. To fall back on Chinese philosophy, I suppose one could say I am the yin to his yang.” He chuckled and waved his hand. “Or is it the other way around?”

  “I’ll assume you have it right,” I said. “It sounds like the two of you are quite close. Have you two ever quarreled or fought?”

  “Rarely. Occasionally we used to bicker over politics.”

  “What did the two of you disagree over?”

  “World events. News of the day. I’m a radical. Clive isn’t.”

  “Are you a communist?” I asked.

  “If you’re asking me if I’m a card-carrying member of the Communist Party of Great Britain…”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “No, I’m not. I do, however, subscribe to a cooperative philosophy of living that entails a more equitable distribution of wealth, the general leveling of social classes, and the abolition of private property.”

  “Sounds screwy to me,” said Myron. He held up his fountain pen. “If you abolish private property, what’s to stop you from swiping my pen?”

  “In a land of plenty, everybody will have a pen,” said Insley. “There’ll be no need to swipe them, as you put it. Besides, plenty of pens get stolen in capitalist societies. That’s why banks are starting to chain them down to the counter.”

  “We’re getting sidetracked,” I said. “Let’s get back to discussing the political differences between Clive and you.”

  “Yes, of course. Clive was once a member of Oswald Mosley’s British Union of Fascists,” said Peter. “It’s a vile group. Mostly unemployed street thugs who enjoy dressing up in black and going around menacing old ladies, that sort of nonsense. They look to the Nazis as inspiration. For a time, Mosley turned Clive into the human face of the organization, in an effort to try to attract new members. The two of them had a falling-out last year, and Clive left the organization shortly thereafter. Regrettably, Nigel stayed loyal to Mosley. He never came around, I’m sorry to say.”

  “I noticed he had a temper,” I said. “Nigel, I mean.”

  “Yes.”

  “He was easily set off,” I said.

  “He had a penchant for throwing tantrums, yes.”

  “Then why bring him along?” I asked. “Why didn’t Clive tell Nigel to—”

  Insley interrupted: “Bugger off?”

  “Does that mean go home?” I asked.

  “More or less.”

  “OK, why didn’t Clive tell Nigel to bugger off?”

  Insley laughed, for some reason. “They’re brothers. Clive was always protective of his younger brother. It’s one of those family matters that I don’t pretend for an instant to understand. Nor did I support Clive’s decision to stand by Nigel. But that was his choice. And there it is.”

  “I understand Clive was getting threats back in England.”

  “Yes.

  “What kinds of threats, and who was responsible?” I asked.

  “They
were anonymous death threats, sent through the mails, postmarked from various locations in the United Kingdom and a few spots on the continent. You know, Paris, Munich, Vienna. These threats were undoubtedly triggered by Clive’s decision to openly renounce fascism last year, after publicly flirting with it for quite some time. We believe they came from fanatical true believers, probably most of them from England.”

  “Are there a lot of fascists in England?” I asked.

  “No, I wouldn’t say a lot, but they wield a frightening amount of influence, I’m afraid.”

  Myron chimed in: “There’s a visiting contingent of Germans in our fair state, intent on breaking the old land speed record. As far as I can see, the only person standing in their way is Clive Underhill, so—”

  “Did they have anything to do with his disappearance?” asked Insley, as if finishing Myron’s sentence.

  Myron shrugged. “It’s not an unreasonable question. Clive is a fascist…”

  “Was a fascist.”

  “Was a fascist. So was Nigel. They must have felt at least some affinity for Hitler and his henchmen. Or am I overreaching?”

  “You may be on to something,” said Insley. “Clive has spent a great deal of time in Germany. He did so under the pretext of studying their racing techniques and automotive engineering. I suspect there were ideological issues at play as well. But if you’re asking me if I know whether the Germans were connected to his disappearance, the answer is I don’t, but I suspect they had nothing to do with it.”

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “You have to understand the German mind-set,” said Peter. “They’ve got a superiority complex. They always have, even before the Nazis came along. They believe they’re superior at everything, and by extension, everyone else is inferior. So why eliminate the competition if you’re already the best?”

  “The other night,” I said, changing topics, “at the Coconut Grove, I noticed that Clive and Rudy Heinrich appeared to be friendly with one another.”

  “They’re on good terms,” said Insley. “Heinrich attended Oxford for a time on an exchange program. That’s when he and Clive first met. I got to know him there, too. The three of us took a few economics and literature courses together, and we’d sometimes sit alongside each other in the dining hall.”