by Stuart Woods
Wheeler wrote down the number, thanked the woman and called the FAA. He was connected to registrations, gave them the number, and asked to whom it was registered.
After a short delay, the clerk came back onto the line. "We show that aircraft as not a Cessna twin, but a Beech Bonanza, which is a single, and it's registered to a corporation with an address in Santa Fe, New Mexico." She gave him the name and address.
Sheriff Ferris walked into the station and stopped at Wheeler's desk. "What are you up to?" he asked. "Shouldn't you be patrolling the north sector?"
"Norm, I got to thinking about Martindale, and how Mrs. Kinsolving said he could easily get out of the Bel-Air Hotel, so I called all the charter services at Santa Monica and Burbank airports to see if anybody had run a flight up here last night."
"And?"
"And everybody denied such a flight, but I got the impression that one guy wasn't being truthful with me. I figure it's possible that Martindale hired the guy, then paid him extra not to talk to anybody."
"That's hard to prove."
"Then I talked to the tower and found out that only one airplane took off from there last night without filing a flight plan, a twin-engine Cessna, and the registration number for that airplane turns out to be a Beech single, from New Mexico. The airplane took off early in the evening and returned after midnight."
"So what's your conclusion?"
"Well, my hypothesis is that Martindale hired this guy Barnum to fly him up here and back, and the guy gave the tower a false tail number when he took off and landed. And from the time he took off until about forty minutes after he landed, nobody saw Martindale at the Bel-Air Hotel."
"I suppose he could have landed at Napa County, but then he'd have to have a car to get to the Kinsolving property; it would be a good eight miles."
"I've got an idea about that, too," Wheeler said. "The Milburn Winery has a private strip, and that property borders the Kinsolving place. I bet the strip is less than half a mile from Kinsolving's house. I called the Milburn office, but nobody lives on the place, and the night watchman doesn't remember a plane landing. He could have been on the other side of the property."
"But Barnum denies flying up here last night?"
"That's right, but he sounded funny to me."
"Okay," the sheriff said, "let's see what you got: You got a suspect says he was in his hotel room, but he had opportunity to get out unseen and charter an airplane. You got an airplane that takes off from Santa Monica, but gives the wrong tail number to the tower; then it returns later, and the roundtrip flying time makes sense. And you got a suspected pilot who denies everything. It's all circumstantial, and you haven't got a single witness to support your theory, right?"
"Right, but I'd like an opportunity to crack the pilot."
"What do you want to do?"
"I want to fly down there in the county airplane and talk to the guy face to face."
The sheriff looked at his watch. "All right, if the county manager will approve it, and nobody else is using the airplane, and the pilot's available to go. Don't stay overnight, come right back; I'm not signing any expense reports."
"That's just what I'll do," Wheeler replied. He picked up the phone and called the county manager's office.
CHAPTER 55
Sandy walked Sam Warren and his wife to their rental car. After taking the morning easy he was feeling much better.
"Sandy, you don't have to see us off," Warren protested as they walked down the front steps of the house. "You ought to be in bed."
"Really, Sam, I feel quite well now; I wish you could stay for lunch, so we could talk more."
"I really do have to get back to New York. You're not my only client, you know."
"I know, but you always make me feel that I am."
The two men shook hands, and Warren drove away. Sandy walked slowly back into the house and met Cara, who was coming down the stairs
"I woke up, and there was nobody in bed with me," she pouted. "You shouldn't be up."
"I feel fine now," he said. "Except that I'm very angry."
"You have every right to be," she said. "He's violated our home, tried to harm us both. And I think he's too smart for the police, at least for the Napa County sheriff's department. I mean, the sheriff is a sort of bumpkin, and that deputy who's supposed to be investigating can't be more than twenty-five."
"You realize what Peter was trying to do, don't you?"
"Frighten us, I expect."
"No, he was trying to kill you, then blame it on me."
Cara paled slightly.
"That would be his idea of the perfect revenge, wouldn't it?"
"I'm afraid it would," she said.
"You know him; do you think he'd try again?"
"It wouldn't surprise me; I told you he was obsessive, and I don't think he could let this go, particularly after we humiliated him publicly. Maybe the suit was a mistake."
"Not as far as I'm concerned," Sandy said. "I hope you're wrong about the police."
"It's not the police that make me think he won't get caught. Peter is extremely clever; he wouldn't have done what he did unless he was convinced he would get away with it. It's not like Peter to put himself at risk."
"You said it was unlike him to provoke a physical confrontation, too," Sandy said, "but that's exactly what he did last night."
Cara shook her head. "He thought he had an advantage; he thought he could disable you in the dark, then have me all to himself. I told you he had no compunctions about attacking a woman. His plan went wrong, but only because he failed to hit you hard enough, and I was lucky enough to get my arm inside his noose."
"I see your point," Sandy said. "So you think he's still afraid of confrontation?"
"I know he is," she replied.
"Then," said Sandy, "I think the thing to do is to confront him."
Cara looked at him narrowly. "Sandy, what are you thinking of doing?"
"I'm thinking of confronting him."
She came to him and put her arms around his waist. "Listen to me, my darling," she said. "If you kill Peter, you'll simply put yourself in still more jeopardy. I mean, Peter is a problem, sure, but if you become a murderer you'll have to deal with the police, and that could be infinitely more difficult than dealing with Peter."
"I don't think I have to kill him," Sandy said. "I think, if he's the coward you believe him to be, it will be enough for me to make him believe that I'll kill him, that he's made me desperate enough to do that."
"I don't like this," Cara said.
"Neither do I," Sandy replied, "but I don't know what else to do." He went to the phone, got the number of the gallery from the operator and dialed the number.
"Hello?" Peter Martindale's voice said.
Sandy took a deep breath. "This is Bart." he said. "We have to meet."
There was a long silence, then Martindale spoke. "Where?" he asked.
"At the same place we met the first time out here. Take the four o'clock boat."
"All right," Martindale replied.
Sandy hung up and turned to Cara. "I have to go to San Francisco," he said.
"I'm coming with you."
"No, it's better if you aren't involved."
"But I am involved, right up to my ears."
"I'm going to take your car."
"Sandy, I'm coming with you."
Sandy shook his head and got her car keys from the hall table.
"Sandy-"
"No, my darling," he replied. He kissed her, then got a raincoat from the hall closet. "The forecast is for cool in the city today," he said, then left the house. He walked to the car, then stopped. He was unarmed. He walked around the house and, peeking through a window to see that Cara was not in the kitchen, he entered through the back door. Half a dozen knife handles protruded from a wooden block on a counter. He chose a slim, sharp boning knife, wrapped the blade in some paper towels, put the knife in his raincoat pocket, and returned to the car.
CHAPTER 56
Tony Wheeler sat in the copilot's seat of the old Beech Baron, relishing the flight to Santa Monica. He had eleven hours of dual instruction under his belt, and his instructor, Bert Corley, was his pilot today.
"How long do you reckon, Bert?" Tony asked as they leveled off at their cruising altitude.
"Couple hours," Bert replied. "You want to fly her for a while? It's not all that different from the trainer you've been flying, just heavier."
"Thanks, but I have to think about what I'm going to ask this guy," he said.
"What is it you want to know from him?"
"Well, I think he flew a guy up here last night and gave the Santa Monica tower a wrong tail number to keep anybody from finding out. He didn't file a flight plan, either."
Bert nodded. "That would be easy enough to do," he said. "How you going to get him to admit it?"
"I don't know," Tony admitted.
They landed at Santa Monica on schedule and pulled off the runway and into Cloverfield Aviation. Bert cut the engines. "You know where this guy's place is?"
"Nope."
They got out of the airplane, and Bert flagged down the fuel truck and had a word with him. He thanked the man and came back to where Tony waited. "Down this way a couple hundred yards," he said, pointing. "Let's just walk down the taxiway."
"Okay."
A short time later they were approaching the tin shed that housed Barnum Flying Service. An airplane's nose poked out from the hangar.
"He's got a Baron," Bert said, "like ours, only newer." He pointed at the airplane in the hangar next to the office.
Tony nodded. "I'll go on in and talk to him."
"I'll hang around out here," Bert said. "I want to have a look at his airplane."
Tony opened the door and walked in. There was a tiny reception area, with a couple of seedy armchairs and a lot of posters having to do with flying; there was a door with Shorty Barnum's name on it, and Tony opened that. Barnum, who had been dozing with ' his feet on the desk, started.
"Oops," he said. "Caught me catching forty winks. What can I…" Then he saw Tony's badge, and he didn't seem happy about it.
"My name's Tony Wheeler," the deputy said. "From the Napa sheriff's office; we spoke this morning."
"Yeah? Well, what brings you down here, deputy?" Barnum took his feet off the desk, but he didn't offer Tony a chair.
Tony took one anyway. He wanted to begin in a way that would put Barnum at a disadvantage right away, but he was more nervous than he had planned. "You told me this morning that you didn't make a flight to Napa last night, didn't you?"
"That's what I told you," Barnum said, then he looked at the door.
Tony followed his gaze and found Bert standing there.
"Can I see you a minute?" Bert asked.
"Sure." Tony stepped into the little reception area and closed the door behind him. "What's up?"
"I had a look in the airplane," Bert said. "His logbook shows no flight last night, but his Hobbs meter-the little dial that records engine times-shows four point two hours more than his logbook total shows."
"Thank you, Bert," Tony said. He opened the office door and returned to his chair.
Shorty Barnum was looking at him with concern. "What's going on?" he asked.
"I thought I'd let you tell me," Tony replied. "Listen, Shorty, it makes a difference if you didn't know what the guy was going to do."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Shorty said.
"All right, I'll spell it out for you," Tony replied. "Last night, 'round eight, eight-thirty, you took off from Santa Monica VFR, after telling the tower you were a twin Cessna and giving them a wrong tail number. Then you flew up to Napa County and landed at the Wilburn Winery's private strip, and after a while, you flew back to Santa Monica and gave them the wrong tail number again."
Shorty shook his head. "You're full of shit, fella."
"Shorty, as far as I'm concerned, you haven't committed a crime, yet, unless using a wrong tail number is a crime. But if you lie to me, it's a whole new ball game. You can tell me what happened, and I won't have any reason to arrest you, unless you helped the guy do it."
"What'd he do?" Shorty asked, looking worried. "I mean, what did this alleged guy do after I allegedly flew him up there?"
"He tried to murder somebody, but it didn't work."
Shorty shook his head again. "Look, I know you got your job to do, but I can't help you, pal."
"Shorty, let's have a look at your logbook," Tony said.
"What for? It won't show any flight last night. I didn't go anywhere."
"Then why does your Hobbs meter show a flight of four-point-two hours?"
Shorty was suddenly at a loss for words.
"Come on, Shorty, was the guy a friend of yours? I mean, he couldn't have paid you enough for you to risk becoming an accessory to aggravated battery and attempted murder."
Shorty's shoulders sagged. "You're right," he said. "He didn't pay me enough for that."
"How much did he pay you?"
"Five thousand. I was in a hole, and I needed to get out."
Tony raised a placating hand. "I understand, and I'm not looking to break your back. I just want to know about the guy. Did you know him?"
Shorty shook his head. "Never saw him before; said his name was Prendergast, but I didn't really believe him."
"Why not?"
"Well, a guy comes around with a lot of cash, says he wants to make a very confidential flight, and he's wearing what looks to me like a false beard and a wig."
"No kidding?" Tony was excited now.
"Looked phony to me."
"Describe the guy as best you can."
"He was a lot taller than me-I'm not called Shorty for nothing-six-two, six-three, on the skinny side, I think. He was wearing a black raincoat and a floppy hat. And black gloves."
Tony was writing fast in his notebook. "What kind of nose?"
"Uh, straight and kinda long."
"You notice the color of his eyebrows?"
"Dark, I think; not all that different from the color of the wig."
"Any kind of accent?"
"Funny you should mention it; he didn't sound quite American-maybe Canadian, English. His phraseology was a little on the English side, you know?"
"What did he do after you landed at the Wilburn strip?"
"He took off into the woods with a flashlight."
"In which direction?"
"Let's see, the strip ran northeast-southwest, so it would have been to the north."
"How long was he gone?"
"I'm not too sure about that; I dozed off for a while."
"How did he behave when he came back?"
"I can't help you there; he got into the backseat, sat right behind me, facing aft. He did want to get out of there in a hurry, though, and after we took off, I saw a police car or an ambulance headed in the direction he'd come from."
"That was probably me," Tony said. "I caught the call. Did he say anything after you landed?"
"He was out of the airplane before I had time to cut the engines, drove off."
"Did you see the car?"
"Yeah, but only from a distance going away. I don't know what it was, sort of mid-sized, maybe."
"You hear from him again?"
"Nope, and I don't think I will."
Tony stood up. "If you do, don't tell him we talked, okay?"
"Okay. Am I going to have to testify or anything?"
"Probably. I'm going to have to talk to the sheriff about arranging some sort of lineup, so you may have to come to Napa. We'll pay your expenses, though."
Shorty shrugged. "It's not like I'm all that busy," he said. "You think you could recognize him if you saw him again?"
"Beats me. I mean, he was wearing the beard and all."
"You'll be hearing from me," Tony said, laying a card on the desk. "Call me if you hear from the guy again."
CHAPTER 57
Tony Wheeler an
d Sheriff Ferris sat in the district attorney's office, and the D.A. listened patiently while Tony told of his interrogation of Shorty Barnum.
"So," Tony said, "to sum up, we've got the LAPD's report that Martindale could have left his room unseen any time after seven-thirty and returned any time before twelve-fifty a.m.; Barnum's description of the man he flew up here matches Martindale, right down to the accent; Barnum saw him go off into the woods less than half a mile from Kinsolving's house; Mrs. Kinsolving said the man smelled like her ex-husband but had a beard, which tallies with Barnum's description of his passenger; and finally, Martindale has an excellent motive-he had just been forced by Kinsolving to admit that he'd sold a fake painting and to pay eighty-five thousand dollars in restitution. Add to that, Mr. and Mrs. Kinsolving both threw drinks at him at a party in San Francisco, in front of everybody that Martindale does business with." Tony sat back, looked at the sheriff for support and waited.
"What do you think, Dan?" the sheriff asked.
"I like the motive," the D.A. said. "You forgot to mention that Kinsolving had just married Martindale's ex-wife; that makes it an extra-good motive."
"Good," the sheriff said.
"We've got opportunity, too," the D.A. said, "but there we run into trouble. What we'd be telling a jury is that Martindale could have sneaked out of his hotel room, could have chartered an airplane for cash, and could have run through the woods, hit Kinsolving over the head and tried to strangle his wife. I mean, it's opportunity, but it wouldn't take much of a defense attorney to point out that there's lots of room for reasonable doubt."
"What I want to do is to bring Barnum and Martindale up here and run Martindale through a lineup," Tony said. "If Barnum picks him, we're home free, aren't we?"
"Yeah, but what if he doesn't pick him, deputy?" the D.A. said. "Then, no matter what other evidence we were able to develop over time, the defense would always have the fact that Barnum couldn't identify the man. And it sounds like to me that the guy was just well enough disguised that Barnum couldn't nail him in a lineup of similar-sized men."
"How about his voice?"
