The Disappearance (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “—want to go inside,” Allingham was saying.

  “What?”

  “I said, I want to go inside. I—I’ll talk to him inside.”

  “I can’t let you do that, Mr. Allingham. It’s too—”

  “He’s mine—my son. You can’t stop me.” His voice was edged with a habitual brusque authority.

  I took a slow, deep breath. “Yes, Mr. Allingham, I can stop you. I’m in command here, and I’m very busy trying to figure out how to keep your son from killing anyone else, with your gun. So either you—”

  “Please.” He raised his hands as if he were offering me a fragile gift. There was no authority in his voice now. “Please, Lieutenant. The bullhorn, it—it would embarrass us. Both of us.”

  Not replying, I watched the last of the visitors leaving the glass building. Then, deliberately, I turned back to Allingham. His eyes were clearer now, steadier. He looked like a better risk.

  “You’re sure?” I asked.

  “Yes. Please.”

  “All right. Come on.”

  He fell obediently into step beside me.

  “You’d better do all the talking,” I said as we began walking together down the gentle slope. “I’ll stay a step or two behind you. Do whatever you want, say whatever you want. If there’s any … problem … I’ll take care of it. But just talk to him, first. Get him talking; say anything. Then tell him to lay the gun down and walk away from it. Don’t tell him to give it to you; that’s asking for trouble. Tell him to lay it on the floor, then tell him to step back. When he does, you advance, get hold of your kid. I’ll take care of the gun. When I’ve got it, then we take him out. Not before. Understand?”

  He was looking straight ahead, walking with an odd shuffling stride, as if he hadn’t walked on grass for years. We were passing through the police line. “Will you take him to jail?” he asked in a low, indistinct voice, still staring straight ahead.

  “Yes. Certainly.”

  He nodded, not replying. As we approached the entrance, my three men came out. I told Allingham to stop a few feet from the plate-glass door, off to one side.

  “Did you see him?” I asked Culligan, keeping my eye on Allingham.

  “No. But one of the visitors—a teenage girl—said she saw someone crouched down in the orchid section. That’s toward the back, so it could be. Didn’t he go in through the back service door?”

  I nodded. “Everyone out?”

  “As far as I know. I didn’t actually go into the orchid section.”

  “All right, good.” Briefly I explained my plan, putting Culligan in charge. I instructed the three inspectors to stay outside unless they heard a shot, then to come running. Standing in a silent, skeptical semicircle, they nodded. I went to the glass door, pushed it open and waited for Allingham to precede me.

  On the threshold he halted, standing motionless. I heard him sigh deeply. He cleared his throat, raised his chin and tried to square his shoulders. He ran fumbling fingers through his thick, graying hair. Something in the halting, awkward ritual reminded me of a has-been actor, waiting for his cue. Now, uncertainly, he stepped forward. I followed, letting the glass door swing silently shut behind me. I unbuttoned my jacket, transferred my revolver from its holster to my belt band, then rebuttoned the jacket. I pointed ahead, down a wide flagstone walkway flanked by enormous exotic foliage and bright tropical blooms. “That way,” I whispered.

  He nodded woodenly, walking without hesitation now, his eyes fixed straight ahead. In another few feet, we’d be entering the orchid section.

  “That’s the area,” I whispered.

  He seemed not to hear me, but his pace didn’t slacken. Slowly, steadily, we proceeded to the intersection of two flagstone walkways, marking the center of the orchid section. We were surrounded by countless plants, most of them rising higher than our heads.

  “Stop here,” I whispered. “Stand still.”

  He obeyed. I stood beside him. Methodically I scanned the area within my vision, but without turning my head. Was he in there? Could he have slipped out? Could he have—

  From behind me came the sudden sound of tight, high-pitched laughter. Slowly I turned to face the sound. Now I saw him. He was crouched behind a counter; only his head was visible. The magnum was propped on the countertop, aimed directly at us. The range was less than fifteen feet; the gun was unwavering. He couldn’t miss. My instinct was to drop to the floor, protecting myself. My shirt was soaked with sweat. I glanced at Allingham. He, too, was facing the gun, standing beside me. He’d gone very pale. The pink tip of his tongue repeatedly circled his twitching lips. His throat bobbed. His hands hung limp at his sides, as if some central nerve had been severed.

  “Do you remember the summer you taught me to shoot, Pops?” The mocking words came very softly, as if the boy’s voice were muffled by the heavy, fetid greenhouse atmosphere.

  Allingham opened his mouth, but said nothing. His throat was still working. I knew that feeling, that terrible dryness of mouth and throat.

  “It was at Lake Tahoe,” the soft voice continued, “just before Labor Day. I was ten and a half. I remember that you were wearing a white sports shirt and flannel slacks, because you were on your way to a cocktail party. All summer you’d promised to teach me to shoot. And you always keep your promises. Even in flannel slacks.”

  “Darrell. Please. I—”

  “But now we’ve suddenly got a generation gap, Pops. Like everyone else in the neighborhood.” His voice rose, bitter, unsteady. “We’ve got the biggest generation gap of all, just like we’ve got the shiniest Mercedes, and the oldest first editions, and the most expensive Scotch. And the best-stacked maid. Did you ever notice, Pops, how well stacked Maria was? Do you notice things like that?”

  “Darrell, give me the gun. Your mother, she’ll—”

  “She’ll be distressed. Deep inside her secret, super-refined psyche she’ll be distressed, especially by all the nasty, vulgar publicity. But she won’t let it show. She’ll twist her hands, and hold her neck stiffer, and pinch in her nostrils, watching it all on TV. I see they’ve got a TV camera set up outside. I surprised myself, watching it. I discovered that I like the idea of being suddenly famous. You always hear that people do things like this because they want recognition, want to be a big shot. It always sounded silly to me. Now, though, it doesn’t. Suddenly it doesn’t sound silly at all, Pops. All my life, it seems like I’ve been trying to get someone to notice me—look at me. Listen to me. I don’t think, all my life, anyone’s ever—” His voice caught, and for a moment there was silence. Slowly I unbuttoned my coat.

  “You’ve got a gun there, haven’t you?”

  I cleared my throat. “Policemen carry guns. It goes with the job, Darrell.”

  I saw the magnum move slightly, lining up on me.

  “I can shoot you right now, Lieutenant. Right in the chest. Right—”

  “Darrell, for God’s sake.” Allingham moved a shaky step forward. “Don’t, for God’s sake. The girl—Maria—we can get you out of that. A good lawyer—two, three good lawyers. We’ll—”

  “She laughed at me.” The high-pitched voice quavered. He was cracking, coming apart. In the next few moments, anything could happen. I edged slightly behind the father. I didn’t want a medal.

  “She got me down in her room, and turned out the lights, and got me on the bed. I was afraid—afraid to go, afraid to stay. My head was throbbing. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, because of the throbbing. But I could hear her say she wanted money. I said I didn’t have any money—not enough, anyhow. But then she laughed at me when I couldn’t—couldn’t—”

  “Darrell—” Allingham was moving toward him, stumbling, groping forward. “Darrell. Please.”

  “Everything went black.” The boy giggled. I saw the gun twitch with the half-hysterical laughter. “That’s something else you always hear: that everything turns black. But it—it’s true. It happened. Because black is where it all starts. For everyone. And
blackness—nothingness—is where it all ends. And suddenly I looked to see her lying with her tongue hanging out, and her throat all swollen and yellow and blue, staring at the ceiling but not even blinking. So then I went up to the kitchen and—”

  “Give me the gun, Darrell. Please. Please give me the gun. We’ll—” Suddenly the father began to cry, his shoulders heaving with deep, convulsive sobs. Mutely he raised both arms, advancing on the boy. Standing perfectly still, hands at my sides, I watched the father stumble toward his son. The boy slowly rose from his crouch, then began to retreat, shaking his head. The gun was lowered, pointing toward the floor. The boy’s back was pressed against the glass panes of the greenhouse wall. Now Allingham, close to the boy, was sinking slowly to his knees. I could plainly see the father’s streaming cheeks. His sagging mouth formed mumbled, meaningless words; his shaking hands were raised in a beggar’s spasm of mute entreaty. He was groping for the revolver. His hands found the boy’s right forearm, then began plucking downward, to fasten crook-fingered around the gun. The boy, head bent, seemed suddenly uncertain—baffled, helpless. He was allowing the gun to slip from his hand as he stared down at his groveling father. Now the man hugged the gun close to his chest, still on his knees sobbing.

  Then, suddenly, the boy whirled away blindly, striking the glass. I saw fragmented bits of greenery appear as the opaque panes of the conservatory shattered. Now the boy was flinging himself spread-eagled against the glass, striking with his fists, his arms, his head. I had him from behind, jerking him away, shouting for help. As I moved my arms up for a full nelson, clamping my fingers behind his neck, I felt my hands slip on his blood.

  Help was coming, pounding into the huge building. With my knee in the small of his back, I tried to hold the writhing, bleeding boy away from me, thinking of the cleaning bill.

  9

  I CHECKED THE ADDRESS, then tried the garage door. It was locked. The short, posh Telegraph Hill street was deserted except for three small children playing several doors down. I slipped the simple spring lock, then glanced inside the dim garage. The Porsche was exactly as Sue Bryan had described it. I carefully closed the door, then walked into the redwood and glass entryway, ringing Phillips’ bell. The house was very small and very modern, cantilevered out over the south slope of Telegraph Hill. The view would be superb, the property taxes astronomical. As I waited, I brushed at the sleeve of my jacket, still wet. In seven years, how many times had I sponged a stranger’s blood from my clothing?

  The man who answered the door reminded me of Victor Connoly. There was the same feeling of soft, overprivileged indolence, the same expensively casual, well-cut sportswear.

  “Mr. Phillips?”

  He nodded pleasantly, but the polite smile faltered as I showed him the shield, then introduced myself.

  “It’s about Carol Connoly,” I said. “Do you have a few minutes?”

  “Yes, certainly.” The smile came back, a little strained now. “Come in, Lieutenant.”

  He showed me into a small, spectacular living room. One entire side of the room was glass, revealing a view that stopped me almost in mid stride. I gave myself a moment of pleasure in front of the view window, then sat down facing Arch Phillips.

  I stared at him until he began to shift uncomfortably in his chrome and leather chair, finally dropping his eyes. Then I said: “Can you tell me, Mr. Phillips, where I could look to find Mrs. Connoly?”

  His first reaction was a quizzical lifting of dark, well-shaped eyebrows, followed by a pleasantly puzzled frown. His smile widened self-consciously, plainly forced.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” he answered. “I’m concerned, naturally, for Carol’s welfare. But—” He spread his hands, gracefully shrugging. Phillips was much smoother than Connoly, much more obviously the Ivy Leaguer, ten or fifteen years later. He seemed a better person, too, kinder and more sensitive, but probably weaker. I was thinking of the three men in Carol’s life—Connoly, Phillips and Keller. They made an improbable trio.

  I took a deep, slow breath. The morning had left me drained—totally exhausted, totally tense. I was in no mood to sit in a luxurious living room, politely sparring with an urbane socialite. “I wonder,” I said, “whether you’d mind telling me where you were this last Tuesday evening? About nine-thirty.”

  The forced smile faded; I watched the sophisticated, good-humored musculature of his face dissolve, revealing a skeletal fear. He dropped his eyes, then shook his head.

  “I should’ve notified you,” he said dully. “It was wrong. I had a reason. But it was wrong.”

  “What was the reason, Mr. Phillips?”

  He raised his eloquent brown eyes tentatively to meet mine. “My wife. We—we’ve been separated for three months, negotiating about a divorce. I—I didn’t want Carol involved.”

  “Named as a corespondent, you mean?”

  He nodded, then added, “I didn’t want to give my wife any additional grounds, either. Not as a present, anyhow.”

  I decided not to comment on his marital problems. “You picked her up at The Dramatists on Tuesday night, then.”

  Again he nodded.

  “What happened then, Mr. Phillips?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing happened, especially. I mean, I just picked her up at the theater, and we came back here for a drink. We got here about ten, I guess. She stayed until about eleven-thirty. Then I dropped her at Columbus and Broadway.”

  “Why Columbus and Broadway?”

  “Well, it’s where I—I always dropped her. Somewhere near there, anyhow.”

  “You and she were having an affair, then. Is that it?”

  For a long, unhappy moment he didn’t reply. Then, meeting my gaze with an effort, he said, “Aren’t you supposed to—to advise me of my rights, Lieutenant? When you ask me an incriminating question, I’d think that—”

  “This is just an interrogation, Mr. Phillips. You’re not in custody, you’re not suspected of anything. I’m just trying to discover the present whereabouts of Mrs. Carol Connoly. I think you can help me. Naturally, you can refuse to answer any question you like.”

  “But when you talk about my having an affair with her—” He shook his head, deeply sighing, shifting his slim, elegant body in the fashionable leather chair, carefully recrossing his legs, unconsciously adjusting his trouser creases. If Carol Connoly really hated men, I was thinking, she’d probably found the ideal victim in Arch Phillips. Under sufficient pressure, someone like Phillips could completely dissolve.

  “Let me put it another way, then,” I said slowly. “It’s my understanding that over a period of some time you picked up Mrs. Connoly at her play rehearsal once a week. You brought her here, where she spent an hour or so. Then it was your habit to drop her near the corner of Broadway and Columbus—the night-club area. Is that right?”

  From his expression, it was obvious that he thought I knew everything. Resignedly, he nodded. “That’s right. Except that the last few months, we—we hadn’t seen each other. Tuesday was the first time in months that—” He hesitated, swallowing. “She called me, you see, and asked me to pick her up. I agreed. But we—we just talked. We—”

  “All right, Mr. Phillips. Let’s forget about your, ah, personal relationship with Mrs. Connoly. What I want to find out right now is exactly what she did Tuesday. Now, what was the purpose of your dropping her at a downtown corner? To avoid detection?”

  “Well, I suppose you could—” He cleared his throat, frowning. “I suppose you could say that. I mean, it wouldn’t’ve been very smart to—”

  “Did she call a cab once you’d dropped her?”

  “Yes. She’d—usually she’d go into an out-of-the-way bar and call a cab. At least, so she said. Obviously, I wasn’t there.”

  “Do you know what cab company she was in the habit of using?”

  “No.”

  “Yellow Cab?”

  “I really couldn’t say, Lieutenant. We—we never had occasion to talk about it. I’m sorr
y.”

  “All right.” I got out my notebook and took some time with the scribbling charade. Then: “What’s your wife’s name, Mr. Phillips?”

  “Maureen.”

  “Address?”

  “1098 Green Street.”

  “And you’re separated, not divorced. Is that right?”

  Mutely Phillips nodded. During the past few questions his dark, sensitive poet’s eyes had changed to the wounded, shadowed eyes of the habitual loser. He was dissolving fast.

  “Would your wife have a grudge against Mrs. Connoly, do you think?”

  He considered it, then bleakly smiled. “I’d say just the opposite, Lieutenant. Carol provided Maureen with an excuse to divorce me, so to that extent my wife is in Carol’s debt. Maureen and I have been … less than ardent for some years; she’s simply been waiting for the most … propitious time. So when our son went away to boarding school, she decided to move out. My … friendship with Carol was just a happy accident, so far as Maureen was concerned. It merely made her lawyer’s work a little easier, and mine’s a little more difficult.”

  “Can you tell me anyone, then, who’d’ve wanted to harm Mrs. Connoly?”

  “Is that the police theory—that she was harmed?”

  “The police don’t start out with theories, Mr. Phillips. We just get all the facts we can, then let the theories come naturally.”

  “Oh. Well, in any case, I can’t think of any enemies that Carol might’ve had. She wasn’t—isn’t—the type to make enemies.”

  “What about her husband? Was he a friend or an enemy?”