Severed Key

by Nielsen, Helen

  “Deliberately?” Chester asked.

  “Possibly. For the sake of speculation, suppose that Cerva and Sandovar had some kind of a deal working. Somebody else knew about it—maybe a law enforcement agency—maybe a rival mob. In any event something has to be transferred from New York to Los Angeles, something transferred or some important contact made. Sandovar, knowing he would be watched, made a reservation on a plane and then sent Sigrid Thorsen in his place.”

  “She’s not exactly inconspicuous,” Chester protested.

  “She didn’t have to be. The important thing is that her name has never appeared in the gossip columns with Johnny Sands—the New York detective had to dig out the information about their connection, remember? Not only that, she’s never been connected with Cerva.

  “So she wouldn’t be watched.”

  “Exactly. But the unpredictable occurred. The plane crashed and the operation was never completed. Do you remember that piece of Sigrid’s luggage that Keith and I fished out of the drink? We left it at the warehouse with the other recovered items, but that very night, while I was sleeping at a friend’s apartment, my boat was ransacked.”

  “You didn’t tell us that.”

  “It didn’t seem relevant at the time. The marina guard thought it was hoodlums. He told me that even the warehouse was robbed that night. Now, who was it that identified Sigrid’s bag at the warehouse?”

  “Arne Lundberg.”

  “Who was dead within twenty-four hours. Don’t ask me where Arne fits in this puzzle because I don’t know yet. He could have been just the grief-stricken lover, as the newspapers say, or he could have been involved in some other way. The important thing is that he’s dead now. And somebody else was interested enough to visit the warehouse—Johnny Sands. His picture was in the newspaper, too.”

  “I see what you mean,” Chester said. “There was a lot of interest in anything of Sigrid’s that was recovered from the sea. Maybe I should drive down to that warehouse and find out if her bag was among the stolen articles.”

  “That’s your first order of business for tomorrow. Now, since Keith and I were the ones who recovered that bag, it was just possible that we picked up something else that carried her initials—which would account for the ransacked boat. I didn’t think about that until this afternoon when I was nicked with a blackjack. I rolled behind another car in the garage and caught a glimpse of the attacker from under the wheels. Never saw his face, but I did see his hair—lots of it and very blond. Might even be bleached. I remembered then that Keith’s Caddy was almost sideswiped by a dark sedan the night we drove away from Lundberg’s apartment complex after we found him dead. I didn’t see the driver of the car but a big-shouldered fellow with a lot of blond hair was in the front seat beside him. It could have been the same man.”

  Chester shook his head gravely. “I don’t like the words you put together, man,” he said. “It sounds like somebody was following the red-head—”

  “And decided to put him out of circulation with a murder suspect charge? That’s exactly what I think.”

  “Yes, but that eyepatch you’re wearing means the same somebody has a bead on you. Whatever they think you got out of the sea must be important.”

  “I know,” Simon reflected. “If I could only find the key—”

  The word slipped out automatically. He had no more than spoken it than he thought of the answer, but a rustling movement at the doorway caught his attention. He turned about as a slender feminine figure, attired in a body-hugging negligée and a long blonde wig, stepped into the room, posed provocatively, and then, with a deliberately sensuous walk, moved towards them. False eyelashes fluttered and a husky voice expertly mimicked Sigrid Thorsen’s accent as Hannah said:

  “Men are such fools! Vy don’t you use the key you haf, dahlings, eefen if it is broken?”

  “It’s Hannah!” Chester gasped. “I thought the place was haunted!”

  She tossed the mane of silver blonde hair and laughed. “You see, I fooled you! Simon, you’re actually pale!”

  “Where did you get that wig?” Simon demanded.

  “I have dozens of wigs—and the negligée is one I haven’t worn since before my accident. How was the walk?”

  “Where’s your cane?”

  “I’m acting, Simon. I have a different body when I’m acting!”

  “But why?”

  “We want to find Jack Keith, don’t we?”

  Hannah, in spite of her triumph, eased down into the peacock chair with a sigh of relief. She pulled off the wig and shook loose her own close-cropped hair. “I heard every word you said to Chester,” she added.

  “You were eavesdropping!”

  “Of course I was. I’ve been eavesdropping all my life! It’s great fun. Now, listen to me carefully, because I have a scheme. This morning, while watching the progress on Mr Bernardi’s house, a workman drove up in a red truck. Suddenly I remembered the message on the severed key: ‘Red Camarrow.’ Chester thought whoever wrote it didn’t know how to spell, but, as I recall, the word ‘red’ was underlined and so was ‘-arrow.’ I’ve been in airports often enough to know there’s an auto rental agency with that name.”

  “Right!” Simon said. “Keith mentioned it—something about a pretty Eurasian clerk.”

  “Don’t interrupt!” Hannah scolded. “Now, suppose you wanted to give directions to someone who might not speak or read very much English and needed everything spelled out clearly. Quickly, what does the message on the key mean?”

  “Go to the Red Arrow desk and ask for a red Camaro,” Chester said.

  “Obviously—which is why it’s so logical. Simple directions eliminate confusion. As soon as I figured that out, Chester, I sent you off for those films of Sigrid Thorsen.”

  “I’m afraid to ask why,” Simon remarked, “but I will.”

  Hannah smiled wisely. “Sigrid Thorsen’s body was never found, was it?”

  “Neither were a lot of other bodies.”

  “Irrelevant. The only body that concerns us is Sigrid’s. Because she wasn’t found, there’s always the possibility that she didn’t use the reservation that was given to her. Cerva wouldn’t know—he was in Los Angeles. Sandovar wouldn’t know—he had gone on ahead to Las Vegas before meeting Cerva. That would account for her not notifying Lundberg.”

  “Are you suggesting that we start looking for Sigrid?”

  “No. Luggage frequently gets sent on the wrong plane, but the item you found was something she carried with her. I’m convinced that she did make the flight. The point is, nobody knows for certain. Now, if someone who looked like Sigrid, walked like Sigrid and talked like Sigrid appeared at the airport immediately after the arrival of a plane from New York City and asked for a red Camaro at the rental office, somebody might get curious enough to make contact.”

  “If the contact was one of the Red Arrow employees.”

  “It would have to be, wouldn’t it? Otherwise, the directions make no sense. But even if that contact failed, the pseudo-Sigrid could go on to the hotel where she still has a reservation. Sandovar is there. He would hear of it.”

  “But he would know she wasn’t the real Sigrid,” Simon protested.

  “If he got close enough. We’re playing for shock, Simon. People who go about killing other people are desperate. Shake them up a bit and the picture might clear.”

  “Shake them up too much and pseudo-Sigrid could end up on a slab in the morgue along with Lundberg and the Davis girl. And you were planning to play Sigrid, weren’t you?”

  “I fooled both of you!”

  “For a few minutes in a dim light. What you’re suggesting would require at least fifteen minutes in the bright lights of the airport, a ride to the Century Plaza, and another appearance at the registration desk—which would certainly cause a furore.”

  “I can do it!”

  Simon shook his head vigorously. “I’m not questioning your dramatic ability or your stamina. Yes, I believe you could do it
—but you won’t because I won’t let you!”

  Hannah stroked the wig thoughtfully. “I examined that manicure case today,” she said. “It’s blue, too. I think it came with the bag and it has a brand name. It wouldn’t be too difficult to match to a set of luggage—”

  “I said—I won’t let you!”

  Angered, Hannah came to her feet and stalked to the door. “After all the times Jack Keith has got you out of scrapes, it does seem that you might at least try to help him now.”

  She returned to her bedroom and slammed the door. Simon looked to Chester for reassurance. “It’s wild,” he protested.

  “It might work,” Chester said.

  “And it might wreck everything. Jack Keith can take care of himself.”

  “I’ll bet that’s what Lundberg thought.”

  “All right, I’ll admit that I’m worried; but I’m not going to expose Hannah in a situation like this. I know her. She’s bored and thinks of this as a chance to play another role. Angie Cerva isn’t make-believe. His kind have people killed just to keep in practice.”

  “Do you want to see those commercials again?” Chester asked.

  “No! I’m going to bed!”

  Simon left Chester working with the projector and went to his own suite. He threw himself down on the bed and tried to relax but sleep wouldn’t come. Wherever he was, Keith should have at least tried to contact him by this time. He got up and smoked a cigarette and then went into the adjoining bedroom where Wanda had already deposited much of her wardrobe and many of her personal possessions. He checked his watch. He couldn’t phone her now—she would be on stage. He wanted her. He wanted her near him. He went to her desk, feminine and cluttered, and stared at a framed photograph of the two of them taken on the beach. She had left a scrapbook on the desk. He turned the pages idly. She had mailed back a pile of rave reviews from Las Vegas that hadn’t been pasted in yet. Behind them were the terse notices of her ill-fated play in New York and the news stories of her disappearance when she had been spirited away from Kennedy Airport and used as hostage in a previous case. Jack Keith had arranged her release that time. There was a back-stage shot of Wanda and Keith surrounded by members of the cast when she returned. One of the unidentified faces looked familiar. He found a magnifying glass and looked carefully. Certain that it was Sigrid Thorsen, he searched through the scrapbook until he found a playbill listing the full cast. One of the minor roles had been played by Sigrid Thorsen.

  You have been recommended to me as the most reliable private investigator operating in the Los Angeles, California area …

  The opening words of Keith’s letter from Stockholm came to mind. Sigrid Thorsen knew of him—but, surely, she knew also that her father was dead. He closed the scrapbook, turned off the lights and returned to his own room. He was on the balcony watching the way the moonlight painted the sea with silver when his reverie was shattered by the shrill demand of the telephone. He reached it at the second ring.

  “Hello?” he said.

  A brisk, business-like male voice responded. “This is the telephone company. Sorry to disturb you at this hour. There’s been an accident on the highway and some of the lines are down. We’re just testing.”

  “Where was the accident?” Simon asked.

  “San Marco Road. But your line’s clear. We’ll have everything clear by morning.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Simon said.

  The connection was cut and Simon lowered the phone back into the cradle with a sigh of relief. The voice he had just heard was Jack Keith’s.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MORNING. SIMON DROVE south along Coast Highway where traffic was sparse except for a few hearty tourists who had left their motels early to get a head start on the day’s destination. He took the cut-off to the San Marco Road and edged closer to the sea. It was a two-lane highway with no other traffic at all in the mile or more that terminated in a parking lot at the information centre of the huge atomic energy generating plant built at sea level a hundred feet below. There were two other cars in the parking lot: one, a small station wagon was parked near the doorway; the other, a dusty blue sedan was parked near the entrance. The station wagon, which probably belonged to a guard, was empty, but someone was seated behind the steering wheel of the sedan reading a newspaper. Simon parked in the adjoining space and got out of the Jaguar. Jack Keith lowered the paper and rolled down the window of the sedan.

  “What happened to your eye?” he asked.

  “I got careless,” Simon said. “What happened to you?”

  “According to the morning paper—nothing. I know the police are looking for me because I’ve got a short-wave radio in the Caddy, but they sure aren’t giving out much information on the Davis girl’s death.”

  “Did you kill her?” Simon asked.

  Jack stroked his jaw with an exploratory hand. The red beard was approaching the trim stage. Apart from that and eyes that wore circles from the lack of sleep, he looked well enough. “That’s what I like about lawyers,” he said, “always straight to the point. No, I didn’t kill her. I took her down to her apartment after somebody spilled a drink on her at Kelly’s party. We had a nightcap and she wanted to go to bed—alone. I decided that I’d had enough party, too, and went up to my place where I found you sacked out in the den. I went to bed in the bedroom and that’s all I know about Tracy Davis. Was she in the bedroom when you got up?”

  “I didn’t go into the bedroom. I looked in through the door and the bed was empty.”

  “Then she got there later when we were both out. After talking to you on the telephone, I had some calls to make. On the way I turned on my radio and picked up the homicide call at my building. I thought it might be Kelly. I don’t know why—she just seems like the sort who might get herself murdered some day. I played safe and parked on the street when I reached the building, and from one of the ambulance attendants I learned that the dead girl had been found in the penthouse—which meant my place—so I took off fast before the police could ask questions.”

  “That wasn’t very smart.”

  “It depends on your point of view. It’s tough for a private investigator to work behind bars, and there are certain police officers in this town who would love to put me there even for a few hours.”

  “Then don’t tell anybody but your lawyer that you went back to the apartment.”

  “I won’t. I left my car in the airport parking lot and picked up this clinker on a used car lot for five hundred dollars. I think they took me for at least two bills. I hope the transmission holds out long enough to see me through this mess. Which reminds me, I’m a little short of cash and I don’t like to risk showing my ID’s. Do you have any on you so early in the morning?”

  Simon took out his wallet and withdrew five twenties. Handing them to Keith, he said: “You may not believe this, but I came prepared just in case you asked. Where are you staying?”

  Keith shook his head vigorously. “If you don’t know, nobody can make you tell. I’ll write down my telephone number on my card. Don’t call except in an emergency, and, if a woman answers, don’t hang up.”

  “I might have known!”

  “No, it’s not what you think. Everything comes out in the wash, Simon, so be patient. Here, take the card. It’s a 213 code, by the way. What have you been doing all day?”

  “Looking for you, of course. I talked to a man named De Witt in New York City.”

  “Then you know about Sigrid and Sandovar. And he’s Sandovar all right. I’ll explain how I know that in a minute. That letter from Stockholm retained me to check on Arne Lundberg. After leaving the coroner’s office yesterday I did just that. His co-workers liked him—said he was quiet, worked hard and saved his money. He talked a lot about Sigrid and was always showing off her picture. No serious interest in any other girls.”

  “Mr Straight.”

  “So it seems. That’s an interesting outfit he worked for. They rent everything: sick-room supplies, party arrange
ments, television sets. Down in the harbour area they have a heavy equipment branch that rents tractors, cement mixers and every size of truck up to the biggest moving van.”

  “What were you doing in the harbour area?”

  “Working. I had checked Sands’s and Sigrid’s reservations, but Angie Cerva was at the airport the day of the plane crash, and Angie didn’t leave with Sands. I got better acquainted with that pretty little Eurasian at the auto rental booth and learned that Cerva left in a rented car with a chauffeur.”

  “Not a red Camaro,” Simon suggested.

  Keith grinned appreciatively. “So you’ve figured out that message on the key.”

  “Hannah did that.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past her. No, Cerva left the airport in a black Mercury sedan. The chauffeur was off duty when I made my inquiry, but the girl looked up the invoices and I checked on the car in the Red Arrow garage. It hadn’t been rented again. There was a parking lot ticket under the windshield wiper. Normally, parking is free at the Port of Los Angeles, but a fisherman’s benefit was held there over the weekend and permission given to charge a fee. That’s where Angie Cerva went when he left the airport Saturday—to the Port of Los Angeles.”

  “He couldn’t have stayed there. There are no hotels.”

  “That’s what I thought, so I drove down and found some harbour types whose memories improve at the sight of a ten-dollar bill. A well dressed, one-armed man arriving in a chauffeur-driven limousine was conspicuous. My informant says he paced the small boat-landing for about twenty minutes before a launch came for him. The chauffeur put his bag aboard and Cerva went off in the launch.”

  “Where to?”

  “That’s the interesting part. Even with a twenty-dollar bill in his hand, a wino remembers only what he sees. This one didn’t see any name on the launch. He heard some words exchanged but didn’t understand them. But a launch can go only so far, so I found one of those chopper pilots who give you a fast circle of the harbour area for three dollars and upped the ante. We kept circling farther and farther out to sea until I spotted an ocean-going yacht like you’ve never seen. The chopper pilot took me in close enough to read the name: Isobel. Later I checked the yacht registry. She’s owned by a Senior Tomas Arriba of Lisbon, who is also the natural uncle of Juan Sandovar.”