Severed Key

by Nielsen, Helen

  “Possibly.”

  “And if you do succeed in making a bomb—what then? Do you terrorize all of Latin America—or do you have more ambitious goals?”

  “Don’t belittle my country,” Sandovar said. “It’s small, but so is Switzerland and her bankers rule the world. A bomb gives a country prestige. There was a time when a miracle or two, cleverly arranged, was sufficient to sway masses of people. But people are sceptical of miracles today. Science is much more impressive. And some things are still basic. Wasn’t it Napoleon who said that God is on the side of the heaviest artillery?”

  “The name of the game is still power,” Simon said.

  “Exactly. A sensational coup d’état, a few world-wide headlines, and I will be back in control of my country—not as a prostitute of Washington or Moscow but on my own terms. Power belongs to those who have the imagination to grasp it, and I, frankly, have no desire to be lackey to anyone.”

  “Somehow, I’ve just never thought of a multi-millionaire in terms of being a lackey,” Simon mused.

  Sandovar smiled. “You’re a man of some means, Mr Drake. You know well enough that millions exist only on paper and can vanish overnight if power falls into the wrong hands. There are others besides myself who don’t like the direction in which the world seems to be moving. Some of your own countrymen have vast holdings in Latin America which your government seems to have lost the vigour to protect. Freedom is always relative. Whose freedom—and for what? Do you really think the life of a peasant or an aborigine is the ideal state of man? Of course not! If it were he would have remained there. Man dreams and his dream is always of bettering himself. That’s why he’s a man and not an animal.”

  “With some men it’s a compliment to the animal,” Simon said wryly. “Angelo Cerva isn’t exactly aristocracy.”

  “But he has a useful organization.”

  “Why was Lundberg killed?”

  Sandovar seemed disturbed by the blunt question. “Lundberg? Oh, yes. The broken-hearted fiancé of Sigrid Thorsen. I read in the newspapers that he drowned himself.”

  “And I read in your face that it was no suicide the morning I met you at the hotel pool and told you he was dead. What was the problem? Did he know too much about Gerard Rentals?”

  “That’s not a part of my organization.”

  “But you’re here. This apartment may be new, but it looks permanent. It looks like the headquarters for a continuing operation. Handy for the shipyards. Not too far from airports. And that is a portrait of your father over the mantelpiece, isn’t it? It sure doesn’t resemble Angelo Cerva.”

  “You shouldn’t have come here, Drake.”

  “I had to come. How else could I find out who dumped a dead woman in my friend’s bed?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sandovar said.

  “Possibly not. As you say, that’s not a part of your organization. But if you saw today’s newspapers you must have read about the search for Jack Keith. A murder charge is a neat way of taking a man out of circulation when he’s getting too close to the truth.”

  “That’s nothing to me!”

  “It should be. Somebody hired Keith to check on Lundberg and his associates days before that plane crashed into the sea. He received a letter from Stockholm supposedly sent by the girl’s father.”

  “That’s impossible!” Sandovar exclaimed.

  “Of course it is. Her father’s been dead for months. You were close enough to her in New York to know that.”

  Sandovar was angry and confused. He came to his feet quickly as if to reassert his authority. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he said. “I think you’re lying!”

  “No you don’t,” Simon answered. “You know damned well there was a letter from Stockholm because neither Keith nor I could have dreamed up a story like that. If you didn’t write it, if Sigrid didn’t write it—”

  “Sigrid!” Sandovar shouted. “Why would she hire a detective? She knew nothing!”

  Sandovar’s voice was too loud. People didn’t shout answers they were certain about.

  “—then there’s always Cerva,” Simon added. “He might want insurance just in case such big-moneyed associates decided to play dead if he got caught and needed help. After all, it would have been just as easy to kill Keith as to frame him.”

  “There was to be no killing!” Sandovar insisted.

  “That was before the plane went into the sea with the money aboard. You could raise more cash, certainly, but if one of the girl’s bags was recovered it was possible the one with the money had been fished out of the sea too. Cerva might not risk looking for it—he stands to make much more playing the game your way. But some of his lieutenants might try a little moonlighting. One way or another, there has been killing.”

  Sandovar picked up the blue suitcase and carried it to the desk. The drapes at the window were open. He looked out over the wide yard below, glancing down at the activity in the garage and then letting his eyes follow the course of a small yellow helicopter that was making a wide circle towards the area. He seemed younger than his years. His face had almost a Botticelli quality as he turned towards Simon.

  “Where did you get the suitcase?” he asked.

  “From the sea,” Simon said.

  “It doesn’t look the worse for wear.”

  “It’s not the original. Luggage is easy to duplicate.”

  “So you’ve had the money all this time. Why didn’t you keep it? The bills are unmarked.”

  “I took that for granted.”

  “Could it be that you’re interested in higher stakes? Sorry, Drake, but I have a good lawyer.”

  “I know. Your uncle, Tomas. His yacht’s been sighted off the coast. He doesn’t have good taste in guests.”

  Sandovar was getting angry. “I said that you knew too much!” he snapped.

  “Not only that. I didn’t come here alone.”

  “You’re lying! The grounds were searched as soon as my bodyguard found you on the roof. Now I have another question. Who impersonated Sigrid Thorsen today?”

  “A friend.”

  “A friend? You shock me, Drake. What a shabby thing to do with a friend. Suppose the driver had brought her here?”

  “I would have stopped him the first time he made a wrong turn.”

  “And now you think your friend is safe at the hotel. How could you be so careless?”

  Simon came to his feet—slowly because he was still shaken from the fight on the roof. “Is there any reason why she shouldn’t be safe?” he demanded. “—Or … my God, that’s it! Sigrid Thorsen was never slated to leave the hotel alive! You said she knew nothing—but she did know that she carried an extra bag that was to be picked up by a driver who carried the other half of a severed key. She would have told her fiancé, sooner or later, and you couldn’t risk any loose ends. No wonder she wasn’t allowed to tell him she was flying in a week early on your reservation!”

  Simon moved towards the desk with both fists clenched. “There was to be no killing!” he scoffed. “Were you trying to make yourself believe that? Or do you make a practice of getting rid of unwanted girlfriends by turning them over to gangsters?”

  “You annoy me,” Sandovar said, “as a buzzing insect annoys me. Sigrid Thorsen was a friend. I manage my love life without outside interference.”

  “To hell with your love life! I want to know what was going to happen to the girl when she reached the hotel. Someone very dear to me is in her room now.”

  “And you’re here where you can’t do a thing to help her. Drake, grow up. You knew you were asking for this situation when you let another woman take Sigrid’s place. When it comes to the casual disposition of ladies, you’re not so gallant, it seems. And don’t be so foolish as to get physical. The guard who found you is in the next room. I have only to call—”

  “Don’t you ever fight your own fights?” Simon challenged.

  Sandovar stiffened. He was about as charming a
s a cobra when he answered. “I will tell you this much, Drake. I was a boy when my father was murdered. One day we were fishing together in the mountains and the next night I was taken under cover of darkness and flown to a place of safety. I never saw my father again but a few weeks later my uncle showed me a photograph of his body. Can you imagine how a boy feels to look at his father’s mutilated corpse as it was when the rebels were through with him? I vowed then that I would return to San Isobel one day.

  “At that time I wanted only vengeance—not power. Orders were given. My family has never been without friends in my country. Three years after my father’s death Uncle Tomas took me on a cruise to a small island and gave me a birthday present: the man responsible for my father’s death. He had been watched all those years. The first time he ventured out of San Isobel he was kidnapped and brought to this place where I could dispose of him as I wished. I indulged myself. I had him kept alive for a full thirty days before he was given a loaded pistol and taken out to face me on an old duelling ground. At the given signal I fired and he fell dead, but when I reached his body I saw that he had emptied the shells from his gun on the earth. The torture had been too much. He wanted to die. My revenge was spoiled. There’s no honour in killing a man who is finished with life. So I have learned to live for more rewarding goals—but I tell you this, Drake, no life, not Sigrid’s, not that of the woman in her room at the hotel, not even yours will stand in the way of my completing what must be done tonight.”

  Tonight. It was still daylight. Through the wide window Simon could see the yellow helicopter circling in a sunset sky clabbered with strawberry clouds. It was too far from the landing pad at the port. If Keith had made another deal with the pilot Simon hoped he wouldn’t land in the yard. A live ally beat a dead one every time.

  “And the new goal is power,” Simon reflected. “I think I liked vengeance better. At least there was emotion in it.”

  “Love of country is an emotion,” Sandovar said.

  “Love of country—yes. But not the rape of a country.”

  “Rape?” Sandovar scoffed. “What do you think these guerillas who strike in the night with bombs and bullets are doing? What are they after? Power, of course! Power for whom? For themselves! When rebels kill a landowner and take over his estate does it then become a school or a hospital for the poor? Hardly. It becomes the estate of the new conqueror. Its men become his slaves; its women become his whores. I’ve seen enough of revolutions to know. So don’t preach to me, Drake. I know human nature. If you were to walk out of here and go before the people with charges against me I would have only to deny them, gracefully, and point out that you’re a lawyer who represents corporate interests. More people fear and distrust lawyers than fear wealthy playboys. That’s why I work so hard to maintain my image.”

  “I’ll accept the challenge,” Simon said.

  Sandovar smiled. “I almost wish it were possible. But when you invaded these premises you became an operational problem—not a personal adversary. But relax. Pour yourself another drink. We’re going to sit it out here together until the trucks roll in any event.”

  The telephone was inches from Simon’s hand. While he speculated on his chances of silencing Sandovar long enough to get a call through to Hannah, the wayfaring helicopter dipped lower and hovered, sputtering, just above the roofline of the building. For a moment it appeared about to land in the truckyard, then, still sputtering erratically, it moved out of the line of vision of the windows. Almost simultaneously, the man in the white jacket who had greeted the laundry truck when Simon entered the premises, burst into the study to announce that the machine had landed on the roof.

  Sandovar reacted immediately. “Tell Luis to keep his gun out of sight,” he ordered, “and to say nothing until I arrive.” Without taking his eyes from Simon’s face, he picked up one of the telephones on the desk and called the garage in the service yard below. He spoke softly, in Spanish, ordering that the doors of the garage be closed until further notice. He put down the telephone and Simon could see the wide doors being pulled over the opening to hide the newly painted trailers that were being got ready for the diesel cabs in the yard. “I’ll have to take you up to the roof with me,” Sandovar said. “I notice how much the telephones tempt you. Come on. You know the way.”

  Simon walked back through the kitchen to the rear stairway with Sandovar at his heels. The door to the roof was open and Luis’ huge shadow fell across the top stairs. He moved aside to let Simon and Sandovar on to the roof but his hand was in his pocket where he kept the pistol. The houseman in the white jacket had gone to the helicopter. The door was open. The pilot, a wiry young man who wore a blue zipper jacket over his jeans had leaped down to the roof and was speaking earnestly to the houseman. Behind him, inside the craft, the passengers, two teenage boys and a young woman waited nervously.

  “Miguel!” Sandovar called sharply. “What is the problem?”

  The houseman, waving the pilot to silence, trotted back across the roof. “The pilot says his motor stalled. He’s running out of gas. He saw the pumps in the truckyard—”

  “Tell him there’s a service station three blocks down the street. He can go there.”

  “He has a five-gallon container. He wants to get enough fuel from the yard to fly back to his base,” Miguel explained.

  “Tell him the pumps are locked for the day and we don’t have the key. Get him out of here—pronto!”

  Simon watched the pilot. He had partially unzipped his jacket and taken out a pack of cigarettes and a match folder. He tried to light the cigarette but the wind blew out the match. He walked across the roof to where the metal chimney from the fireplace extended about four feet above the asphalt and leaned towards it, using the chimney and the billowing cloth of the loosened jacket as a shield against the wind. When he turned around again, the cigarette was in his mouth, smoking.

  Miguel, shrugging, walked back to the helicopter to meet the pilot. The wind took their words away but Miguel’s hands were eloquent. The pilot protested to no avail. Miguel pointed in the direction of the service station. The pilot nodded, dropped the cigarette to the roof and climbed back into the machine. Moments later the motor started and the craft lifted slowly, circled the roof and moved off in the direction of the service station. Simon followed it with his eyes as long as possible and then walked over to the still-smoking cigarette and ground it out with his shoe.

  “Tough luck,” Sandovar said. “Those fool exhibitionists should learn to watch their gauges.”

  Simon reached into his pocket and took out his cigarettes and matches. When he tried to light the cigarette the match blew out in the wind.

  “Don’t look so despondent, Drake,” Sandovar called. “We have a few hours to spend here together and Miguel is an excellent cook. Do you have a preference in wine?”

  “I doubt that I could improve on your taste,” Simon said.

  Sandovar laughed and motioned Miguel back down the stairs to the kitchen. Simon walked over to the metal chimney and started to repeat the pilot’s lighting process but Luis was instantly at his side with a shielded lighter. “Thanks,” Simon said. He leaned forward to accept the light and caught a glimpse of the snub-nosed .38 the pilot had placed on a flange under the metal hood of the chimney. Keith had delivered his gun.

  “Watch him, Luis,” Sandovar called. “I have to call the garage and get those trucks moving.”

  Sandovar disappeared down the stairway. Luis, grinning, pocketed his lighter.

  “I take good care of you,” he said.

  “Why?” Simon asked. “Does Sandovar have another set of duelling pistols?”

  “Duelling?” Luis repeated. “What is duelling?”

  “It’s when both men have a gun,” Simon said, “—like this!”

  He pushed the lighted cigarette into Luis’ face with one hand and grabbed for the concealed gun with the other. Luis was off balance just long enough to give Simon the advantage, and there was too much of Luis to
invite another fight. Simon swung the gun with all his strength against the man’s skull and caught him with a brutal karate chop as he fell. Luis was unconscious before his face ground into the asphalt. Simon rolled him over and pulled his gun out of his pocket. Keith’s weapon was enough. He tossed Luis’ into the rain gutter as he ran back to the stairway.

  He found Miguel in the kitchen basting a roast at the oven. “It needs more garlic,” Simon said. “Exhale.”

  All of Miguel’s face went into the roasting pan when the gun butt laced across the back of his neck. Simon dragged him to the roof stairway, pushed him inside and closed the door. He slid the safety bolt home and walked back to the study.

  Sandovar was at the desk. He had just replaced the telephone when Simon pointed the gun at his head.

  “Pick it up again,” he ordered. “Call the gateman and tell him to get it open because you’re driving through in about two minutes. Tell him anything else and I’ll blow you through that window.”

  Sandovar’s hand poised over the instrument. “Luis!” he called.

  “Luis is a very sick man. So is Miguel. Pick up the telephone.”

  Sandovar obeyed. He relayed the message to the gateman just as Simon told him to do. Through the window could be seen the resumed activities. The yard lights had come on. The garage doors were open and one of the diesels was backing up to be hitched to a trailer. Each cab had taken on another man and these men, Simon knew, would be Cerva’s and would be armed. He had one small handgun and it had to take him through the yard and out of the gates. When Sandovar completed the call, Simon picked up the suitcase and waved Sandovar to the door with the gun. He was a step behind him all the way down the stairs to the garage under the apartment. The Ferrari had been backed into the garage for a quick exit, and that was a help. Sandovar opened the door on the driver’s side and Simon tossed the suitcase inside.

  “You’re driving,” he said.

  He got into the back seat and squatted on the floor with the gun pointed at the back of Sandovar’s head. “I don’t indulge in fantasies of revenge,” he said. “I just shoot when it’s my life or somebody else’s. Let’s go.”