Arne Lundberg staggered backward until the calves of his legs collided with the naughahide lounge chair and he fell into a sitting position in a state of shock. Something was moving along the right side of his mouth. His tongue licked out and tasted blood. He was perspiring heavily. When the garish beam of the floor lamp was turned on his face, he cringed from the light and from the sudden fear that had stalked into his apartment moments earlier. He had been alone with the heel of a bottle of cheap bourbon when the sound of the door buzzer rose above the din of the pro. football game on the television set in the next apartment. He didn’t want to talk to any more people about Sigrid’s death. He remained silent. When there was no response to the buzzer, a male voice called: “Western Union”, and Lundberg rose to the bait. There were two men in the hall. One of them Lundberg recognized. Before he could speak a name the left hand of the other man closed over his mouth and shoved him back into the room. When both men were inside, they closed and locked the door. The younger of the men—the man Lundberg knew—glanced quickly about the apartment. The living room was small. The door to the bedroom was open and the bed was empty.
“He hasn’t got another broad yet,” the man said. “We’re alone. I’ll take care of Arne. Look for it.”
Now it seemed like an hour since it all began. They had searched everywhere: closets, desk drawers, dresser, kitchen cabinets—under the bed and even under the cushions of the naughahide divan. The big man whipped back the spread and blankets on the bed and poked under the pillows. His face twisted with anger, he returned to where Arne stood and laced his mouth with the blow that dropped him back into the chair.
“All you have to do is tell us where it is, Arne,” he said.
Arne wiped away the last of the blood on his face with a hand that wouldn’t stop trembling. “I told you,” he said, “I haven’t got anything that belonged to Sigrid.”
“You saw it in the warehouse. You yelled loud enough when you read the initials on the bag.”
“I never touched it! It’s still there!”
“No, Arne, it isn’t there. It disappeared from the shed last night. Now, who would take Sigrid’s little bag except her heartbroken fiancé?”
“I haven’t got it!” Arne said, surprised to hear his own voice screaming.
A hand flicked out of the void behind the light and cut across his mouth again.
“Keep the voice down!” the big man ordered.
And then the man Arne recognized said, sharply, “Don’t mark up his face.”
That was when fear drained the strength from Arne’s body.
“In a place like this noise isn’t so important,” the younger man added. “It’s Sunday. Everybody’s sleeping off a hangover or listening to the big game. I’ll turn on the TV.” He stepped back and turned a knob on the console. Arne could hear the sound come up. The light in his face blocked out the picture. “What I want you to do is stand here with your hands in your pockets while I do the looking.”
From deep in the cushions of the chair Arne watched the man he knew cover the route that had already been searched and then go into the bathroom. He switched on the light. He looked in the medicine chest and the clothes hamper. He reached up both hands and tested the shower rod for strength, and then he stood silently staring down at the tub.
Arne’s voice was a hoarse croak. “What does it matter about the little bag? What’s this all about?”
“Listen to the angel! He doesn’t know a thing,” the big man mocked.
“Right! Right! I don’t know a thing!” Arne cried. “Sigrid called me from New York and said she was coming next week. I went down to the shed at the marina because I heard her name on the truck radio. I didn’t even know she was coming on that plane.”
“Maybe you did,” the big man said. “Maybe she thought her phone in New York was bugged and made the call to provide cover, and, just maybe, all the time another ticket was reserved in somebody else’s name so there would be a last-minute cancellation on yesterday’s flight.”
“But why? Why would she do that?”
Nobody answered Arne. When the other man returned from the bathroom he was holding a pillow that he had taken from the bed. “Maybe he really doesn’t know what happened to that bag,” he said, “but we don’t carry that much insurance.”
Arne knew he was going to die. He placed his hands on the arms of the chair and tried to get to his feet, but his legs had gone rubbery. Even his hands seemed detached. He looked at them strangely. On one hand he wore a ring Sigrid had given him on his last birthday: a Zodiac ring with a Capricorn symbol. He must have touched the cut on his mouth with it because it was smeared with blood. Quickly, before either of the men standing over him could see what he was doing, he ripped the ring from his finger and wedged it between the cushion and the chair. He had just enough time to get this done before he saw the pillow descending towards his face. He raised both hands and felt his wrists grasped from the front and forced backward. He didn’t struggle long.
When Arne Lundberg was dead, the bigger man carried him into the bathroom and stripped off his clothes. By that time the other man, using a hand towel to avoid prints, had turned on the water and filled the bath. They left Arne’s clothes strewn out carelessly on the floor and shoved his body deep into the tub until his startled blue eyes stared up at the ceiling and his pale hair floated like a frail sea vegetation on the surface of the water. The younger man returned to the living room. Still using the towel, he picked up the whisky bottle and the glass Arne had been drinking from when he let them into the apartment. He placed the bottle on the floor next to the bath and dropped the glass on the edge of the bath near Arne’s head. When the glass slipped from the porcelain ledge, the last of Arne’s drink mixed with the bathwater and the tumbler floated lazily over his submerged stomach like a child’s bath toy.
“Leave the glass in there,” the younger man ordered. “It looks natural that way. What’s that on the pillow case?”
The pillow had been dropped on the floor of the bedroom. It was stained with the last of the blood from the cut inside Arne’s mouth.
“Take the pillow case with you,” he said. “Shove it in your coat pocket out of sight. I’ll get the rest of the prints.”
CHAPTER FOUR
THE EVERYDAY HAZARDS of a businessman’s life were devious: traffic, heartburn, the overall strain on the nervous system … Traffic in the salt water pool at the Hotel Del Coronado was fierce. Simon snaked his way through treacherous waters infested by legs, thighs and bikini-clad breasts and emerged, safe if emotionally exhausted, a few yards from the temporary office of Zachariah O’Hara who sat at a poolside table, his huge flannel-coated shoulders bowed over the report Simon had delivered to him half an hour earlier. O’Hara’s investment enterprises commanded more millions than Simon dared contemplate. A brawny, white-haired giant with clear blue eyes that still needed no optical devices, he glanced up from his work as Simon crawled out of the pool, and grinned.
“I’ve ordered lunch,” he said. “By this time you should have an appetite.”
Simon walked, dripping, to the table. He picked up a white chenille robe from one of the chairs and got into it before sitting down opposite O’Hara.
“You amaze me,” the big man added. “To get a report this complete you must have a direct wire to the IRS. What do you use, bribery or witchcraft?”
“Trade secret,” Simon said.
“Okay, I guess I have to buy that. I think we can handle Meechum now without any trouble. Want a drink?”
“Coffee,” Simon said. “I’m driving back right after lunch.”
“The hell you are! I thought I might talk you into staying over. My daughter’s home from college.”
Simon smiled. “I remember your daughter. You tempt me, but I’m a man engaged to be married.”
“Finally got the bug, ‘eh? Good for you. Same thing happened to me thirty years ago and I’m still hooked.” O’Hara paused and stared across the pool to a loungi
ng pad where one of the shapelier female swimmers, apparently taking the Women’s Liberation Front literally, had unloosed the top of her bikini and stretched languorously in the sun. “In spite of distractions,” he added somewhat ruefully. “Still, I wish you would stay. I’m having a small party in my suite tonight for some visiting brain from the east that might interest you. Nuclear energy brain. Peacetime.”
“San Mareo?” Simon asked.
“That’s part of it. A whole new ball game coming up. An ambitious, enterprising young lawyer like yourself might do himself some good getting briefed. Make contacts, that sort of thing.”
“You tempt me,” Simon said. “But I’ve just been goofing off for a week in Vegas and my desk’s stacked.”
The waiter brought two impressive luncheon salads and a pot of coffee. As he withdrew, O’Hara glimpsed someone a few tables away and came to his feet. “You’re in luck,” he said to Simon. “A couple of the men I just mentioned are here already.” Beckoning, he called: “Franklin—Pridoux. Come over here.”
Simon put down his coffee cup and turned to see what manner of men had caught O’Hara’s attention. Recognition on his part was immediate. He rose to his feet as they reached the table. The bigger man was six-foot-four, ruddy faced, clean shaven. He was still wearing the same drab grey suit but he’d got rid of the raincoat and rubbers, and his partner, the younger man with glasses and a small beard, now sported a natty blue flannel jacket and light blue slacks. Simon laughed.
“What’s funny?” the smaller man asked. “I know it’s a new beard but I think it shows promise.”
“I’m sorry,” Simon said. “I wasn’t laughing at you. I was laughing at a friend of mine who is a people-watcher and makes mistakes.”
O’Hara made the introductions. The big man was named Franklin and the smaller man was Dr Pridoux. Pridoux was a physicist and Franklin was his assistant. They were from the east. They had come to attend a seminar at the San Diego campus.
“Let me explain,” Simon added quickly. “First of all—weren’t both of you at LA International Saturday morning a few minutes before that New York plane went into the sea?”
“Hey, I saw something about that on TV,” O’Hara remarked. “Turned it off though. I don’t enjoy mass necrophilia.”
“We were there,” Franklin admitted.
“So was I,” Simon said. “I came in on the Las Vegas flight that immediately preceded the crash. My friend was waiting for me. He told me you were—I think he used the term ‘screws’. Federal investigators, he said.”
The men exchanged quick glances. “Why did he say that?” Franklin asked.
“I think he was showing off. I said he was a people-watcher. That’s why I laughed. I’ll have a little fun with him the next time we meet.”
O’Hara joined in the laughter and asked the men to join them for lunch. “We’d like to,” Franklin said. “Mr Drake could tell us more about his friend. But we already have an engagement.”
“In that case, come up to my suite this evening. Cocktails and buffet. I’m trying to get Drake to stay over. Make a night of it.” O’Hara was still chuckling as they went back to their own table. “I’m just beginning to enjoy life since I got rid of my big house and moved into the hotel,” he added. “Simplifies life. Family likes it, too. Kids gone. The wife abroad half the time. I’ve worked too damn hard to have much fun along the way. Guess I’m getting mellow.”
“Mellow like a cobra when it comes to business,” Simon said.
“Oh, well—business. That’s another can of peas.”
“Exactly. And since I’ve got a long way to go to get a larder anywhere the size of yours, I’m going back to Marina Beach this afternoon—after I get paid, that is.”
“A man after my own heart,” O’Hara said. He put down his salad fork and took an envelope from his pocket. He handed it to Simon who opened the envelope, glanced at the cheque and nodded happily.
“Now finish your lunch,” O’Hara ordered. “The furnace needs fuel even if you are trying to catch tomorrow by the tail.”
But now the waiter returned—this time with a telephone in his hand. A call for Simon Drake. Los Angeles. Simon picked up the instrument and heard Jack Keith’s voice. “Speaking of the devil—” Simon said.
“That’s no way to talk to a fellow seaman,” Keith answered. “Are you wearing a tie?”
“At the moment I’m wearing nothing but swimming trunks and a smile,” Simon said. “Why?”
“Because I’m buying dinner for you tonight. Meet me at the Hong Kong bar at the Century Plaza at seven.”
“Wait a minute! I’ve got homework.”
“So have I. Tell me, was your boat rifled Saturday night?”
“How did you know that?”
“I drove out to see Cappy Anderson this morning. Thought he might need a little moral support. I talked to the marina watchman. Now I’ve got to talk to you and I don’t want to do it over the telephone because in my business I get nervous about bugs. It’s important, Si. Take my word for it.”
And then Keith, leaving no time for argument, broke the connection.
An hour later, Simon, fully dressed, including his tie, left the hotel and found his car in the parking area. In passing, he glimpsed a black Cadillac sedan and looked at the plates. Keith was right about one thing. The plates were from DC and they were official.
The drive north from San Diego along Coast Highway is one of the most beautiful trips in the world. Mid-afternoon traffic was light and Simon, driving well over the maximum speed, was on the alert for the white door of the highway patrol. Approaching the Beach Cities off-ramp, he spotted the revolving red light on a sedan parked on the shoulder and immediately slowed down. Then, because he recognized the plain clothes officer who was examining the credentials of a long-haired, bearded young man wearing a faded purple shirt over old army trousers and rough-out boots, he pulled up behind the patrol car and stopped.
“Hey, Franzen,” he called, getting out of the Jaguar, “since when are you on traffic detail? Did Thompson bust you?”
Lieutenant Pete Franzen’s mouth twisted in irritation. The anger in his eyes was hidden by tortoise-rimmed sun glasses. “Simon Drake,” he said. “Why aren’t you chasing ambulances?”
Now Simon could see what was parked beyond the patrol car: a beat up VW van lavishly decorated with the symbols of the love generation. Printed cotton draw-curtains covered the rear windows. One was drawn aside for an instant and he caught a glimpse of a girl’s face framed by long, straight red-gold hair. She looked frightened and ducked behind the protective curtains when their eyes met. Approaching the van, he could see a second young man leaning against the bumper. This one wore levis and a fringed suède jacket.
Franzen glared at the wallet in his hand.
“This driver’s licence was issued in Texas,” he said.
“Yes sir,” said the youth. “That’s where I lived when I bought the van.”
Franzen glanced at the plates on the vehicle for affirmation. Texas. He looked back at the licence. “Are you Travis Dean?” he asked.
“That’s what it says on the thing, man.”
“Are you?” Franzen shouted.
The boy tugged at his beard. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“And do you own this vehicle?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s see what you’ve got inside.”
The boy in the suède jacket stepped forward and planted himself protectively in front of the door.
“My chick’s in there,” he said.
Franzen eyed the youth with obvious distaste. “Your chick?” he queried, “Or is she community property?”
“Franzen,” Simon cautioned, “that’s a no-no.”
“Police brutality?” Franzen chided.
“Borderline. What’s the charge against these kids, anyway? Were they speeding?”
“We wasn’t doing anything!” the boy in the purple shirt protested. “We was just parked here on the shou
lder tryin’ to decide which way to go. We ain’t been around here very long. We don’t know the roads.”
“Where do you live?” Simon asked.
“Right now we live in Marina Beach.”
“Together?”
“No. Bob, here”—he indicated the boy in the suède jacket—”has a pad at Rocky Cove. He and Sandy—that’s his chick—shack up there. Mostly, I just sleep here in the van. I got a bedroll and some stuff in the back. That’s all I got.”
“That’s all?” Franzen challenged. “No marijuana? No pills?”
The boy in the purple shirt giggled nervously. “Sunny has the pills—but hers are legal.”
The girl’s face appeared briefly at another window. This time Simon noticed the freckles on her nose.
“How old is Sunny?” Franzen asked.
“Eighteen—almost nineteen,” Bob declared. “She’s got papers to prove it. She’s got a Social Security card.”
“Social Security! Do you mean she actually works!”
“Part-time. She’s a waitress at the Sombrero Café part-time. I work there, too. Bus boy. Wash dishes. Whatever I can get whenever I can get it. See—”
Bob yanked a wallet from his coat pocket and opened it to his Social Security card.
“What about your draft card?” Franzen asked.
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