‘Death on the set,’ she said. ‘That’s a new angle.’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘We’re running out of suspects fast.’
‘Have you told Dr Crisp?’ said Stella.
‘He’ll know by now,’ I said.
Just then the phone rang. Stella got off the desk and handed the receiver to me.
‘The man himself.’
I took the receiver.
‘Crisp speaking. How you making out?’
‘Not so good,’ I said. ‘You’ve seen the paper?’
There was a short silence the other end.
‘I’ve seen it,’ Crisp said grimly. ‘You didn’t get a chance to speak to Esterbrook before the — accident?’
‘Murder,’ I said. ‘Just a few words. We didn’t have anything important to say to one another. But it was my impression he knew nothing about Miss Fayne’s whereabouts. Leastways, he was giving a good impression of a worried man.’
Crisp sucked in his breath at the mention of murder.
‘The papers didn’t say anything …’ he began.
‘Forget what the papers said,’ I told him. ‘Someone changed over the blanks in his opponent’s revolver. He was due to get blasted anyway for the film but someone loaded the dice against him.’
There was another silence, then Dr Crisp went on.
‘You’ve got some angles?’
‘Sure I got some angles,’ I said. ‘One or two ideas which might produce something. It may take time. But that I’ve got plenty of.’
Crisp made a snorting noise. Or else he was clearing his throat. To me he sounded like a frightened man.
‘Stay with it, Faraday,’ he said.
‘Sure,’ I told him and hung up.
I handed the phone back to Stella. She went over to the alcove where we brewed up the coffee. I heard the click of the electric stove going on. I felt I could use a cup of coffee right now.
Chuck Esterbrook lived over in a rambling, two-storey house on Sepulvada Canyon. Or rather I should say, used to live. I was having difficulty in getting used to the past tense. It was nearly midday before I swung the Buick off the hill road, past the little white-painted stone entrance lodge and up the red gravel drive. There was nobody in the lodge and no smoke come from the chimneys of the main building. A cedarwood veranda ran along the front of the house, giving on to French doors. I stopped the Buick in front of a black and white tile-floored entrance porch and got out. There were thick hedges at the side leading to the back of the house and the lawns looked muddy and ill-kept.
There were tyre-tracks which made deep scores in the gravel. They went along past the entrance of the house and round back behind the hedges. I stood and looked around me. Nothing moved in all the world. The slamming of the car door made an ugly, intrusive sound in the deep silence. I went along the veranda, looking for an unlocked window; the wind whipped across the exposed expanse. It felt raw and salt on my face. I looked through one of the windows. There didn’t seem to be anyone at home. I wondered why McGiver’s boys hadn’t been out here yet. I walked back towards the main door. The bulk of the Smith-Wesson in its webbing holster pressed tautly against my underarm. When I got up to the front door I stopped. It stood ajar.
I pushed the door all the way open and stepped into a wide hallway carpeted with bearskin mgs; the walls were in natural pine, varnished, and covered with hunting trophies. A rack of rifles was fixed to the side of the hall, in a glassed-in case. I tried the handle. The case was locked. I went quietly down the hall. What I was looking for was a study or maybe a room used as an office, where a guy like Esterbrook might keep his private papers.
The ground floor of the house was tricked out as a ranch; big blow-ups of Esterbrook on horseback or slugging it out in various outdoor roles were framed in gilt and hung all around the room. The furniture was ranch-style; phoney and vulgar, but very expensive. The kitchen was open-plan, opening up from a vast lounge and got up with a steel range, stone-slab walling and cook-pans to look like something out of The Covered Wagon. The effect began to get oppressive after a bit.
I started to go up an oak staircase to the first floor; then I heard a board creak in the silence. I stood still and listened. I went up another two treads and heard the creak again. There was a corridor at the top of the stairs which led to right and left; I took the right-hand turn and went down a white painted hallway with natural wood doors; my feet made no noise as they sank into a plum-coloured carpet which stretched from wall to wall. Even so I was disappointed. As quiet as I had been someone was even quieter.
I fetched up against a door which blocked the end of the passage; I eased the Smith-Wesson out of its holster. I tried the handle; the door was unlocked. I inched it open. I put the barrel of the revolver round the edge of the door and then an eye cautiously after it.
The big room was got up as a study. There was a broad teak desk with a green tooled morocco surface; bound film scripts in glass cases which stretched down the room. A smaller bookcase jammed with Zane Grey novels; more gun racks. A pair of pearl-handled revolvers and a couple of Winchester repeaters hung on hooks in a display pattern over a grey-stone fireplace.
The desk drawers were open and paper was strewn over the brown pile carpet. One of the bookcases had the glass cut open round the handle with a diamond cutter; the files had been thrown about the floor too. I stepped into the room and looked round. I heard a door close softly somewhere. I put down Smith-Wesson on the nearest table and went on down the room. I opened another door in rear of the office; that led to a short annexe. The far door gave on to the open air. I stepped out on to a veranda; a staircase angled its way down the side of the house to the ground. There was no one in sight. The view was cut off by thick hedges and the right-angle turn of the house.
I smiled thinly and went back into the annex, closing the door behind me. I had just got into the study when I heard a motor gun at the side of the house. I went over to a big picture window which overlooked the front of the house; a black Caddy came into view from behind the hedge. The windows were blurred with rain so I couldn’t get to see the number clearly. The driver made a wide turn to get back on to the main drive; as he rounded the Buick, the back tyres scrabbling on the gravel, I could see the driver was a heftily-built man with blond hair. I smiled again. I went back over and picked up my revolver.
I spent a couple of minutes dusting with my handkerchief, then looked around for the last time. I knew it wouldn’t be any good going over the place now. It had received the attention of an expert. I went down the stairs, opened the front door, dusted the door panel and using my handkerchief left it ajar just as I had found it. Then I got in the Buick and drove back down the mountain road.
*
Caribou Lake was a small fishing resort favoured by a minute number of people in the know; it was difficult to get to, over rutted, unmade roads, which was why it hadn’t made the popularity polls. It was mid-afternoon by the time I got up there and the Buick’s springs were beginning to protest. The sky had cleared and the smooth surface of the lake mirrored the blue and white of sky and clouds. I drove along a gravel road which fringed the foreshore; there were blue-grey hills on the horizon and pine and birch thickly bordering the lake. A long boardwalk pier jutted out in the far distance and the putt-putt of a motorboat echoed from the opposite shore; one or two small rowboats were way out in the middle of the lake and as I drove along to the village at the far end, a dinghy with a red leg-of-mutton sail danced gracefully in my rear mirror.
I stopped the car in a parking area near the pier and got out; the air smelled damp and clean and cool, heavy with the scent of the pinewoods. A light breeze came off the surface of the lake and far out a buzzard span and soared, using his wide-spread pinions to gain every ounce of lift from the wind. It was a world I didn’t get to see much of; I decided to make it last. I went along past the pier but I couldn’t see anyone around so I came back. I strolled a few yards out on to the hollow-sounding planking; there were some bo
ats moored right at the end and a few figures were moving about. I started walking out on to the pier.
It was longer than I figured and it took me nearly a quarter of an hour; the wind was gusting now, rippling the surface of the water and cutting dull depressions into its dark face. I had carried my trench coat from the car, but now I put it on. I was nearly up to the boats by this time. Men were sitting in some of the dinghies, down below the level of the pier, out of the wind; their low voices carried across the water and I could smell their pipes.
They didn’t seem unfriendly; one or two nodded as I passed by. There were two men sitting on wooden posts towards the end of the jetty; the shore was a dark blur of trees and broken rocks by this time. The white clouds were scudding across the blue at a furious rate. I stopped when I got up to the two men; the taller and broader of the two was a man of about forty with bushy black hair. He was dressed in a thick leather windcheater. He nodded in a friendly manner and shifted the stem of an old brown pipe in his mouth.
‘Can I help you, stranger?’
‘I hope so,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for someone in charge of the renting of cabins up here on the lake.’
The broad man smiled. ‘Then you’ve come to the right shop. This here’s Joe Savage.’
The man with his back to me turned round; he had a strong, lean face which was etched with deep lines. His teeth were white and square. It was the white scar down one cheek which took my attention straight off; it seemed to give his face added strength. He wore a blue roll-neck jersey and faded blue jeans. I put out my hand to him and then saw his right arm was missing. The empty sleeve of his jersey was fixed up to the front with a safety-pin.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘Don’t be,’ he said with a grin; he gave me his left hand to shake.
‘My name’s Faraday,’ I said. ‘I’d like a word if you can spare the time.’
‘All the time in the world up at Caribou Lake, friend,’ he said in a strong, clear voice.
‘I’ll be off then, Joe,’ said the other man.
My companion nodded. He stared across at the far shore of the lake like it held hidden secrets.
‘All right, Harry,’ he said. ‘See you tonight.’
We started walking back along the pier. The other man had got into one of the dinghies and was casting off. I heard an outboard motor start a short while later and the dinghy set off across the lake; the man at the tiller didn’t look back.
‘You fixing to rent a cabin, Mr Faraday?’ said Savage.
‘Not exactly,’ I said.
We were well down the pier by this time; I showed him the photostat of my licence. His face didn’t change expression but his eyes looked all sorts of questions.
But all he said was: ‘All the way from L.A., eh? How’d you find the roads?’
‘With difficulty,’ I said.
He chuckled. ‘That’s the beauty of these parts. We don’t want too many folks in, spoiling things.’
He gestured with his one hand, including in its orbit the whole arc of sky and water and woods. He sounded like a contented man.
‘You look like a person who can respect a confidence, Mr Savage,’ I said.
‘Try me,’ he said, glancing at me shrewdly.
‘I’m looking for a Miss Zarah Fayne,’ I said. ‘She had a cabin up here, I believe.’
‘The movie star?’ he said, turning the name over in his mind. ‘What she done?’
‘Nothing, so far as I know,’ I said. ‘She hasn’t been home lately. Her husband’s getting kinda worried. More than a month without word now.’
Savage looked again at the far shore of the lake.
‘That so?’ he said incuriously. He switched his gaze back towards the shore we were facing. I could see the Buick, a faint dot in the distance now, almost blended in with the rocks and foliage.
Our feet echoed hollowly on the boards. The thin fret of an outboard came from somewhere far off across the water.
Savage scratched the front of his sweater with his hand; his eyes gave nothing away.
‘I last remember her up here about a week ago,’ he said. ‘Guess she took off again. I ain’t seen her around lately.’
‘You look after the cabin?’ I said.
He nodded. ‘I keep an eye on things. Supervise fuel delivery and so forth. They rent the cabin by the year. Always ahead with their payments. You want to take a look around? But she ain’t there now. I’m pretty sure of that.’
‘I’d like to see inside the cabin,’ I said.
He stopped on the boardwalk and faced me squarely. He stood deep in thought for a moment. Then he shook his head slowly.
‘Guess we can oblige,’ he said. ‘You got an honest face. And if you’re representing the husband an’ all.’
We started walking towards the shore again.
‘You can prove that, I suppose?’ he said mildly.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘We can ring Dr Crisp if you got a phone handy.’
He chuckled deep in his throat. ‘Won’t be necessary. Besides, I can always take your automobile number as added insurance. We got a deputy sheriff up here but he’s never around when he’s wanted.’
‘Expecting trouble?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘We get a few drunks during the season, that’s all. They come in from the woods and get liquored up in the local bars around the lake. And there’s the occasional shooting accident. Nothing we can’t handle.’
We were coming off the end of the pier now; we went over towards the Buick. Savage bent down to read the licence details on my windshield. He grunted. Then he straightened up, his face clear. ‘All right, Mr Faraday,’ he said. ‘I got the key here. Let’s go see that cabin.’
*
‘You always carry the key of the one cabin a complete stranger asks for?’ I said as we went up the lake.
Savage grinned. He held up a leather wallet. ‘I got four master keys here. They fit every combination on my hire cabins. It’s necessary. We get fire, every type of hazard. One year a nut case locked himself in and threatened to blow his brains out.’
‘What happened?’ I said.
Savage smiled reminiscently to himself.
‘I got my key and we started talking through the door. I shoved him in a bottle of liquor. In the end we were like old friends. By the time the sheriff arrived he was asleep. He hadn’t got no gun, anyways. Just coming to the cabin now, Mr Faraday.’
He led the way up a cement path at the side of the lake which ran away from the shore-line; the path ended in rough stone steps, the big slabs of unfaced stone from the lake-edge simply laid on the ledges cut from the earth and then cemented into position.
We went in through a wrought iron gate and up a crazy-paved path which wound through the groves of pine; there was a fine view of the lake. The cabin was a large, two roomed single-storey building made of cedar shingles; a massive stone chimney ran up the outside and picture windows faced the lake. Inside, there was central heating, a well-equipped kitchen, a small toilet; the living room took up the main part of the cabin with a screened-off alcove with divan beds for sleeping accommodation.
Savage went over and studied the landscape out the window while I rummaged around; I knew this wasn’t going to produce much, but I kept on anyway. I found a pigskin suitcase to match the rest of the set in the Santa Monica house. The only clothing was a scuffed pair of sandals with cork soles, a housecoat behind the door and a woman’s tailored pair of jeans in a small cupboard at the head of one of the divans.
‘Odd,’ I said.
‘What?’ asked Savage over at the window; he didn’t turn around. His truncated right sleeve of the jersey looked strange against the light.
‘Why she didn’t take her luggage,’ I said.
Savage turned round and came back up towards me. He looked at the suitcase unblinkingly.
‘How come you know that’s all her luggage?’ he said. ‘Miss Fayne had two brown leather cases last time she was up here.’<
br />
I shrugged. ‘It certainly doesn’t look like she’s due back now.’
I went over to a table set in the middle of the living-room. There were several long cigarette stubs in it. Looked like they’d been smoked through a holder. There was no lipstick on them; cigarettes always get a puckered look caused by the saliva when they’re in the mouth. These hadn’t been. I picked one up. They were an expensive brand. They had little gold motifs on them and above that the name; Coronet. I crumpled one of the butts and put it back in the tray.
There was a toilet tissue in the ashtray too; this had dark lipstick on it.
‘Tidy habits ain’t she?’ said Savage.
‘Sure,’ I said.
We walked back over towards the door.
‘You seen enough?’ he asked.
‘I’ve seen enough,’ I said heavily.
I waited while he locked the door behind us.
‘You said a week ago?’ I asked.
He nodded. There was a friendly expression on his face.
‘Perhaps she’s got a boyfriend some place,’ he said. ‘You know these movie actresses.’
I gave him one of my cards. ‘In case she does show up,’ I said. ‘This is where you can reach me. Only don’t let her know.’
He squinted at the card, holding it up to the light with his one hand.
‘All right, Mr Faraday,’ he said. ‘I’ll remember.’
‘Thanks for your help,’ I said. He took the bill I slipped him without embarrassment and put that in his hip pocket too.
We shook hands and I got in the car.
‘Keep to the main track going back,’ he said. ‘These woods can be pretty nasty after dark.’
For a man who had learned absolutely nothing it seemed twice as long driving back to town.
7 - The Scrap Business
The noise of the phone woke me from a deep sleep. I rolled over and reached for the receiver on the bedside table. I glanced at my watch. It was all of 7.30 a.m. Rain tapped softly at the windows of my rented house over on Park West.
Scratch on the Dark (A Mike Faraday Mystery Book 4) Page 5
