Simon nodded grimly.
“Good! I bought three altogether: this one, an overnight bag and one a size larger. It seemed about the right size to hold whatever Sigrid was carrying. As Chester says, the store won’t take them back when they’re initialled.”
“Then give them to a rummage sale. I won’t let you go through with this!”
“But we have it all planned. Chester will drive me to the airport. After I go off to the hotel in the Red Arrow rental, he will drive to the hotel in my car and take a room near to mine, which is to say—Sigrid’s. There’s no danger to me, Simon.”
“What do I do—pray?”
“You play it by ear,” Chester said.
“I play nothing! I’m going back downtown, and let you two play games with yourselves.”
He climbed back into the Jaguar and headed seawards. He drove to a bluff overlooking the marina, a quiet place where the only sound was the wind worrying the tall grass. Free from the cacophony of traffic he used the telephone in his car to ring the number Keith had given him. There was no answer. He turned on the radio and listened to the noon news which now covered the released information on Tracy Davis’s death and the search for Jack Keith. When it was over he rang Keith’s number again and heard the phone ring eight times before he gave up on the call.
In the commercial section of Marina Beach, in the modern community centre known as the laundromat, the Tijuana newly-weds were toiling over the tribal ritual of the family wash. Sunny, wearing sandals and an ankle-length cotton granny gown, dutifully separated the whites from the coloureds and the permaprest from the plain while Bobby’s fingers prowled the pockets of his levis for enough coins to set three machines in motion.
“You’ll have to get some bleach from the dispenser for Travis’s new shirt. He’s got beer stains all over the ruffles.”
“He drank too much last night,” Bobby said. “He gets mean when he drinks too much. It’s like he’s got a volcano inside him just waiting to go wham!”
“He should get another girl. Nita likes to tease.”
“It’s not Nita’s fault. Travis flies too high. I think he’s on speed again.”
“That’s trouble, man.”
“That’s trouble anytime. Now it’s double trouble.”
“Now? What do you mean?”
Bobby dumped a whole box of bleach into the whites washer. Then, as an afterthought, pulled off his T-shirt and stuffed it into the steaming hot water before closing the lid that set the machine in motion.
“What do you mean—now?” Sunny repeated.
“I was just talking.”
“Bobby, why don’t we cut out? I mean, it’s Travis’s van but we’ve both got jobs and enough bread to pay for the pad without him.”
“You want me to tell him to leave?”
“Well, now that we’re hitched—why not? It’s not like putting him out on the street. He can sleep in the van like he did up north.”
“I can’t do that,” Bobby said.
Sunny pushed the coins into the other washers and watched the red lights come on. She slid her arms about Bobby’s waist and brushed her soft hair against his bare shoulder. “You could try,” she said.
“No, I can’t. Not now.” Bobby pulled loose and walked to the bulletin board on the opposite wall. “‘What would an airline career mean to you?’” he read aloud. “Hey, how about that? Can’t you just see me up there in the wild blue yonder driving one of those 747’s? Maybe you could be a stewardess like in that movie Airport.” Bobby made a mouthpiece of one fist and cupped the other hand to his ear. “‘Pilot to stewardess’”, he intoned officiously. “‘Don’t lose your cool, Miss Sunny. Keep the passengers happy. Don’t let them look back and they won’t notice the rear end of the fuselage was just blown off by a bomb.’”
She started laughing and that was a good way to get her off the subject of Travis—because with all that bread in the suitcase buried under a slab of broken concrete in the garage, there was no way to get rid of Travis. No way at all. In a few minutes Sunny slipped a shoulder bag over her arm and started towards the door.
“You watch the machines,” she said. “I’m going over to Sprouse to get you some socks. That weird manager at the Sombrero gets uptight when the busboys come to work without socks. I guess he’s afraid somebody’s going to walk barefoot through the enchiladas.”
“They might taste better,” Bob called after her.
She made a face at him and swung off down the street swinging the bag on her arm.
Bob was pushing the last of the third washerful into the dryer when something that sounded like a trial heat for the Riverside 500 roared into the parking lot and screeched to a halt inches away from the plate-glass window. It was a sports coupé painted bright orange with black racing stripes and the driver who swung out from behind the steering wheel to greet him with a rebel yell was Travis. The girl, Nita, was in the front seat, smiling.
Travis came to the doorway and cried: “Hey, look what getting hitched did to Bobby, boy! One day married and he’s already doing the wash.”
“Where did you get those wheels?” Bob demanded.
Travis, twisting like an acrobatic dancer, looked back at the car. “Some wheels!” he said. “Tell me the truth now, Bobby, ain’t those some beautiful wheels?”
“I asked where you got them.”
“I traded the van. Easy deal, man. Easy wheel deal. I guess that makes me a real wheeler dealer.”
Bob was beginning to look frightened. “What do you mean—traded? You’ve got no credit. You’ve got no job.”
“But I’ve got savvy. I’ve got charisma. I’ve got rhythm.”
“You’ve got a headful of something. What have you been dropping?”
“Who said anything about dropping?”
“Smoking, then. Let me look at your eyes.”
Travis backed towards the car. “Oh, no. You don’t know me that well. Nita can look at my eyes. Not you.”
“Take the car back. You can’t pay for it.”
“I don’t have to pay for it. It’s mine. I got a new guitar, too. I’m going up to Hollywood to make a recording of some songs I wrote. I’m going to sell a million records.”
“You’re going to jail!” Bob shouted. “You’re freaked out!”
“I’m going to call myself Travy Dean. Ain’t that wild? Travy Dean with his hair cut long and his jeans cut lean.”
“You blew it!” Bob howled. “You crazy fool! You blew it!”
He lunged for Travis and grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket. Caught off guard, Travis fell back against the hood of the car. “Take the car back!” Bob shouted. “Idiot! Take it back!”
He was bouncing Travis against the front grill when one of the fists Travis had started flailing caught him on the jaw. There was an animal fury behind the blow that shook loose his grasp on the lapels. He staggered backwards and caught another fist—this time low on the stomach—and that blow buckled his knees and sent him sprawling on the pavement. Behind the roaring in his head he could hear Nita screaming as she leaped out of the car.
“Don’t kill him! Don’t kill him!” she cried. “Come on, Trav, let’s get out of here. Come on, baby, let’s go!”
“He’s a punk,” Travis said. “Look, his face is bleeding. I hit him once and his face is bleeding!”
“Sure, he’s a punk,” Nita agreed, “so why waste it on a punk? Let’s go.”
Travis straightened his lapels and got back into the car. By the time Bob could get to his feet the orange car had backed away and was roaring towards the street. The manager of the laundromat reached the doorway as it pulled out of sight.
“What’s going on here?” he yelled. “Who hit you?”
Bob wiped the blood from his face. “I fell,” he said. “Look, my wife will be back in a few minutes. You tell her I fell and cut my face and went home to wash up.”
“Sure, I’ll tell her. But there’s a washroom in the back—”
“
You tell her,” Bob said.
His legs were rubbery when he started to run but he kept on running. He had to get to that broken slab in the garage before Sunny came home. Travis had gone wild, the way he feared, and was high enough on something to get them all behind bars. Bob didn’t know much about the law, but he knew nobody could have lost so much money off a yacht without trying to get it back. And the law was always on the side of the money—always. He stuck to the alleys because the highway was always teeming with black and whites and cops who had it in for long hairs. Especially a long hair without a shirt and with blood on his face. He ran all the way, even the part that was uphill, and when he reached the little frame house at the back of a lot he didn’t go inside at all but ran straight to the old garage where Travis had parked the van. The door was open. He ran inside and pulled away the dustbins that stood over the broken cement. The slab was out of place as if it had just been moved. He shoved it aside and pulled out the blue suitcase. At least it was still there. Travis hadn’t gone completely crazy and made off with the whole thing. He knelt on the garage floor and opened the bag. The money was still inside—most of it. One, two, three of the packets were missing. He snapped the lid shut and locked the suitcase and then shoved it back into the hole. But it couldn’t stay there now. He would have to find another place. Travis would be back when the money ran out—if the police didn’t get to him first.
Later in the afternoon Simon reached a decision. He couldn’t reach Keith and he couldn’t help him alone. Howard was on the visiting team, but Pete Franzen was a personal friend who shared a common bond of contempt for political use of the law. Franzen worked without one eye cocked for the headlines or the TV cameras. He could risk telling him that he was in Keith’s apartment the morning of the day Tracy Davis died and try to steer the murder hunt in another direction. And so Simon drove down to the civic centre and parked opposite the City Hall. Walking across the street he noticed a forlorn figure lingering just outside the entrance to the parking lot; a slender young man in tight blue jeans and a poplin zipper jacket open on his bare, sun-tanned chest. He seemed about to enter the building but, seeing Simon, waited. He ran forward and met Simon at the kerb.
“You’re Simon Drake, the lawyer,” he said. “Somebody told me who you are after you helped Trav and Sunny and me get away from that cop on the highway.”
Simon remembered. “The psychedelic van,” he said. “Which one are you?”
“Bob—Bobby. I’m called both ways. Mr Drake, does a good lawyer like you cost a lot of money?”
“That depends on what I’m hired for.”
“Well, like advice. Yeah, that’s what I need now. Advice.”
“What kind of advice?”
The boy ran a handful of nervous fingers through his mop of long hair. “Well, suppose somebody was walking on the beach. Not looking for anything—just walking. And suppose he found something in a pile of seaweed. Something that fell off a yacht, maybe, and was washed up on the beach in a storm.”
“What did you find?” Simon asked.
“I didn’t say that I found anything. I just said suppose somebody found a suitcase under all that seaweed. Would that be what they call a treasure trove? Would it belong to the fellow that found it?”
“Was there any identification?”
“No, no sir! Well, there was the initials on the bag. That’s all the identification.”
“What are the initials?”
The boy seemed suddenly aware that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He hastily pulled up the zipper of the jacket to the collar line. “S and T,” he said. “But that’s no identification. A lot of people could have initials S and T.”
Simon took hold of the boy’s arm and tightened his grip on the young muscles under the cotton. “What colour is the bag?” he demanded.
“Blue. A kind of faded blue. Mister Drake, I asked you—”
“Have you opened the bag?”
“Travis said it was legally ours because it was treasure trove.”
“Forget Travis! Did you open the bag?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s in it?”
“A lot of money. Travis said maybe a million dollars. I got to know where we stand with the law because Travis just took off—”
“Did he take the bag?”
“No. It’s still where we hid it. He took some of the money.”
Simon, still clutching the boy’s arm, hustled him back across the street and pushed him inside the Jaguar. He slammed the door and then went around to the driver’s side and got in behind the steering wheel. “Now,” he said, “tell me where you’ve got that bag hidden.”
An hour later, after having sworn Bob to silence on the threat of having the entire legal structure of the state of California thrown at him, Simon drove back to The Mansion with the blue suitcase on the seat beside him. He took it into the house and found Hannah, surrounded by the new luggage, playing Sigrid Thorsen for Chester’s critical eye. He walked into the room and placed the battered bag on the floor beside the new luggage.
“There’s been a substitution in the choice of props,” he said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE IDEA WAS wild enough to work. Hannah was delighted. While Simon detailed the plan, Chester began to transfer the money from the sea-battered suitcase to its new counterpart. He didn’t take time to count it, but because Travis had taken some of the packets it was necessary to build up the bottom layer with cut paper.
“It seems a shame to leave all this cash in the suitcase,” he said. “We could fill in everything but the top layer with cut paper—”
“And risk blowing the whole scheme,” Simon protested. “It’s not our money, remember. It isn’t as if we were going out to pay a ransom. This is pay-off money and if we’re going to find out what it’s being used for, we have to let go of the real stuff. It not only has to look good, it has to be good.”
“I’ve got some soul brothers hustling baggage at LAX,” Chester said. “I’ll get fresh tags made out to look as if Hannah just stepped off the morning plane from New York. But what about the lock on the money bag? Somebody has the key for the old one. It probably won’t fit the replacement. Shall I leave it unlocked?”
“Too risky,” Simon said. “Haven’t you ever had a suitcase lock stick—especially when the bag’s too full? Go ahead and lock the new bag. By this time the one it’s intended for is anxious enough not to get hung up over a lock. He’ll break it open just the way the kids on the beach did when they found the original. The baggage-tag idea is great. After you’ve taken care of that get over to the room I’m reserving for you at the hotel and sit tight. Hannah will contact you as soon as she checks in.”
“Where will you be, Simon?” Hannah asked.
“Following you—all the way. If the plan works and the contact is a Red Arrow driver he should take you directly to the hotel. If he makes one wrong turn I’ll call the police on the telephone in my car and stop him if I have to cut him off at the pass myself. That’s one car I don’t intend to let out of my sight.”
They went over every detail before retiring. In the morning the real work began.
Immediately after the arrival of the New York plane at Los Angeles International Hannah, wearing the blonde wig, large round sunglasses, a trim travelling suit and carrying one of her walking sticks, appeared at the counter of the Red Arrow Auto Rentals and explained in a heavy accent that she desired to rent a car and a driver.
“I haf injured my ankle—see?” she said. “I must now use the valking stick. A taxi cab is too bumpy. I vant a car and a driver, please.”
The application was prepared. She signed it and produced the fee. The girl asked if she had a preference in automobiles and Hannah replied that she wanted a red Camaro. She smiled. “It is my lucky colour. It is vat my astrologer says.”
The girl, shaking her head over the idiosyncrasies of customers, telephoned the garage and relayed the request. The response seemed to surprise her. “W
hat message?” she asked. “Oh, all right. I’ll wait until you get George.” She looked up at Hannah, smiling. “We’re trying to find your car,” she explained.
Hannah nodded. “I vait. The porter is coming now. He has my luggage.”
The girl returned to the telephone and became engaged in serious conversation. “Yes, I know it’s a peculiar request. Of course she looks all right. She’s very attractive, in fact. Blonde. Swedish, I think. Her name? It’s here on the application: Sigrid Thorsen, New York City. Listen, George, do you have the car or don’t you?” She paused a few moments, listening, and then put down the telephone.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Miss Thorsen,” she said. “There’s some kind of confusion in the garage. I’m not sure we can get you a red Camaro, but as long as you’re hiring a chauffeur—”
“I take vat I can get,” Hannah smiled. “I don’t vant trouble because I hav a lucky colour.”
“Besides, you’re wearing blue,” the girl said, icily.
“That is also my lucky colour,” Hannah retorted.
The important thing was that she had used the words on the key and caused some consternation. The rest had to be played by ear. Her body, responding to her mind, betrayed only the slightest limp as she followed the porter to the street. Within a few minutes a black chauffeur-driven sedan pulled up to the kerb and the driver stepped out. He glanced at the array of blue luggage stacked at the kerb and unlocked the trunk.
“I’ll put the bags in,” he told the porter.
Hannah gave the porter a bill. When he was gone the chauffeur studied her carefully.
“One of your bags is unlocked,” he said. “Do you have the key?”
She opened her purse. This was the moment that would tell if anything would come of the performance. Silently, she handed him the severed key with the tag attached. He looked at it and slipped it into his pocket.
“You’re six days late,” he said.
She tapped the cane. “I hurt my ankle. I missed the plane.”
Severed Key Page 14
