Stalking Horse (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Yessir.” He nodded diligently. “That’s clear.”

  “When you’re satisfied—good and satisfied—you can authorize the removal of the body, on my authority. If you’ve got any questions I’ll be upstairs, talking to Guest.”

  He nodded again. “Yessir.”

  “I want everyone—everyone—to realize that this isn’t the Tenderloin. And Alexander Guest isn’t their friendly local pimp. Charlie Quade was apparently working for Guest. Which automatically makes this whole thing important. If we make any mistakes, Guest could make us pay. Through the nose.”

  Canelli started to smile, then decided to frown earnestly as he nodded vigorous agreement.

  THREE

  THE WALLS BESIDE THE curving central staircase were hung with large, elaborately framed oil paintings, most of them landscapes. At the top of the staircase, I stood facing yet another English style oak door. From behind the door I heard the sound of someone talking. I stepped closer, listened for a moment, then knocked.

  “Yes?” It was a loud, authoritative voice, unmistakably Alexander Guest’s.

  “It’s Lieutenant Hastings, Mr. Guest. Frank Hastings. Homicide.”

  “Come in.”

  Like the rest of the mansion, the master bedroom reproduced an English manor house, with paneled walls, high ceilings, parquet floors and gracefully carved decorative woodwork. Even the huge, strictly American plate glass window that commanded a spectacular view of the Golden Gate Bridge was framed in carved wood, with small, square stained glass panes bordering the plate glass.

  Alexander Guest sat behind an ornate leather-topped table with carved lion-claw legs. The table served as a luxurious desk. He waved me to a nearby armchair, then half turned away from me, continuing to talk into the phone.

  “Yes, yes.” Impatiently he gesticulated with his free hand, as if he were angry with the caller for not comprehending. “There’s a ranking officer here now—finally.” As he said it, he glanced at me sharply. Plainly, Alexander Guest resented the time he’d been compelled to spend with underlings before I arrived on the scene. “He’s just come into the room, in fact. I’ll—what?” Obviously still exasperated, gnawing his lower lip and shaking his head, he paused, gracelessly enduring whatever the other person was saying. Finally, speaking with exaggerated patience, as if he were dealing with an uncomprehending child, or an inattentive adult, he said, “Marie, I’ve told you what I want you to do. I want you to stay where you are. I want you and Durkin to stay together, in the same room. Durkin will protect you. That’s his job, to protect you. There’s an officer here now, as I said, someone with authority. I’m sure he’ll approve a guard for you, as soon as he knows the details. In the meantime, though, you stay there, with Durkin. It’s odds on, certainly, that Gordon’s trying to get away. He might’ve succeeded by now, for all we know. So I don’t think you’re in danger. But, still, there’s no point in—What?” He listened for another ill-tempered moment, then apparently broke in, saying, “Marie, I’ve got to go. The sooner I talk to Lieutenant Hastings, the sooner things will fall into place. You just do as I tell you. I’ll call you as soon as I’m free.” Abruptly, he cradled the phone and turned to face me.

  Because I’d seen his picture so often, Guest’s face seemed familiar, like the face of a movie star seen on the street. He looked to be in his early sixties. His body was lean and muscular: an athlete’s body, taut and trim. Alexander Guest was one of those restless, intense men who conveyed a sense of constant movement and tension, even sitting behind a desk. His gray hair was thick and wiry, growing low across his forehead, elegantly barbered. His face, like his body, was lean and vigorous, deeply creased down the cheeks and around the mouth. His nose was large and high bridged. His eyes were a clear gray, almost transparent. The eyes dominated the face: quick moving, shrewd, unsmiling, uncompromising. He looked like an actor perfectly cast in the role Alexander Guest played in real life: an incredibly successful trial lawyer, a living legend with an international reputation as a brilliant, ruthless winner. A gossip columnist had recently written that Guest never accepted clients unless their names appeared in Who’s Who.

  Immediately, he went on the offensive. “Have you gotten anything on your bulletin to have Kramer picked up?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Have you got men at all the airports? They should be covering Oakland and San Jose, too, as well as San Francisco—any airport that makes connections to New York.”

  “Did you tell that to Inspector Canelli?”

  “Certainly,” he snapped.

  I looked at my watch; the time was 3:15, almost exactly two hours since the murder. Assuming that he’d committed the crime at 1:10 A.M., Gordon Kramer couldn’t have gotten to San Francisco International, the closest airport, before 1:45. By 2:45, probably, the airport police would have been alerted. We’d have to check the airline schedules to be sure, but I doubted whether any airline would leave San Francisco for New York before, say, 6:00 A.M. So it seemed probable that we had a better-than-even chance of apprehending the fugitive, assuming that he and his son were forced to wait for a flight out of town. In the wee hours, a man and a boy in a deserted airline terminal would be hard to miss.

  “Do you have any reason to believe that he’s going directly to New York?” I asked. “If he’s a fugitive, and he’s smart, he’d go somewhere else first. Los Angeles, for instance, or Portland. He’d want to get out of San Francisco as soon as possible. Once he does that, he can take his time going on to New York.”

  “Well,” Guest said, “he’s a fugitive, no question. And, sure as hell, he’s smart.” His voice was flat and furious; his eyes were stone cold.

  “What I’d like,” I said, taking out my notebook and ballpoint pen, “is for you to fill me in. Give me everything you can think of, from the beginning—everything that’s relevant to the crime.”

  “Yes—certainly.” Suddenly, as if his body couldn’t contain its own instant burst of energy, he rose to his feet. Wearing a plaid woolen bathrobe over paisley-printed silk pajamas, he began pacing back and forth behind the intricately carved table.

  “It all started,” he said, “almost seven years ago, when my daughter Marie—” He gestured to the phone. It was a short, resentful gesture, as if he were releasing a charge of sudden anger. “Marie married Gordon Kramer, in New York. She’d been married once before. In fact, she’d gone to New York to live for a while, to forget her first husband. Unfortunately, however, she met Kramer almost immediately, and in just a few months they got married, at City Hall, naturally. Secretly. Or, at least, surreptitiously, as if the marriage were a shameful secret. They lived in New York until John, their son, was almost two years old. Then they came to San Francisco. Kramer—I never think of him as Gordon—was in venture capital. He had his own business in New York, or so he said. I was able to help him get established here, and within two years after his arrival in San Francisco he’d made many advantageous connections, thanks to my efforts.

  “But then, unhappily, the marriage started to come apart. And, to be fair, I can’t claim it was entirely Kramer’s fault. Because, in fact—” He broke stride, stood motionless for a moment. I saw his shoulders sag and his head lower, as if his sharp, restless vitality had suddenly deserted him. “In fact, even during her first marriage, Marie began to drink.” Plainly weary now, he resumed his seat. “I thought having a baby might help, but it didn’t. Just the opposite proved to be the case. Postpartum depression aggravated the problem. And then there was Kramer—” His eyes hardened, his voice sharpened vindictively. I was aware of a pattern developing. Talking about his daughter or his grandson, Guest’s manner softened. But when he talked about Gordon Kramer, anger took over.

  “During the whole of his marriage, Kramer was seeing other women. Lots of other women. And when he and Marie moved here, his philandering continued, got worse, in fact. Until, finally, he became so blatant about it that we had no choice but to take action.” He began reflectively twirling an ant
ique silver letter opener with his long, expressive fingers as he looked me squarely in the eye. Obviously, he was evaluating me, deciding how much he should tell me. Finally he said, “To be perfectly candid, Lieutenant, we made a deal, Kramer and I. If he would agree to a divorce, agree to go back to New York, or wherever, and if he would agree not to bother either Marie or John, I’d agree to a nominal settlement—even though, God knows, the court would never have given him anything. The point being, I wanted him out of our lives. For good.”

  “Did he have visitation rights, after the divorce?”

  He nodded. “Yes. It was just too much trouble to eliminate visitation. The courts, you know, will almost always grant visitation, and Kramer’s lawyer wasn’t about to yield the point, doubtless because he could see some profit to his career, successfully opposing me in divorce proceedings. It’s like gun fighting in the old west, making a reputation by going against someone important. So, as I said, Kramer and I made a separate deal, privately. He agreed to stay away from both Marie and John. And I agreed to—certain other things.”

  “Then he broke his word. Is that it?”

  He waved aside the question with a sharp, impatient chop of his hand. Talking about Kramer, Guest’s angry vitality had returned. “Yes, he broke his word. But that’s another story. It’s a long story, and it’s irrelevant, at least for the moment. After all, it’s three o’clock in the morning. And we’re still doing background.” He eyed me coldly, as if to imply that he shouldn’t have to tell me how to conduct my own interrogation. “Suffice it to say I had a lot of incriminating information on Gordon Kramer—information that had nothing whatever to do with his goddam philandering.” He broke off, frowning down at the silver letter opener, his expression implacable, inscrutable. Then: “For a while the deal held. But, two years ago, Kramer got remarried. And for whatever reason, he apparently decided that he wanted John. So a year ago, he began taking measures.”

  “He wanted the boy permanently, you mean? Or did he want to visit him?”

  “It began with visitations. Of course, I objected. He was breaking our private agreement. In response, he initiated custody proceedings, naming Marie an unfit parent. I threatened retaliation, of course. I’ve already told you I had information that would incriminate him. I threatened to use it.”

  “What was the nature of that information?”

  “I don’t want to go into that,” he snapped. “There’s no need, now. Everything’s changed. Obviously. Besides, using that information was the expedient of last resort. Initially, there was an easier, less complicated answer to his custody suit.”

  “What was that?”

  He looked at me silently for a moment, signifying that he was about to take me into his confidence—a confidence that I would be wise to respect.

  “I simply arranged for the court proceedings to be delayed.”

  “For how long?”

  “Two years, probably. The first court date was about a year in the future, if I recall correctly.”

  “And you could’ve continued to get postponements. For years.”

  He made no reply, but his silence was eloquent.

  “And, in the meantime,” I said, “Kramer was aware that you also threatened him with possible action on the incriminating information you held against him.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “You had him pretty much backed into a corner.”

  “Right.” He said it with obvious satisfaction. Alexander Guest wasn’t a man to show an enemy mercy.

  “So he decided to steal his son, take him away. Tonight.”

  He nodded: a slow, ominous inclination of his head. “Yes.”

  “What happened here tonight, Mr. Guest? Can you give me a rundown?”

  As if to organize his thoughts, he sat silently for a moment, still absently fingering the silver letter opener. Then, drawing a deep breath, he began speaking in a deliberate, precisely measured voice.

  “To understand what happened,” he said, “you must understand that, during the past year, I’ve made it my business to know something of Kramer’s activities. And, in the process, I was warned that he intended to get John and take him away, possibly abroad. And I was determined—absolutely determined—that it would never happen. Not only would he ruin Marie’s life, probably, but he’d also ruin my life, too. I’ve been married three times—and divorced three times. I’ve learned my lesson. I’m not suited to marriage, and I’m not going to try it again. I have—had—two children. My son Alex was killed when he was twenty. And Marie—well—” He shook his head. “In some respects, Marie is lost to me, lost to herself. So that leaves John. He’s my only grandson, the only thing left to me that really counts. Do you understand?” He asked the question sharply, suddenly, as if to dispel any suggestion that his affection for John was a bid for sympathy, or a confession of weakness. Alexander Guest wasn’t taking me into his confidence. He was sorting matters out, giving me the facts he’d decided I’d need if I was to help him solve his problem.

  I nodded. “I understand.”

  “Are you a family man? Do you have children?”

  “I have two children. Teenagers.”

  “Then you can appreciate my position.”

  “Yes.”

  Apparently satisfied that he’d made his point, he continued in the same brisk, precise voice, as if he were summarizing for a jury.

  “Kramer’s first attempt to get John involved a third party, and it was unsuccessful. I won’t go into the details, because they aren’t germane. But, suffice it to say, I was warned. I hired a man to guard Marie and John, at their home. And I also hired Quade, to help me.”

  I frowned. “Help you?”

  “John spends a lot of time with me, especially on weekends. Once I learned of Kramer’s intentions, I naturally wanted protection. For John, and for myself, too.”

  “So Quade stayed here, whenever John was with you.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Is there anyone else living in the house?”

  “I have a couple. She does the cooking and housekeeping. He drives for me and helps around the house. They live over the garage. They’re away for the weekend.”

  “So just the three of you were in the house tonight.” As I spoke, I opened my notebook and put it on a corner of the desk. It was time to get the details down on paper.

  “Yes.”

  “What I’d like,” I said, “is for you to give me a rundown on what happened. Give me anything that’s relevant, anything at all. And give it to me in sequence, please. I’ll especially need the time everything happened. As precisely as possible.”

  “Of course. I understand. In fact—” He put the letter opener aside, and took a sheet of paper from a drawer, at the same time reaching for a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. I’ve made some notes. I knew you’d need them.” Consulting the paper, he recited:

  “Marie and I had arranged that John would stay with me for the weekend. That’s our usual arrangement. And, as usual, I picked John up at Marie’s house after I finished at my office, about four o’clock. I took John for an ice cream cone, and bought him a toy. Then we had dinner—a hamburger, actually, at Hamburger Heaven. We arrived here about seven o’clock. Quade was already here, by prearrangement.”

  “How long had Quade been working for you and John as a bodyguard?”

  “Ever since I learned that Kramer intended to steal John. That would be about four months ago.”

  “Did anyone guard John except Quade, when John stayed with you?”

  “No.”

  “Did Quade work for you at other times?”

  He frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “I mean, did he do anything except guard John—work for you in any other capacity?”

  He hesitated, then said, “No.”

  “So you hired Quade almost every weekend for about four months. Is that it?”

  “Yes.”

  I nodded, and waited for him to consult his notes
. “Clara and Fred—my servants—left about eight this evening. Or, rather, last evening, technically. They won’t be back until Sunday afternoon. John and I watched TV until about ten, when he went to bed.”

  “What was Quade doing while the two of you watched TV?”

  “As far as I know, he was watching TV, too, in his own room. He was there when John went to bed, in any case.”

  “You saw him.”

  “I didn’t actually see him. But I heard him. Before I put John to bed I knocked on Quade’s door, and told him that John was going to sleep. He acknowledged what I’d said, and turned his TV off. So I knew he was there, even though I didn’t actually see him.”

  “As I understand the layout of your house, there’re only two bedrooms on the ground floor. Is that right?”

  He nodded. “Yes. Two small adjoining bedrooms, at the back of the house. There’s a bath back there, too, and the laundry room. Originally they were servant’s quarters, but the space over the garage is better for a couple, more private. There’s more room, too. And a view.”

  “I was wondering—” I hesitated, considering how best to put the question.

  “Yes?” He spoke impatiently, frowning. Plainly, Guest had no time for other people’s indecision.

  “Well—those two bedrooms seem to be pretty isolated, there at the back of the house. They don’t seem very secure, as nearly as I can see. There’s one door that leads into the area from the garage, and another door that leads directly outside, to the driveway.”

  “You’re wondering why I put John there, in view of the fact that he might be kidnapped. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yes, sir. I’d think he’d have been safer here on the second floor.”

  “That’s probably true. But there’s more to life than security, Lieutenant. That’s John’s room. It’s part of his identity, perhaps a very important part. And I don’t propose that he begin his life by surrendering his freedom to the possibility of danger. Did you see his room, look inside?”