by Josh Lanyon
Chapter Five
Pearl scrambled out of her cab before it stopped. She darted across the shining wet sidewalk, past the sculptured-fish fountains, spumes of white shooting into the dusk, and disappeared through the side entrance of Union Station. Nathan swore, finally found a parking slot and turned the engine off. He jumped out of the car and loped across the wet and oily lot, following Pearl as he’d been following her since the moment she sneaked out of Sid Szabo’s apartment building and into a waiting taxi.
Inside Union Station was a madhouse. Porters hustled, families greeted and friends good-byed, the sheer volume of sound rising from the marble floors and Spanish tiles, soaring up and disappearing into the cathedral-high ceiling and the gigantic iron chandeliers. Nathan scanned the milling crowd for Pearl’s hat—a silly little fur doughnut balancing on Pearl’s silly little platinum head. But there was no sign of either the hat or Pearl as he avoided small children, animal carriers and stacks of luggage, pushing his way through the mob of holiday travelers and GIs.
In answer to his urgent question, the gateman jerked his thumb toward the wide entrance leading to the tracks.
There was only one train at the platform, and it was starting to move.
Nathan ran, swinging himself up the steps as the train began to pick up speed. It took him a moment to catch his breath. He mopped his face on his rain-damp coat and then set out to find Pearl in the crowded coaches.
He strode through four coaches filled with merry travelers—but no Pearl. He pushed open the door to the dining car. That was packed too, and he almost missed her, wedged in between a steamy window and a fat lady in a bright blue coat. Pearl was mostly hidden behind an open menu, but he spied the fur doughnut dipping drunkenly over the menu.
A steward came forward and Nathan let himself be led to a table, politely insisting on one with a good view of his quarry.
If he’d suspected Pearl knew she was being followed, he was soon reassured. She scanned the menu leisurely, put it down and smiled discouragingly at the friendly overtures of the fat lady.
All at once Nathan was very tired. His side was hurting from his sprint to catch the train. He picked up a menu, glanced it over. He wasn’t hungry—he was rarely hungry these days, but he had to keep his energy level up. He watched Pearl over the top of his menu.
She stared determinedly out the window at the sky turning indigo, and the fat lady eventually gave up and devoted her earnest attention to a fashion magazine no doubt full of clothes she would never be able to wear.
The steward came and Nathan ordered a sandwich and a glass of milk. He ate with half an eye on Pearl and half an eye on the rest of the passengers. The sky changed from indigo to purple, Pearl finished her meal and squeezed—with great difficulty—around the cooperative but ungainly lady in blue.
Doyle drained his milk glass, waited a few moments and followed her out to the last car. It was a smoker car, about half-full with passengers. He took the seat across from her, lit up and stared out the window. Pearl’s reflection took out a little jeweled cigarette case, selected a cigarette and tapped it on the case. Her gaze fell on Doyle.
He glanced over as though only noticing her. “May I?” he said, pulling his lighter out.
She nodded, leaning toward him, watching him from beneath the foolish hat.
“Thanks.”
He nodded politely, snapped his lighter closed and returned to watching her in the darkened window. She studied him appraisingly.
“Say,” she said. “Have we met?”
Doyle turned back to her. Cocked his head. “I’m not sure.” He offered her his best smile. She smiled back. They always did. He looked unthreatening, like—he had been told by a slightly inebriated starlet—a gentleman.
The conductor was working his way slowly down the aisle, asking for tickets. A gabby old guy stopping to shoot the breeze with just about every passenger.
“I’m sure I’ve seen you around. You live in Los Angeles?” She pronounced it “Los Angle-less.”
“That’s right.” He expelled a stream of smoke as she worked it out.
“You ever come around to the Las Palmas Club?”
He widened his eyes. “Hey. You’re her! The songbird.”
She laughed, delighted. Preened a little.
“Nice job you do on that ‘I’m Getting Sentimental Over You’ number,” Nathan told her and listened to her warble on about the rest of her repertoire—and then who she was going to be auditioning for next summer. He let her run ’til she was out of steam, and then he said, “I was at the club on Saturday night. The night the Arlen kid was nabbed.”
Her smile slipped. She stared down at her cigarette. “Oh.”
“Shame about that.”
“Yes.”
“So where are you headed?”
She relaxed. “Little Fawn Lodge. Not far from Indian Falls.”
He had a vague idea Indian Falls was located somewhere in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. He mimed surprise, and it wasn’t hard. “There’s a coincidence. That’s where I’m headed.”
“You’re kidding!” There was something funny in her face. “But…the ski resorts are all pretty much closed since the war.”
“Well, you see,” Nathan confided, “I’m not a skier, I’m a writer.”
“A writer,” Pearl repeated slowly. She was watching him with narrow eyes. “What kind of writer?”
“Screenwriter. For the pictures.” He figured that would impress her, but she remained wary. He’d misstepped, miscalculated either her paranoia or his own recognizability.
“You’re kidding.”
He shook his head. “I needed to get out of town. Needed some peace and quiet so I could work. Thought of the lodge.”
“You’ll get plenty of that.” She gave him that same discouraging smile she’d given the fat lady. “Well, it’s been swell shootin’ the breeze.” She jabbed her cigarette out, nodded to Nathan, rose and started down the aisle.
“See you around,” Doyle said to her back. She didn’t respond.
Damn.
“Tickets please,” said the conductor, reaching Nathan at last.
“I’ll need to buy one from you,” Nathan said, pulling out his wallet. “I’m going to Little Fawn Lodge.”
The conductor drew the ticket pad from his pocket. “Didn’t think it was open. Most of the resorts are closed now. Hope you made reservations. It’s not weather to be sleeping out in.” He disconnected a strip from the ticket pad, punched it and handed it to Nathan. “Train stops at Indian Falls. You’ll have to hire a car.”
“That’s all right,” Nathan said, hoping it was. He didn’t kid himself he was up to spending the night in freezing temperatures. He paid for the ticket, considering his finances. He hadn’t started the day planning on a ski resort holiday.
The train continued on its way through the deepening darkness. He stared out the window. The black-plum sky had a luminous quality that made the trees and mountains stand out in stark relief.
The wheels of the train clackety-clacked along the rails in soothing monotony. Every so often the whistle blew, sounding through the night, echoing through the pines and slopes.
Now what? He’d found Pearl Jarvis—and the fact that she was trying so hard to avoid being found surely meant she knew something worth knowing—something that might help his own position.
He wondered if Lieutenant Spain would think he was trying to skip town.
“But you’ve got your man,” Tara protested. “You found the murder weapon in Carl Winters’ bookstore. Why haven’t you arrested him? Why are you asking so many questions about Nathan?”
Matt shrugged. “You sweet on Doyle?”
“Sweet on him?” Tara flushed and then laughed. “We’re just pals.” She cast Matt a shrewd look. “Would you care if I was?”
“Marriage could do Doyle a world of good.”
“What would it do for me?”
Matt grinned at her expression. “Might do you a world of g
ood too, Tara. Take the edges off you.”
“The edges!” She tossed her glossy black curls. “Thanks very much.” She contemplated Matt. “You ever going to remarry, Mathew?”
He shook his head regretfully.
She sighed. “I could have gone for Nathan, but he’s…”
“He’s…?”
“I don’t know. Destined for the priesthood or something, I guess.” She grinned. “Now I’ve shocked you, a big tough policeman like you, Lieutenant Spain.” She played with her chopsticks. They were having lunch at the Hong Kong Café. “So what did you want to know about Doyle?”
“You said you didn’t know him before he went overseas?”
She shook her head. “He didn’t work here. He moved to San Francisco right out of college. That’s what I heard.”
“How’s he get along with the other newshounds?”
“He keeps pretty much to himself.” She met Matt’s gaze. “He’s liked. He’s good.” She grimaced. “He’s bored.”
“Wants to be back on the front lines?”
She nodded, took out a cigarette. Matt leaned forward to light it. Looking into her dark eyes, he saw instead a pair of light ones, blue-gray eyes with gold-tipped lashes—direct and yet somehow a little shy.
“Why haven’t you arrested Carl Winters?” Tara asked. “Off the record.”
“Off the record?” He raised skeptical brows, but when she nodded, he said, “That gun came from Benedict Arlen’s antique gun collection. The way we figure it, any one of a number of people had access to it.”
“Including Phil Arlen?”
She was a smart cookie; he’d always thought so. He could see that sharp brain of hers ticking over. “That’s right. And all but one of those same people had opportunity to stash the gat at Winters’ bookstore.”
“Let me ask you something,” she said.
Matt nodded.
“Is Nathan a suspect?”
“He was with Arlen the night he was kidnapped. What kind of a cop would I be if I didn’t include him in my list of suspects?”
“Very diplomatic,” she said dryly. She sipped some tea from a little porcelain cup. “Nathan wouldn’t have access to Benedict Arlen’s gun collection.” She followed her own line of reasoning. “But he could have got the gun from the Arlen kid, assuming the Arlen kid was carrying it that night, and that Mrs. Arlen hadn’t swiped it to shoot him with it.”
“It’s a possibility.”
“Which is? Nathan grabbing the gun from Phil Arlen or Claire Arlen plugging her no-good wastrel husband?”
“Take your choice.”
“Well,” she said shortly, “I choose not to think Nathan’s a murderer.”
She was definitely sweet on Doyle.
She said, “Anyway, why would Phil Arlen have taken the gun? I don’t think he planned on committing suicide.”
“Well, for one thing, it’s a very rare piece. Worth a lot of money. There were only two hundred of those Derringer Riders ever made. And the Arlen kid was running low on dough. He’d racked up some sizable gambling debts at the Las Palmas Club, and his old man had cut off his allowance in the hopes of getting him to straighten up.”
“You think he planned on trading the gun for his gambling chits?”
Matt shrugged.
“What possible motive could Nathan have for wanting Phil Arlen dead?”
“I don’t know. What’s his financial situation?”
She said dryly, “I don’t think Nathan thinks a lot about money. And if he killed somebody by accident, I don’t think he’d try and fix it up to look like a kidnapping.” She puffed thoughtfully on her cigarette. “Any line on Pearl Jarvis?”
“We’re still looking for her.”
“Cherchez la femme,” Tara remarked.
“That’s what everybody says,” Matt replied.
“Did it work?” Jonesy asked when Matt climbed into the car after Tara walked away down the busy street.
“I don’t know,” Matt admitted. “She likes Doyle a lot. I don’t know that she’ll use anything that throws suspicion on him.”
“She’s a newshound, she’d sell her granny for an exclusive,” Jonesy said.
“Cynic.”
“You think she’ll quote you, Loot?”
“I hope not.”
Jonesy chuckled at Matt’s tone. “You want her to do the dirty work. You figure in her efforts to prove her sweetheart Doyle innocent, she’ll speculate in print on all the things we can’t.”
“Yep.”
“You think it’s occurred to her to wonder why there was so much time between when the ransom was paid and when the Arlen kid was supposed to be released?”
Matt said, “If it hasn’t yet, it will.”
Jonesy said slowly, “Whoever did that killing was as cold as Christmas. They shot the kid, and then threw him in the tar pit to try and conceal the fact. Maybe they didn’t want anyone to know he was dead. Maybe there was another reason, but I’ve got a feeling it’s going to take more than little Miss Tara Renee asking pointed questions in the Examiner to shake that killer’s nerve.”
The train wheels rumbled along the track. Nathan closed his eyes, putting his head back for a moment. He had learned to snatch sleep where he could find it, and this seemed to be a safe enough place for a catnap…
A German flare arched high into the night. Machine guns and 40 mm guns opened up, firing from across the dunes, slicing the night with yellow, green, blue and red tracers—pretty, like fireworks. Tongues of colored flame licking out, licking hungrily for the transports high overhead, knocking them out of the sky. He watched them go down, burning. He turned his head and Matt was standing next to him, watching him. Matt’s face was shadowed by the fire, little pinpoints of flame in his pupils.
“Where there’s smoke,” he said, and he smiled that smile that made him look younger and almost affectionate.
Nathan started awake to a surge of new passengers coming down the aisle, taking the seats around him. He sat up, automatically reaching to straighten his tie, and realized the train had stopped. Turning to the window, he peered out, trying to see which station it was. Old-fashioned Christmas lights hung from the station pavilion. Several lights were dead, like missing teeth in a wide grin. A peeling sign read ..di.. .all.
Hoping it wasn’t an omen, Nathan rose, steadying himself on the back of a seat, and made his way hastily down the aisle toward the platform. He found his path blocked by two nuns struggling with a mountain of parcels, and, instinctively, he stopped to help them shove their packages out of the way. It only took a minute, but as he reached the platform, he saw a Ford station wagon sedan pull up at the far end of the pavilion. A familiar tan coat and fur hat slipped inside, and the woody glided away.
Nathan swore under his breath, crossed the platform and walked out onto the street. He looked around himself.
Indian Falls was a resort town, but if it hadn’t been for the tatty fake-pine garland strung across Main Street, it could have passed for a ghost town. A steady wall of closed shops stood across from the railroad station—a beauty parlor, a pawn shop, a cigar store, a lending library, a Chinese laundry. Nathan peered at his watch. It was eight-thirty.
He went back to the now-deserted station and read the sign on the ticket window. Back in One Hour. Swell. He stared at the final twinkling lights of the departing train now vanishing into the pine-thick mountains.
Now what?
One thing for sure, it felt cold enough for snow. He shivered and looked up at the starry sky. Not a cloud anywhere. That was the good news. The bad news…
He walked back out to the street. Far down the block he spotted lights. A corner all-night drugstore. He started walking.
It was warm and bright inside the drugstore. It was also mostly deserted. An elderly woman with a Swedish accent pointed him to a public phone, and Nathan dug for change, wondering if the woman took much heat from idiots mistaking her for a Kraut.
It took time and persistenc
e, but at last he reached LAPD Headquarters, and, to his surprise, with a little more persistence he actually got through to Lt. Mathew Spain.
“Spain here,” he answered, still crisp and efficient at eight-thirty—no, nine o’clock—at night. Spain worked late for a married man, but that was Homicide.
“It’s Nathan Doyle,” Nathan said.
There was a funny pause, and then Spain said, “What can I do for you, Mr. Doyle?”
“I’ve located Pearl Jarvis. She’s staying at Little Fawn Lodge up near Indian Falls. It’s in the Sierra Nevadas.”
“I know where Indian Falls is. I used to camp there,” Spain said, sounding almost human. “How’d you find her?”
“I followed her from Los Angeles.”
“By car or train?”
Doyle couldn’t see why it mattered, but that was a cop for you. They liked all the i’s dotted and the t’s crossed. No loose ends. Not so different from a good reporter, really.
“By train. I’m in Indian Falls right now, trying to get a ride up to the lodge.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Spain asked, and his voice was back to its normal brisk and impersonal tone. “You’re unusually cooperative for a newsman.”
“Because—” Nathan changed his mind and took a chance on the truth. “I want you to hurry up and solve this thing.”
Spain asked smoothly, “Any particular reason? Or are you just a concerned citizen, Mr. Doyle?”
“I…think you know my reason,” Nathan said very quietly, although there was no one to overhear him, no one at all in the drugstore now except for him and the little old lady with apple-red cheeks and hair as white as powdered sugar.
There was another surprised silence on the other end of the phone.
Then Spain said, “You’re heading up to the lodge, you said?”
“If I can hire a car.”
“Try not to spook her.”
Nathan snorted. “Tell it to your granny,” he advised, and Spain chuckled.
“I’ll be seeing you,” he said, and rang off.
Nathan replaced the phone on the hook and approached the grandmotherly looking lady behind the counter.
