Scratch on the Dark (A Mike Faraday Mystery Book 4)

by Copper, Basil

  She got up and picked the tin of film off the desk where I’d left it. Then she locked it in the office safe; the one we keep behind the large-scale map of L.A., that could be opened with a canned-fruit key. But it gives us a feeling of security. Then we locked up and called it a night. I rode her down to the ground floor and we said goodbye. I watched her tail light off down the block and then I drove home too. I seemed to be getting a lot of early nights on this case. That wasn’t a regular thing either.

  *

  I had to hit the buzzer three times before anyone heard me. Then the cream-painted door in the apartment block was drawn open about a couple of inches. Steady grey eyes looked me over suspiciously. Tacey Dillon looked surprisingly possessed for someone who’d just lost her nearest and dearest.

  ‘My name’s Faraday,’ I said. ‘I had business with Hud Gibson. He asked me to get in touch with you.’

  She still looked suspicious and she made no move to open the door wider.

  ‘How’d you know where to find me?’ she said. Her voice sounded very cool and sure of itself.

  ‘There’s such a thing as the City Phone Book,’ I said. It wasn’t until I’d almost got my foot in the door that she started to open it up. ‘Come on in,’ she said.

  She wore a black wool dress that hugged her body tight, with a belt that pulled in the waist over her flat belly and taut hips; it only emphasized what was already there. Incongruously, she wore the same multi-coloured stiletto-heeled shoes that I’d noticed in Gibson’s studio.

  ‘You must excuse the way I look,’ she said, patting her hair into place. It was dark chestnut. She needn’t have spoken. She looked great.

  She led the way into a lounge that had lots of soft, white furniture, with Redoute prints floating out at you from ivory coloured walls; the carpets were white skins of some sort too. It was all right if you liked that sort of thing. I didn’t particularly but I guess it’s different for a woman. She ushered me into a white leather chair by the fireplace. Up close I could see her eyes looked tired and dark.

  ‘I just threw some things on anyhow today,’ she said. ‘I must look half-dressed.’

  ‘You’re wearing a damn sight more than you were in the studio,’ I said admiringly.

  A touch of colour came into Tacey Dillon’s cheeks and her mouth opened in a soft smile. She had fine teeth to go with the smile.

  ‘I did a lot of modelling for Hud,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll bet you did,’ I said.

  She didn’t seem put out. She walked over to a whitewood sideboard and opened a door; I could see the tops of bottles and an ice-pail. She walked proudly, very conscious of her grace and all her body was working in concert under the black wool of the dress. I remembered something Marvell or some English poet once said about, ‘That brave vibration each way free.’ Maybe it was Donne. Anyways, whoever it was, he had it right. And Tacey Dillon had it right too. And I had an idea she was hanging on to it so far as I was concerned.

  ‘Whisky in order?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine,’ I said.

  She handed me the big glass with ice in it. She didn’t drink herself but went and sat on the arm of another leather chair opposite and looked at me as though I had the answer to everything. I tried to look like I knew a lot. But really all I had was a lot of questions and all they were doing was cannoning around in my head like ping-pong balls. So I sat and sipped my Old Kentucky and looked at the flower prints and pretended Tacey Dillon was my girl and that presently we would make love on those soft white rugs on the floor. For the first time I envied Hud Gibson. Then I remembered him the way I’d seen him before the P.M. boys got to work on him and I didn’t envy him any more.

  ‘You got the film?’ I asked when the whisky was working nicely inside me.

  She nodded. ‘I got the film,’ she said softly. ‘But firstly I’d like one or two answers.’

  ‘You and me too,’ I said.

  ‘Hud,’ she said. ‘How’d he get it?’

  ‘Guy called Starr,’ I said. ‘Professional killer. Out of town I think. I don’t know who hired him yet. But I will.’

  She looked at me for a long time without saying anything. Then she got up.

  ‘You will, Mr Faraday, you will,’ she said.

  I sipped at my glass.

  ‘I’m sure going to keep on trying,’ I said. ‘Someone doesn’t want that film turning up, that’s for sure.’

  She went over to the sideboard. ‘I think I’ll have a drink after all,’ she said. I waited while she mixed herself something purple in a long glass.

  ‘You want another?’ she said, squinting at the level in mine.

  ‘This is fine, Miss Dillon,’ I said. ‘I’m not much on drinking in the morning.’

  ‘Nor me,’ she said. She went and scuffed the toe of one of the multicoloured shoes in the white hearthrug.

  ‘Tell me about Gibson,’ I said. ‘Seems odd.’

  There was a hint of a smile in the corners of her eyes as she looked up at me.

  ‘The two of us?’ she asked.

  I sat on the edge of the chair, swilled what was left of the whisky in my glass and looked at a corner of the rug.

  ‘He left a bright, gay memory in the dark,’ she said.

  Very poetic. I shrugged. I guess the expression on my face must have given me away, for she said sharply, ‘You don’t believe me?’

  ‘Who am I to disbelieve?’ I said. ‘Different things look different to various people. Women’s tastes are unaccountable.’

  ‘How did you see him?’ she said.

  ‘To me he seemed a fat, whisky drinking slob who ran around with whores and broken-down movie stars,’ I said. ‘Present company excepted, of course. But I don’t want to break anyone’s dreams.’

  I thought she was going to hit me; she saw me flex my body and her hand dropped to her side again. She smiled a hard smile.

  ‘What are you, Mr Faraday? Thirty?’

  ‘Thirty-three and feeling my age,’ I said.

  ‘Thirty-three,’ she said, ‘and pretty fit. Life looks a lot different to you, I guess. When a man’s past fifty women look for more subtle things.’

  ‘Guess they have to,’ I said. ‘There won’t be much of the other left.’

  She laughed then; it lifted some of the shadows from her face.

  ‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘whatever I say won’t do him any harm now.’

  ‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘No harm at all.’

  I drained the glass and stood up. ‘I’d better go,’ I said. ‘Will you get the film?’

  She put down her own glass on top of the sideboard. ‘Surely,’ she said. She went out through a door at the far end of the room. I went over to the fireplace and looked at a painted porcelain vase; it had pink roses on it and the top of the vase and the minute handles on either side were edged with gilt. They don’t make things like that any more. I turned to find Tacey Dillon at my elbow. She’d come in quietly over the soft rugs.

  ‘That belonged to my mother,’ she said. ‘Funny how trees and stones and sticks of wood last longer than people.’

  ‘Trees don’t rush around wearing themselves out like people,’ I said.

  I took the tin from her; it was similar to the one I’d already got in my office safe.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘You want this back?’

  She shook her head. Her face went pink. ‘Funny thing,’ she said, ‘by rights I should slap your face for being a heel but I find myself liking you a lot.’

  ‘If it makes you feel any better the feeling’s mutual,’ I said. She looked really beautiful. She put her arms up round my shoulders and held me close and tight. We kissed full on the lips. We stood like that for quite some time. Then she pushed me gently away.

  ‘Make things right for Hud, Mr Faraday,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ I said.

  She nodded, her eyes shining. She kissed me again, gently. On the ear.

  ‘A man can’t do more,’ she said.

&n
bsp; I went out feeling a damn fool and thinking of white furniture and white rugs and the feel of Tacey Dillon’s tongue and lips against my mouth. I felt I ought to go home and run a cold shower. Instead I got back in the Buick and drove to the office. I even forgot to bawl out the crazy drivers.

  It was after midday when I found a slot near the office and parked. I had the film in the inside pocket of my coat like before. I thought I’d run it that night together with the first half. The entertainment would have the edge over most TV channels.

  Stella wasn’t back from wherever she’d gone. I put the second spool in the safe with the first. I wondered why Hud Gibson had gone to all the bother. I lit a cigarette and smoked and looked out the window. The phone rang while I was doing this. It was Carol Foster.

  ‘You busy, Mike?’ she asked.

  ‘Not so’s you’d notice,’ I said. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘No problem,’ she said. ‘I just wondered what you were doing tonight.’

  ‘I’ll have to let you know,’ I said. ‘Any sign of Dr Crisp?’

  ‘He left a message,’ she said. ‘He’s gone to Vegas on urgent business. I’m spending most of my time cancelling appointments.’

  ‘I’ll try and look over later,’ I promised her.

  I had just rung off when Stella came in. She had on a silver-grey raincoat with shoulder-straps and a belt with a silver buckle in the middle of it.

  ‘I feel like I ought to salute,’ I said.

  ‘So you should, Mike,’ she said, ‘if you know what it cost me.’

  I grinned and spun my empty cigarette package into the waste-basket.

  ‘You’d be an expensive woman for any man to keep,’ I said.

  Stella patted a lock of hair into place, looking seriously into her telephone mirror.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘First time you’ve brought this topic up without being asked.’

  ‘It must be the weather,’ I said, quickly changing the subject. The phone rang again and delivered me from a sticky ten minutes.

  ‘Saved by the bell,’ said Stella cheerily. She picked up the receiver. ‘Faraday Investigations.’

  She listened for a moment, half eased out of her raincoat, her pencil tapping idly on the desktop beside her. She put her hand over the receiver, looked towards me.

  ‘Sounds like they’re having some trouble in getting through.’

  I smoked on and listened to the crackling from the mouthpiece of the phone. Stella turned back to me again.

  ‘Somebody wants to know if you’ll pay for a call from Caribou Lake,’ she said. She put her face back to the receiver.

  ‘Hold on a moment,’ she told the operator.

  ‘I’ll pay for it,’ I said. I stubbed out my cigarette in the tray on my desk. Stella waited for the caller to be connected. She handed the phone over to me. There was a lot of crackle on the line so that I had difficulty in recognizing the voice.

  ‘Mr Faraday? I’m sorry about transferring the charge but I’m all out of change.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ I said.

  ‘This is Joe Savage up at Caribou Lake, Mr Faraday. I’m in a call booth on the north shore of the lake. You remember you asked me to give you a ring if I heard anything? Well, that actress you were inquiring about, Zarah Fayne. She turned up again this morning if you’re interested.’

  ‘Sure I’m interested,’ I said. ‘Thanks, Mr Savage. Where you at?’

  He gave me his location and told me where to find him.

  ‘If I’m not here come to the pier,’ he said. ‘I’ll try and keep an eye on her without drawing attention to myself.’

  ‘I’ll be right up,’ I said. ‘And thanks again.’

  I put down the phone and reached for my trench-coat.

  *

  It was mid-afternoon before the shoreline of Caribou Lake started coming up through the Buick’s windshield and there were dark shadows on the ground. Nevertheless I figured there were several hours of light left; enough to see what might be going on. I skirted the edge of the lake, followed Savage’s directions and in another ten minutes or so had located the phone booth. A grey station wagon was parked nearby; Savage was sitting behind the wheel. I saw the car was fitted with special controls for a one-handed driver. He jumped out and shook hands with his left. He pointed over to the pine woods on the far shore with his good arm.

  ‘Miss Fayne came up about ten this morning,’ he said. ‘I didn’t see where she was parked at and she didn’t go to her cabin. She was wandering about in the trees. I called out and she waved and then I lost her.’

  ‘You sure it was her, Mr Savage?’ I said.

  He shaded his eyes, looking out towards the edge of the lake, before he turned back to me.

  ‘Don’t you think I know Zarah Fayne?’ he said. ‘’Sides, she’s been up and down this north shore all morning. Even if I hadn’t seen her face I couldn’t mistake that white suit and the red scarf she was wearing. Mighty proud of that outfit, she is.’

  ‘So I heard,’ I said.

  Savage moved over and slammed the door of his wagon heavily. ‘Well, we’d better go take a look-see,’ he said. ‘I hope there won’t be any trouble. Miss Fayne could make things awkward for me and she and the doctor have been good tenants.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Savage,’ I said. ‘I only want to ask her some questions.’

  We moved over round the end of the lake, across the foreshore and into the fringe of trees. The clear water lapped peacefully at the stony shore but out in the middle a wind sprung from somewhere ruffled the green surface of the water. There were a few boats out and over on the south side of the lake I could see the pier where Savage and I had walked on my last visit. Far off, there was a little snow on the high mountains.

  Savage was silent as we walked; he reserved all his energies for dealing with the terrain. It was pretty rough going. We had to move down towards the water because there were big rocks, broken ground and low-hanging branches where we were. There was an easy path for the public higher up the shoulder; that was the path Zarah Fayne had taken. Savage said, so we weren’t using it. I was a bit blown by the time we had turned the end of Caribou Lake and had got about a mile along the northern bank.

  I could see there were one or two rowboats putting out from the south pier. I thought it would be cold right in the centre. Savage had his single left hand thrust into the pocket of his windbreaker; he kept his neck down into the fur collar and watched where he was putting his feet. In a few minutes more we came out of the trees and on to a rough beach of shingle and big stones. The water made a soft lapping noise among the boulders, and now the wind was blowing steady and fresh and cold off the lake. It seemed to carry some of the snow from the high hills with it.

  There was a jetty a little farther along from where we were walking; Savage said it was used by fishermen and water sports enthusiasts on this side of the lake during the season. Right now there seemed to be a commotion of some sort going on at the end. There were several boats clustered together at the tip of the pier and people were converging like ants towards the boardwalk which led out on to the piles above the water.

  As we got up towards the pier we could see people in groups of twos and threes drifting on to it; they must have come out of the woods or somewhere. It didn’t seem possible for so many characters to get together in such a remote spot. There was a rough track leading away eastwards along this side of the lake; a black sedan was parked in a turn-around where the pier joined the land. A tall man in a grey shooting jacket with a badge on it was getting out of the sedan; he had a hard face with high cheekbones. A revolver was slung in a canvas holster from his hip. He wore grey trousers with a military stripe down them and strong, heavily-cleated brown hunting boots.

  ‘Trouble, John?’ said Savage. He moved forward and held out his left hand for the tall man to shake.

  ‘Looks like it, Joe,’ said the other shortly. Savage turned back to me.

  ‘This is John Hoad. Deputy Sheri
ff in this part of the woods.’

  The deputy’s hand was hard and dry.

  ‘Faraday,’ I said. ‘Mike Faraday.’

  ‘What’s your business, Mr Faraday?’ said Hoad.

  ‘Just visiting, Mr Hoad,’ I said.

  He looked at me for a moment without saying anything.

  Then he said, ‘You look as if you know how to handle yourself. You’d better come along.’

  We all three went down the pier. Hoad used his broad shoulders to shove his way through the groups of people none too gently. They didn’t seem to resent it.

  ‘Somebody just phoned in,’ Hoad volunteered. ‘Something about an accident on the lake.’

  By this time we had got to the end of the jetty. There was quite a crowd out here too. All their interest seemed to be concentrated on some steps leading down into the water. Men were standing in dinghies and pointing downwards into the lake. A couple of men in dark jerseys prodded with boat-hooks.

  ‘Let’s have some room, folks,’ said Hoad good-naturedly. ‘I can’t see what’s going on with all this fuss.’

  Savage and I pressed in behind him. We came out on a small fish dock right at the end of the pier. There was a murmur from the crowd and the two men with the boat-hooks threshed the water.

  Something clouded the blank surface, broke free and then swam into view. Dark hair like seaweed streamed along the water; bubbled jelly where the eyes had been stared unseeing towards the sky. The face was eaten away by fishes and the action of the water.

  It was the white linen suit and the scarlet scarf round what was left of that once-beautiful neck that told me Zarah Fayne had come back to Caribou Lake for the last time.

  11 - Invitation to a Shoot

  The sun was beginning to pencil long shadows on the ground when I drove away from Caribou Lake for the last time. The remains of Zarah Fayne had been taken into one of the boathouses where a local doctor had done what had to be done. Then Savage and Deputy Sheriff Hoad and I had gone into a huddle in Savage’s own cabin; I told them what I knew, what I thought and some of what I couldn’t prove. After that they’d laid on an L.A. call for me; by the time I’d spoken with McGiver another half hour had gone by.