by Keith Miles
‘Sorry?’
‘The other night,’ I reminded. ‘You came into my room.’
Embarrassment made her shrug and avert her gaze.
‘It was…not your fault,’ she muttered.
‘You certainly made me feel as if it was.’
‘Forget the whole thing.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘Look,’ she blazed, ‘I don’t wish to talk about it!’
‘We have to, Helen. And you know why.’
There was a long silence. Her embarrassment deepened and her hands played nervously at her skirt. When she tried to speak, her mouth could not produce words and she turned away. I crossed over to her and stood behind her.
‘I’d like an explanation,’ I said, quietly.
‘Go away.’
‘Who was he?’
‘Just leave me alone.’
‘Helen,’ I demanded, grabbing her by the shoulders and spinning her round to face me, ‘what’s going on here? That madman cut all my things to ribbons and then jumped on me. Now, who is he?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Tell me!’
‘It was nothing to do with me—I swear it!’ She broke away and moved to the front door. ‘Please go. For your own sake.’
‘Not until you’ve given me some answers.’
‘Alan—’
‘What are you hiding from me?’
‘Nothing.’
‘He murdered your husband—doesn’t that matter to you?’
The accusation in my voice was like a blow across her face and she reeled. Tears of pain and recrimination came in a flood and she brought her fists up to the side of her head. Dominga came out of the kitchen to see what all the commotion was about. Her eyes were dark with venom as they fixed on me.
I tried to console Helen but she pushed my arms away. With mascara running freely to disfigure her face, she took refuge in her native language.
‘Váyase!’
‘Listen—’
‘Salga de aquí!’
‘I didn’t mean to—’
‘Dése usted prisa!’ she ordered.
‘Por Dios!’ added Dominga.
I gestured an apology and went out through the door.
‘Stay away from me,’ begged Helen, ‘or he’ll kill you.’
‘Tell the police about him,’ I urged.
‘I can’t!’
It was not the first time she’d closed a door in my face.
I went back to the car and got in. The gates opened before I even started up the engine. As I drove out through them, I did not need to look behind me. I knew that Dominga would be watching.
I swung left on to the main road and headed towards the motel. After a hundred yards or so, however, I saw something which caused me to slow to a halt. A chauffeur-driven Mercedes had passed me on the other side of the road. Seated in the rear of the vehicle was a man I thought I recognised. I watched in my wing mirror as the car reduced speed and stopped outside the Everett house. A blast on the horn caused the gates to open and the Mercedes rolled on through them.
I drove on a short distance until I could pull off the road and leave the Honda beside a parking meter. A narrow stretch of grass ran along the front, interspersed with park benches and broken up by clusters of palms and other trees. It was an attractive place to promenade in the sun and offered a majestic view of Santa Monica beach far below. The Pacific was restless.
Using the trees as cover, I made my way back up the road until I could see into the drive of the house. The chauffeur was waiting in the Mercedes. His passenger had clearly been invited in. I checked my watch. It was over a quarter of an hour before the visitor came out again. Helen Everett stood at the door with him. Her make-up had been restored now and she’d regained her composure. When the man took her hand and kissed it, she even released a smile.
He got into the car and it surged through the gate as they parted. I stepped back behind a thick palm tree as the Mercedes went past, but I peeped round in time to see the face of the passenger. It was wearing a grin of self-congratulation.
I hadn’t been mistaken about his identity.
It was Gamil Amir.
***
The hotel was in downtown Los Angeles and I had some difficulty finding it at first. It was located in a quiet street and looked more like a private house than a hotel. Large, solid, double-fronted and perhaps a century old, the place had a faintly English feel to it. When I climbed the steps and went in, I found myself walking over an Oriental carpet in a hallway that was full of antiques. It was a refreshing change from the aggressive modernity of the rest of the city.
It was early evening. Mardie Cutler was waiting for me in the bar, a small room with the same atmosphere of vanished elegance. She leapt out of her seat and clutched at me.
‘Hey, I’m so glad you’ve come, Alan!’
‘Sorry I’m late. Got lost.’
‘Lemme buy you a drink.’
‘This one’s on me,’ I overruled. ‘What is it?’
‘Vodka,’ she confessed.
We were soon sitting at the table with our drinks. There was only one other couple in the room and they were examining a large menu. Mardie had promised that the place would be quiet.
‘Look at me,’ she said, holding up her glass. ‘I’ve touched nothing but orange juice for two years and now I’m on this. Got through a coupla bottles since…’ She took a quick sip to steady herself. ‘Gee, I’m so relieved you got here, Alan.’
Mardie Cutler was no longer the lithe, happy girl who had met me at the airport with a kiss. She was strained and haunted. Her loose-fitting white dress had a rope belt and one hand twisted it incessantly.
‘What exactly is the trouble?’ I asked.
‘Everything.’
‘Take it from the top.’
‘Been a nightmare.’
‘In what way?’
‘Zuke, the robbery, the man…I just can’t take it, Alan.’
I put a soothing hand on her arm. She was trembling.
‘Day after it happened,’ she recalled, ‘I just lay on the bed and cried my heart out. The doctor gave me some pills but they didn’t do much good. There’s no pill gonna bring Zuke back, is there?’
‘No, Mardie. I’m afraid not.’
‘Yesterday was pretty much the same. I’d cancelled my whole schedule again—hell, I was in no fit state to dance around to music! Then—about this time, I guess—I went out to the drugstore. All I took was my purse. I was only gone fifteen, twenty minutes. When I got back…’
‘The break-in had occurred.’
‘I nearly threw up, Alan. I was so shocked.’
‘How did they get in?’
‘Through the front door,’ she said, chewing her lip. ‘That was the terrifying thing. No forced entry. They musta had skeleton keys or something. It don’t exactly make you feel safe when you know someone can get in that easy.’
‘Did they damage the place at all? Vandalise it?’
‘No, but I knew they’d been in there just the same. It hits you right in the gut. It’s like you’re being spied on.’
‘And they took more or less everything of value?’
‘None of it’s worth very much except the hi fi. That was my livelihood they walked off with. Without the hi fi, I don’t dance. And the address book had all my clients’ numbers in it and a record of my work over the past few years.’
‘Presumably the sound system’s insured?’
‘Oh, sure, but that’s not the point. They’re trying to get at me—and it hasn’t stopped there.’ She drained her glass before she spoke. ‘I think I was followed.’
‘Today?’
‘On my way here,’ she said.
‘This guy in a Lincoln, he tailed me all the way down Figueroa Street. Turned off when I did. Drove on past when I pulled into that parking lot around the corner.’
‘Did you get a look at him, Mardie?’
‘I didn’t dare.’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘Could be wrong, of course. State I’m in, I imagine all kinda things. But it was creepy.’
‘I’m sure.’
There was a lengthy pause. She toyed with her rope belt.
‘Another drink?’ I offered.
‘No thanks but lemme get you one.’
‘I’m fine.’
Another pause opened up. Mardie was finding it hard to talk about the subject that had really brought us together that evening. I tried to provide her with a short-cut.
‘How long did it go on?’ I asked, tactfully. ‘You and Zuke.’
Her surprise was tinged with pleasure. She sounded grateful.
‘How did you know?’
‘The signs were fairly obvious, Mardie.’
‘Oh.’ She was worried.
‘You’re a busy young woman with her own business to run,’ I pointed out. ‘You wouldn’t take time off to meet me at the airport unless you wanted to do someone a big favour.’
‘I’d have done anything for him,’ she said, simply.
‘How long did it last?’
‘Three months. Almost to the day. Three months, then he was…’ She shook her head to dismiss the tears and took the opportunity to talk about the fond memories. ‘We used to come here, Alan. Our secret hotel. Mostly out-of-town guests, so it’s very private. Nobody would recognise Zuke here. We were just…two more people in the bar.’
Mardie talked with an amalgam of pride and guilt, wanting me to know the story, yet fearing some kind of moral disapproval. She had liked Zuke instantly. Their relationship had stayed on a jokey level at first, then she arrived one morning to lead Helen in a workout and found that she was not there. Zuke was supposed to have rung Mardie and told her that his wife could not make the session because of an urgent dental appointment.
Conveniently, he forgot to pass on the message.
‘Since I was there, he said, I might as well have the workout with him.’ She giggled. ‘He was so funny, jumping about with nothing on but a pair of tennis shorts. We laughed and laughed. Then he tripped and fell to the floor. I bent down to help him up.’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘That was the first time. The music kept on playing. It was fantastic.’
Three other women had told me about Zuke Everett. In each case he had emerged as a warm, generous, effervescent man with a positive attitude to life. Mardie painted substantially the same portrait but she added some darker tones as well. Zuke came over as a tormented person who was trying desperately to cope with the fact that his second marriage had been a resounding mistake.
‘That’s why I didn’t feel bad about it in front of Helen, you see,’ explained Mardie. ‘I was helping her as much as Zuke. I was sorta keeping their marriage together.’
‘How much did Helen know?’
‘As much as she wanted to, I guess.’
‘And why did she stop sleeping with him?’ I wondered.
‘He wouldn’t say—but it hurt him deeply.’ Her face clouded. ‘You must think I’m a real bitch.’
‘Why?’
‘Going off with Zuke behind her back.’
‘I’m not making any value judgements,’ I assured her. ‘The fact is that you kept him afloat during a very testing time. I’d say he was lucky to know Mardie Cutler.’
She brightened. ‘Thanks, Alan. I was only a small part of his life, maybe, but it was enough for me. I just felt great when I was around him.’
‘So I noticed.’
‘Then this had to happen. Just as he was getting on top.’
‘On top?’
‘Yeah,’ she confided. ‘Zuke told me that this tournament would change everything. He stood to make a heap of money. Reckoned that all his problems would disappear.’
‘Did he say where the money was coming from?’ I pressed.
‘No. From winning, I guess.’
‘Was there any mention of betting on himself?’
‘He joked about it—that was all.’
‘But his debts seem to have been enormous,’ I observed. ‘How on earth could he hope to pay them all off?’
Before I could pursue the subject, we were interrupted by the sound of a small bell tinkling away for all it was worth. Mardie giggled and sat up excitedly.
‘It’s the Magic Show.’
‘The what?’
‘There’s this crazy old guy runs the hotel. He puts on the Magic Show once a week. Man, he’s really off the wall!’
The bell tinkled on and came into the room with a strange sprightly figure in top hat and tails. He was short, dapper and overflowing with geniality. His white moustache and side-whiskers put him in his sixties but he was patently still a child at heart.
‘Time for the Magic Show, everyone!’ he announced.
He doffed his top hat and made an elaborate bow.
‘Good evening, Mr. Smith,’ he said to me, shaking my hand.
‘Good evening,’ I replied, then saw I was holding an egg.
‘Do you like them soft-boiled or hard-boiled, sir?’
‘Soft.’
‘Then this one is no use to you. It was laid by my rubber duck.’
He reclaimed the egg and bounced it on the floor like a ball. Pretending to swallow it whole, he pulled a face, gulped loudly, then pranced out ringing his little bell.
The other couple left the bar with a chuckle. There was an amiable eccentricity about the old man that compelled attention. He was part and parcel of the hotel’s quirky character.
‘Zuke and I always tried to make it on Magic Show night.’
‘That good, is it?’
‘No. It’s silly. But it used to make us laugh.’
‘Do you want to give it a whirl now?’ I suggested. ‘We could both do with a laugh.’
‘I’d love to see it just once more.’
‘Then let’s go.’
I escorted her out of the bar and along a corridor.
‘By the way,’ she warned, ‘he calls everyone Mr. Smith.’
‘Even the women?’
‘They’re always Mrs. Smith,’ she said with a giggle. ‘If you run a hotel, you only get to meet Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Get it?’
The Magic Show was held in a large, gracious room at the back of the building. Its walls were covered in tapestries and its floor was strewn with Oriental rugs. A magnificent old grand piano stood in one corner while another was occupied by a tall, antique grandfather clock with no hands on its face.
A low stage had been built against one wall and a black velvet curtain ran along the back of it. Various accessories of the magician’s art were set out, including two tall cabinets that stood on castors.
The centre of the room was taken up by ten or more small, round tables and residents had taken their places at most of them. We found a table for ourselves and sat down. There was an atmosphere of warm anticipation that was hard to resist.
Lighting was subdued to give a gentle glow. Two spotlights focussed on the stage itself and the piano was lit by a standard lamp. A cadaverous waiter passed among us with a tray bearing champagne in long, fluted glasses. I bought two as he stopped at our table. Mardie giggled as we clinked our glasses.
We were both going to enjoy the Magic Show to the full.
‘Ladies and gentlemen…’
The magician had mounted the stage to begin his act. He got a spontaneous round of applause. He thanked us all individually, rattling off our names as his head moved from table to table with lightning speed.
‘Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, Sm
ith, Smith, Smith, Smith, Smith, Smith, Smith, Smith, Smith, Smith.’ He beamed all over us. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Charles Fenton Cornelius, your host in this delightful hotel and your humble servant in this Magic Show.’ He repeated his elaborate bow to more applause. ‘First, I require the services of an assistant and I call upon Benjamin Reed Cornelius to fulfil that role here tonight.’
‘It’s a ghost,’ whispered Mardie in my ear.
‘A what?’
‘This is the bit that always got Zuke.’
‘Is Benjamin Reed Cornelius here?’ he boomed.
A deep silence. The residents glanced around uneasily.
‘Give him a little time,’ advised the magician. ‘He’s been dead for over sixty years.’ There was a rustle of laughter. ‘Maybe I should have told you that Benjamin Reed Cornelius, who happened to be my great-grandfather, built this hotel before the turn of the century.’ He pointed to the grand piano. ‘He died on that very stool, ladies and gentlemen—playing his last waltz.’
‘Watch the clock,’ hissed Mardie.
‘Why?’
‘You’ll see.’
‘He’s here!’ declared the magician. ‘The old gimp has come back. All we have to do is find him. Everybody quiet now!’ He cupped his hands and called. ‘Great-grandfather, where are you?’
The clock started to chime furiously and several people reacted with a shout of surprise. Then one of the tapestries began to twitch about. On another wall, a bell pull went vigorously up and down.
‘He’ll settle down in a moment,’ promised the magician.
The curtain behind him began to shake and then the whole room seemed to be alive with chiming and twitching and unexplained movement of inanimate objects. Mardie giggled happily all the way through it.
Suddenly, some chords were played on the piano.
‘He made it,’ said the magician. ‘We can begin.’
Though there was nobody within three feet of the piano, its keys moved again as some scales were played at speed.
‘Stop showing off, Great-grandfather,’ scolded our host. ‘Now then, ladies and gentlemen, here is your chance to match your musical skills against Benjamin Reed Cornelius. Try to find a tune that he can’t play. Shout ’em out loud and clear.’
