Double Eagle

by Keith Miles

  But why had he gone to such lengths to kill me? He could have snapped my neck in two at our first meeting if he’d been intent on murder. Why release me if it put him to the trouble of coming after me again? The answer was patent.

  I was getting too close for comfort.

  Somebody was afraid that I’d find out the truth in the end. Unless I was stopped. The road to Stinson Beach had been the ideal place in which to dispose of me. The man had seized his opportunity. It was deeply alarming but there was one aspect that was heartening.

  I must be on the right track.

  When we got to the airport, I went straight off to find Lori Whyte to apologise for what had happened to her company’s vehicle. She took it on the chin and came back with her cheerleader smile.

  ‘Don’t let it worry you, sir.’

  ‘Then you’re not upset?’

  ‘Course not.’

  ‘That’s a relief.’

  ‘We’re bound to lose an automobile from time to time,’ she said, airily. ‘That’s the way it goes. Anyway, a Chevy Chevette can be replaced. We’re just glad we didn’t lose a customer over that cliff.’

  ‘So am I, Lori.’

  She laughed and asked for a more detailed account of the accident. I gave her the revised version in which the would-be killer was only a man in a hurry who probably didn’t even realise the danger he left me in as he whizzed past.

  Lori heard me out with polite attention.

  ‘There was no need for you to say sorry,’ she added. ‘Not as if it was my automobile. It was the company’s and they got hundreds.’

  ‘I was afraid you might get into trouble because you were the person who rented it out to me.’

  ‘Oh, the company doesn’t work like that,’ she said with a giggle. ‘Just as well. First month I was here, I hired out a Camaro that got stolen and used in a bank robbery. What about that, huh?’

  ‘You must have some kind of jinx.’

  ‘Yeah. Could be.’

  I paused. ‘Actually, Lori,’ I continued more seriously, ‘there was another reason for coming to see you. I wanted to ask you a favour.’

  ‘A favour?’

  She was expecting me to make a pass at her and her tone warned me that I’d be wasting my time. My request was quite different. It struck me that a man with a battered Oldsmobile in Los Angeles was unlikely to have a shining new car on standby at San Francisco airport. In all probability, he’d rented the vehicle. When I described the blue car to Lori, she identified it at once.

  ‘That was a Pontiac Grand Am.’

  ‘Do you have any in your fleet?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then who does?’

  ‘Avis—and a few of the others.’ She pointed to the Avis counter on the opposite side of the hall. ‘See that one on the right? That’s a Grand Am.’

  ‘And that’s my boy!’ I confirmed, looking at the photograph.

  ‘There you go, then. Ask around.’

  I leaned on the counter and tried to sound exhausted.

  ‘Lori,’ I confided, ‘I’ve had one hell of an afternoon. I don’t suppose you could help me out? Apart from anything else, those girls know you. They might not like a total stranger trying to pump them.’ I offered a tired grin. ‘I’d be eternally grateful.’

  ‘I’m not supposed to leave my position, sir.’

  ‘Go on. I’ll mind the shop.’

  She weighed me up, glanced around, then nodded.

  ‘Wait here. I won’t be long.’

  ‘Ask what the man looked like, will you?’ I instructed.

  Lori Whyte came out from behind the counter and I had my first view of her legs. They were short but attractively slender and they permitted her a quite bewitching gait.

  When she had no luck at the Avis counter, she moved on to another but she drew a blank there as well. The third girl seemed to know something and showed Lori a list but the latter shook her head. At the fourth port of call, she had more success.

  My hopes rose as I watched her in earnest conversation with a grinning young man who worked for National Car Rental. He consulted his records, then wrote on a pad, tore off the sheet and handed it to her. Lori thanked him and headed back towards me. The young man studied her legs with frank enthusiasm.

  ‘Well?’ I asked, eagerly.

  She went back behind her counter before she spoke.

  ‘I hope you know what this cost me, sir.’

  ‘Cost you?’

  ‘That guy on National is not supposed to divulge booking information to anyone—least of all to a competitor.’ She threw a contemptuous glance at him. ‘Just so happens that the jerk has been trying to date me ever since he got the job.’

  I was touched. ‘And you made the supreme sacrifice for me?’

  ‘I agreed to have a drink with him when I’m through here.’ She grimaced. ‘I sure hope it was worth it.’

  ‘What did you get?’

  ‘A blue Grand Am was rented to a man who came in on the same PSA flight as you. He called from LA Airport to have it standing by for him.’ She passed the slip of paper to me. ‘He was Mexican. Gave his name as Mr. Gomez and that address. Oh, and he paid in cash. That’s unusual in our business. Everybody has plastic these days. The National parking lot called over an hour ago to say that the automobile had been returned and was available for rental again.’

  ‘That’s marvellous, Lori! Did your friend say anything about the man’s appearance?’

  ‘Only that he was in his twenties. Medium height, solid build. Wearing a brown jacket and a hat. That’s all I got.’

  ‘It’s more than enough.’

  ‘I’ll remember that when I’m having a drink with that jerk over there.’ Her smile blossomed again. ‘As long as we give customer satisfaction, sir. That’s what counts.’

  ‘Lori Whyte,’ I declared. ‘I love you.’

  I bent over the counter to kiss her, then waved my farewell. As I limped past National Car Rental, I was pleased to see that I’d wiped the grin off the young man’s face. He and Lori would now have something to talk about in the bar.

  I went back upstairs and headed for the PSA desk. The woman on duty was very obliging. When I asked after my friend, Mr. Gomez, she punched up the information on her computer. Gomez had flown back to Los Angeles on the previous flight.

  Quiet elation stirred. I was making progress.

  Gomez was my man. The name was probably a false one—hence the absence of a credit card—and the address also fictitious, but I now knew for certain that I’d been followed from Los Angeles by a professional killer. He was Mexican and already had three victims.

  Zuke Everett. My clothing. A silver Chevy Chevette.

  I felt pleased. When I went to the bookstall to get some post cards, I even bought one for my father. A splendid view of Alcatraz.

  It was my turn to get back at him.

  ***

  It was late evening before I returned to the motel. A message from Clive Phelps was waiting for me and I dialled his number as soon as I went back to my room. When the hotel switchboard put me through, Clive answered at once in breathless tones.

  ‘Hold on, will you—because I can’t!’

  He dropped the receiver and I heard it bang against something hard. I was then treated to some fairly appalling noises. Clive Phelps was not alone. I had no wish to listen to a miniature radio play about his private life and so I put my own receiver down on the bedside table.

  It was minutes before I heard him yelling down the line.

  ‘Saxon! Where are you? Come back—all is forgiven!’

  I crossed over to the telephone and picked it up.

  ‘How did you know it was me?’ I said.

  ‘Because I asked you to give me a bel
l.’

  ‘Supposing I’d been your wife?’

  ‘Then we’d never have had the three kids.’

  ‘You know what I mean, Clive,’ I clarified. ‘Supposing it had been your wife ringing up out of the blue?’

  ‘We’ve been married a long time, Alan. She’s got more sense than to make random phone calls when I’m far away in a foreign hotel room.’ I heard him draw deeply on a post-coital cheroot. ‘Anyway, sorry I was engaged when you called. Miss Rosario is a chambermaid here. She’d just popped in to turn down my bed.’

  ‘I hate to come between a man and his bridge-building.’

  ‘And what a bridge!’ he boasted. ‘Sydney Harbour stuff.’

  ‘Could we move on to important matters?’ I requested.

  ‘You want her sister’s phone number, after all?’

  ‘No, Clive. I want some action.’

  ‘Then you should have been here five minutes ago.’

  ‘Who placed that bet on Zuke Everett?’ I demanded.

  ‘Not so fast. Let’s take the easy one first.’

  ‘The easy one?’

  ‘Got a pencil handy? Helen Everett—or Helen Ramirez, to use her stage name—was born in Monterrey. Her real name was Veronica Quiroga.’ He spelled the surname for me and I wrote it down. ‘By all accounts, the woman has been around in a big way. She’s left a lot of smiles among the male population here. Then she married Zuke. You know the rest.’

  ‘Not quite,’ I muttered. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Only that she’s hot for golf writers,’ he added, knowledgeably. ‘And there’s a mole on her right tit.’

  I knew for a fact that there wasn’t a single blemish on her body but I didn’t challenge his claim. He couldn’t be expected to understand what had occurred between Helen and me on the night that her husband was murdered. Clive lived in a world of sudden pounces and sordid conquests. It made him judge everyone by his own standards.

  ‘What about the bet?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t mention that bloody thing!’ he groaned. ‘You owe me a mint, Alan. I spent a fortune to get the name you wanted.’

  ‘And what was it?’

  ‘Sit tight and listen,’ he ordered. ‘I’m not going to be cheated out of my full moan. I chased around for hours!’

  ‘But you got there in the end?’

  ‘I’m coming to that.’ He puffed at his cheroot again and I heard him exhale the smoke. ‘First problem—tracking down the bookie. That cost me a packet, for a start. He was called Agonistes. Tiny little polecat of a man with the kind of suit that I couldn’t even afford to hire. As for booze!’ Clive gave a hollow laugh. ‘He made me look like a Temperance freak. Did everything but swim in the bloody stuff. When I asked him about the bet, he told me that all his transactions were strictly confidential. A bottle later, he agreed to drop the “strictly” but stuck by the “confidential”. Halfway through the third bottle, he said he’d whisper a name in my ear. You can imagine what his breath was like by that stage. He almost singed my lughole off!’

  ‘What was the name?’ I pressed.

  ‘Gary Posner.’

  I shrugged. ‘Means nothing to me.’

  ‘Nor to me. Until I did some more charging round, that is.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I finally caught up with him. Gary Posner is a businessman. Makes sportswear. Quite successful at it, judging by the size of his office. Gorgeous secretary. One of those tall, slinky birds with nice hips. I could see that she liked me.’

  ‘Tell me about Posner,’ I insisted.

  ‘Who? Oh, yes.’ He paused to take a swig of something, then belched mildly. ‘At first he denied all knowledge of the bet. Apparently, the law’s been round there so he’s had a bellyful of answering questions. I had to calm him down and win him over with my celebrated silver tongue. Gary Posner placed that bet for a friend of his.’ Clive chuckled with glee. ‘You’ll never guess who that friend is.’

  It came to me at once and I blurted it out.

  ‘Zuke Everett.’

  He was wounded. ‘You knew all the bloody time!’

  ‘I didn’t, Clive. Honestly.’

  ‘I could have saved myself all that slog!’

  ‘It was pure intuition.’

  ‘Bollocks!’

  Clive had another drink to soothe his hurt feelings. I’d robbed him of his major revelation and he was upset. It was some time before he consented to tell me what else he’d learned.

  ‘Here’s something you didn’t know, Mastermind,’ he announced. ‘Over the past year, Zuke made a habit of it.’

  ‘Betting on himself?’

  ‘Betting on himself—and losing.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Thousands. Posner wouldn’t put a figure on it.’

  ‘Where does he fit into all this?’

  ‘Posner and Zuke were partners,’ he explained. ‘Zuke had a stake in the business until last year. He asked Posner to buy him out when he was desperate for cash. Seems to be a recurring theme.’

  ‘What does?’ I said.

  ‘Zuke’s shortage of the ready. He cut back on a lot of other business interests as well. Must have been in real straits.’

  ‘That’s the picture I’ve been getting, Clive.’

  ‘Then, of course, there’s Howie Danzig,’ he reminded.

  ‘Yes, he was closely involved in all Zuke’s financial affairs.’

  ‘According to Posner, the two of them had some ding-dong battles. Zuke became so irresponsible. It nearly drove poor Howie round the twist.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Christ! What could be worse than managing a professional bloody golfer?’

  ‘Being one.’

  He laughed. ‘Fair comment.’

  ‘Any word on Howie, by the way?’

  ‘I contacted the hospital earlier. He’s still in intensive care. They described his condition as stable, which is their euphemism for consistently bad.’ He took another drink but spared me the belch this time. ‘Report concluded. Over and out.’

  ‘Thanks, Clive. You did well.’

  ‘So what’s new?’ he boasted. His tone became reflective. ‘One thing about old Zuke, though. The man had guts.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Look at the situation he was in, Alan. On his uppers, fighting with his manager, struggling to find his form. Then, after two very ordinary rounds of golf, what does he go and do?’

  ‘Put $10,000 on himself to win the tournament.’

  ‘Yes,’ he added. ‘Then Zuke went out and shot a fabulous round of 64. That takes nerve. You have to admire him.’

  ‘Oh, I do,’ I attested. ‘Very much.’

  There was a brief silence in tribute to Zuke’s memory.

  ‘Anyway,’ resumed Clive chirpily, ‘what did you do today?’

  ‘Went to San Francisco.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ he protested. ‘While I’m doing the donkey work here, you go off sightseeing.’

  ‘I went to visit a friend. Valmai Everett.’

  ‘Ah. That’s different. Tell all.’

  I gave him a short account of what had happened and told him the truth about the attempt on my life. His manner changed at once.

  ‘Why didn’t you say all that to the police, you idiot?’

  ‘You know how I feel about men in uniform.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Alan! Someone is trying to kill you.’

  ‘I’d worked that out for myself.’

  ‘You need protection,’ he urged.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he may have another crack at you.’

  ‘Not if I’m surrounded by a cordon of police.’

  Clive gulped. ‘You’re not actually inviting attack?’

/>   ‘I’ll be ready for him next time,’ I promised.

  ‘Don’t be stupid, man. You’re dealing with a pro here. He could pick you off at any time.’

  ‘He hasn’t managed it so far,’ I pointed out. ‘Besides, a pro doesn’t take chances. I’m safe as long as I’m with other people.’

  ‘Look what happened to Zuke.’

  ‘I’m not likely to forget that in a hurry.’

  There was another silence as Clive considered the situation.

  ‘Do you know what I’d do in your position?’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Head for home on the next available plane.’

  ‘I’m not running away,’ I asserted.

  ‘See it in the nature of a tactical withdrawal.’

  ‘Sorry, Clive. It’s not my style.’

  ‘What is your style—being forced over a cliff?’

  ‘I survived.’

  ‘Alan,’ he argued, ‘as long as you stay, you’re a target.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Sooner or later, the killer will get you.’

  ‘Not if I get him first,’ I countered.

  ‘But you have no idea who he is.’

  ‘I’m not that far off and he knows it. If I wasn’t breathing down his neck, why would he bother with me at all?’

  ‘I still say that you should cut and run,’ he advised.

  ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘Be sensible, Alan.’

  ‘He murdered Zuke and he had a go at me,’ I said. ‘I’ve simply got to stay. I want to nail him, Clive. And I want to nail whoever’s behind him pulling the strings.’

  ‘Who do you think that is?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not certain yet,’ I admitted. ‘But I will be soon. When I’ve got all the information I need. Talking of which, I want you to find out something else for me.’

  ‘I can’t,’ he complained. ‘I’m flying off to Arizona.’

  ‘Not until tomorrow. That’s a long way off yet.’

  ‘I do expect some time to eat, drink and be merry, you know.’

  ‘Not to mention your bridge-building commitments.’

  ‘Exactly.’