They had both been here in Mr. Ragan’s office, she was quite sure, on Friday of the previous week. For about an hour. She checked Ragan’s desk calendar, on which he usually listed special appointments. No names there, just the notation LF & Pon the page for Friday, September 14, eight days ago, and the time, 2:00 p.m.
But that was quite enough for me.
The plainclothes car pulled in behind the spot where I was parked at the curb on Wisteria Lane.
I waited next to my Cad as Bill Rawlins got out, walked up to me.
Thanks for coming, Bill,I said.
Don’t thank me yet. You left a lot out on the phone, pal. Fill me in.
I didn’t leave much out. I told you, this is the third time I’ve been here, third time no response. I’ve checked; the guy should have been seen in a couple of places, at least once or twice, and he hasn’t. Ordinarily, I might sort of sneak in myself and mope around a little, only . . .
Only maybe you’re getting smart. With a little help from the captain.
Help, he says. Did Sam tell you —
Rawlins lifted the left side of my coat, looked at the spot where my holster and Colt ordinarily were.
Yeah, he told you,I said.
I wouldn’t have believed it.Bill shook his head. No wonder you called a cop.He glanced at the house. Who did you say lives here?
Norman Amber.
He looked toward the house, then at me, scowling. You want me to go in there — uninvited, without a warrant — and do your moping around for you, right?
That’s right.
I must be out of my skull. If the guy’s snoozing in there, or say his aunt’s cooking in the kitchen, what the hell kind of excuse —
Sam get away on his vacation?I interrupted.
Yes, he did. Shell, don’t pretend I haven’t known you a long time and thus might fail to notice your crude attempts to change the subject or remind me that the captain is on his merry way. His way may be merry, but that ominous presence still broods over the Police Building, nay, over the entire city —
Good God, Bill, you’re starting to talk the way Sam does when he’s sick. Ah, look, you’re here. You’re either going to go in or stay out. And would it make sense not to go in there when you’re already out here? Of course not. So —
Not so fast.He shrugged. All right. You get around in back, hammer on the door, yell, or make noises. I’ll investigate the disturbance. Don’t overdo it.
Half a minute later I’d walked over a rock path in a dichondra lawn to the back door and was banging away on it and yelling a bit, but not excessively. Then I waited.
Not very long, no more than two or three minutes. The back door opened and Rawlins said to me, O.K., come on in.
He’s there?
Yeah. He’s dead, all right.
The rest of it used up an hour — getting the detectives, lab men, and deputy coroner out to the address, Rawlins’s report at the scene and mine — but checking the place ourselves took only the first five minutes.
Amber lived in a normal house, bedroom and kitchen and bath and such, except for two large rooms filled with a lot of equipment. Some of it was recognizable, things like meters and motors, test equipment, switches and rheostats, coils of wire, several different kinds of small metal bars. But some of it was like nothing I’d ever laid eyes on before.
There were also two boxes about the size of packing crates, or large trunks, each with several dials and lenses on its face, an on-offswitch, and a black-painted lever in a slot at one side of the box. We could only guess at what might be inside the things, but with all the gadgets on their outsides there had to be a lot that couldn’t be seen until the boxes were opened. And they’d be opened; one of them would, anyhow.
Because Norman Amber’s body was crumpled on the floor near, almost touching, the base of one of those boxes. He’d been dead, Rawlins and I guessed, at least a couple of days. The Coroner’s Office would be able to give us a more accurate estimate of the time, but rigor mortis, the weird stiffening of the corpse’s muscles, had slowly formed and slowly melted away, so he probably hadn’t died within the last twenty-four hours.
There was a clearly visible mark across the palm of his right hand; possibly there were others on his body, beneath the trousers and shirt and stained rubber apron, but that would be checked later, too.
A couple of feet above his head, the black-painted lever was midway down its slot, projecting out parallel to the floor — rather than up at the top of the box and angled toward the ceiling as was the other one of the pair. Too, the lever’s paint wasn’t shiny black, wasn’t smooth; it was bubbly; it looked burned. As did Amber’s right palm.
Rawlins and I were standing a yard or so from the body when he said, We’d better keep the hell away from that whatever-it-is with the dials and stuff. Looks like he pulled that lever and got electrocuted.
It stinks.Rawlins glanced at me as I went on. This guy wasn’t a kid playing with pretty sparks; he knew what he was doing.
Things go wrong, Shell. Accidents happen, even to the pros.
I just don’t buy it.
The experts can tell us, maybe. I’ll call in.
While Rawlins phoned downtown I squatted on my haunches near the body, looked at the dead man’s face.
You can’t tell from the face of a corpse what the man really looked like. You can match it with a photograph — like a mug shot and a newspaper picture I’d seen of Norman Amber — eyes, nose, lips, hairline, but you miss whatever it is that rests in the movement, animation, lift of brow or smile or sneer, the living part of the man. The puppet was here on the floor, but the guy with the strings was gone. Still, while I knew Amber had been some kind of high-powered brain, he’d also been a damned good-looking man. I could tell that much from what was left of him. Strength in that face, in the jaw, shape of mouth, even without any power behind the mask. Fairly tall, six feet or over, lean but not skinny. In addition to the outstanding think-pot, he’d been a better-than-fair physical specimen, too. He had undoubtedly been looked at with admiring eyes by more tomatoes than a few.
And — now — so what?
I straightened up, looked around some more, waiting for Rawlins. In shelves along one wall, a lot of books; piles of magazines, technical and scientific journals, papers and reports. Also at least two dozen cameras, movie and still, among them a couple of contraptions that might have been either cameras or parts for a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle.
Rawlins came back in. On the way.He saw me looking at the shelves and asked, Anything new in here?
Nothing important,I said.
The last thing, just before I left, was watching the remains of Norman Amber being rolled along on the collapsible four-wheeled stretcher to the waiting coroner’s wagon. From there he went to the morgue, Rawlins headed for the Police Building, and I went to Burbank again.
Up Glenrosa, to the Fields’ address, and to the door. The green Chevy wasn’t in front of the house, and nobody answered my ring or knock. Ten minutes of checking with the neighbors and I knew both Mrs. Fields and Peter had left some time ago. Exactly how much time ago I was unable to find out for sure; but it couldn’t have been very long after I’d driven by earlier today. Half an hour, say, or even less.
A couple of the neighbors told me the same story: When the pair of them left together, Mrs. Fields had been carrying two suitcases, which she put into the backseat of the Chevrolet before getting behind the wheel and driving off. That’s all they’d taken with them, a pair of suitcases, but it was enough to tell me I needn’t anticipate their speedy return.
It also told me at least one other thing: dynamic Peter hadn’t been carrying any suitcases.
The big heavy door slowly swung open.
Hi,I said. It was the same evil-looking guy who’d let me in the first time I visited Lindstrom Laboratories.
Oh, it’s you.
Yes, it is. I’d like to see Mr. Lindstrom again, if I may.
Come in, Mr. Scott.He pull
ed the door wider, stepped back.
I blinked. Just like that? It’s easier the second time, huh?
Mr. Lindstrom informed me that you were to be allowed admittance right away if you returned.
That was a little odd, I thought. Right away? Anytime at all?
He didn’t specify any conditions. But only, of course, to see him. Not to enter any of the other areas, unless in his company.
That’s fine with me.
The massive door swung slowly closed behind us, as though sealing us in forever. He preceded me down the long dimly-lighted hallway. It was quiet, and I was happy to note that, in contrast to my previous visit, those disturbing sounds almost like silent pressure on the eardrums, or the brain, were not in evidence this time.
I commented on that to my guide and he explained: Because it was Saturday afternoon, only he and Lindstrom and a couple of other men were still at the laboratories. That was fine with me, too, since I was not overly fond of walking past heavy doors into windowless places without my familiar gun in its shoulder clip.
We turned left at the intersecting corridor, and my guide said over his shoulder, I’ll let Mr. Lindstrom know you’re here,and speeded his pace, moving on ahead of me. I saw him open a door, lean in and speak, then step back, leaving the door open. He smiled absently as he went by me, moving silently over the smooth dull-gray flooring.
I paused in the open doorway. Gunnar Lindstrom, as before, was behind the cluttered dark-gray desk, seated this time, drilling me with that piercing gaze of his.
But he said pleasantly, Come in, come in, Mr. Scott,and as I entered he smiled. It was merely a small smile, a polite facial gesture, but it brightened his sharp features, made him look rather like an aging boy.
He indicated a chair before his desk. I sat down, saying, Thanks for letting me in again, Mr. Lindstrom. Especially so speedily.
I left instructions that you were to be admitted without delay if you wished to see me again.
Would you mind telling me why?
He answered easily, On your first visit, you informed me of certain circumstances and events that— he paused briefly, then continued — were of interest to me. That I was not previously aware of. That clarified in some degree questions to which I had not — and still have not — found satisfactory answers. I believe I assisted you also, to a degree, in your own search for answers. Therefore, it seemed not unlikely that, even between two individuals of such disparate backgrounds and professions, there might result a further quid pro quo, shall we say, should you have reason to return.
Would you mind telling me what it was I told you that you found so interesting?No response. Specifically?I added.
He didn’t say anything, just sat there like a stone, drilling me with those almost-glowing eyes. This went on for a while.
I remembered that during my first visit, after our introductory comments — when Lindstrom had started his little sand machine going, it was — there had been what might be described as a stupendous lull in the conversation. Unrelieved by even a hint of any comment or aid from Lindstrom.
I suppose you know you make me uneasy doing that,I said jocularly.
Well,I went on fairly soon, I can tell you that much has been happening, Mr. Lindstrom. Some of which, I’ve got a hunch, will provide you with at least small tremors of excitement.
Yes,I continued, small tremors. For example, yesterday I asked you about Elroy Werzen, whose hood monicker was Puffer. I say was, because within an hour after I left here I shot and killed him.
Yes, I know.
How did you find out he was dead? Or that I plugged him?
I waited.
It was pretty clear now. When Lindstrom didn’t want to answer a question, or felt no overwhelming urge to speak, there was just a — lull.
O.K.,I said. Just sit there and keep your ears open. I’m sure you recall everything I mentioned yesterday. Add that when I saw Puffer and Collett and Al Hauk at the Weir Building, they were with a fourth man I didn’t get a look at. But in the Weir Building — along with numerous other individuals, of course — there is a Vincent Ragan, patent attorney, who for an as yet unexplained reason apparently does not wish me to know he is, in some way, involved with Mrs. Laura Fields and her decaying darling-boy, Peter. The same Mrs. Fields who — lo and behold — is the mother of Aralia Fields. Said Aralia being the lady Buddy Brett — remember him? — failed to live quite long enough to murder, in the Spartan Apartment Hotel. Outside which hotel was parked, last night and at that lethal moment, your Lincoln Continental. Near which allegedly heisted heap strolled Al Hauk, bosom pal to a couple, or maybe several, of your employees, as already demonstrated. Now, it is a circumstance of surpassing interest, at least to me, that the aforementioned Laura Fields turns out to be none other than the one-time wife of very recently deceased Norman Amber, also mentioned in passing here yesterday. And the late Norman Amber, whose profession should prove of interest even to you —
What? Wife of — late? Deceased — dead? Norman Amber? What are you saying?
It was so sudden, I almost went over backward in my chair.
During my spiel Lindstrom had appeared quite unmoved, as though he’d turned off an invisible hearing aid and was merely watching, with reluctant interest, my lips wiggle. With — until the explosion — only one small exception.
That was when I mentioned Vincent Ragan, patent attorney.It wasn’t anything dramatic, just a fractional lift and compression of the brows, perhaps a slight increase in the amperage of his steady gaze, and his lips parted slightly, though quickly. Not much from which to draw any exciting conclusions.
I recalled that during my recital of names here yesterday Lindstrom had reacted minutely to one of them, either Norman Amber or Buddy Brett I’d thought then. It did not now seem likely it had been Buddy Brett.
During my last comments Lindstrom had suddenly sat bolt upright in his chair, then leaned forward, mouth opening. He was still like that, big leonine head with its used-mop tangle of gray-streaked brown hair thrust toward me, body pressed against the edge of his desk.
What did you mean by that?he continued. Deceased? But he isn’t dead.
He is dead,I said.
Norman? Norman Amber?
That’s right.
Perhaps you’re mistaken. How long —
I don’t know for sure how long he’s been dead. Not more than a few days, though — his body was discovered only a couple of hours ago, by a police officer and me. By now it’s at the L. A. County Morgue.
You’re sure it was Norman?
Yes. That was checked out before the dead-wagon took him away.
He winced when I said dead-wagon.
Then he ran a hand through his bushy hair, which judging by its appearance was how he combed it regularly every week, and slowly turned his swivel chair around until he was facing in the opposite direction.
I presumed he was staring at the wall, but that was a guess. All I could see was the black-leather padding of the chair’s back. Half a minute went by. I assumed Lindstrom was making some kind of mental adjustment to what was obviously surprising, perhaps shocking, news. Again, it was a guess. Maybe he was hiding. It was possible. There are people who close their eyes and think nobody can see them.
After another half-minute I began to wonder if there was a hole I didn’t know about in the floor over there, and he’d disappeared into it the instant he got out of my sight. Then the chair swiveled around. I was actually relieved to see Lindstrom still in it.
Even before he’d turned the full 180 degrees he began speaking: I am not sure of the man’s name you mentioned, the patent attorney. Vincent . . .?
Ragan.
In the Weir Building?
Yes.
He was there in the company of the three other men you mentioned, two of them my employees?
I’m not sure of that. I strongly suspect it. The three of them were there with a fourth man. I don’t know who that fourth man was.
Ragan,h
e said softly, not to me, Hmm. Well.Then to me again, You were one of the men who found Norman’s — Mr. Amber’s — body?
Yes.
Where was this?
At his home. Out on Wisteria Lane.
Had he been . . .
Lindstrom was stuck again.
He fell silent, eyes dropping from mine. After about thirty seconds he picked up the small sand-filled glass, his egg timer, turned it over, and placed it on the desktop. He still didn’t say anything, just watched the tiny grains of white sand silently falling.
Half of them trickled through into the bell-shaped bottom of the glass, then Lindstrom looked up at me. He blinked his eyes, as if bringing them back into focus, and finished what he’d started to say perhaps two minutes before. He didn’t even repeat the first part of the question, just went on from where he’d left off, completing the question.
. . . murdered?
What?Two minutes is a long time for me.
Had he been murdered?
Why do you ask that? Do you think someone had reason —
The brows pulled down and inward slightly. Mr. Scott, dammit, will you answer my question?
Then his body seemed to relax, his face smoothed, he smiled gently, and his expression grew much warmer. I’m sorry. I have concluded that you may be of great help to me. So I have already decided to tell you everything you want to know. More, since it is almost a certainty that I have answers for which you could not possibly be prepared with questions, I intend to ask myself those questions, for your edification, and answer them. Believe me, it will be quicker that way.
I think I believe you.
Excellent.
Especially if I don’t know the questions.
Tell me, then. Was Norman murdered?
I’m not sure. We found his body on the floor next to some kind of equipment that was wired in to a transformer, connected in turn to a two-twenty-volt power source. The piece of equipment wasn’t grounded — had been, but the ground connection had come loose one of the lab men told me — and it looked as if something had shorted out and electrocuted him. That’ll be checked by the experts. But, for reasons of my own, I think he may have been murdered.
The Amber Effect (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 11
