Die Now, Live Later (A Mike Faraday Mystery Book 5)

by Basil Copper

  I was trying to burrow deeper into the crowd when the man in the white coat caught sight of me. It was the blond thug I had cause to remember. His face became a dark frown of congested blood. A door over at the far side of the room opened and the cadaverous form of Dr Krug appeared; I thought I heard running footsteps along one of the concrete passages at the rear of the Hall of Immortality. The blond boy went and spoke to Krug. He glided towards us, his face an impassive mask.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Mr Stint,’ he said, having difficulty in competing with the organ. The small knot of people round me hesitated, then prepared to move on.

  ‘You were so long, Dr Krug,’ I said in a mild voice. ‘I thought I’d just have a look round by myself. I hope you didn’t mind.’

  ‘It’s rather against our rules,’ he said in a frosty voice, ‘but I suppose there’s no harm done. Now, we must resume our interrupted conversation.’

  He moved awkwardly, one hand indicating the half-open door in the far wall. His eyes were cold and calm behind the spectacle lenses but I could sense the hostility and suspicion in them. The blond thug had moved back to block my line of retreat. He was isolating me from the group of people behind, who had now become rather desirable to me. I had an idea that I might not find it so easy to leave Dr Krug’s office a second time. But I couldn’t offer a blank refusal without making him even more suspicious.

  ‘I’d like to think things over for a day or two,’ I stalled.

  ‘But my dear sir,’ said Krug smoothly. ‘You were on the point of making out your cheque. Why delay when the whole thing could be settled here and now?’

  I looked down as he spoke and could have sworn there was a bulge in the pocket of the blond gorilla’s white coat; he was standing with his back to the other people in the hall and he had something blunt pointed at me. But it might well have been his finger. These boys were too subtle to make it so obvious.

  I took a quick look round the hall. Some of the visitors had already clustered round the next set of curtains further up. Only a small knot lingered near Krug and the blond man and myself. I looked back to the doctor. The faintest smile was lurking at the corners of his ugly mouth. He gestured with his hand again. I was just moving towards him when a voice sounded behind me, ‘Why, there you are, uncle.’

  A slim, dark-haired girl in a white raincoat who’d been standing on the fringe of the crowd put her arm through mine and steered me down the hall. I only caught a glimpse of the faces of Krug and his companion but they must have looked as surprised as I was.

  ‘Keep talking,’ the dark girl muttered to me. Out loud she chattered, ‘You know momma is particularly keen on us getting back on time for meals and we’ve a long drive ahead of us.’

  ‘Certainly, my dear,’ I said in what must have been a dead unconvincing voice. I half bowed towards Krug as she dragged me away. We both went down the Hall of Immortality at a fast lick. Krug was still standing stiffly in the same position. So far as I could judge in the dimness of the hall his face wore an expression like a lion cheated of its kill.

  The dark girl didn’t stop. She rushed me out, across the vestibule, past the dark-sweatered job at the desk. Then we were going down the steps and into God’s fresh outdoors.

  ‘Thank you, Jane Eyre,’ I said.

  Chapter Eight - Striking Likeness

  The sun was breaking through the low cloud as we got to the bottom of the steps. The girl led the way to a two-seater scarlet sport job which was parked over against the bank. She turned a pair of mischievous brown eyes to me. In the open air and the daylight she looked fine. I gently disengaged my arm from hers.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘What’s the caper?’

  She smiled. ‘You can take the dark glasses off now, Mr Faraday. Though I wouldn’t mind you for my uncle.’

  She unsnapped a dark tan handbag and passed me a card. It said: Kathy Gowan. At the bottom it had engraved in small black script: Staff Reporter. L.A. Examiner.

  I grinned back at her. ‘Oh, one of those. Well, thanks anyway. Now what’s it all about?’

  ‘Get in,’ she said.

  I stepped over the low door and sat down delicately behind the rakishly slung windshield. ‘I hope you can drive this thing,’ I said. ‘My bones break easy.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr. Faraday,’ she said. She put on a pair of dark glasses and got out some brown suede gloves from the dash cubby. ‘Buy me a drink and I’ll tell you all about it.’

  ‘I can do better than that,’ I said. ‘I got my own heap round the corner. ‘I’ll stake you to a meal over at my place. I cook the best ham-fritter in town.’

  She turned to look at me seriously. ‘You think I ought to risk it?’

  ‘If you can face my cooking you can face anything,’ I said.

  She grinned and put the car in gear. The seat hit me in the broad of the back and we snaked down the drive of Sunset Gardens with a howl that left chaos among the strollers behind us. We took the entrance turn smoothly and three seconds later she drew up noiselessly and without a trace of brake-snatch by the Buick. The car just sat back on the road and we were stationary. I got out and stood looking down at her.

  ‘What you got in there — rocket fuel?’ I said.

  She grinned again. ‘Nice isn’t she?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘If you don’t mind using a can opener ever time you go for a drive. She’s a bit tight for me with my leg-reach. What is it anyway?’

  ‘Triumph,’ the girl said with pride of possession in her voice.

  The look on my face must have given me away.

  ‘So you’ve never heard of them,’ she said. ‘They make good cars anyway. Triumph Spitfire. All the way from England.’

  ‘I didn’t know the Examiner paid that well,’ I said.

  She got out her side of the car and stretched her legs like a cat. ‘It’s my only vice.’

  ‘Oh, I said. ‘Not much use coming over to my place then.’

  She put a black scarf patterned with white angels over her dark hair and studied me for a long second.

  ‘One of my vices, let’s say. I have a passion for ham-fritters.’

  I let it go at that. I got back into the Buick and started the motor. I looked over and saw she was settled behind the wheel.

  ‘You going to follow me?’ I asked.

  She shook her head. ‘Couldn’t keep back with that thing. I know the way to Park West. See you over there.’

  A gleam of white teeth, a blast on her two-tone horn and she was a scarlet blur in the distance. I smiled and pulled out from the sidewalk more sedately. My high school days were over. I watched the scarlet speck dwindle in the haze and followed on at my own pace.

  *

  ‘How did you know my name?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve seen you in court once or twice,’ said Kathy Gowan. She sat in my breakfast nook and fooled with the mixed grill I’d cooked her. The grill was my speciality. It was about the only thing I could cook, come to think of it. I poured her another glass of Beaujolais. She sipped it with appreciation.

  ‘I could see you were in trouble so I ad-libbed it,’ she said.

  ‘Good thing you did,’ I told her. ‘The Examiner investigating the freezer racket?’

  She nodded. ‘Looks like we might be on the same thing. You want to start or shall I?’

  ‘I’m listening,’ I said.

  She ate another mouthful of the grill and gazed thoughtfully out of the kitchen window.

  ‘It started with Charlie Snagge,’ she said. ‘I make occasional calls at the County Sheriff’s Office for odd bits of news. He’s a nice man and gives me useful tips sometimes. There’d been some complaints about Sunset Gardens.’

  ‘What sort of complaints?’ I said.

  She took a sip at the wine. ‘Bad debts. Clients kicking up over the money required for deposits, that sort of thing. Charlie told them it was a matter for civil process. But it set me thinking. I had a word with my editor. We decided to do an investigation in depth.�
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  ‘So you posed as a relative of a pending dear departed,’ I said.

  Kathy Gowan grinned. ‘That was your game too, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Check,’ I said. ‘Your way seemed a bit more subtle than mine.’

  She gave me a wry look. ‘It took me more than a month to get past the reception desk,’ she said.

  ‘Dig anything up?’ I asked.

  She shook her head. ‘Not out there. I never even got to see Krug. But I did interview some of the relatives. They had some funny stories.’

  ‘Like what?’ I said.

  ‘Your turn to give some straight answers, Mr Faraday,’ she said. ‘There is something terribly wrong out there, isn’t there?’

  I decided to level with her, ‘Sure,’ I said, ‘but I’m not in a position to take you into my confidence at the moment. It’ll be a good story for you when I’m ready to blow the works. I may need your help. Power of the Press and all that.’

  Kathy Gowan looked at me with eyes that gave off sparks. ‘I’m your girl,’ she said. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Dig out what you can from your files,’ I said. ‘Also type up any notes of interviews for me. Or dictate them to my secretary if that’s too much like work.’

  I gave her Stella’s office number. ‘Check with me every week,’ I said. ‘And don’t say a word to anyone. I mean that.’

  She smiled again. ‘Sure, Mike. We’re going to make a great team.’

  She had a real lovely face when she smiled. She was about twenty-five, I should have said, and her figure was a treat out of the white belted raincoat.

  ‘Let’s forget shop for a bit,’ I said. ‘Have another glass of wine.’

  We clinked glasses.

  ‘Crime,’ she said.

  ‘The Fourth Estate,’ I said.

  *

  Stella had gone out for a bit. She had left a note on my desk and with it a thick bundle of papers. There was some more stuff on Rex Beale and other material for which I had asked. It was amazing what this girl was able to dig up in such a short time. I smoked and read through the bundle. Stella still hadn’t shown up when I was ready to leave so I left her a note, locked the outer door to the microscopic waiting room and rode down in the elevator.

  It was a bright, sunny day, welcome after yesterday’s rain but with a chill bite to the wind. Most of the people going by were still muffled up in topcoats. I slid behind the wheel and tooled gently out into the thick stream of metal and exhaust-smoke which made driving in L.A. such a pleasure. I turned right at the first intersection and by travelling crossways managed to side-track some of the major traffic flows.

  I passed the main theatre district and parked my car on a lot behind arcades of cheap amusement and slot machines I decided to walk the next few blocks. My car was getting a little too well-known by Dr Krug’s friends and I didn’t want to risk parking it out front. The wind seemed to cut right through my thin raincoat and I had to step it out. I walked three blocks and was getting back towards the theatre belt. A flag floated from the top of the white building which was my destination. A sign over the top said; VAN RIETEN’S WAX MUSEUM. A queue of schoolchildren was waiting to go in and I tagged on behind them.

  By the time I reached the box-office I had learned quite a lot about high-school morals. I paid my dollar at the cashier’s cage and received in exchange an engraved programme on glossy paper which was also my admission pass. The wax museum was a big place and plushily laid out, so it wasn’t bad value. I waved the programme at a Russian field marshal who was barring the way into the main concourse.

  Inside, there were dim lights to disguise how bad the likenesses were and a scent of jasmine. I guessed it was the stuff they sprayed after hours to disinfect the carpets. I looked at my programme. I had taken a wrong turn somewhere. I should have started with English Kings and Queens but here I was at The War Between the States. The place was pretty full and there was quite a football scrum around the Gettysburg set-piece. I could pick out Lincoln above the heads of the crowd. He was the only one I recognized; the others all looked the same under their beards.

  I went through into another gallery. This was dark and lit with red bulbs. The Grand Guignol episodes depicted torture scenes, executions and sadism. Trapped by the Inquisition, that sort of thing. I ducked under a rope, gum-shoed past the execution block and tried a door marked; Positively No Admittance. The bar slipped back under my hands and I went through into a passage as dimly-lit as the main concourse.

  The door was self-locking. I took an old envelope out of my pocket. It hadn’t been written on so I rolled it up into a wad and stuffed it between the door and the jamb, right at the bottom where it wouldn’t be noticed, so that I could get back into the museum again if I was in a hurry. The soft noise of a fan came from down the corridor. There were several doors leading off. I tried them cautiously, one by one. The first two were locked. The third was a store-room which contained a number of wax models of famous characters in various stages of completion. I shut the door on the unblinking stare of Charles Peace and went on down the passage. The floor was of rough, uncarpeted concrete and a thin draught blew from somewhere under the doors.

  Right at the end of the corridor was a facing door. I hoped it would be the one I wanted. A private word with Van Rieten was indicated and I hoped he would be alone. The door was unlocked: I pushed it gently and peered through. There was no sound but the hum of the air-conditioning. I opened the door a crack further and slid inside. I shut it quietly behind me. There was good light in here, coming from sky-lights that ran in rows down either side of the big room.

  Large benches with models standing on them; artist’s easels with photographs, full-face and profile of the subjects; a furnace for melting the wax; moulds and other equipment whose use I couldn’t guess. The benches were covered with a jumble of instruments. Tongs, ladles, tweezers. The place was empty but I had a feeling company wasn’t far away.

  I moved quietly on the balls of my feet, keeping the benches between me and the far side of the room. The hum of traffic came up from the boulevard. The furnace was lit and gave out a heavy yellow glow on to the floor, which was all scarred and spotted with wax droppings. The standard of the work displayed here appeared to be of a higher quality than the average in the museum outside; presently I began to see why. Farther down the room there were some complete models and it was these which interested me most.

  I worked over slowly towards the furnace area. The features of a sandy-haired gentleman in military uniform appeared familiar. I studied him for a full minute. Other busts were up on stands, alongside their photographic easels, just as the modellers had left them; there were also one or two full-size masks lying about on top of the benches, presumably for completion of detailed work.

  There were some on a bench which stood by itself, alongside a ten-foot run of dusty curtaining at one side of the hall. I found my way to the spot as though I knew what I was looking for. It was darker over here, no doubt the effect of the heavy curtaining and I had difficulty at first in making out the features of the maquettes. Walking very quietly I reached the bench; there was a completed mask lying face up, but turned away from where I was standing. Very gently, I reached out a finger and, inch by inch, moved it round. Even upside down it had seemed obvious to me but it was a surprise just the same. Light falling weakly through the dusty windows picked out the curves and hollows of my own dead face.

  *

  I brushed it softly with the tips of my fingers. It was an astonishing likeness. The eyes were closed. I knew why. I stood looking down at it and it sat and looked blindly up at me. ‘You’re a good-looking bastard, Faraday,’ I said quietly to myself.

  I had been so absorbed that I almost missed the faint scrape of shoe leather. It came from behind the curtains. I whirled round. The curtains billowed as a shape shifted behind them. I went across the room at a run. The curtains thrashed as I caught at them. A whimpering cry broke the silence. I stamped on a man’s feet b
ehind the curtains — heavily. The cry changed into a curse. A thin man in a dark brown tussore suit broke out from behind the curtain. He had a tanned, handsome face which now had a frightened expression. His dark hair was dishevelled. His white teeth shone beneath his thin black moustache. He blundered against one of the dummies as he looked at me over his shoulder.

  He steadied the dummy and stopped it from falling. By this time I had almost got my hand on his shoulder, but he squirmed aside and went down the room very fast. His feet beat a sharp tattoo on the wooden boards.

  ‘Stop, Van Rieten,’ I called. ‘I only want to talk.’

  I was still several yards from the door when he got to it. He turned and looked towards me. I had stopped by then. I glanced down and saw a pair of big feet sticking from under the curtain. Their owner probably figured he might pass for a dummy. He was a dummy all right but not that sort. Trouble was I had seen the feet before, that night at Merna Freeman’s place. They were encased in blue velvet shoes. There couldn’t be two pairs like that in LA.

  I stamped on them heavily. This was my afternoon. A loud yell broke the silence and the curtains thrashed and heaved. I put my fist into the curtain and felt it connect with someone’s belly. Breath blew out with an explosive, angry sound. Van Rieten hesitated at the door, started to come back. A fist lashed out from the curtains; it was as big as a hambone and by a lucky chance for the owner it connected with the side of my head. It didn’t hurt much but it threw me off balance. I fell against one of the wax dummies and went down. While I was getting up a big man came out in a thunder of arms and legs.

  The curtains ripped and a cloud of choking dust filled the air. Through the haze I glimpsed a fat, ugly face. It glared at me, with saliva in the mouth corners. I got up as a thin-bladed knife fell down on the board floor. It hummed angrily as the point impaled itself in the wood. I picked up the knife just in case, but the door was already closing on the two running figures. I ran to it and jerked it open. Sunlight came in through the entrance of the alley, making me narrow my eyes.