Death Bed

by Stephen Greenleaf

  I followed the direction of his finger as he pointed from one piece to the next, my eyes absorbing the twisted metals as my ears absorbed the increasingly insistent rumblings of Hazen’s voice. When I looked back at him he was holding the torch with both hands, gripping it tightly, wielding it like a weapon. The light in his eyes made it seem that the goggles had shielded the steel from them and not the other way around.

  “Why are you here?” Hazen demanded suddenly. The expression on his face had altered enough to tell me where I had first seen him. He was the little man with the triumphant smile I had seen coming out of Max Kottle’s apartment one rainy night a long time ago.

  “I’ll give you a hint,” I said, my eyes locked firmly on the torch. “Several, in fact. I started the morning by driving to Berkeley for a talk with Mrs. Luswell about her deceased daughter Linda. Then I had a brief conversation with the Records Custodian at Bay University Hospital about what records they might or might not have on Max Kottle. Then I talked with a pathologist friend of mine about little blue pills and about an illness that causes pain in the extremities and about the effects of prolonged exposure to cobalt radiation. End of hints.”

  It probably wasn’t as still as I imagined it was, probably not as silent. “You’ve been busy,” Hazen remarked calmly, his lips barely moving. The accusation was sarcastic and ridiculous.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I want to know why. And more than that I want to know if I can stop it, if I can save them. If anyone can.”

  His smile was thin and disdainful. “Why should I tell you?”

  “Because it’s over. Because there’s no reason not to now. Because if they die you’ll be in Folsom till you join them.”

  Time passed as though it were on his side instead of mine. The whole world seemed lit by the torch Hazen carried, and in peril from it. My neck started to ache from lack of movement.

  “Who else knows?” Hazen asked, suddenly animated.

  “Everyone who needs to.”

  “No,” he countered. “No.” His wrist moved. “Only you.”

  A yellow-white flame shot out at me like a spear, the lance of the Lord. I jumped back but it seemed to keep coming, to be fueled by the atmosphere, by the universe itself. I jumped again, and when I landed it wasn’t on the floor but on something round, something slick, something that rolled and took my feet with it.

  I stumbled backward, my hands thrust blindly into the space at my back. I was afraid to look at anything but the flame.

  Then the flame receded as I slipped, falling. The back of my head hit something hard and I lost it, thinking in the final second that I heard the sound of gongs.

  THIRTY-SIX

  By the time I knew where I was it was black inside the studio and even blacker inside my head. Something seemed loose that shouldn’t have been loose and something else seemed larger than it had been before I fell. My heart had traveled magically to my skull, where it throbbed and stopped, only to throb again.

  The first time I tried to stand I didn’t make it. But I did stir the huge mobile that had knocked me cold. The next time I tried to get up, I wished I hadn’t. As soon as I could, I felt my way out of the studio and into the hallway, where a dim light shined down on my predicament and on my pain.

  I checked my watch. I’d been out for two hours. Probing gingerly, I felt my head. It was cut, but the blood had dried into a crusty, hairy mat. The lump beneath it seemed as large as Oakland. I stumbled down the hall.

  The first door on my left was open. I went through it slowly, my hands on the nearest surface for support. The examining table beckoned as seductively as Loren, but I passed it up and went to the medicine cabinet. After what seemed like hours I found a bottle of Empirin compound and swallowed four tablets, washing them down with water in a paper cup the size of a thimble. As best I could I poured some alcohol over my cut. The pain almost put me back on the floor. I wanted more than anything to take my head off and put it to bed till it got well.

  There was a telephone on the small desk in the corner and I picked it up and placed a call. She answered immediately.

  “Is Doctor Hazen there?” I asked.

  “No. He isn’t.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes. Everything is fine.”

  “If Hazen comes, keep him away from your husband. Seduce him if you have to. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Dizzily erratic, I made my way outside into the darkness of the city. The streets were tiled with rumbling cars. The fumes they eliminated soured my stomach even further. If I regurgitated it would eat its way to Shanghai.

  The chances of finding a place to park on Nob Hill were so poor I decided to walk. Halfway up the hill I decided I’d made a mistake. My head was getting worse instead of better, my brain bouncing with every step as though dribbled with a porcelain hand.

  I stopped to rest, leaning against a building, looking drunk or sick or crazed or all of them. It didn’t get any better but it didn’t get any worse so I moved on, step by step, walking the way I used to walk during forced marches back in basic training almost three decades ago. I’d hated it then and I hated it now.

  Somehow, the next time I thought about anything but putting one foot in front of the other I was at the enrance to the Phoenix. The elevator whisked me to the top. After my stomach caught up to me I pressed the bell until my thumb hurt.

  When the door finally opened I almost fell into the apartment. Fortunately, Belinda Kottle didn’t seem to notice how I looked or how I smelled. She was wearing a floor-length robe of blue velour on her body and nothing, not even an expression, on her face. She turned without a word and I followed her into the breakfast nook and sat down at the table. There was nothing there with us except a half-empty cup of coffee. I asked if Hedgestone was around and she shook her head, then lowered it to her hands. The irregularity of the butcher-block slats she was leaning on made me dizzier than I was before.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m not sure I’m thinking straight yet, but here goes. I’ll tell it to you first, then we can decide what to do from here.”

  She nodded wearily. She seemed blithe and superficial, but then she didn’t know what I was going to say.

  “I’m not one hundred percent certain about all this,” I began, “but most of it can be checked easily enough. The worst part has to do with Hazen. Max’s old buddy. Hazen’s been on a vendetta against both Karl and your husband. He’s been killing them, Belinda, murdering them, slowly but surely, year after psychotic year. Those letters were from Hazen, not Karl.

  “I don’t think Max even has cancer, but if he does it was brought on by Hazen and his cobalt machine. I don’t know much about radiation, but I know it can kill as well as cure, and either way it’s torturous. Hazen has been using it to inflict pain, and possibly prolonged physical debilitation as well. He’s slipped Max in and out of that hospital in secret, the way they used to do with Howard Hughes. There are no records of his treatment, no evidence he’s ever been in the place. As head of radiation Hazen could probably treat the facility as his private toy. That new wing Max paid for might have had something to do with it, too; Hazen probably blackmailed the staff and the administration to let him treat Max in secret or he’d have the money cut off. To top it off, Max’s pain medication is all placebos. Sugar pills. He had no help at all for the pain, except for the pot Gwen Durkin slipped him when it got real bad. What I don’t know is whether anyone can do anything about it. Understand? It may have gone too far. If Hazen aimed his machine at the spinal cord the damage might be irreversible. The same with the kidneys, with any other organ. If the exposure was high enough he might have induced leukemia, or even a tumor. There’s no way to tell until we get Max to another doctor. But I have to warn you. Max may die anyway. It may be too late.”

  I looked at Belinda as I caught my breath, to see if I should stop or go on, but I couldn’t read her. She took a sip of coffee, coffee that must have been as cold as a cree
k, but there were no tears, no sobs, no questions, no nothing. I didn’t want to go on, but I had to, impelled by the magnitude of Hazen’s private pogrom.

  “He got Karl, too. He probably started with him, in fact, since it was Karl’s killing of Hazen’s patient back in Berkeley that unhinged Hazen to begin with. He’s been poisoning Karl, regularly, for three or four years. Not enough to kill him, just enough to maximize the symptoms—pain in the extremities. My friend says it’s excruciating, indescribable. Karl must have been in hell for the past three years. I’d be surprised if he hasn’t lost his mind. Karl’s in on the kidnapping, by the way. He’s in no danger. That’s why I advised Max not to pay. Karl hates Max; I think Hazen has kept the hatred alive over the years, supplying Karl with manufactured instances of his father’s evil. My advice is to put the money back in the bank and let things slide. Bring in the cops and let them handle it. There doesn’t seem any reason not to anymore. See?”

  “Yes. I see,” she said, nodding. “Karl’s one of them.”

  “There’s another thread to this thing,” I continued. “It has to do with the money. The kidnappers didn’t get it, and the reason is the kidnappers are being used for purposes that don’t have anything to do with revolutionary politics. I thought at first someone was using your husband’s own money to take his company away from him, but that’s not exactly it. I think someone’s gambling that CI is going to make the oil shale thing work, and that if they can get a block of stock now, at a good enough price, there’s going to be big money to be made, and quickly. I doubt if the money people had anything to do with Hazen’s little plan, but I do think they took advantage of the situation Hazen created to depress the price of CI shares as far as possible. Then they came up with the kidnapping ploy and used Max’s own money to buy into CI. Tell me. Do you know a guy named Arnold Greer?”

  “What?”

  “Arnold Greer. Do you know him? He’s publisher of the Bay Area Investigator. Has a private army at his disposal.”

  She shrugged casually. “No. I don’t think so.” We could have been discussing crumpets.

  “Ever see a guy around here with a patch over one eye?”

  “A patch?”

  “Yes. Like Dayan. Long John Silver. The Hathaway shirt man. That kind of patch.”

  “Long John Silver. I loved that story.”

  “Come on, Belinda. How about Greer?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m very tired. I did see a man with a patch not long ago. He looked funny.”

  “Where?”

  “Downstairs. I was just leaving the building. He was driving a car. He dropped Walter off over by the Pacific Union Club.”

  “Walter Hedgestone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it’ll take some more checking, but I think Greer and Hedgestone are the ones behind the CI move. Biloxi Corporation is the nominee they used. The DA can smoke them out. If he can’t, the SEC can. There may well be a murder involved also, a man named Renn. I don’t particularly want to get into it. I don’t particularly want to do much of anything right now. So. What do we tell Max about all this?”

  “Max?”

  “Your husband. The man in the next room. Are you all right? Have you been taking drugs? Booze? What?”

  “I’m fine. I’m just fine. Several people called, but I didn’t let them come over. You’re the only one.”

  “What are you talking about? Why did they want to come over?”

  “Why, to express their condolences. Mother. She must have called everyone in town after I told her.”

  “Why condolences?”

  “Because of Max, silly. That’s what you do when someone dies. Send condolences.”

  Sure. If I hadn’t been so beat up I’d have known it a half hour ago, the minute I heard Belinda’s voice on the phone. “Jesus Christ,” I muttered. “How long ago?”

  “An hour. Two. It seems like a long time, but maybe that’s because I don’t have anything to do anymore.”

  “Where’s the body?”

  “They took it.”

  “Who?”

  She shrugged. “Some men in white coats. Doctor Hazen made the arrangements.”

  “Hazen. Was he here?”

  She nodded wearily. “He was with Max when he died. I was napping. I feel terrible that I wasn’t there, but Clifford told me it was quick and peaceful.”

  “It was quick, you can be sure of that,” I said roughly. “Where did Hazen go?”

  “I don’t believe he said. He did tell me Max’s last words were about me, though. Wasn’t that nice?”

  “Lovely.” I stood up and walked around her once, looking down at her, trying to figure it out. “Have you heard anything I’ve said in the past half hour?” I asked.

  “Well, some. My mind keeps wandering, though. Doctor Hazen gave me some pills. My eyes aren’t working right.”

  I pounded my fist on the table, a surrogate for myself. “I’m going to have to take you out of here. Can you leave right now?”

  She frowned. “Where are we going?”

  “To a hospital.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Because Hazen may have tried for you, too. I can’t be sure what he gave you. You should be under observation.”

  She seemed to find my concern amusing. “Oh, it was just Valium, Mr. Tanner. The bottle’s right over there. I’ve had it for a long time, ever since Max got real bad.”

  I looked it over. There didn’t seem to be more than a few pills missing, and the date on the prescription was six months old. I decided to let it go. I had other things to do, things like finding a killer and the evidence of his crime.

  “I have to go out for a while,” I told her. “Is there anyone who can come stay with you? Just for a few hours?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To see Doctor Hazen.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “Very. Who should I call?”

  “There’s no one. But I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. Everything’s fine.”

  She wasn’t fine at all. I excused myself and went to the living room and called a couple of doctors I knew. One was in surgery, one was in Acapulco. Then I tried someone else. Luckily she was home.

  “Gwen? Marsh Tanner. Please don’t hang up. I need a favor. Do you have the key to the Kottle penthouse?”

  “Yes.” She was tentative, suspicious. I didn’t blame her.

  “There isn’t time to explain. Max Kottle has just died. He wasn’t dead before, but he is now. Mrs. Kottle is all alone. I think she may be in shock. She’s been given some medication, probably Valium, but I can’t verify it. There’s an outside chance she’s been poisoned. She should be under observation. I can’t stay with her. Could you come over for a few hours?”

  “Just for Mrs. Kottle?”

  “Yes. She says there’s no one else I can call.”

  I gave her time to think and she took it. I guessed she was trying to separate her professional instincts from her personal qualms about me. She must have managed it. “I’ll come,” she said.

  “One more thing. Where does Hazen live?”

  “Why?”

  “I need to see him. He was with Kottle when he died.”

  “He has a place in Seacliff. Twenty-fifth and Scenic.”

  “Is there anyplace else he might be, if he’s hiding out? Someplace besides his office?”

  “Why would he be hiding out?”

  “He killed Kottle.”

  Her gasp was as sharp as a splinter. “I’ll tell you about it when I get back,” I went on. “Where else might he be?”

  “I’m not sure. He does have a workroom above his garage. A studio. He spends most of his time in there instead of the main house. Poor Clifford.”

  “Poor Max. Are you free a week from Monday?”

  “What?”

  I repeated it.

  “That’s New Year’s Eve.”

  “I know.”

  “I … yes. I can be.”

  “Would you
like to go somewhere? With me?”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. Someplace.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay.”

  I asked Gwen to hurry, then called the biggest mortuary in town. They’d never heard of Max Kottle or Clifford Hazen. Then I tried the hospital. They paged Hazen and said he didn’t respond and suggested I try his office. When I asked if Hazen had requested the services of any orderlies in the past hour or so they told me there was no way to check. I dropped the phone back in its cradle. It rang before I could get out of the room. I was afraid Gwen had changed her mind so I picked it up.

  The voice on the other end was tense and crisp. “Is the money ready?”

  “Yes,” I said, without thought.

  “Here are the instructions for delivery. Get a pencil. No screw-ups this time.”

  “Wes?”

  “No, this is … Who are you? What’s going on?”

  “Listen to me, Karl. One minute. Your father is dead. For real this time. He was murdered by Doctor Hazen, the same guy who’s been poisoning you for years. The pain in your hands and feet. It’s symptomatic of a certain kind of poison. Every time you’ve gone to see Hazen to get better he’s given you another dose. Do you hear me, Karl? You can check it. Go to another doctor. Give up the kidnapping. The money will never get to you, anyway. It’s going to buy shares of Collected Industries for a man who needs to make a killing in the market to refinance his newspaper. Ask Wes if he knows Arnold Greer. Ask him about Biafra. Watch his face. Greer got the first two million and he’ll get these, too. Get out of it, Karl. Take Rosemary with you. Get out and get well.”

  I’d run out of words, I’d run out of energy, I’d run out of interest. For several seconds there was nothing at the other end of the line but a silent query. Then there was a click. I went back to see Belinda.

  She was exactly as I had left her, mentally and physically. “I’ve got to leave,” I said. “I’m going to see Hazen. Then I’ll be back. I called your husband’s nurse. She’ll come stay with you.”