The Brink of Murder

by Helen Nielsen

  “I’m sorry about that,” Kevin said, “but what could I do? I couldn’t tell her why I had to leave. I couldn’t tell her about those pictures. She’s hurt enough already.”

  “Who had the photos? Phil?”

  “No. I had them at our house. I went there this afternoon and got in the back way. Old Norm doesn’t even know I was in the house. Then I sent them to you because I thought somebody should see them—somebody who could do something about them.”

  “Is that why you tried to run away from me a few minutes ago?”

  “I don’t know. I guess Amlings are just good at running when the heat’s on.”

  “Don’t say that,” Simon said sharply.

  “But a million dollars. Jesus!”

  “You don’t know—nobody knows that your father took that money. Remember that. He’s been a good husband and father for a lot of years, Kevin. He’s entitled to some loyalty. Now suppose you tell me how you got those pictures.”

  “Phil took them,” Kevin said, “but only because I asked him. It started a couple of months ago. I knew Phil was working at The Golden Fleece after school—we’re in the same class. He told me they were hiring busboys and dishwashers and that I could pick up some cash if I wanted work. He knew I wanted to buy a Harley-Davidson. I said that I didn’t know if my father would like to have me working so late. I’ve been on sort of a curfew since—well, since some trouble I had.” Kevin was referring to his scrapes with the law but Simon didn’t push for details. He wanted to hear the rest of the story about the pictures. “Phil said: ‘Why don’t you come down some night and ask him?’ Then he said that he had seen my parents there and I knew something wasn’t kosher. They don’t like flossy places. I even asked my mother if she’d been to The Golden Fleece and she didn’t know what it was. When I told that to Phil he acted funny—like, forget it. So I told him if he ever saw my father there again he should take his picture, without him knowing it, and show it to me. When I said that I didn’t realize my father was going out with another woman. I thought Phil was mistaken.”

  “Until he did take a picture and show it to you.”

  “Right. Then I knew something was wrong. The night Phil took that first picture my father had called and said he was flying to Palm Springs. I told Phil to call me at the house if my father came in again. About two weeks later he called and I got out without my mother knowing it and rode down there. I put on an apron and worked in the kitchen. When Phil brought back the second picture I sneaked into the dining room. I saw my father leaving with that woman.”

  “Did you follow them?”

  “Sure. All they did was go to the inn and walk up to the desk. The clerk gave them a key and they went upstairs. I hung around for an hour but they didn’t come down.”

  “Did your father come home that night?”

  “No. He had called earlier and told my mother he was going to San Francisco and wouldn’t be home until the next day.” Kevin’s voice broke in a smothered sob. “Why did he do it, Mr Drake? My mother’s a nice lady. She’s a lot prettier than the woman in the pictures.”

  “Do you know who she is?”

  “No. I never went back to The Golden Fleece until tonight. I even stopped talking to Phil.”

  Kevin sighed and slumped back in the seat. He seemed exhausted and that was understandable. He was pretty young to be carrying a burden like that for two months.

  “And you never spoke to your father about it?”

  “How could I? I didn’t even want him to know that I knew. I figured it was one of the crazy things grown-ups do and he would soon forget about her. But now he’s gone. He’s left us all.”

  “All right,” Simon said. “I get your point.”

  “Are you still mad?”

  “A little. Because you didn’t tell me sooner. But it’s all right. I’ll find out what those pictures signify without creating a fuss. You did the right thing, Mr Smith.”

  The grin Kevin screwed up on his face was pathetic but it was an improvement over the trembling. Simon switched on the ignition and started the motor.

  “What are you going to do now?” Kevin asked.

  “Find a telephone booth and call your mother,” Simon said.

  He drove back to the business area of the marina and parked beside a public telephone. By that time he had coached Kevin on what he must say. He put in the call to Ojai and waited until Carole came to the telephone. Then he said: “Carole, I’ve got someone here who wants to talk to you.” He turned the telephone over to Kevin and stood by while the boy explained that he had panicked when he heard the news about his father on the radio and run off without telling her he was leaving. When that part was finished Simon took the telephone again and told Carole Amling that he was putting her son in a cab and sending him back to Ojai immediately. “Tomorrow is Thanksgiving,” he concluded. “The family should be together.”

  When he concluded the call he hustled Kevin back into the car and drove to the nearest hotel where a few cabs were waiting. He gave the driver a bill and promised that the boy’s family would pay any extra at the other end of the trip, and then he gave one final directive.

  “Drive carefully,” he said, “and under no circumstances are you to open the doors of this cab until you reach the address I gave you.”

  As Kevin was crawling into the back seat Simon asked him one more question.

  “That night you saw your father get a room key at the hotel,” he said, “did you ask any questions at the desk? Did you ask, after he left the desk, if Mr Amling was registered or what room he was in?”

  Kevin shook his head. “I didn’t have to ask,” he said. “I followed them into the lobby. Heck, they weren’t thinking about me. They didn’t even look around. They didn’t register, either. The clerk just smiled and gave them a key. ‘Three-oh-one,’ he said, ‘just like he knew them. Just like they did it all the time.”

  Simon nodded. “All right,” he said. “Don’t jump to conclusions and don’t talk about this to anyone. After all, your mother is staying with Eric Larson and people could talk about that if they wanted to.”

  “Talk?” Kevin squeaked. “How could they talk? Eric’s so square he sleeps at the clinic. We’re staying in the house with the housekeeper. Eric doesn’t dig my mother at all.”

  Simon closed the car door and watched the cab wheel away. Kevin was wrong about one thing. With the cruel glare of publicity hanging over Carole Amling the doctor’s behaviour was anything but square. It could mean that he did dig Carole—very much.

  Thanksgiving eve. Simon went back to his car and argued with himself. After all, what could he do with the information he had on Thanksgiving eve? He thought about the room at the Century Plaza where Wanda would be sleeping the night, and, as he had told Carole Amling, families belonged together at such a time. He opened up the glove compartment again and argued some more with the aid of what was left of the brandy. Barney Amling had been missing almost two weeks. Twenty-four hours more couldn’t make all that difference. But the lights of the Marina Inn twinkled across the channel and before Simon had emptied the bottle he knew the argument was lost. He drove back to the inn and parked in the guest parking. He walked into the lobby and asked for a room at the desk. When the clerk turned to consult the vacancies Simon leaned forward and breathed the aromatic fumes of brandy in his direction.

  “I don’t want just any little old room. Any old room that looks like a broom closet,” he said. “I want a room upstairs with a view. I believe in numerology. Do you believe in numerology?”

  The clerk turned back and looked at him carefully. “Do you have any luggage, sir?” he asked.

  “Luggage? I don’t need luggage to sleep. I’ve got money. That’s all that’s important. And how do you think I got my money? Numerology. I’ve got lucky numbers. Three—that’s my lucky number. And one.”

  “I can give you room thirty-one,” the clerk said, “but it’s on the ground floor.”

  “I don’t want the ground f
loor. I want the third floor. I want a room with the number three and one in it. Three-oh-one. Three-nought-one.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the clerk said, “we don’t have a room with that number.”

  Simon lurched against the counter. “What do you mean you don’t have a room with that number? I never heard of such a thing. I want to see the manager.”

  “The manager is off duty,” the clerk said. “Perhaps if you tried some other inn—”

  “Three-nought-one,” Simon insisted. “Don’t tell me you don’t have such a room. I can see the number on that box right behind your left shoulder.”

  The clerk sighed. “All right. We do have such a room but it’s not available. It’s a private suite.”

  “Private!” Simon exploded. “What do you mean private? This is a public inn, isn’t it?”

  “It is. But the room in question is reserved. It’s always reserved for the special guests of the owner.”

  “Then I want to see the owner!”

  The harried clerk had sent an eye signal across the room and a burly bellhop was approaching across the carpeted lobby. Simon saw him out of the corner of his eye and knew he hadn’t much time. He repeated the request for the owner and was told, tightly, that the owner didn’t live in the hotel. The suite was reserved for friends and special guests of the owner.

  “Miss Castle lives on her yacht,” the clerk said, “and I’m sure she didn’t send you or we would have been notified. But there are several other inns that might accommodate you.”

  Simon felt a firm grasp on his arm.

  “No offence,” he said. “Just a little too much holiday cheer.”

  “The night air’s good for that, Bud,” the bellhop said.

  “No offence,” Simon repeated. “But I don’t like that business about private suites. Private! No wonder there’s so much talk about revolution! And owners living on yachts. I don’t buy that. What’s the name of the yacht?”

  By this time there were two bellhops and Simon was being rapidly walked to the door. “I don’t believe there’s any yacht,” he yelled. “What’s the name of the yacht?”

  But nobody talked to him any more. He was marched out to the sidewalk and turned loose.

  “Walk it off, Bud,” a bellhop advised, “but just be sure you don’t walk back this way unless you want to spend the holidays in the drunk tank.”

  Simon walked back to his car thinking how proud Hannah would have been of his performance as a drunk. He drove all around the marina and tried to calculate how many hundreds of boats were in the berths. He thought of some people he knew who lived in the apartments and might know which one belonged to Verna Castle, and then he thought of what a dirty trick it would be to bother them on Thanksgiving eve and how he would probably end up a genuine drunk if he did. So he filed away in the back of his mind all he had learned about Verna Castle and Barney Amling and then drove to the Century Plaza where he was treated more kindly by the personnel. Wanda had left word at the desk that he was to be taken up to her room if she wasn’t in, which she wasn’t. He went upstairs and undressed, hanging his brown suit and the shirt with the French cuffs carefully in the closet, and then went to bed.

  It was a little after two o’clock when Wanda came in. She went directly into the bathroom, showered, and came out wearing a tiny piece of chiffon and a robe. She didn’t turn on the bedroom lights because the drapes were open so all the sparkling lights of the city would show. She drew back the blankets and Simon pulled her down beside him.

  “Oh, Si! You did come,” she murmured.

  It was nice.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, honey,” he said.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THANKSGIVING DAY. They slept late because the sun was hidden behind layers of smog and clouds that gave the room an eerie pre-dawn appearance at ten-thirty. It was a good day to stay in bed but they were both hungry so Wanda got on the telephone and ordered Eggs Benedict for two with large orange juices and a pot of black coffee. When room service delivered the cart Wanda was up, wearing her robe and slippers, to direct the setting of the table in front of the window. Simon had to stay in bed with the sheet pulled up to his chin because he had no pyjamas. When the waiter left the room, Wanda brought him a huge bath sheet from the shower so he could wrap up like an Indian in Terry cloth and join her for breakfast. The morning Times had been delivered as a courtesy of the hotel. The Amling story was still on the front page and several sportswriters had picked it up for special columns in spite of the fact that there was nothing new to report. That Amling had fled to Argentina was hinted at darkly, but no reporter had picked up the bit about a Barry Anderson buying a ticket on a flight to Buenos Aires. Modern journalists seemed more concerned with purple prose than legwork.

  Simon tossed the paper on the floor in a gesture of disgust and poured himself a second cup of coffee.

  “This is a holiday,” he insisted. “When we’re through eating I’m going to get back into bed and spend the day watching football games on the television.”

  “It’s colour,” Wanda said.

  “Good. We can see the blood.”

  “What about dinner?”

  “Room service.”

  “Cocktails?”

  “Room service.”

  “Do you intend to spend the entire day wrapped up in a towel?”

  Simon grinned. “Why not? It’s comfortable.”

  “You’ll embarrass the waiters,” Wanda said. “I have an idea.”

  She got back on the telephone and called the liquor store in the lobby.

  “Sam? How nice. You’re open. This is Wanda Drake.” The name didn’t make the proper impression so she tried again. “Wanda Call Drake.” Bingo! It registered and she was all smiles. “You’re sweet,” she said. “Listen, Sam. My husband came in last night and we’re up here dying of thirst. You will? Wonderful! Send up a fifth of Buchanan’s—and do you have Champagne? Oh, with glasses, too. Well, one bottle to start. You know my room number. And Sam—is your brother’s store open today? My husband doesn’t have any sleeping gear. You have? You will? Sam, you’re an absolute darling.”

  Simon finished his coffee and left the table to turn on the TV. Wanda was still rattling away on the telephone when he tuned in to a ball game in Miami where the sun was shining brightly in a cloudless sky in direct defiance of every Los Angeles viewer.

  From across the room Wanda asked: “Si, what is your suit size?”

  “I don’t want a suit,” Simon said. “I’ve got one in the closet and I won’t put it on.”

  “I didn’t ask you to put it on, darling. I asked the size.”

  The picture on the tube was fine but all of the players had blue faces and it wasn’t that cold in Miami. “I don’t know the size,” he said.

  “Oh, Sam, just make it large. Yes. Anything you like in large and put it on my bill.”

  Simon got the colour co-ordinated in time to see a long pass intercepted and run back to the 40-yard line. The camera switched to the cheering section and all of the pretty little girls with pom-poms had oriental colouring, but Simon had got back into bed and wasn’t about to move.

  Wanda sat down beside him looking pleased with herself. “Sam’s brother has a men’s-wear shop in the lobby,” she explained, “and Sam has the key. He’s sending up pyjamas and a robe with the booze.”

  “Expecting a fire?” Simon asked.

  She hit him with a pillow.

  In some ways it was a lovely day but Simon couldn’t keep his mind on the game. When the order from the liquor store was delivered he fell heir to a pair of canary-yellow Mandarin-type pyjamas with a salmon-pink dragon embroidered over the left side pocket, and a purple karate coat with a gold-fringed belt. Either Sam was colour blind or had taken advantage of the chance to get rid of slow-moving stock.

  “I don’t think I’d care to meet Sam’s brother’s clientèle,” Simon reflected, “and the waiter’s still going to be shocked.”

  He switched the TV channel to
a game being played in Dallas where the sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky. By this time the sun over Los Angeles was edging its way through the overcast like a poached egg in a bowl of dirty milk. While two football teams skidded about on the astro-turf Simon thought about Verna Castle and wondered why he couldn’t get her out of his mind. When the game was over Wanda ordered dinner from room service: rare steaks because they didn’t care for turkey, but with cranberries on the side because it was Thanksgiving. When the waiter came Simon pulled the sheet up to his neck again and Wanda had the cart placed beside the bed so they could watch the movie that followed the football game. It was an oldie, circa 1943, and a cast of entertainers who had since grown fat and bald were bouncing around in army uniforms with wide trousers, singing, dancing and marching off to win world war two with wise-cracks. It looked like the most fun war of all times with victory hanging solely on the success of the musical revue the male lead was trying to stage before the company went overseas. The steak was gone, the mince pie was gone and Simon had uncorked the bottle of Champagne before the male lead announced to his buddy that he was in love with a girl named Alverna.

  “Alverna,” Simon said, overpouring Wanda’s glass.

  “She’s the Doris Day-type with blonde pigtails,” Wanda said. Wanda always watched television films with the intensity of a seminarian studying for the priesthood. “She’s supposed to be a poor country girl working as a welder, but she’s really the daughter of the oil tycoon who’s going to finance the show on Broadway in the last reel. Five dollars.”

  Simon sipped his Champagne with more tingles in his flesh than in the sparkling bubbly. “I won’t bet you five dollars because you always win,” he said. “Besides, I saw this picture with my cub-scout troop on a free Saturday matinée for kids.”

  He climbed out of bed leaving her the Champagne and the movie. In a drawer under the telephone he found two fat directories. One was yellow. He flipped open the pages to the listings for detectives and located a small box enclosing the name: David G. Alder, Private Investigator. He copied the telephone number on the courtesy pad supplied by the management and tested the length of the telephone cord. By stretching it tight he could just manage to take the instrument outside the sliding glass doors on to the balcony. The entertainers on the film were going into a big stars-and-stripes number and he had to escape the din. He dialled Adler’s number and reached an answering service. After some wrangling he extracted Adler’s home number and dialled again.