Authors: Helen Nielsen
“If you know that much,” Howard growled, “I think you better come back to headquarters with me and make a statement.”
“Sorry,” Simon said. “You don’t have a warrant for that.”
He climbed back into the Jaguar and drove away before Howard could get his blood pressure back to normal. On his way back through the commercial centre of the town, he encountered a traffic snarl that was reaching the fist-waving stage before a few volunteers, of which Simon was one, succeeded in pushing an ailing van out of the traffic lane into an adjacent side-street. The psychedelic markings on the van were familiar. The perspiring, angry young man behind the wheel was the boy named Travis Dean. As traffic began to move again, Simon pulled alongside the van and asked: “Dead battery?”
“Dead something,” the boy said. “Battery, starter, condenser—you name it. I got to get rid of this crate.”
“Oh, it may not be so bad. Try kicking the tyres.”
The boy wasn’t interested in consolation. The van had been pushed into a parking place opposite a used car dealer’s lot. His attention was fixed on a bright orange sports coupé with black racing stripes.
“I guess they want a lot of bread for a job like that,” he said.
“I guess they do. Anyway, it’s not as roomy as a van.”
Travis grinned, knowingly. “Yeah, but a guy can sure make time with the chicks in a sports job. Right?”
“Right,” Simon admitted.
“How did you get the bread for that Jag?” “I’m a lawyer.”
“Is that so? A real brain. I guess you make it soakin’ the rich.”
“There’s not much object in trying to soak the poor, is there?”
Simon shifted gears and the Jaguar roared on up the hill to The Mansion. This time there was no police car blocking the entrance to the gate but Hannah’s ancient red Rolls was parked in front of the garage and Chester was perspiring over several large packages he was unloading from the back seat. He seemed embarrassed at Simon’s arrival and tried to put them back into the car. One fell to the pavement and the brown paper wrapping came loose displaying a new piece of blue aeroplane luggage. While Chester looked on with misgivings, Simon pulled off the rest of the wrapper and spied the gold initials: S.T.
“Who’s bright idea was this—as if I didn’t know?” Simon asked.
“Don’t get mad at me. Hannah even tipped the man ten dollars to get the initials put on without waiting.”
“Send the stuff back.”
“The store won’t take it back when it’s initialled. Anyway, I don’t think it’s such a bad idea doing the Sigrid act.”
“You don’t! Do you think I’m going to let Hannah make a decoy of herself? We’re dealing with killers, Chester. Cold-blooded killers.”
“And no other chance of smoking them out before they add Keith to the list of silent witnesses,” Hannah said icily.
Dramatic entrances were Hannah’s speciality. She had come out of the service door silently in spite of her cane and the flowing cape she still wore from her shopping expedition. One glance at the determined expression on her face and Simon knew she was going to be a tough jury to convince.
“Suppose I told you that Jack Keith is alive and perfectly capable of handling his own trouble,” Simon said. “I talked to him this morning.”
“Hey, that’s great!” Chester said.
“Is it?” Hannah queried. “Chester, show Simon that newspaper we just picked up at the shopping plaza.”
Chester took the paper out of the car. It was the latest edition with Keith’s photograph on the front page under a big black headline that said: PRIVATE EYE SUSPECT IN SLAYING. Under the headline was a story that heralded the beginning of the kind of publicity Keith feared. Headlines sell newspapers even if they leave scars, and one tantalizing story would breed others.
“Idiots!” Simon snapped. “Why couldn’t they give him a fighting chance?”
“This picture will make it easier for the police to find him,” Chester said.
“It’s not the police I’m worried about,” Simon said.
Hannah walked over to the Rolls and took out a smaller parcel. Deliberately, she removed the wrappings and inspected the initials. It was a ladies’ cosmetic case. “Is this like the one you fished out of the sea, Simon?” she asked.
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.