Severed Key

by Nielsen, Helen

  It was much rougher sailing than when they had put out to sea. Simon wrestled the wheel all the way to the breakwater. Cutting the motor, he noticed that one finger was bleeding from a badly split nail. Keith, seeing the wound, located the cosmetic case Simon had taken from the sea and began to dig through the contents.

  “Women usually carry a manicure scissors in these things,” he said. “—And here it is—all cosy in a little zipper case. You snip off that nail before it splits to the quick. I can take the boat in from here.”

  “It’s rougher than you think,” Simon said, but he relinquished the wheel. It was dusk. Most of the boats now gliding into the marina like chickens heading for roost carried side lights, but a small sloop, unlighted came along portside a little too close for comfort. Simon, having just finished clipping the loose nail, shoved the scissors and the zipper case into the pocket of his oilskin jacket and grabbed the wheel from Keith’s hands.

  “Watch it!” he yelled. “You’re never home free in one of these things until the tie-up.”

  He steered in past the breakwater and through to the harbour. Normally at this time of the evening there would have been sounds of music and laughter from the restaurants that faced the harbour. Tonight was different. Activity centred at the dock nearest the Harbour Master’s office, and the sound was from the police PA and bullhorns directing the unloading of crash débris. Light splayed out over the dock at the entrance to a warehouse where a crowd of silent watchers had gathered near a mobile television unit, and uniformed police were opening lanes of admittance for official cars. Seeing no place to dock, Simon took the cruiser back to the slip outside Cappy’s apartment and made it fast. Both he and Keith peeled off their oilskins and then, carrying the cosmetic case and the toy dog, drove in Keith’s car back to the warehouse they had so recently passed.

  A white-helmeted motorcycle policeman met them and pointed the way to a parking area.

  “Got to keep the entrance clear for the ambulances,” he announced.

  “Any more recoveries?” Simon asked.

  “Two. One man and one woman. The coroner has just arrived. We’re only letting friends and families of the passengers through now to make identification. What have you got?”

  Keith held up the soggy toy. “Fished this out of the sea,” he explained.

  The officer was a young man and the sight of a child’s toy struck home. He blinked the sudden moisture out of his eyes and led them back through a cluster of people to the warehouse where the collection of rescued articles was being stored for identification. Pieces of the broken plane were there along with fifteen or twenty pieces of luggage, a few wet blankets and a flight officer’s cap. Simon added the cosmetic case to the accumulation and Keith placed the toy beside the officer’s cap. A harbour official gravely added the items to his official list as Simon scanned the faces in the crowd, grateful that Cappy Anderson hadn’t brought his sister to this depressing arena. Jack Keith brought out a pack of cigarettes, gave one to Simon, and was striking a match for a light when a primitive cry came from the group of spectators. It was a man’s voice—high pitched in grief.

  “Sigrid! Oh, my God! Why, Sigrid? Why?”

  Simon looked over the flame of the proffered match. The anguished questions had come from a haggard young man who now stood transfixed before the small blue case with the gold initials. He was about twenty-four, slender, with wind-tangled pale blond hair and tortured blue eyes. When he dropped to his knees and began clawing on the latch of the cosmetic case, Simon could read the words: GERARD RENTALS lettered on the back of his grey overalls. One of the guards stepped forward and pulled him away from the luggage just as a reporter with a mini-camera slung over his shoulder shoved through the crowd. Wildly, the young man faced his inquisitor.

  “I didn’t believe it,” he babbled. “I heard the passenger list of the crashed plane read over the radio when I was driving in my truck. Sigrid Thorsen, the man said, Sigrid Thorsen on this plane. I didn’t believe it.”

  The reporter with the mini-camera pushed past the guard. “What is your name, sir?” he asked.

  “Sigrid Thorsen,” the man in grey overalls said.

  “No, I mean your name, sir?”

  “Oh. Lundberg. Arne Lundberg.”

  “And you have identified this piece of luggage as belonging to someone you know?”

  “My fiancée—Sigrid Thorsen. I don’t understand. Two days ago she telephoned me from New York. She was coming next week, she said. Next week—not today. Why did she do that? Why did she say next week?”

  “Perhaps she was going to surprise you,” the reporter said.

  “Surprise? Oh, my God! We were going to be married. As soon as she got here, we were going to be married—”

  Keith tugged at Simon’s sleeve. “I’ve had enough for one day,” he said. “Let’s get out of here and get stoned somewhere.”

  Simon couldn’t think of a better suggestion.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE USUAL SATURDAY night festivity at The Warehouse didn’t quite come off. Too many local residents had participated in the search for survivors, and too many visitors were on a morbid curiosity hunt. Simon and Jack Keith stayed just long enough for a brace of martinis and a pair of rare steaks, and then drove back to the airport to pick up Simon’s still unclaimed luggage. Civilization was beautiful. No pall of grief or disorder hung over the busy terminal where business progressed as usual, and incoming passengers appeared oblivious to the tragedy that was now headlined on the front pages of the late extras. Simon proceeded to the baggage claim area and picked up his luggage. When he returned to the waiting room, Jack Keith was making small talk with the girl attendant at the Red Arrow auto rental booth. She was a lovely Eurasian with raven black hair and almond-shaped brown eyes.

  “I’m a fall guy for Exotic types,” Keith admitted, as Simon herded him towards the street door. “She’s half Korean and half French.”

  “You must have exchanged a lot of notes in a short time,” Simon said. “Why don’t you take her home with you?”

  “I tried, but she’s not off duty until midnight. What about you? Do you want to shack up at my place tonight?”

  “No. Cappy gave me the key to his apartment before he left, and it’s closer to my boat. I know he won’t be coming back tonight. He’ll stay with his sister.”

  “Then I’ll drive you back to the marina.”

  Keith paused long enough to buy one of the black-headlined newspapers before they returned to the Cadillac. This time the drive to Cappy’s place was more leisurely. “Jeanne,” Keith repeated dreamily. “That must be from the French side of the family. And don’t tell me that I made time. Her name was printed on a plastic card she wore on her blouse. About a size thirty-six, I’d guess.” And then Keith took a sudden turn of topic to what must have been bothering him for some time. “Simon, why do you suppose Angie Cerva came to the city?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Simon admitted. “I don’t include syndicate personnel among my clientele—if I know about it.”

  “You don’t know what you’re missing. They’re very colourful people. They kill for the fun of it.”

  “That’s becoming a favourite international sport. Why are you concerned about Cerva?”

  “Because he was waiting for that New York plane. Didn’t you notice? When the PA announcement called for people who were waiting for the flight to come to the information booth Cerva was listening.”

  “Cerva was listening, but it was Johnny Sands who went to the counter.”

  “That’s right. Just the same, when we get to Cappy’s apartment I want a look at the passenger list in that newspaper.”

  Simon was right: Cappy Anderson hadn’t returned. They went inside the apartment and, while Keith began to pore over the newspaper coverage of the crash, Simon found the bar and a bottle of vintage Scotch. “Nightcap?” he asked. Keith, without raising his head, answered: “I never turn down an attractive proposal. Here’s the passenger list. ‘R
everend Peter Gaylord, Albany, NY.’ Now I’m sure he couldn’t have been the passenger Johnny Sands was waiting for…. ‘Allen Quince, Scarsdale—’ Hey, look at this! She was a beautiful piece of merchandise!”

  Some enterprising reporter had dug up a studio portrait of Arne Lundberg’s lost love: Sigrid Thorsen. Ash-blonde, high Scandinavian cheekbones, bee-stung lower lip. She was described as a Swedish model who had come to New York a year ago and found employment making television commercials in the east. Twenty-two.

  “A year younger than Wanda,” Simon mused. “Damn, that hurts.”

  “According to this story, she had known Lundberg in Stockholm,” Keith added. “He came over first and got a job in a TV series in Hollywood. When the series washed out, he found another job and had been saving money for a house. He had the down payment and the marriage licence application. Here’s another photo on the inside page—Lundberg just after he found that case you fished out of the water. Hey, look at this! Look who’s standing just behind his left shoulder!”

  Simon took the paper. Captured on film was what they hadn’t seen at the warehouse: the handsome profile of Johnny Sands.

  “He was interested in that plane,” Keith said. “He was waiting at the warehouse.”

  “Slow down,” Simon cautioned. “We were at that warehouse too—we were even out on the search—and we weren’t meeting anyone on the plane. You have a suspicious mind.”

  “That’s why I’m a private detective instead of a paper-hanger. You may be right. Just the same, I’m tearing out this list of passengers so I can give it a more careful check. You never know when my life might depend on knowing who was coming in on that plane and why Angie Cerva was hanging around the air terminal. Any more Scotch in that bottle?”

  “Help yourself,” Simon said. “I’m always generous with other people’s booze. I wonder which one of these doors leads to the bedroom.”

  Luck was on his side to the extent that he located the bedroom behind the first door he opened, but there was a complication in the presence of a very feminine nightgown and chiffon robe laid out invitingly across the foot of the bed. Simon took a blanket out of the closet and returned to the living room.

  “Cappy’s girl left her nightie,” he explained. “I forgot about her. She might come in from a flight.”

  “What size was the nightie?” Keith asked. “Might be worth waiting for. But that’s right—you’re practically a married man now. You’re still welcome to come back to Beverly Hills with me and share my pad.”

  But Simon was already tucking himself in with the appropriated blanket on Cappy’s oversized divan. “Thanks, but I’m fine here,” he said. “I don’t intend to move until morning.”

  “Good. Did you get your report?”

  “It’s in the boat—” Simon started to get up and then changed his mind. “It’ll keep,” he said. “Close the door softly when you leave. I think I’m asleep.”

  It was daylight when Simon opened his eyes. He climbed off the couch and switched on the television set on his way to the windows. Opening the drapes, he peered out on a grey world washed with rain. The storm was over. The wind was down, and this was the left-over squall that would probably clear by mid-afternoon. The sea would be rough, but nothing like it had been on that impulsive search for survivors. A religious service on the television reminded him that the day was Sunday, and yet few, if any, of the slender-masted sailing craft or the motor launches had left their berths. He looked at his watch. Five-thirty. The Sunday sailors had spent too much time on the search. He switched the television channels in the vain attempt to find a newscast and then turned off the set and went into the kitchen. He made himself coffee and scrambled eggs. It seemed a shame to leave the dirty dishes, but Cappy undoubtedly had a day worker who came in to clean up—or the stewardess who had left those lovely things in the wardrobe closet might have spells of domesticity. The important thing was to get started back to Marina Beach as soon as possible.

  Leaving the apartment, he picked up Cappy’s morning paper from the sheltered doorstep and checked the weather box to verify his instincts. Morning rain clearing in the early afternoon. He tossed the paper into the apartment, left the key on a lamp table, and let the latch lock behind him.

  A sudden quickening of the rain sent him sprinting to the boat. He clambered aboard the wet deck and raced to the cabin door. It was unlocked. Because of the excitement when he and Keith had left the ship with what they had recovered from the sea, it was impossible to remember if it had been locked. He stepped inside to a scene of violent disorder. The lockers were open, drawers were pulled out and dumped on the floor, berths were unmade. He checked the compass and radio equipment and found everything intact. The binoculars and the oilskins were where Keith had left them. His next thought was the Meechum report, which contained sensitive information on a prospective land development. Industrial espionage methods could put the CIA to shame—but the zipper case was as he had left it and nothing appeared to have been touched. He straightened the cabin, climbed back into his oilskins and went topside to free the craft from its moorings. A dour-faced security guard was waiting for him on the dock.

  “You’re not Captain Anderson,” he said tersely.

  “I’m Anderson’s friend, Simon Drake,” Simon answered, “and I own this launch.”

  The guard took a step closer and wiped a raindrop from the end of his craggy nose. “So you are,” he said. “Don’t mind me nosing around now. Had some trouble down here last night. I ran off a prowler about midnight. Lose anything?”

  “The cabin was messed up, but nothing seems to be missing,” Simon said.

  “You’re lucky. Got to watch these boats ever’ minute what with all the hippies around about. They steal anything they can move—blast it loose if they can’t. Even take the boats. But I guess I scared ‘em off with my flashlight. Still, you might think a night like last night—the storm and the airliner tragedy—would discourage ‘em. Guess not. I hear there was trouble at the warehouse where they stowed all that stuff that was fished out of the sea. Imagine that! Ghouls! Nothing but ghouls!”

  “What happened at the warehouse?”

  “I don’t know the details. Some things stolen, I hear.”

  “Any more bodies recovered?”

  The security guard shook his head vigorously. “By this time they’re all shark meat. Heard one of the passengers was a fourteen-month-old baby. Now that just makes me feel sick inside. The coast guard’s still searching, but they won’t find anything. Not in a sea so full of sharks. Going out again?”

  “Going home to Marina Beach,” Simon said.

  The guard nodded. “You’ll be okay. We’ll see the sun set tonight. But it’s sure lucky I came along with my flash last night. You might not even have an engine in that thing.”

  Simon fished a bill out of his wallet and handed it to the guard. “No charge,” he insisted. “The Marina Corporation pays me.”

  “Then have a cup of coffee on me—and thanks.”

  Simon started the engines and began to move slowly through the channel. There was little activity at the warehouse—a couple of black and whites and some uniformed guards. The crowd of curiosity seekers were gone. Within twenty-four hours the tragedy would be forgotten to all but a few people—such as Arne Lundberg who could not forget about that honeymoon cottage. Outside the breakwater the sea was rougher than Simon expected and he began to regret that last nightcap from Cappy’s best Scotch—or to regret not having brought along the bottle. It would be a longer trip than he had bargained for with no free time to study the Meechum report unless the sea was a lot smoother farther down the coast. At least he was going home.

  Late that afternoon the sun finally won its battle with the clouds and the wet sand of a public strand at Marina Beach became a glistening gold bar at the foot of a craggy ledge. Deserted in the rain, the strand now lured out a few sundown strollers. A boy and a girl walked hand in hand. The girl was eighteen; the boy almost nineteen. S
traight, copper-hued hair hung almost to the girl’s waist, a bright mane worn over a blue-tasselled poncho and faded blue jeans frayed at half-calf. Barefoot, she carried leather sandals in one hand. Her face was piquant if not pretty; her eyes were wide and brown. She was called Sunny. The boy, who wore a fringed leather jacket, tan levis and brown army shoes, was called Bob. His hair, light auburn in colour, curled at the nape of his neck. Both wore leather loops about their necks from which dangled silver peace symbols. They talked little, being at a stage of life where conversation was superfluous. They held hands and laughed hysterically over nothing at all, or stood silently watching the shore birds race the waves for shell fish tossed on the sand as if observing a religious ritual. They were deep in the throes of adolescent love and oblivious to everyone but themselves.

  The girl giggled. “The birds run so fast their legs look like little wheels,” she said.

  The sun had etched a gold line above the crest of Catalina Island and the clouds were turning shell pink.

  “Evening red and morning grey sends a traveller on his way,” the boy remarked.

  The girl’s hand tightened over his. “Don’t say that,” she begged. “Don’t say anything about going away. It scares me.”

  “You like it here?”