Terror's Cradle

by Duncan Kyle

  Terror's Cradle

  Duncan Kyle

  On a routine and, frankly, boring assignment in Las Vegas, British journalist John Sellars finds himself threatened, chased and shot at. The message is clear: he is being run out of town but why?

  CHAPTER ONE

  I like working for the rough ones. Human nature being perverse, that's true of most of us. Give us a considerate, liberal boss and after the first start of surprise, we gradually take ever greater liberties and finally begin to call him an amiable weakling as we linger over idle lunchtime drinks. But show us a real brute, an untrustworthy, ruthless, slavedriver who hounds men to heart attacks and mental collapse, and there's something in us that makes us prance excitedly to every tune he plays. Even his vicious quirks are somehow transmuted into almost affectionate jokes.

  I work for one such, I'm usually glad to say. His name is Alex Scown and he's a bastard of the premier cru. Every-body's agreed on that, but when they talk about him, it's an inadequate description. There's always something else to add. They say, he's a bastard, but . . . but talented, but shrewd, but brilliant. But watch your back. Brooding about Scown, I half-listened to the interrogation of the witness, aware that there would now be no revelations. The big Senate committee room was handsome, woodwork and lawyers were polished, witnesses and atmosphere were sweaty, but the earlier tension had gone. The sharks had escaped the net and were swimming gracefully away to offshore sanctuaries, grinning shark grins and, thinking about their next sharky bites.

  `Did you,' an amplified voice with a strong Southern accent demanded with truculence but no hope, 'transfer those bonds yourself, in a suitcase, from Boston, Massachusetts to Mexico City?'

  I watched idly as the witness thought about it. He thought for perhaps thirty seconds, then leaned away from the microphone and listened to the whispering lawyer beside him. He'd say what they had all said; he'd have to, and the Constitution of the United States had once been amended to ensure that he could say it. He cleared his throat and uttered the standard words. 'I stand on the Fifth Amendment.'

  I nodded to myself and made a note. The trumpets had sounded, the great confrontation had taken place, the inquiry had had the promised vigour but nobody was incriminating anybody. In particular, nobody was incriminating a neat and elegant English gentleman who was in this smelly financial dunghill up to his aromatic armpits. He could retain his places in the City and Parliament and sue anybody who even dared to hint that his standards were less than knightly. Nor was he the only one. Discreet sighs of relief were audible from just outside territorial waters on both sides of the Atlantic. I'd phoned London the night before to tell Scown all was virtually over. He'd been disappointed. He'd hoped for blood, thought he actually sniffed it, had planned gleefully to help place the elegant English gentleman in a specimen jar labelled 'crooked politician'

  and display it for ten million readers to examine, thereby laying one more banana skin on the Government's already perilous path. But now Scown's intended victim was clear and clean. The air around him would smell once more of sweet violets, or more likely Brut. I'

  d told Scown it was a waste of time for me now to hang on in Washington, and that the Congressional inquiry wore a hopeless look. Did Scown want me back in London?

  He'd said, 'Hang on another day or so, John. See what happens.'

  Well, nothing had happened. I closed my notebook, nodded to my fellow observers and began to thread my way through the yawners at the back of the committee room, already thinking about afternoon flights from Dulles International and the two weeks' holiday that kept on vanishing. Scown didn't believe in holidays. If Scown didn't take holidays, and he didn't, why should anybody else take them? He'd already done me twice, first with the Moscow trip, then with this sortie to Washington. I grinned to myself. If they'd both been glittering Scown-type triumphs, I'd never have

  seen water or sand again, except from thirty-thousand feet. But Scown in defeat has never placed a reassuring arm around the dejected soldier; he looks pbintedly in another direction until the next little victory comes along. In London tomorrow I would say, 'I'm off for a few days,' and he'd say, 'Thats a bloody good idea. Try Ireland. Full of donkeys. You'll feel at home.'

  I'd already checked out of my hotel, so I collected my bag and briefcase from the correspondents' room and took a cab to the Washington Press Club. Before the flight there was time for lunch and before lunch for a couple of valedictory Martinis. I cabled London with the glad news of my impending return, then went to visit Harry. He's the barman, and Harry's loving care and legerdemain arouse the same appetite for the Martini as the Martini itself is supposed to awaken for food. I watched him fondly and sipped his product with proper appreciation; also with a kind of sadness because the fine American Martini is like the fine Italian olive: it's never quite the same anywhere else and this would be the last for a while.

  The club's an amiable and welcoming place and I've been around long enough to know people in most Press Clubs, so lunch was pleasant, gossipy and rather long and would have been still longer if flight time hadn't been ticking threateningly nearer. So finally I detached myself and left for Dulles Airport with that sorry-to-be-leaving-yet-glad-to-begoing-home feeling I always seem to get. Alsa says it's charming sentimentality when it'

  s not maudlin insobriety, but then Alsa is a clear-eyed lady for whom one drink is refreshing, pleasurable — and enough. At Dulles International voices of velvet-filled the place with my name. Would John Sellers, passenger for London, please report at the double to the British Airways desk where, though they didn't actually say so over the Tannoy, bad news awaited. One just knows these things. I shouldn't have cabled London, that's what I shouldn't have done. The girl smiled as she handed me the cable: FLY VEGAS RHODES EXCLUSIVE

  BOUGHT STOP REGISTERED

  DIME PALACE SCOWN.

  I sighed, told the girl I would not, after all, be a passenger to London and humped my bag over to the news stand in search of the key to Scown's cryptogram. They sold me the early afternoon edition and it was all on page one, brightly displayed. Superstars sell newspapers. The story said that one Susannah Rhodes, film actress, was in a state of some embarrassment and the state of Nevada., A corpse had been discovered in her hotel bathroom. The message was perfectly clear. Scown, bless his border-reiving ancestors, knew I hated doing showbusiness stories. I could almost hear the underlying pleasure in his subdued snarl as he dictated the cable. No story, Sellers? I'll send you on a bloody story. Also there was the implicit heavy sarcasm of the words EXCLUSIVE BOUGHT. In Scownese they meant: even you can't foul this up.

  So not many hours later I was standing a few thousand miles away at the bar of the Flamingo, Las Vegas, waiting for the film company PR man, with my sweat drying too quickly in the air conditioning. Washington had been crackling cold; Las Vegas was going through one of its occasional winter heat waves, with temperatures around ninety. I'd been waiting an hour, but at least I was reasonably sure he'd be along. Strings must certainly have been pulled. Scown sat on the board of a TV company which had diversified into films and was the principal backer of the Rhodes vehicle, so I had my little edge on the army of assembled press and television boys who'd been there hours before me. From the bar I could see most of the gaming room, with its careful lighting, low enough to flatter the women and strong enough to let the staff keep its wary eyes on everything and everybody. Sweet Muzak was playing: heavily orchestrated and optimistic strings to keep the mind off the losings, yet loud enough to overlay the endless cranking of handles and whirring mechanical money swallowers.

  The man didn't stop as he threaded his way across the gaming room. He was big and slim, wearing casual clothes so immaculately new and pressed they'd have made a marine

&nb
sp; warrant officer look wrinkled. He also wore, on what I could see of his face, the kind of set, non-committal, negative expression you see on mildly-hostile bank managers. His eyes were hidden behind big square sunglasses with mirror lenses and all I could see in them was a couple of reflections of myself.

  He glanced along the bar and came straight over. 'You Sellers?'

  `Yes.'

  `Dave Spinetti.' He didn't offer to shake hands.

  `Drink?'

  `Coke.'

  I ordered. Drinks are easier to order and delivered faster in Las Vegas than anywhere else on earth.

  He beat about no bushes. 'How much you paying?'

  I shook my head. 'Fixed in London. My paper and her agent. All agreed. I'm just here to talk to her.'

  The corners of his mouth turned down. 'You and a million more.'

  I said, 'But.'

  `Yeah, I know.' He didn't like it. This time his palm wasn't to be crossed with gold. The deal had been done. There were no big percentages to be played. Perhaps he'd find a few scrapings, but they'd be small.

  I said, 'Tell me about it.'

  `You've seen the afternoon papers?'

  I nodded. 'Very bald. Very careful. Very uninformative. What happened?'

  He took a pull at his Coke, almost as though it were whisky. No thirst there — just the need for a crutch. 'When she woke up there was this dead guy in her bathroom. That's all there is.'

  I said, 'With a bullet through his head and she didn't hear the shot.'

  He nodded grimly. 'Right.'

  Ànd she didn't know him?'

  `Yeah. She didn't know him.'

  `There can't be many like that.'

  `Like what?'

  `Men she didn't know. Four hundred million Chinese, perhaps. A few Russians and Albanians.'

  `Cut that out!'

  `Who was he?'

  Spinetti shrugged. 'Who knows? His name was Bruzzi.' `Where from?'

  `Vegas.'

  Ànd the gentleman's occupation?'

  `Bartender.'

  The picture wasn't even remotely fuzzy. I said, 'She was high. Drugs or alcohol?'

  He shrugged again. Smooth creases slid about the beautiful knitwear jacket as his shoulders moved. 'You won't print it.'

  Preserve the public's illusions. Miss Rhodes, tired -and sleeping soundly, didn't hear .. . I said, 'The only question is, who actually shot him?' Spinetti grimaced. 'That's what the sheriff's office is asking.'

  `Romantic quarrel over beauteous actress,'. I said. 'Crime passionel. Between a bartender and a gunman. And ten feet away, on the other side of a plasterboard wall, she's overtired as a newt and hears nothing.'

  `You've got the picture.' His voice was suddenly a little weary.

  `You've had a hard day,' I said. 'Relax. Have a real drink.' `Just Coke.' Confirmation: reformed alcoholic and it still hurt.

  `Has she talked to the sheriff's office?'

  `Not yet.'

  I said, 'But you moved quickly.'

  `Sure I moved fast. She was in a state of collapse. The doctor wouldn't –'

  `That would be `the film unit doctor?'

  `Yeah.'

  Ànd how long does the tame doctor say it will be?'

  "Coupla days.'

  Èxcellent,' I said.

  Èxcellent it's not, bud.'

  I said, 'All publicity's good publicity. Remember Cleopatra. Don't worry about it. Meanwhile she's where?'

  `Staying with friends.'

  `Well, she always had plenty of those. New friends wherever she goes. Some nicer than others, but not much. Do I see her tonight?'

  Spinetti shook his head. 'Tomorrow.'

  Ìn Las Vegas?'

  `No. Not in Nevada'

  Àrizona or California?'

  He'd had enough. 'I'll call you tomorrow. Early. Where are you staying?'

  `The Dime Palace.'

  Above the mirror lenses his eyebrows lifted. 'A motel?' I said, 'Pounds convert into dollars in a most unfavourable way. Legacy of war, and things.'

  `Yeah. Call you tomorrow.' He turned and walked away. He was stuck with the mucky end of this stick, and I didn't feel sorry for him.

  The Dime Palace wasn't quite as cheap and nasty as it sounds. Las Vegas, and the people who run it, take a simple attitude to visitors : they encourage them, tempt and flatter them, house them comfortably, feed them well and cheaply — and concentrate on removing their money at the gaming tables. So the Dime Palace was a twenty-dollar motel and charged ten. Included in the ten was a free drink and a free meal and the pool and the rest, plus a colour TV set in the room and free local phone calls. I've stayed in places, in Paris and Stockholm for instance, and in Russia, that gave a quarter the value and charged four times as much.

  I was back there, about half-past ten, taking off my tie and adjusting the air-conditioning, when the phone rang. I stared at the instrument for a puzzled moment, wondering who the hell was ringing me. Then I picked it up.

  `John Sellers?'

  `Speaking.'

  `Message for you, bud. Leave Vegas. Don't come back.' `Who — ?'

  `You hear what I said?'

  Ì heard. You've got a wrong number, I think' `Just go, Sellers. Go now.'

  Then he hung up. After a stupefied moment I realized I was still holding the phone, so I replaced it and lay back on the bed, thinking. Very few people knew I was in Las Vegas: Alex Scown was one, and not only had he sent me in the first place, he'd go off like fulminate if I left without the interview with Susannah. Then there was Spinetti, to whom I'd given my number of long before. But the caller hadn't been Spinetti. Some friend of Spinetti's? I grinned suddenly, imagining the conversation, the delicate little plot. Get Sellers out and you get the London Daily News out, too. Once they're out, the story's yours for two thousand bucks. Hell, Charlie, you can even pretend to be Sellers. Fifteen hundred. Two thousand I said, Charlie, and that's cheap. Okay? Okay. I switched on the TV set to look for a newscast, and when I found it, Scown's editorial judgment was neatly confirmed. I had to wait for item nine, newscaster's head and shoulders only, for the senate inquiry. But item one had been Susannah. They'd had the county sheriff, niggled that he hadn't seen Miss Rhodes, but By God he would, yessir, '

  cause when it came to justice in this here county, movie stars weren't no different to nobody else, and she'd better show for the coroner, collapse or no collapse.' Patently neither the sheriff nor anyone else had the faintest idea where she was. I picked up the phone, dialled Western Union and dictated a cable to London to let Scown know that things were set for morning then opened my bag to get out pyjamas and shaving case. No shaving case. A thing isn't lost when you know where it is and I knew exactly where the shaving case was. It was in the bathroom of my Washington hotel room. I swore. There'd be no cleaning of teeth tonight; no morning shave; and worse, my new electric razor was' in the damned thing, the one Alsa had given me to replace the one I had left in Russia.

  Ì want a call to Washington,' I said into the phone, 'The Drake Hotel.' You can do things like that in America. In Britain you spend half an hour waiting for Inquiries to answer because you have to have the number. Anyway, they told me the razor had been found and they'd send it on to London. Nice of them. Our pleasure, sir, and there was a call for you after you checked out.

  ' I listened as he told me the call had come in from Gothenburg, Sweden, at 3 p.m. Washington time. From a Miss Alison Hay. They'd told her I'd gone, but she'd left a message just in case. Would I call her back and the matter was urgent. He gave me the number she'd left.

  I hung up and looked at my watch. It would now be four in the morning in Gothenburg, I calculated, and urgent or not, a barbaric hour to telephone her. As it happened, I got the arithmetic wrong; by that time it was seven o'clock in the Swedish morning. Not that it would have made any difference .. .

  CHAPTER TWO

  When Spinetti telephoned I was still asleep. I came to reluctantly and stretched out a dopey arm to pick up the receiver. He said
, 'Be out front in ten minutes.

  `Where is she?' The dopeyness slid away.

  We talk outside.'

  `Hold on a sec.' I picked up my watch and scowled at it. Half-past six. Then I said, 'Food. Breakfast. Don't I get any?'

  `Thought you were on a story.'

  Some people have that idea. Reporters need neither food nor drink. All news editors believe it, in the same way they

  believe there's a telephone under every blade of grass. I said, "Twenty minutes,' hung up and crawled out of bed and under the shower.

  I dressed quickly, grabbed my cassette recorder and notebook and hurried through to the snack counter in the fruit machine hall, drank a glass of orange juice, took two bites of a ham sandwich and a mouthful of coffee and hurried outside. Spinetti had changed his clothes but the expression was limited as before. He was sitting inside a big white Oldsmobile and I watched myself hurry towards him in the twin mirrors of his sunglasses.

  `Seventeen minutes,' I said. Not bad.'

  `C'mon, huh?'

  I climbed in beside him. 'What's the hurry?'

  `Long ways to go,' he said. The engine was running and he was already easing the Olds into the traffic on the Strip as I was closing the car door. Àrizona or California?' I was chewing the remaining mouthful of sandwich.

  `You handle a boat?'

  I frowned. 'What kind of boat?'

  `Power boat.'

  `Suppose so.' I'd mucked about the Solent and the Black-water occasionally with waterstruck friends.

  `Like driving a car.'

  Ìn that case I can handle a boat. But why?'

  He didn't answer, concentrating on swinging the car through the early traffic. The road we took had three numbers, so presumably others branched off it. A sign pointed to Henderson, Boulder City and Kingman.

  `The boat,' I reminded him gently. 'Why the boat?' 'Susannah's on the water. Hiding out on a cruiser. You rendezvous for the interview.'

  I nodded, sat back, lit a cigarette, and watched the desert roll by. It's not a sand desert, just greyish stone and shale and mountains in the distance; the oases have petrol pumps, not palm trees,