by Keith Miles
‘Say, Al, what’s it like back at the house?’
‘How is Mrs. Everett taking it all?’
‘Can you remember the last words Zuke said to you?’
‘Any idea who could’ve done it, Al?’
‘How d’ya feel about playing a round of golf today?’
Before I could tell them that I had no comment to make, I was rescued by a uniformed security officer who slung my golf bag over his shoulder and bullocked a way for us through the crowd. His pug-nosed determination got me safely inside the clubhouse.
‘Thanks a lot,’ I said.
‘Yeah.’
He handed me the bag and went to stand guard at the door.
‘We thought you might need some help,’ explained a voice.
I turned round to see Suzanne Fricker. She looked quite arresting in a casual suit of pale blue cotton. Her face had the same polished beauty and her eyes still refused to join in the smile.
‘Our newsmen can be a pain in the ass,’ she added.
‘So I noticed.’
‘We’ll make sure you’re not bothered by them.’
‘I’m grateful.’
‘You’ve got enough on your plate as it is.’ The smile gave way to a serious frown. ‘I think you’re very brave, Alan. In your position, a lot of golfers might not have turned up today.’
‘I need the money,’ I joked.
‘The pressures on you must be terrific.’
‘I can’t feel them yet, Suzanne. Haven’t woken up properly.’
‘Mr. Kallgren would like a private word with you,’ she said.
‘Of course. Now?’
‘After the tournament.’
‘Fine,’ I consented.
‘Zuke’s death has come as a great shock to him.’
‘That goes for all of us.’
Suzanne Fricker nodded in agreement and lowered her head for a few seconds. When she raised it again, tears welled up in her eyes. I was surprised and touched by this sign of human fallibility. She went up in my estimation at once.
I hadn’t realised that Barbie dolls could cry.
‘Zuke was a special kind of guy,’ she confided, wistfully. ‘He and I got close for a time. Real close. I’ll miss him like hell.’ Her manner became businesslike. ‘Okay, then. I’ll tell Mr. Kallgren that you’ll see him afterwards.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘Thanks, Alan.’
She turned on her heel and moved swiftly away.
I stood there wondering when the affair had taken place. Her tone seemed to imply that it had been fairly recent. After Valmai and before Helen Ramirez? Or did it overlap with his second marriage?
I was still trying to work it out when Jerry Bruford strolled up and took my bag from me. His gum-chewing nonchalance was just the tonic I needed. He jerked a thumb towards the course.
‘You wanna go out there and play some golf?’
‘Why not?’
‘Then get your ass into gear.’ He led the way towards the locker rooms. ‘You don’t play, I don’t get my dough.’
‘It’s worse than that, Jerry. I don’t get mine.’
‘Check.’
My caddie saw it as part of his job to keep my mind on my game. He made no reference at all to Zuke. He chatted easily about the technical problems that faced us out on the course and suggested ways to overcome them. As I listened to him, I underwent a transformation. When I left the house that morning, I was in no state to play golf. Ten minutes with Jerry Bruford not only restored my confidence. It revived my competitive instinct and made me want to get out there and battle on.
The mood among the players was sombre. I collected several muttered condolences and sympathetic nods. Zuke’s death had cast a dark shadow over the whole tournament and every golfer was deeply affected.
The exception was Gamil Amir. He showed no sorrow.
‘They tell me Zuke has cried off,’ he remarked.
‘One way of putting it,’ I said.
‘He was afraid I’d beat him. That’s why he’s not here.’
‘I don’t find that very funny, Amir.’
‘You English have no sense of humour.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ I countered. ‘We’re still laughing ourselves silly over the Suez crisis.’
His grin broadened and he leaned in to whisper to me.
‘I’m glad somebody killed him. It saves me the trouble.’
‘Can I quote you on that?’ I asked.
‘No, Saxon,’ he warned. ‘You can just stay out of my way.’
‘So much for Anglo-Egyptian friendship!’
Jerry Bruford tugged me away before the argument could develop but my spat with Amir had in fact helped me. It instilled some real aggression into me and made me want to hit back out on the course. I would be playing for myself and for Zuke Everett.
Rutherford Kallgren made a meal of the tragedy. Instead of letting the final round get under way, he made a short, moving speech over the public address system and then decreed one minute’s silence in tribute to Zuke. I found his comments morbid. They said more about Kallgren himself than about the murder victim.
Tom Bellinghaus was very much in evidence. His face wore a sad expression that was belied by his jaunty step and his general air of smugness. Zuke Everett attacked the new course and brought it to its knees. He had paid for his temerity and Bellinghaus clearly thought that the price had been a fair one. The question remained whether or not the course architect had exacted payment himself.
Bright sunshine graced the last day’s play at the Tournament of Champions. The wind died away to make conditions almost perfect. I was partnered by Bob Tolley, the only other British golfer in the event. Bob had lived and played in America for so long now that his chirpy Cockney accent had all but disappeared beneath a transatlantic drawl. But I didn’t mind that. He was still a fellow countryman and I was relieved to have him alongside me.
There had been moments in the past twelve hours when I had been confronted with the fact that I was in a foreign country. They did things very differently there.
‘On the tee—Alan Saxon!’
The ovation I got from the crowd around the first tee was quite unexpected. When my name was announced, there was a great communal surge of emotion and applause. I soon realised what had caused it. Without my baseball cap, I looked like Zuke Everett again. In cheering me, the spectators were also showing Zuke what they felt about him. Buoyed up on this tide of good will, I addressed my ball, then swung. My drive went straight down the middle of the fairway.
‘Jesus!’ said my caddie, deeply impressed.
‘There’s a lot more where that came from,’ I promised.
‘Let’s roll!’
My weariness had evaporated now and I was full of ambition. Playing on nervous energy, I tried to emulate Zuke and launch an all-out attack on the course. When they saw what I was doing, the galleries roared their approval and helped to lift my game. Bob Tolley settled for percentage golf and picked his way from hole to hole, but I forsook caution altogether. Advised by Jerry and urged on by the now delirious hordes, I went for my shots with full-blooded commitment.
Inevitably, there were setbacks. I explored the heavy rough, I hit sand, I tested water. But I somehow managed to redeem my mistakes with a series of fine recovery shots.
When I reached the 13th hole, my adrenalin was flowing and my confidence was boundless. It was my last chance to take a bite out of the Bellinghaus wallet and the thought fired me as I stood on the tee. I hit my drive to the right of the lake, crossed the water diagonally with my second shot, then found the green with my third. Producing a long, straight putt, I claimed a stroke off the hole and earned myself a $500 bonus that was very gratifying.
I faltered slightly over the next few holes but staged a minor comeback and finished in style with a birdie that gained me a hero’s reception. As the cheers reverberated, Jerry Bruford pumped my arm. On a day when all the odds were against me, I had shot a round of 69 and secured a place on the lower half of the leader board.
As I basked in my triumph, two people sprang to mind.
Zuke Everett, my friend, and Donnelly, my bank manager.
In my own way, I had answered both their demands.
Security men moved in to protect me from the intense media attention that awaited me. After smiling at dozens of cameras and saying a few words into a microphone, I let the security officers bear me off to the relative safety of the locker room.
The tournament was still not over and my own contribution had no real effect on the eventual outcome. Gamil Amir led until the final hole only to see victory snatched away from him by the superior putting of Phil Reiner. The quiet man of the US tour crept up stealthily behind him and slipped past almost unnoticed. It was a very popular win. Amir may have entertained the galleries with his flashy brilliance but the home crowd were nevertheless thrilled when the steady, unsensational golf of Phil Reiner put an American name on the trophy.
It was the next best thing to victory by Zuke Everett.
The ceremony which ended the tournament was every bit as lavish and spectacular as the one which opened it. An orchestra played, there were set speeches, publicity gimmicks were thrown in by the handful. All twenty-nine surviving golfers were lined up in front of the assembled throng and the massed cameras. Like royalty inspecting a guard of honour, Rutherford Kallgren walked along the line and had a brief individual word with each one of us.
‘Well played, Al,’ he said to me. ‘Great stuff.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You were like a second Zuke Everett out there.’
He moved on to talk to Bob Tolley and I was left with the haunting aroma of his after-shave in my nostrils.
Kallgren mounted the rostrum, delivered another speech into the microphone, then called for the winner of the inaugural Tournament of Champions to step forward. We joined in the applause as Phil Reiner walked across to the rostrum.
A shapely blonde then emerged from the crowd, wearing little more than a sash which proclaimed her the current Miss California. She was carrying a large, ornate silver trophy and she handed it to Kallgren with a dazzling grin. He in turn presented it to Reiner and they held their handshake so that all the cameras could immortalise the moment.
‘What a trophy to have!’ observed Bob Tolley beside me.
‘I’d prefer Miss California,’ I confessed. ‘Much nicer to look at on the mantelpiece and a lot more fun to polish.’
Gamil Amir agreed with me. When he went to the rostrum to collect his medal as runner-up, he grabbed the girl playfully and lifted her into the air for the benefit of the cameras. He said something to her as he put her down and she giggled.
‘That’s what they call Arab oil,’ noted Bob Tolley.
After the ceremony, we all adjourned to the club-house for a champagne buffet and a chance to mingle with the press. Newsmen closed in on me at once but Suzanne Fricker was there to thwart them. She spirited me off to an upstairs room and I was shown into a large office with a glass-topped desk as its central feature.
Rutherford Kallgren was seated behind the desk in a high-backed swivel chair and Tom Bellinghaus stood close to him. They gave me an effusive welcome. The fact that Suzanne stayed with us confirmed her status as a top executive in the Kallgren organisation.
‘Sorry to drag you away from the party,’ said Kallgren. ‘Just wanted a brief chat with you, Al. How are you feeling now?’
‘Pleasantly exhausted,’ I admitted.
‘After the night you must have had, I’m not surprised. Tell me. What’s the atmosphere like back at the house?’
‘Pretty tense.’
‘Mrs. Everett?’
‘Still in a daze. It knocked her sideways.’
‘Understandably,’ he added. ‘Real shame. Zuke was such a vital part of the golf scene over here.’ He picked a speck of dust off the sleeve of the coat, then looked up at me. ‘Do the cops have anything to go on, Al?’
‘Not a lot,’ I said. ‘The killer was a pro.’
‘Who could possibly want to set Zuke up?’
‘Search me.’
‘You must have your own theory,’ he probed.
‘I don’t,’ I lied. ‘Doesn’t make sense to me.’
‘Nor me. Zuke was one of the nicest guys you could meet.’ He drummed his fingers lightly on the desk. ‘Did he…say anything to you?’
‘What about?’
‘Problems he was having. Fears.’
‘Not a word,’ I replied. ‘All I saw was the same old happy-go-lucky Zuke Everett.’
‘So he didn’t confide in you at all?’
I shook my head.
Kallgren did not improve on closer acquaintance. There was something unnervingly calculating about him and he exuded wealth in a way that was quite offensive. I had struggled to find my niche in the golf world and felt a natural resentment at someone who had bought his way in. As for my theories about Zuke’s murder, I was determined to say as little as possible.
When he saw this, Kallgren gave me a bland smile and pulled a long envelope from the inside pocket of his coat. He handed it to me.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Everything we owe you. Appearance money plus winnings. The Kallgren organisation has its faults but we do pay our debts.’
‘The same goes for me,’ announced Bellinghaus with forced jollity, taking out a chequebook and a biro. ‘That birdie of yours at the 13th has earned you another $500.’
‘Make it payable to Jerry Bruford,’ I instructed. ‘It can be the first part of what I owe him. A golfer’s best friend is his caddie.’
I realised with a start that I was actually solvent again.
Since I’d walked into the office, I was almost $14,000 better off. I could now iron out all my financial problems when I got back home and still have enough left over to cushion myself for a while. From that point of view, the trip to Los Angeles had been a success.
In other ways, however, it was a nightmare.
Bellinghaus handed me the second cheque.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘While I’m here—and while you’ve got your chequebook out—I might as well take the money for Helen Everett.’
‘What money?’
‘For that double eagle.’
‘Aw, now, come on!’
‘You just boasted that you pay your debts,’ I reminded.
‘I do. My legitimate debts, that is.’
‘We all heard what you said on the first day, Mr. Bellinghaus. According to you, the 13th was impregnable. Your offer was $500 for a birdie and $5000 for an eagle.’
‘Did I mention a double eagle?’ he challenged.
‘No—but only because you thought it was impossible.’
‘It was impossible!’ he insisted. ‘Two freak shots.’
‘Now, that’s unfair!’ I retorted, angrily. ‘Zuke Everett was a pedigree golfer. I watched him play those shots and they weren’t freaks. That double eagle deserves some recognition. So pay up!’
‘I can’t,’ he taunted. ‘Zuke isn’t here to collect.’
‘The money should go to his wife.’
‘I don’t remember any mention of next of kin.’ Bellinghaus turned to Suzanne Fricker. ‘You’re the lawyer, Suzanne. How would I stand in a court of law on this one?’
‘It’s not a legal matter, Tom,’ she answered, coolly. ‘This is a question of conscience.’
‘My conscience is quite clear,’ he said, complacently.
‘Zuke g
ets nothing!’ I exclaimed.
‘I’ll send a wreath to the funeral.’
‘Big deal!’
‘No need to get so riled up about it, Al,’ advised Kallgren. ‘I’d say Tom was within his rights here. Besides, it’s not as if that double eagle will ever be forgotten. I’m having a commemorative plaque set up on the 13th tee. Zuke Everett’s name will live on.’
‘Yes, but he won’t!’ I rejoined, vehemently. ‘It isn’t a plaque, Mr. Kallgren—it’s a tombstone! That hole helped to kill him. I’m surprised you’re not getting full publicity out of it.’
‘Publicity?’
‘Why not go the whole hog and have Zuke’s skull stuck on the flagstick? You could sell plastic replicas of it by way of warning.’
‘We’re not taking this shit from you!’ exploded Bellinghaus.
Kallgren raised a manicured hand and the course architect calmed down at once. Controlling his temper, Bellinghaus retreated to the window and gazed out across the green acres of Golden Haze.
There was a long pause.
When Kallgren spoke, his tone was insultingly dismissive.
‘Enjoy the party, Al.’
Suzanne conducted me out of the office and closed the door behind us. I felt abused. They’d called all the shots.
I’d been interrogated, paid off and kicked out.
On Zuke Everett’s behalf, I was now seething with fury.
It strengthened my resolve to track down his killer.
Chapter Four
My mind was in a turmoil. Rage jostled with hatred, then both made way for cold suspicion. I was convinced that the row in the office had a direct bearing on Zuke’s death. Both men were involved somehow. Bellinghaus had almost gloated and his motive was self-evident, but Kallgren’s position was more complex. He’d put a colossal amount of time, effort and capital into his Tournament of Champions.
Why would he want to besmirch it with a murder?
I reached the bottom of the stairs before I realised that Suzanne Fricker was still with me. I stopped and turned to her.
‘Sorry about that, Alan,’ she said, quietly.
‘I asked for it.’
