Severed Key (16 page)

“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.”

A small white camper appeared on the narrow road leading into the parking area, approached cautiously, like a strange dog sniffing its way, and then, after circling the lot, parked next to Simon’s Jaguar. The driver and his companion alighted and walked towards the exhibition building but Keith looked uncomfortable.

“It’s getting crowded here,” he said. “Let’s take a walk.”

He got out of the sedan and they walked together to the far side of the building where they could look down on the reactor site and on the sea that lapped listlessly at the shore. After a few minutes Simon asked: “Is Cerva still on the yacht?”

“I promised my informant another bill if he called me when the one-armed man returned. So far—no call.”

Keith dug into his coat pocket and brought out a pair of dark glasses which he polished with a handkerchief and then carefully adjusted on the bridge of his nose. “I feel like an idiot wearing these,” he said, “but they do make me look more like a tourist. The exhibition, by the way, is an interesting place. It’s designed to take the fear out of atom and make the public less apprehensive of the reactor sites. They even have a scale model of the plant with taped explanations of all the procedures. Every three years the fissionable materials are removed, replaced, and sent off to reprocessing plants. The unreclaimable wastes are buried—the rest is re-used. It’s not moved all at once—about one third at a time, I understand. That means several tons of fissionable material is trucked out at a time.”

“Thanks for the lecture,” Simon said. “What does it have to do with your problem?”

“I can’t forget the two men you identified as AEC representatives who were so interested in Cerva and Sandovar at the airport.”

“Franklin and Pridoux?”

“Right. I tried to check on them and got the ‘classified information’ chill, which, to me, means investigators of one kind or another. For some time I’ve been hearing about the trouble certain European reactor plants have had with thefts. The losses run into the millions, and you don’t move amounts of fissionable material like that by putting a uranium rod across the handles of a bicycle and pedalling off with it. There’s a black market—a big one. Some people think Red China built its first bomb with black market uranium.”

“That means a big organization.”

“Exactly. Big enough to move and distribute tons of heroin, for instance. Big enough to have agents anywhere in the world where any small nation decides it wants to build its own bomb or power plant. Twenty-nine nations failed to endorse the United Nation’s nuclear non-proliferation treaty and more than half of them have the desire and the technical capacity to produce a Hiroshima-type bomb.”

“But not San Isobel,” Simon said.

“You’re getting ahead of me,” Keith grinned. “Besides, we don’t know that for certain, do we? Sandovar and his friends have the money, certainly. As for the size of his native country—well, look at Switzerland. It’s a tiny dot on the world map, but it controls the banking of the world. Power is where you concentrate it. Fidel Castro took over Cuba with a regiment of men armed with mail-order weapons. Hitler started out at about the same scale. The key to grabbing power is terror, and nothing terrorizes people as much as the bomb or the threat of the bomb.”

“But suppose Sandovar merely wants to buy a hotel in Las Vegas?”

“Then he would have bought it in Las Vegas—openly. He wouldn’t have put a pretty girl, who probably hadn’t the slightest idea what she was doing, on a plane bound for Los Angeles a week ahead of schedule with orders not to tell her boyfriend she was coming in ahead of time—and that’s exactly what I think he did.”

“Do you mean that Sigrid Thorsen was a courier?”

“It looks that way. Big deals require big cash transactions. Some deals can’t bear the scrutiny of transferring funds in normal ways. The Sandovar funds are in Switzerland, but there are ways of transferring funds without going through customs. Cash is what Cerva would need to oil the machinery of any operation no matter how the final accounting might be settled.”

“If she did carry a suitcase full of money, it went down with that plane.”

“Which could account for Sandovar staying at the hotel doing his playboy-of-the-western-world act to divert suspicion until another courier makes contact. Simon, we both doubted that Lundberg’s death was suicide. He identified Sigrid’s bag at the warehouse and it’s just possible that somebody thought he found more than one bag and worked him over a little too hard trying to find out. The experts know how to do that without leaving scars.”

Simon had been listening carefully to everything Keith told him. Some of it sounded phoney. Ambulance drivers weren’t apt to give out information so freely. Some of it was too pat. “I think you’re holding out on me, Keith,” he said. “I think you know more than you’re telling me. Did you check on Angie Cerva before or after the dead girl was found in your apartment?”

Keith hesitated. “Before,” he admitted.

“Then you knew about him when we had dinner, such as it was, Monday night. You didn’t tell me.”

“I told you about the Stockholm letter. That was my case—to check on Arne Lundberg.”

“But if you asked all those questions at the Red Arrow agency, word of it must have reached Cerva. That’s why you were framed.”

Keith smiled crookedly. “‘Warned’ might be a better word.”

“Who wrote the Stockholm letter?”

“I can’t tell you that—not yet. I set up this meeting for two reasons. The first was to let you know that I’m alive; the second was because I need someone to watch over Sandovar. I’m convinced he’ll have to reach Cerva sooner or later. Sooner, I think, because no time was wasted getting to Lundberg and trying to get at me. They might even have thought Tracy Davis was my girl and killed her accidentally trying to get information she didn’t have, but Cerva’s hoods don’t usually kill accidentally. It’s more like fun and games. Another thing: while I’m taking the low road, you might use your high-bracket contacts to root out information from another angle. Maybe your client in San Diego can arrange a meeting with the AEC men.”

“They won’t talk.”

“That’s your problem. I’ve got to crack this thing and nail Tracy Davis’s killers. I feel responsible for any woman found dead in my bed, but it’s not all gallantry. I know a lot of people on the right side of the law-and-order fence who would feel more comfortable if I did get stuck with a murder charge. In my business I get to know the wrong sort of thing about the right people.”

“Go back to Lieutenant Howard with me now,” Simon promised, “and you’ll never be charged. I’ll not only represent you, I’ll be your alibi.”

“Thanks, but that’s not good enough. The murderer has to be found. An unsolved death hanging over my head would be as bad as a conviction in another way. I could lose my licence for withholding evidence. Worse, I could lose my clientele and I happen to like the life-style I’ve earned for myself. What’s more, if you think anything I’ve suggested to you here is far-fetched, I’ll tell you one more thing. I’m holding out on you. I’ve got my own secret weapon and I want the chance to use it at the proper time.”

Another car turned into the parking lot and stopped near the information centre. Keith glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get back to work,” he said. “If you need me for anything important you have the telephone number. How’s Wanda?”

“Worried about the best man at our wedding.”

“Tell her it’s the safest bet in Vegas.”

“I’m not so sure. You could get yourself killed.”

Keith scowled at the old blue sedan on the opposite side of the parking lot and nodded thoughtfully. “I know,” he said. “The group therapy out on that freeway is fierce.”

Simon watched Keith saunter back across the lot and climb into the old sedan just as a black and white nosed into the parking area and sniffed its way around the circle like a beagle on the scent of game. If Keith was lucky he hadn’t been recognized. He was. He drove away as the police car stopped alongside Simon’s familiar Jaguar and no move was made to stop him. Simon deliberately turned his back and stared out at the generating station until he was certain Keith’s car was out of sight. When he turned about again the black and white was still parked alongside his car. He got into the Jaguar and started to drive slowly back to the freeway. Finding a wide shoulder, he stopped long enough to make a telephone call to Kelly Kendall. The black and white was behind him. It pulled off the road and waited a hundred yards behind.

Kelly groaned at the sound of his voice.

“Don’t you realize it’s
morning
. I have to sleep sometime!”

“Sorry,” Simon said, “this is important. Did you have a party last night?”

“Not really. Just a few of Tracy’s friends. A sort of wake.”

“But nothing like that open-house affair I came to with Jack Keith. Listen, Kelly. Try to remember that party. A lot more people showed up than you had invited—right?”

“Oh, that’s normal.”

“I’m sure it is. That’s why I’m calling. Think back now. Did anyone walk in on that party who answers this description: male, about thirty, broad shoulders, lots of very yellow blond hair—”

“Sounds groovy,” Kelly sighed. “Did he come alone?”

“I don’t know. Probably not. He probably came with another man.”

“Oh, one of those.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed. Even if he’s Mr Straight you wouldn’t want him. He may have killed Tracy.”

She took that serving with a chaser of silence. He could almost hear the mental vibrations over the wire. “Blond hair,” she repeated. “That would have been after you and Jack came up.”

“I would guess so—yes.”

Then Kelly squealed. “I do remember—I do! He came in with another man—shorter, younger, I think, and dark. I remember the blond because one of my girlfriends pointed him out and wanted to bet that he used a bleach. We laughed about it. I didn’t know who he was but I supposed that somebody at the party did. Do you?”

“No, except that he nearly took out my left eye with a blackjack yesterday. Now, Kelly, get this and remember it. There’s a chance that he might come back to the building—might even come to one of your parties expecting to find Jack or me. If he does, get away to a telephone and call me. I’ll give you my home number.” Simon waited until she found a pencil and then repeated the number twice to make sure she had it right. “Any time, any hour,” he said. “If I’m out leave a message. Just say ‘Blondie’s here’.”

“Gotcha!” Kelly said.

“And don’t mention this call to anyone. One more thing, if he does show up—alone or with his dark friend—when you aren’t having a party, don’t let him in. If he comes during a party don’t let it break up until he leaves. I don’t want you alone with either of them. I don’t want to frighten you, but it’s just possible they might remember that you could identify them as being at the same party with Tracy Davis just before she died.”

Kelly sounded a bit less cocky when she replied: “Thanks for not frightening me.”

“Cheers!” Simon said and terminated the call.

A BLACK AND white was parked in front of the wrought-iron gates when Simon returned to The Mansion. Pete Franzen waved him to a stop and called: “I’ve got a warrant to search your boat, Simon. Howard learned that you own one and thinks Jack Keith may be hidden in one of the lockers.”

Simon grinned. “Dead or alive?”

“He didn’t specify. He’s down at the boat slips now waiting for you. Do you want to ride with me, or shall I follow you down?”

“Follow me,” Simon said. “It might hurt my reputation to be seen riding around in a police car.”

Lieutenant Howard had driven out all the way from Hollywood to examine Simon’s boat. It was a beautiful day for the trip. The lieutenant never smiled on duty but his partner, a quiet man, seemed to be enjoying himself. Howard was all business. He produced the warrant and went aboard. Not until he was fully satisfied that it wasn’t being used for a hide-out did he conclude the search.

“Thank you for your co-operation, Mr Drake,” he said. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Keith?”

“Not even a postcard,” Simon said. “You’re on the wrong track anyway. Keith didn’t kill that girl.”

“Now, you don’t know that,” Howard chided. “I’ve been inside his apartment and seen all those girlie pictures. He’s got a reputation as a ladies’ man.”

“Oh, I won’t deny that Keith’s deflowered a bit of womanhood in his day, but not without ardent co-operation. Why don’t you do something useful with the taxpayers’ money and find out why Angie Cerva was at LA International last Saturday—who he met there and why? And what about that pillow case missing from Lundberg’s apartment? Have you found that yet?”

“You don’t tell me your business, Mr Drake. I don’t tell you mine.”

“Fine, but just to show that I have a generous heart and bear no grudges I’ll throw out a free clue. Check out Cerva’s entourage and see if anyone of his henchmen is very blond, very big and likes to hit people with blackjacks. He keeps company with a smaller, darker man last seen driving, carelessly, a dark blue Mustang. Sorry I can’t give you the licence number but the plates were probably stolen—the car, too, for that matter. They were at Lundberg’s apartment complex the night Keith and I stumbled on to the unveiling of Lundberg’s body. Later that same evening they attended a party in the penthouse of the building where Tracy Davis died.”