The Brink of Murder

by Helen Nielsen

  After his eyes and his brain had agreed on this fact, Simon turned the photographs over to the back side. Each bore a commercial stamp: “Souvenir of The Golden Fleece”.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE GOLDEN FLEECE. The words were English, not Spanish. This wasn’t a pair of photos some thoughtful informant had taken in Argentina or in any other country south of the border. The background was typical of a posh American night-club or restaurant but, not being dated, they could have been taken weeks or even months ago. A change of attire was obvious at once on the woman. In one picture she wore a sequined sweater, in the other a mink stole. Her hair photographed dark and looked freshly groomed. Scrutinizing the pictures under light, Simon ascertained that Barney Amling had worn a different suit in each photo and that one of them had a pin-stripe weave. No such item was kept in the quick-travel wardrobe, so the pictures must have been taken in a local bistro. To Simon, who was more at home on his boat than in a night-club, the name was unfamiliar, but what the pictures were meant to convey was obvious. On at least two occasions Barney Amling had been in the company of some woman who was not his wife, and the anonymous sender considered this an important factor now that Barney was missing. Simon opened the front door again to see if the messenger was still on the grounds. All he could see was a long, empty driveway curving off into the sunset.

  Hannah and Chester came into the house through the service entrance and found him closing the door.

  “We heard the chimes,” Hannah said. “Who was here?”

  “Nobody,” Simon lied. “I think there’s a short in the bell. I’ll have to look at it in the morning.” He held the envelope and photos out of sight but signalled Chester as he started back up the stairs. “I have some work to do. Can you spare a minute, Chester?”

  Upstairs in the den Simon waited for Chester and then closed the door. He tossed the photos on to the top of the desk. “Red Flash Messenger delivery,” he said. “No sender’s name. What do you think?”

  Chester examined the photos with interest. “I’ve never met your missing friend,” he said, “but I’d say the man in these pictures is Barney Amling. Who’s the broad?”

  Chester’s choice of words was provocative. “She does look more like a broad than a lady,” Simon reflected.

  “She’s no socialite,” Chester said. “Look at those eyes. She’s been around.”

  “How long?”

  “Anywhere from twenty-five to forty years. It’s not the length of time, Simon—it’s the m.p.h. This one moves. Who is she?”

  “I wouldn’t be standing here getting a résumé of the sensuous woman if I knew.”

  “Then why didn’t you want Hannah to see the pictures?”

  “I’m not sure. Somebody in a black sedan followed me yesterday. I managed to lose them on the freeway and later jumped one of Reardon’s men about having me tailed. All I drew was a blank stare. I guess I just don’t want Hannah to worry.”

  “So you can do all the worrying yourself.” Chester still held the photos—one in each hand. “If this is the woman Amling took a million dollars for he’s getting short-changed. His wife’s a much foxier dish.”

  “I agree,” Simon said. “I have to check this out, Chester, but I’ve been living in the same clothes for two days. I couldn’t get a table in a twenty-four-hour ‘burger joint the way I look—much less something as glossy as The Golden Fleece. While I shower and dress you can dig out the Los Angeles classified from the telephone file and try to locate the Red Flash office that handled this delivery. It’s a big operation with several outlying branches. If it was sent from one of the branches I’ll at least have an idea of the area where my unknown helper operates.”

  “Then what will you do?”

  “Unless you’re familiar with the place stamped on the back of the photos, we can try the classified again and see if it’s listed in the pin-pointed area.”

  “The Golden Fleece,” Chester reflected. “It has a familiar ring. I’ve seen it somewhere but my budget is more in line with those twenty-four-hour ‘burger joints you mentioned.”

  Simon didn’t answer. He was already lathering up in the shower. Except for a spare tyre that was beginning to develop about his middle, and a rope burn from the last cruise that had already scabbed, he was in great shape for a man pushing 36. He had never suffered a broken bone, only one sprained ankle, and was pretty much a stranger to pain. But Barney Amling had known all kinds of pain when he was crippled and was probably never completely free of it afterwards. Friends forgot about that before the sheer force of his personality until the current headlines sent the mind reeling backwards for causes. Crippled body, crippled mind? The thought was disgusting. Simon shook it from his mind.

  He completed the shower, shaved and got into his underwear. He selected a clean shirt with French cuffs and a dark brown suit because Wanda liked to see him wear brown. Her telephoned invitation was still in the back of his mind. He was almost dressed when Chester came back from telephone duty.

  “Not only is Red Flash a big operation,” he reported, “but, lucky for you, it’s a twenty-four-hour one, too.”

  “Lucky?” Simon echoed.

  “The photos were sent from an office in the South Bay area. The sender was a Mr Smith who no doubt traces his ancestry back to Pocahontas.”

  “Did you get a physical description?”

  “Only that it was a Mr Smith. The clerk who handled the transaction went off duty and won’t be back until Monday due to the Thanksgiving holidays.”

  “What about The Golden Fleece?”

  “Bull’s eye!” Chester grinned. “It came to me as soon as the man on the telephone said South Bay. There’s a new hotel at Marina del Rey. It’s called Marina View Inn. I stopped in at the coffee shop once, but that’s strictly tourist class. The main dining room is in a separate building facing the marina and it’s called The Golden Fleece. Probably because the prices are pegged to fleece you of all your gold plus any loose change. Shall I make a reservation?”

  “Thanks, I’ll play it by ear,” Simon said.

  “You’ll do fine. You’re cute enough for a wedding cake. Sure you won’t stay for dinner? Hannah’s teaching me how to make Stroganoff.”

  Simon buttoned the jacket of the brown suit thoughtfully. “Too fattening,” he said. He took a beige poplin car coat from the closet and fitted out the pockets with the required licences and credit cards. Chester watched him soberly.

  “I heard that Barney Amling’s bank finances Vincent Pucci,” he remarked.

  “It’s not a bank. It’s a Savings and Loan Association.”

  “So split a hair on me. But Pucci has a reputation of being friendly with the local Mafioso. If the police didn’t have you followed maybe Pucci did. You questioned him, didn’t you?”

  “Amicably.”

  “Oh, sure. What did you expect—brass knuckles? Maybe I should take a raincheck on the Stroganoff and go with you tonight. This whole set-up could be a trap.”

  “You’ve been reading comic books again,” Simon said.

  “I was only trying to be helpful.”

  “You’ve been.” Simon put on the car coat, stuffed the photos back into the Red Flash envelope and went back to work.

  • • •

  In the entire United States there were probably no more than 500,000 people who could actually afford to stay at the Marina View Inn or to dine at The Golden Fleece, and it was unlikely that any of them would ever be caught, living or dead, on the premises of either establishment. The inn was designed for the other 199,500,000 citizens who worked all year for one big fling on their vacations or on the convention of whatever business they were in. They could then stay in a luxurious room with a balcony and dream about how great it would be to be rich and own one of the gleaming yachts in the harbour. They would be wrong because the owners of the yachts weren’t all that rich. There had been a time when yachts were owned only by movie stars, oil tycoons and heirs of the land rich. Now a new breed had
taken to the water: school teachers, lawyers and small businessmen, seeking relief from overcrowded cities and bad air, gravitated seaward to create new forms of overcrowding and pollution—thus proving that man could never run away from himself but would never stop trying.

  Simon found the restaurant with no difficulty and drove into the parking-lot where a corps of attendants waited to make sure no motorist escaped the palm extended for compulsory gratuity. While one of the boys parked the Jaguar, he passed through a pair of massive carved doors into a huge dining room lighted by an open-hearth fireplace and scores of amber-globed lanterns designed to give the atmosphere of a Spanish galleon. He waded across the deep-piled carpeting to a vacant table near the windows, ordered a Scotch on the rocks from a white-jacketed waiter and asked to speak with the maître-d’. The French cuffs fitted with gold links that had been Wanda’s wedding gift were impressive. Within moments the request was filled.

  “Did you wish to place a special order, sir?” The maître-d’, wearing a purple-velvet dinner jacket and black trousers, spoke with the breathless air of one about to announce the Second Coming. “I can recommend the tournedos de boeuf—”

  Simon shook his head. “Ulcers,” he said. “I’m on a liquid diet. What I want from you is information. Pull that lantern on the table a little closer and look at these photos. They were taken here, weren’t they?”

  Simon placed the two photos side by side on the table and watched the man’s facial reaction. Recognition was instantaneous. He turned each picture over and read the imprint on the back. “Oh, of course,” he said. “You want the house photographer, Phillipe—”

  “No, I don’t want the photographer,” Simon insisted. “I want you to identify the people in these pictures.” When the man hesitated, Simon took a $20 bill from his pocket and placed it alongside the photos. “I’ll settle for one identification,” he said. “Do you know the woman?”

  “I don’t believe that I know you, sir,” the man hedged.

  “But you do know our mutual friend, Andrew Jackson, seventh president of the United States and bearer of good tidings. Now do you know the lady?”

  The ploy worked. “As a matter of fact,” the man said, closing his fingers over the bill, “I do. Her name is Castle. Miss Verna Castle.”

  “Does she come here often?”

  “Quite often. Have you examined the menu here on the table, sir?”

  “Ulcers,” Simon repeated.

  “Not the inside of the menu, sir. Here on the cover under the words ‘The Golden Fleece’—what do you see?”

  Simon slid the menu closer to the lantern. Under the words “The Golden Fleece” were the words “Marina View Inn … A Verna Castle Enterprise”.

  When Simon looked up the maître-d’ was grinning above the amber lantern like the host of a late-show horror film. “Miss Castle owns the Marina View Inn,” he said, “and she comes and goes as she pleases. Now, about the tournedos de boeuf—”

  “All right,” Simon sighed, “but only if you have the bartender build me another Scotch on the rocks and send over your shutter bug, Phillipe.”

  Phillipe appeared shortly after the Scotch and just before the dinner. He looked more Nordic than French and couldn’t have been very far into his teens. He had long blond hair and sideburns almost to his chin—a scanty growth worn to conceal adolescent acne. He snapped Simon’s picture with his Polaroid and presented it to him complete with the souvenir stamp on the backside. He asked for a dollar. Simon took a $5 bill from his wallet and showed him the two pictures of Barney Amling and Verna Castle. The boy started to back away but the five dollars had magnetic quality.

  “Did you take these two pictures?” Simon asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Phillipe stammered. “Another guy works on my nights off.”

  “I’ve never known an artist who couldn’t recognize his own work,” Simon said. “How old are you? Sixteen? That’s under age. Where’s your work permit?”

  “Hey,” Phillipe protested, “what are you? A cop?”

  “I’m a lawyer. Sometimes I’m a mean lawyer and I can cause you a lot of trouble if you want it that way. If you don’t, you can tell me why you took these pictures.”

  “For money,” Phillipe said.

  “Whose money? Anyone can see the people in these shots didn’t know they were being photographed. They aren’t even looking at the camera. What’s more, they didn’t buy the pictures because I have them. Who did buy them?”

  Phillipe began to gnaw on his lower lip. “I can’t remember,” he said.

  “Sixteen,” Simon reflected. “Maybe only fifteen and a half. Do you know Kevin Amling?”

  A convincing lie took more practice than Phillipe had lived long enough to achieve. He tried again to back away but Simon’s hand fastened on his wrist. “You do know Kevin,” he said. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. Home, I guess.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Please, mister. The boss is watching. I have to circulate.”

  “Kevin!” Simon said sharply.

  “I’m not sure where he is. He works here in the kitchen sometimes. Maybe he’s there now.”

  Simon let go of the boy’s wrist and pushed the $5 bill into his hand. “Now that we’ve established where Kevin is,” he said, “I want you to tell him that Simon Drake will be waiting for him in the parking-lot in five minutes. If you don’t, I’ll see that you never work in this place again.”

  Simon hated to come on so heavy with the boy but it was the only way to get results. He finished his drink, ignored the dinner and pocketed the photos. That left just enough time to pay the bill and keep his date with Kevin.

  It was cold on the parking-lot. The wind whipping in off the sea was as sharp as a rapist’s knife. Simon turned up the collar of his coat and buttoned it to the throat. The boys working on the lot were stamping their feet and rubbing their hands together to keep their fingers limber. One of them approached Simon and requested his parking ticket.

  “I’m waiting for someone,” Simon said, “but that’s my car parked about thirty feet from here and I can still walk that far even if I don’t look it. I’ll give you the ticket and your tip if you give me the keys. Then you can crawl back into one of those warm sedans and listen to the radio.” It wasn’t customary but for a dollar tip the boy complied. “You can also tell me where to find the service entrance to this place,” Simon added.

  Simon pocketed the car keys and followed the boy’s directions to the rear of the building. A stack of metal garbage cans glinted coldly under the floodlight above the door. The door was closed. Watching for it to open, he heard the stacatto roar of a motor bike being gunned into mobility somewhere in the shadows beyond the light. The solitary eye of a single headlamp split the darkness as the bike lunged forward, and Simon caught a glimpse of a yellow vinyl jacket and a gold helmet. The bike swerved, spluttered and skidded over on its side. The motor was still howling when he pulled the rider free.

  It was Kevin Amling with fire in his eyes.

  “What the hell—” Kevin yelled.

  “Exactly,” Simon said. “What the hell are you trying to do? I told your friend inside that I wanted to see you.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to see you.”

  “You want to see me all right. That’s why you sent me the pictures of your father and Verna Castle dining at The Golden Fleece. Why did you try to run away? Cold feet?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kevin protested.

  “Then I’ll have to be more explicit. Park that contraption and come with me.”

  “Where?”

  Kevin looked almost hysterical. Simon considered slapping his face to bring him to his senses; instead, he grabbed the collar of his jacket and began to march him swiftly towards the Jaguar.

  “Wherever I say!” he snapped.

  CHAPTER TEN

  SIMON STARTED UP the car and drove out of the parking-lot. It was the dinner hour and most public par
king places would be filled so he drove out to the point where the mock-Cape Cod village was located. The Cape Cod village was a requisite of any self-respecting marina on the Pacific Coast, in spite of the fact that a mock-Spanish fishing village would have been more compatible with the terrain and a reminder to tourists that the heritage of the nation wasn’t solely white Anglo-Saxon protestant. At this hour most of the shops were closed. He found a parking space near the coastguard building and switched off the ignition. Kevin was slumped in the adjoining seat with his chin on his chest. He was trembling. Simon thought it was from the cold. He opened the glove compartment and took out half a pint of brandy that was always there for emergencies. He uncapped the bottle.

  “Take a drink,” he ordered.

  “I’m in training,” Kevin protested.

  “You’re shaking,” Simon said. “It’s good for a quick warm-up.”

  Kevin drank—hesitantly and then eagerly. When he stopped trembling Simon took back the bottle. “Save a little for me, chum,” he said. He took a few swallows and re-capped the bottle. As he replaced it in the glove compartment he could see Kevin’s face in the light from the overhead lamps. His cheeks were wet with tears.

  “Okay,” Simon said, leaning back in the seat, “when you feel up to it you can tell me what this is all about.”

  Kevin cleared his throat noisily. “How did you know I sent you those photos?” he asked.

  “I didn’t at first. Then I saw that kid with the camera—Phillipe.”

  “Phil,” Kevin corrected. “His name is Phil Swanson and his father was layed off in the aerospace cutback. He needs that job, Mr Drake. Please don’t make trouble for him.”

  “I was just trying to scare him into telling me where you were. Your mother called me from Ojai this afternoon. She’s worried about you.”