Up a Winding Stair
H. Vernor Dixon
a division of F+W Media, Inc.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Also Available
Copyright
Chapter One
THE SMALL PRIVATE AIRPLANE, less than two hours out of Los Angeles, approached California’s Monterey Peninsula at an altitude of five thousand feet. The Coast Range mountains under the plane were rather too close, yet it was high enough for the two occupants to look east over the rolling foothills to the great mass of the Sierra Nevada and west over the broad horizons of the lead-gray Pacific Ocean. Directly ahead was the graceful half-moon sweep of Monterey Bay; beyond, less than a hundred miles away, lay San Francisco and the bay towns and cities.
The Monterey Peninsula, seen from the plane projecting rather squarely into the ocean, bounded by Monterey Bay to the north and Carmel Bay to the south, was not particularly large. It had, however, a distinction that interested the pilot of the small plane, a title that meant pigeons to be plucked and suckers to be taken: It was the self-styled golf capital of the world.
Clark Holt looked up from his study of the landscape below, shoved the sectional chart from his lap, adjusted the green glasses over his eyes, and squinted ahead at the airport. The tower frequency was already tuned in, so he pressed the mike button, identified his ship and his position, and received landing instructions. The landing was smooth and without fault and in a few moments he had turned on the ground and was taxiing slowly toward the hangars.
Mrs. Harrison yawned, rubbed her fingers across her eyes, and smiled at Clark. “That was very nice, Mr. Holt. Very smooth.”
“I always let women down gently.”
She gave him the indulgent chuckle of comfortable middle age. “You do, indeed. But socially, as well?”
“The technique differs.”
“Perhaps more flaps?”
“You’re learning fast, Mrs. Harrison.” He nodded toward the old wooden hangar they were approaching. “I suppose we can get a taxi somewhere around there. Or is your friend going to meet you?”
“No, no. I wasn’t sure what time we would get in and she’s in such a frenzy, anyway, you know. We’ll take a cab. My God,” she said, more to herself than to him, “the situations that woman gets herself into! All our plans made, baggage gone weeks ago, both our husbands waiting for us in Paris, we have to catch a Connie out of San Francisco tomorrow — and now she says she can’t go. What do you do with a woman like that, except slit her throat from ear to ear?”
“You’re not very fond of her.”
“Oh, well, really I am, but at this particular moment I could murder her.”
A mechanic came out of a hangar and signaled to Clark, who followed the man’s hand instructions, spun the plane about, and parked it before a small flying office. He cut off the fuel to drain the carburetors, then turned off the master switch. Mrs. Harrison had difficulty getting out of her seat onto the wing and down to the ground. It was an awkward maneuver requiring lifted skirts and displayed more of Mrs. Harrison’s legs than she deemed decent. She was rather cross as she stood on the ground waiting for Clark. He grinned and took his time lifting the baggage out of the rear seat and handing it to the mechanic.
When he finally stood on the ground, stretching his arms and rubbing the tension out of his back, Mrs. Harrison watched him slyly, sighed over the gulf of years that separated them, and lost her feeling of irritation. For the first time since starting the flight she appraised him closely, wondering what sort of man he might really be. She knew so little about him. The meager facts she possessed were that he was a member of Mr. Harrison’s country club, that he played better than average golf — in fact, her husband seemed to lose a good deal of money to him — that he was connected with certain mysterious enterprises in aviation, that he chartered his own plane for an occasional flight, such as this one, and that he was a bachelor and more than presentable.
Mr. Harrison had spoken of him quite often, usually recounting some amusing amatory exploit in which Clark always seemed to come off victor, but she had only met him briefly twice before. She studied him now, fitting in his appearance with what little she knew of him. He was fairly tall, either nudging six feet or a fraction over, and he had the slim, wiry build of an athlete, which, however, was deceptive, as he was actually a solid two hundred pounds of hard muscle. He was also deceptive in many other ways. Though he always seemed to be smiling or on the verge of a smile, his blue-green eyes nevertheless remained cold, hard, and unyielding. In their depths was always the tiny light of speculative appraisal, of figuring the angles, as he termed it. He had straight brown hair, which he parted just to the left of center, sharply defined eyebrows, rather wide cheekbones, and a square, cleft chin that seemed purposeful and aggressive, yet, in profile, contained a suggestion of weakness. The unusually deep tan of his skin emphasized the whiteness of his teeth and proclaimed the fact that he spent a good portion of every day out of doors. His hands were oddly contradictory. Though browned by the sun and toughened and calloused on golf shafts, they were yet slim, with long, slender fingers that were almost feminine.
She approved of the way he dressed, with just the right casual touch to a lightweight sport shirt, loose-fitting jacket, deeply pleated slacks, Argyl socks, and cordovans. What she did not realize was that he had no taste in clothes whatever and had to have each ensemble carefully chosen for him by smart clerks of the better men’s stores. He never deviated from their pronouncements and never trusted himself to mix ensembles in any way. He was, therefore, always perfectly groomed and, by the same token, generally a year or two ahead of what the average country-club member was wearing. Married women such as Mrs. Harrison often berated their husbands for not dressing like Clark Holt.
Clark was not unaware of her appraisal and was pleased by the tacit approval in her eyes. Mrs. Harrison was wealthy, smart, polished, and very social. Her judgment was worth knowing and, now that he had it, he was at ease. Even though she would be leaving the country within the next twenty-four hours, the day when she would return was something to consider. Clark always carefully filed away women such as Mrs. Harrison for future reference. Their approval was sometimes worth a lot of hard cash.
He told the mechanic to top the tanks and store the plane in a hangar, then telephoned Monterey for a taxi, which arrived a few minutes later. As they pulled out of the airport toward the highway, Mrs. Harrison leaned back in the seat, opened an alligator bag, and fitted a long cigarette into a long ivory holder. Clark lit it for her with a gold-ribbed lighter.
She blew out a puff of smoke and sighed. “Cora is really the most exasperating woman.”
“Mrs. Nyland?”
“Yes. Lovely person, mind you, charming, gracious — ”
“But exasperating.”
“Terribly. Now, for instance. The four of us have been planning this one-year sabbatical in Europe for months and months. Naturally, Cora can’t just go away and leave her home empty. Wait till you see it. Not so awfully large, not really the mansion type, but impressive. Really a jewel. So she arranged for someone else to move in and take care of it while she and J. P. are gone. At the last minute, though, just yesterday, something happened. These people can’t move in, for some silly re
ason or other, and Cora refuses to leave it in the hands of maintenance people.”
Clark was not interested in Mrs. Nyland’s problems, but he asked, “How about turning it over to an agent for rent?”
“Oh, God, no! She tried that once before, I think three years ago. Rented it out for eight thousand for the summer. You’d think people who could afford to pay that would be responsible, but when she got back the place was a wreck. She swears she’ll never rent it again and I can’t say that I blame her. No, that isn’t the answer.”
She frowned thoughtfully and lapsed into silence. Clark was just as happy. He had a few worries of his own to resolve. There was the problem of the country club to consider. The officials were finally wise to him and there was talk of revoking his membership. If he had any experience in such matters, and he had, that would probably take place before the month was out, forcing him to seek another field, perhaps one not so lucrative, in which to operate. There was also Jeri, the blonde model, to think about. The operation had certainly been successful and she really had nothing to complain about, but she had this crazy idea about getting married and could cause trouble. Joey Malloy, too, was beginning to worry him. Joey was fed up with Los Angeles and hanging out in too many dives and getting into too much trouble with the police. One more jam and he’d lose the best gambling stooge in the business. Then there was Thompson, the last pigeon he had taken for nine grand. Thompson, politically powerful in the south, was mumbling “frame” and was out to nail Clark Holt’s hide to the wall. Thompson could be dangerous.
Clark looked out the windows and was conscious of going through a portion of Monterey, then up a steep hill bordered on each side with thick stands of pine trees and here and there an occasional house perched on the hillside. He was thinking, however, that everything indicated a change, and the sooner the better. For many years he had been hearing of the Monterey Peninsula and its famous golf courses, and especially of the wealth concentrated at Pebble Beach. It could be the answer to his need for a change. And Mrs. Harrison was paying for his opportunity to look it over at the charter-flight rate of thirty dollars an hour. That, he thought, was really laughable.
“You know,” he said, interrupting her reverie, “I’ve sometimes thought of moving up this way myself.”
“Really? It’s gorgeous country.”
“So I’ve been noticing. Frankly, I’m getting a little tired of the pressure down south, always on the go, pushing, shoving, fighting traffic, smog in your eyes…. You know.”
“Yes, I do. And you think you’d like it here?”
He shrugged. “Can’t tell yet. Looks good so far.” He thought of their destination, the Nyland house, and dropped his first hint. “Of course, there would be the problem of getting a decent place to live.”
Mrs. Harrison did not rise to the bait. “Yes,” she said, “I suppose that would be difficult,” and again lapsed into silence.
Clark looked her over from the corners of his hard eyes: long, slim legs in expensive seamless hose, a tall, thin body, rather bony, a narrow face artfully made up, auburn-dyed hair in the prevailing poodle cut, traveling suit designed by Adrian, and a fortune in jewels on her fingers and both wrists. Perhaps, he thought, she could be useful even now. That Nyland house was probably the real McCoy. And there was no doubt that it represented a very real problem to the plans of its owner as well as Mrs. Harrison. He wondered what it would be like to occupy a place that could rent for eight thousand a summer — if he could swing it.
They turned right through a toll gate at the top of the hill, then wound west and down through heavy stands of tall, thin pines that composed the private area known as Del Monte Forest. Estates began to appear in timber slashes, the gray-blue ocean came into view, then the Pebble Beach Golf Course, and after a few moments they passed through the arch of Del Monte Lodge, with its scattered cottages and new wings and, across the road, the newer additions of offices and shops. Clark nodded with satisfaction at the obvious evidences of wealth and good taste. A half mile farther on they turned left up a small ridge and came to a halt in the half-moon gravel driveway of the Nyland home.
Mrs. Harrison threw a bill to the driver and rushed excitedly into the house, leaving Clark to handle the luggage. He found himself facing an enormous pair of thick oak doors with a smaller entrance door cut into one of them. Clark opened the smaller door and stepped through, not knowing what to expect. He was pleasantly surprised to find himself in a long, glassed-in corridor with a stone floor that at its end turned sharply to the left and continued on to another wing of the building. The plate-glass sides of the corridor looked out upon a lush patio that was closed off by the wall he had seen from the outside. To his right was another long bank of windows looking in to what was obviously the living quarters of the house. Glass French doors were just beyond the main entrance door.
Clark had the driver leave the luggage inside the corridor, waved him away, and stepped through the French door into a living room sixty feet long, thirty wide, and twenty-five feet up to a peaked ceiling held up by massive oak beams. The fireplace was so large that he could almost have stood upright in it. Logs were burning brightly in its black cavern and the room was comfortably warm. The white walls held a fortune in paintings, three costly Oriental rugs were on the red tile floor, all of the lounges and couches were comfortably oversize, and the balance of the furnishings had evidently been acquired from the better European galleries.
He heard faint voices through an open door toward the far end of the room that apparently led into the library and recognized Mrs. Harrison’s raised to an excited level. He was about to move in that direction when he happened to glance at another open doorway just opposite him and saw a young woman standing there regarding him calmly without expression. Her black hair was cut short and she wore a severely plain maid’s uniform, but her dark skin was the color of cream in coffee and the lines of her body under the uniform were rounded, flowing, and graceful.
She asked him, with no inflection whatever in her voice, “Would you care for something to drink, sir?”
He nodded and followed her into a small barroom containing a leather couch and some chairs, small round tables, sporting prints on the walls, and four tall stools before a small bar. Clark found a bottle of ginger ale and poured it into a glass with ice the maid brought. He limited himself strictly to a liquor diet of one Scotch and soda before dinner and one after.
The maid almost but not quite smiled when she saw the ginger ale. She said, “I think the ladies would prefer Martinis, sir. You want me to mix them?”
“No, no,” he snapped. “I’ll do it.”
He found everything he needed, poured two Martinis, placed all the glasses on a silver tray, and started back through the living room feeling like a butler and slightly foolish and irritated. But when he stepped into the library and was introduced to Mrs. Nyland he could hardly keep from bursting into a laugh. She was the last person he would ever have expected to find in such a house. Small and squat, barely five feet tall, she was as round as a barrel, with pudgy hands, tiny but kindly eyes in a moon face, and the genial smile of a German Hausfrau. It was impossible to picture her commanding such an establishment, or being connected with it in any way, except as a scullery maid never allowed out of the kitchen.
She said that she was very glad to know him, hoped he would make himself comfortable, and turned her attention back to Mrs. Harrison. They picked up their conversation where it had been interrupted. Clark wandered around the library, sipping at his drink and taking in the details of his surroundings.
As Clark wandered about, more deeply impressed than he cared to admit to himself, he listened to the conversation of the two women. Mrs. Harrison was exasperated, Mrs. Nyland was wretchedly confused and excited, and the argument was hot and furious. Mrs. Nyland refused to leave the house in the care of maintenance people and turned down every other suggestion Mrs. Harrison offered. Yes, she knew they had to catch a plane out the next day, but something
else had to be done. No, she would not rent the house. There had to be some other solution. But there was, apparently, no solution. The argument continued on.
Clark left them and wandered out to a broad terrace conveniently adjacent to the library, living room, and glass corridor. He looked south over the trees and the yacht pier before the beach club and down the sweeping white length of Carmel Bay. He settled himself in a deck chair, closed his eyes in the sun, and in a minute was asleep.
The maid awakened him at dusk with the information that dinner was served. He rubbed his eyes and went back into the house, where the women were waiting for him. After washing in a powder room off the library, he joined them at a long oak table laden with silverware in a dining room that seemed almost the size of the living room. Another log fire was burning.
It was not until he had finished the soup that Clark noticed the women were no longer arguing. They seemed, in fact, to be well composed. He learned why as the maid brought on the steaks.
Mrs. Nyland asked him pleasantly, “Your business is aviation, Mr. Holt?”
“Yes,” he said. “Different fields.”
“How do you mean?”
“Oh, I speculate in whatever comes along. Mostly surplus and aviation supplies sent to Brazil.”
Mrs. Nyland glanced sharply at Mrs. Harrison, who nodded quickly, then back at Clark. “That sounds interesting. You’re sort of an exporter, then.”
He smiled and said, “In a way, yes. I have a company down in Rio, another in North Africa, in Casablanca, and a branch in Rome.”
She looked puzzled. “And you still have time for charter flying?”
“Oh, that,” he laughed. “That’s just something to keep me busy. You see, I don’t actually have an active interest in any of my enterprises. It’s all handled by others.”
Mrs. Nyland brightened considerably. “Well. I see.” She stabbed at a piece of meat, chewed it greedily for a moment, then said, “Beth was telling me that you might be interested in moving into this area.”
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