3 of a Kind

by Rohan Gavin

  CHAPTER 9

  CHECKING IN

  A yellow Toyota Prius taxi pulled up in front of the Renaissance-style stone façade of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, in the heart of Beverly Hills. The Knightleys and Tilly were squeezed in the back seat and the boot lid was tied half open to accommodate their luggage.

  A valet jogged to the cab, then signalled two more bellhops to unload the bags. The Knightleys got out and surveyed the wide boulevard and the rows of curved awnings containing pricey boutiques, all fanned by gently swaying palm trees. Again, Darkus felt like he was in a Hollywood movie – or, in their case, a sinister plot hatched by the Combination.

  ‘Are you sure we can afford this?’ he whispered to his dad, staring up at the hotel.

  Knightley smiled, taking in the splendour of their surroundings. ‘Clearly our enemy knew we were coming to America. Uncle Bill never arranged a rental car – it was all a set-up. All part of the devious game we’re currently engaged in. So, since our existing travel plans have been compromised, it’s time to change the rules … do something unpredictable.’

  ‘Even if it means facing bankruptcy when we return home?’ asked Darkus.

  ‘Look at it this way,’ said his dad. ‘We could be dead.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  Knightley paused, as if searching for more avenues to justify himself. ‘No one would expect us to be staying at one of the top hotels in town. It’s the perfect cover.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ Tilly chimed in, passing her handbag to another bellhop, then sashaying into the marble lobby.

  Inside, the trio approached the young woman at the reception desk.

  ‘The name’s Alan Knightley. I stayed here a while ago, with the President’s security detail.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ replied the receptionist, impressed.

  ‘In the role of a consultant,’ Knightley added. ‘It was the Case of the Star-Spangled Banner, one of my trickiest investigations yet, but one that brought about a very satisfactory result. At least the President thought so.’

  ‘Wow, OK.’

  Darkus delved into his mental case files, but had no memory of the Case of the Star-Spangled Banner. Perhaps his father had no memory of it either.

  ‘So my kids and I are passing through town and we’ve had a slight mishap with our rental car and accommodation, so I wondered if you had any rooms available?’ Before she had a chance to answer, he went on, ‘Obviously if you were able to arrange an upgrade, I could put in a good word with POTUS himself.’

  Darkus whispered to Tilly, ‘That’s the Secret Service abbreviation for the President of the United States.’

  ‘Yes, I know that. But does he actually know him?’ asked Tilly quietly.

  ‘I have no evidence that he knows the President, no,’ muttered Darkus.

  ‘You understand, due to the nature of my job,’ Knightley continued, ‘our stay will have to remain absolutely top secret. This conversation never happened.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Knightley …’ replied the receptionist, obediently checking her computer screen. ‘Let me see what I can do.’

  The bellhop opened the door and wheeled the luggage in on a polished brass cart.

  ‘Welcome to the Presidential Suite of the Beverly Wilshire,’ he began. ‘You have views in three directions, a living room, library and formal dining room; his and hers walk-in closets, a 55-inch plasma TV, motorised drapery, a state-of-the-art toilet with seat warmer and a climate-controlled shower. If the suite looks familiar to you it’s because it was made famous in the movie Pretty Woman.’

  ‘I love that movie,’ said Tilly.

  ‘Me too,’ replied Knightley.

  The trio looked around in total awe. The bellhop led them past a row of Roman columns, mirrors and floor-to-ceiling windows, then unloaded their bags on to oak luggage racks.

  ‘Is there anything else I can assist you with?’ asked the bellhop, loitering by the door.

  Darkus knew the routine, held out his hand to his father, who deposited a wad of one-dollar bills in it, then Darkus passed them to the bellhop.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Tilly piped up. ‘Where’s the hot tub?’

  After indulging in a lavish and stratospherically expensive room service delivery of burgers, fries and chocolate malt shakes – topped off with a sizeable tip for the waiter – the Knightleys and Tilly settled down in their separate bedrooms, feeling the effects of changing time zones, a near death experience, and the troubling nature of their visit.

  As Darkus buttoned up the Beverly Wilshire monogrammed pyjamas that he’d discovered in the closet (his father was already in the other twin bed wearing his own) he weighed the facts in his mind. Uncle Bill had emailed with fresh CCTV evidence showing Bogna exiting Los Angeles International Airport with Sturgess, before both entered a yellow LA cab that quickly vanished among a sea of other yellow cabs. In all probability, their housekeeper was still within the city limits, and they had to find her before some harm came to her.

  ‘I thought I told you to trust me,’ said his father, as if reading his mind.

  ‘I fear we’re getting distracted.’

  ‘Are you referring to Tilly? She’s become a dependable member of the team.’

  ‘Proven beyond doubt,’ Darkus agreed.

  ‘Then you’re referring to the case,’ deduced his father.

  Darkus nodded. ‘We survived the Combination’s attempt on our lives today … but we can’t outwit them for ever.’

  ‘But if we can buy enough time to find Bogna … turn the game in our favour … this could be our chance to crack the Combination for good.’

  Darkus sighed. ‘It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.’

  ‘But Bogna is a particularly unique and peculiar needle, my dear Doc. Now get some rest. Today was a long day, and I fear tomorrow will be even longer.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking …’ Darkus said after a brief pause.

  ‘About?’ his father enquired blearily.

  ‘This is going to be our last case, Dad.’ He paused, only half aware of the shock wave he’d just sent through his father. ‘I’ll do my best to find Bogna and bring her home safely. That’s a given. But, like you said when we first started working together, this isn’t the life for me. It’s not what you intended for me, and I don’t think it’s what I want any more either. I think I could be happy with an ordinary profession. A lawyer perhaps. Or a dentist.’

  Knightley Senior swallowed and went quiet. ‘I understand, Doc.’ He searched for the words. ‘Due to my shortcomings, you have become a target of forces beyond my control. Forces of darkness that have no place in your young world.’

  Darkus felt a chill and pulled the covers closer around his throat.

  ‘I’ve always done everything I can to guard you from them,’ his father went on, ‘and I will continue to do so. Just know that I won’t let you down. Whatever you decide to do with your life, I’ll make sure you’re safe.’

  ‘But how can you possibly do that?’ asked Darkus.

  ‘Just trust me,’ said his father, then lay silently, wrestling with his thoughts for a moment, before adding: ‘There is one more thing you should know though …’ Knightley rolled over to face his son in the opposite bed, but found he’d already fallen asleep.

  Knightley watched his son for a full minute, debating whether to tell him, then rolled over and went to sleep as well.

  CHAPTER 10

  A VERY HOLLYWOOD DEATH

  Sometimes clues have to be searched for long and hard, turning over every rock and checking every cranny. Other times, the clues simply come to you.

  Such was the case when the Knightleys woke from a long slumber and ordered two exotic egg dishes from room service – one served ‘over easy’ and the other a traditional Mexican huevos rancheros – along with fresh juices, English Breakfast tea, three kinds of toast and a pastry basket. The smell of breakfast was so alluring it even forced Tilly to surface from the opposite bedroom, shielding her eyes from the bright,
featureless blue sky outside the window. Bizarrely, Darkus noticed she had managed to find time to change her hair colour from jet-black to California blonde overnight. Darkus directed his attention to the giant plasma TV on the wall to catch up on the morning’s news and current affairs, finding a live broadcast in progress.

  A female news anchor stared seriously out of one corner of the screen with perfect hair and impossibly smooth, tanned skin. ‘Over to Chuck who’s live at the scene …’

  In the main frame, a reporter in a polo shirt stood on a dusty track surrounded by scrub, speaking into a microphone. ‘Thanks, Camden. We’re here at the world-famous Hollywood sign, located in the Hollywood Hills.’ The TV camera zoomed out to reveal the massive sign propped on the hillside behind the reporter. ‘It’s one of the most recognisable landmarks on the planet. And, as any Los Angeles resident will know, you can’t just walk up to the Hollywood sign. Sure, you can hike past it or fly past it, but it’s fenced in so you can’t get too close. You can look but you can’t touch. But tragically that didn’t deter struggling actor Humphrey Sturgess, a native of Great Britain, who was found dead at the base of the sign early this morning.’

  ‘Looks like we’ve located our suspect,’ announced Darkus.

  ‘But where’s Bogna …?’ Knightley murmured.

  Tilly rubbed her eyes and sat on the sofa next to them, tearing into a Danish pastry.

  ‘That’s right, Camden,’ the reporter carried on. ‘Mr Sturgess arrived in the US only two days ago, with stars in his eyes, but now his star has fallen. Fallen forty-five feet to be exact. A once promising career cruelly snuffed out. Local police are speculating that Mr Sturgess scaled the high fence surrounding the sign and somehow climbed to the top of the letter “H”, where he was subsequently found in the scrubland below with – we’re hearing – a broken neck. Did he jump, or was it an accident? That’s something we just don’t know.’

  ‘Or was he pushed?’ speculated Darkus.

  The reporter continued: ‘What we do know is that Sturgess checked into the Sunset Six Motel on Sunset Boulevard two nights ago, in the company of a woman described as somewhere between forty-five and sixty-five years old, approximately five feet tall, heavily built, a hundred and eighty pounds, with a thick European accent. The LAPD is urgently seeking this female travel companion, and anyone with any information is advised to call this one-eight-hundred number.’

  ‘Great. So now she’s a suspect in a murder investigation,’ said Tilly in between mouthfuls.

  ‘On the contrary,’ argued Darkus, ‘our chances of finding Bogna just exponentially increased. The Los Angeles Police Department can begin the painstaking work of locating her in a city of nearly four million people, hopefully narrowing down the avenues of enquiry … while we try a different angle of approach.’ His father and Tilly waited, hanging on his every word. ‘If we can get to the bottom of who murdered Humphrey Sturgess – for there’s no doubt in my mind that he was murdered – then we’ll find the person, or people, holding our missing friend.’ Darkus slid his knife and fork next to each other on the plate and stood up. ‘I suggest we pay a visit to the Sunset Six Motel at once.’

  In keeping with Knightley Senior’s newfound holiday spirit, the Beverly Wilshire Hotel arranged an even bigger ‘full-sized’ rental car, which transported the trio through the grid system of Los Angeles streets with wallowing ease. This time, they chose not to use the satnav.

  Knightley drove the sedan through Hollywood, past the historic Chinese Theater and the stars on the pavement of the Walk of Fame, before looping down to Sunset Boulevard and the motel in question.

  It was a run-down pink building, with peeling paint and a Welcome sign hanging at an obscene angle from a gateway over the car park.

  Knightley concluded his tour guide commentary as they pulled into the lot. ‘In another triumph of American convenience over the Queen’s English, “motel” is quite simply a hotel where you can park outside your room. A combination of hotel and motor. “Mo-tel”.’

  Darkus ignored him and instructed Tilly. ‘You create a distraction. I’ll process the scene.’

  ‘What about me?’ his father asked.

  ‘Just stay here and try to look natural,’ suggested Tilly. ‘Not easy for you, I know … Just watch and learn.’ She put on a pair of star-shaped sunglasses and got out.

  ‘But –’ Knightley began.

  ‘Remember, Dad,’ said Darkus, ‘no one suspects a kid.’

  Darkus got out and approached the drab motel complex, discovering yellow police tape cordoning off one of the first floor rooms, and a pair of LAPD officers sitting on the bonnet of a patrol car eating doughnuts. Meanwhile, Tilly sauntered towards the swimming pool in a fenced area on the other side of the car park. Finding the gate locked, she quickly scaled it and flipped backwards on to the other side.

  A few moments later, a plop and a light splash emanated from the pool.

  ‘Officer? Excuse me, officers?’ Tilly called out from the water, still wearing her star-shaped sunglasses. ‘I seem to have fallen into the pool. And look, some dipstick’s left the life preserver out of reach,’ she spluttered, pointing to the rubber ring floating aimlessly several metres away. It was clear to Darkus that Tilly was responsible for this unfortunate chain of events.

  The officers looked at each other, irritated.

  Tilly ducked her head under the water, feigning drowning, then spat, ‘Help! Somebody!’

  The officers stuffed the remains of their doughnuts into their mouths and began clambering over the fence to the pool area.

  Meanwhile, Darkus quietly ducked under the police tape and climbed the stairway to the first floor. He sneaked under a second length of tape and knelt by the seedy motel room door, taking out a laminated library card that he kept on him for just such occasions. The splashing increased as Tilly was dramatically hauled from the pool, giving Darkus time to slide the card between the lock and the door jamb, bending the card back and forth a few times. It was an old trick but an effective one, especially on old mechanisms. The latch bolt obediently retracted to grant him entry.

  Darkus crept across the dark brown carpet, past a pair of twin beds, knowing he had a matter of minutes to conduct his search. He scanned the room’s contents, deducing that the accommodation was cheap, rarely cleaned, and used by both the morally and financially bankrupt. This was certainly not the Hollywood dream Sturgess had been promised. His luggage was open and his clothes strewn across one of the beds: floral Hawaiian shirts, harem trousers, flip-flops, a pair of Speedo swimming trunks. Evidently his bags had already been searched by the local police. Darkus noted a small jar of styling wax, no doubt for the actor’s signature walrus moustache – may it rest in peace, he thought. The other bed was still made, and there was no sign of any of Bogna’s belongings. He checked the bathroom and found one lone toothbrush, and one set of used towels. So perhaps Bogna hadn’t stayed overnight. In which case, where was she? He returned to the bedroom and glanced under the beds, finding only a collection of ‘dust bunnies’ – a curious and disgusting American term for small balls of lint and fluff. Then he spotted a strip of prescription pills on a table by the TV. The packaging had an unpronounceable name that Darkus deduced was a sedative of some kind: no doubt the sleep aid that Sturgess – or an accomplice – had slipped into the unfortunate housekeeper’s drink to guarantee her compliance and easy transportation. Darkus reached for the minibar in a fridge under the TV. He searched it, clearing aside the miniature liquor bottles to reveal … a large jar of Polish dill pickles – which was half full. This was the concrete evidence he required. No one except Bogna could consume pickles in that quantity with only limited time. No one. This was proof positive that Bogna had been there, at least for long enough to have a snack; then she was presumably taken elsewhere before night fell. The unfortunate Sturgess had no idea his job had by that point been completed, and his destiny was to be another out-of-work actor – this time permanently.

  Darkus r
aised the slat of the blind to see the two cops kneeling by Tilly, who was gamely pretending to be unconscious on the poolside, intermittently spouting water from her mouth.

  Darkus had a last look around, then noticed a collection of bound A4-sized pages among the strewn garments. He picked it up and examined the title page. It read:

  AREA 51

  A screenplay by

  Chuck Penn

  Darkus knew enough about the film industry to know that a screenplay was the blueprint for a movie: the action, the scenes, the dialogue – everything was written down for the crew to carry out their work and the actors to learn their lines before the cameras started rolling. Near the bottom of the title page was a recent date stamp and the words:

  Darkus took one more glance through the blind and saw one of the cops attempting CPR (or artificial respiration) to ‘save’ Tilly’s life. Darkus knew the game would soon be up and took the screenplay, bundled it into the armpit of his safari-style jacket, retraced his steps and exited the room.

  Tilly spied Darkus out of the corner of a half-closed eye, then managed to spray water directly into the cop’s face, before wiping her mouth in disgust, opening her eyes and leaning up to chastise him. ‘What are you playing at, huh? I’m absolutely fine. Never felt better.’

  The cops watched, bewildered, as Tilly got to her feet, collected her purse, gracefully scaled the fence, flipped down on to the other side and hopped into the rental car. Darkus was already sitting in the back seat.

  ‘Any questions?’ she asked Knightley Senior, who obediently put the car in reverse and backed away.

  *

  Twenty minutes later, the trio pulled up outside the glass-fronted office building on the corner of 9601 Wilshire Boulevard: the address on the title page of the screenplay – or ‘script’ as it was commonly known. Knightley managed to park the full-sized rental car in one of the even bigger parking bays, then followed his young colleagues into the foyer.