Severed Key (2 page)

Simon stood with the empty glass in his hand and watched the two flight officers walk briskly off. The PA came on with another non-committal announcement and, when Simon turned about, Keith had his car keys in his hand.

“I heard,” he said brusquely. “Let’s get rolling.”

Jack Keith’s bronze Cadillac was parked, characteristically, in a restricted area. They didn’t wait for Simon’s baggage. It was Saturday and the traffic lanes leading away from the airport were packed. Once over the overpass, Keith made a sharp right turn and curved down on to Sepulveda Boulevard. A few blocks farther and he was able to cut off to the left, pick up speed and proceed to the marina at a slightly-over-legal speed. The radio was turned on from the instant they entered the car, and luck was with them. They reached the marina, sped past the rows of towering masts of the small craft berths and nosed into the guest parking area at the smart apartment complex where Cappy Anderson and many others of the airline and engineering personnel made their residence, before any report of the recent tragedy reached the newscasters. This gave Cappy a cushion, slight as it was. He took the news stoically and then went into action. He immediately called his sister and then drove off to meet her. By that time the coast guard was on its way to the crash area, and many of the small boats in the marina were beginning to move out of the harbour to join the search for survivors. Simon’s small cruiser was docked at the foot of the complex. It was in the same condition as when he had delivered it—immaculate and fully fuelled. Simon took out enough time to telephone Hannah Lee at The Mansion, the old Victorian house he had purchased and restored in Marina Beach—some fifty miles down the coast. Hannah, perennially youthful at sixty-odd, was in residence at the time of purchase, living in faded grandeur among the souvenirs of a tempestuous theatrical past. Two talents she still possessed: charm and wit, and it was unthinkable that a handsome young bachelor, flush with early success, should be left to find his way in the social jungle without an experienced guide at his shoulder. The Mansion changed ownership and Simon became its master, but Hannah Lee remained as resident queen. When Simon successfully defended Wanda Warren on the charge of killing her husband, it was Hannah who engineered the ensuing romance. When Wanda’s attempt to re-establish a badly battered ego via the Broadway stage failed, it was Hannah who discovered the girl’s singing voice and coached her into a new career. Now, on the telephone, she was eager to learn of Wanda’s debut. Instead, she was told of tragedy.

“I’m taking the boat out to help look for survivors,” Simon explained. “Don’t expect me home tonight.”

Hannah’s protest was a lost cause. “Isn’t there a coast guard for that sort of thing?” she queried. “Oh, I know you! Take care.”

When Simon reached the boat slip, Keith was already on board. “I’m going with you,” he announced. “What do I do first?”

The sky was now leaden, and even the sheltered area of the harbour was getting choppy.

“Find the seasickness pills in the first aid kit in the forward locker,” Simon directed, “and then break out the oilskins. We’re going to get wet once we pass the breakwater whether it rains or not. I’ll contact the coast guard on the ship-to-shore and get our bearings.”

Word of the airline crash had spread rapidly since the first terse radio announcement, and there was no area of the marina where some activity at the boat slips wasn’t in evidence as Simon steered the small cruiser through the channel and headed out to open sea. Beyond the harbour the world was a grey palette with no visible horizon line. The racing clouds were no less restless than the steadily rising sea, and only the hardiest of the amateur sailors would be able to reach the search area. Boats smaller or less seaworthy than Simon’s were forced to turn about and put back to harbour long before Jack Keith, equipped with a pair of binoculars found in the cabin, gave a shout and pointed towards a coast guard cutter that was moving in a circling pattern some 300 yards ahead. A swell of the sea temporarily hid the cutter and dished out the black pattern of an oil slick. They had reached the scene of the crash.

Simon cut the motor and rode the sea in closer to the slick. Now, without binoculars, he could see that the cutter had lowered a small boat and several men were raking the water with grappling hooks. The oil slick disappeared in the next swell, and then the sea vomited up a grim apostrophe to disaster: a ragged section of fuselage and part of a tail assembly from which was escaping an assortment of vari-coloured luggage to rainbow the sea with silent markers for a mass grave. Simon ordered Keith to put down the binoculars and break out the grappling hooks. Together they fished the peculiar plunder along with a growing armada of small boats and circling planes. Occasionally, Simon returned to the radio. It was a fishing trawler that reported recovery of the first body: a male in flight uniform. Cappy Anderson’s brother-in-law, possibly. Before darkness and heavier seas brought the search to a compulsory end, there would be two more bodies recovered, one male, one female, and a fair portion of the floating luggage. In waters so shark-infested there could be little doubt as to the fate of the other ninety-three persons aboard the plane. The remainder of the luggage would be carried away by the current, perhaps to be deposited on some small channel island.

Simon’s catch was one small cosmetic case: pale blue airline luggage embossed with the gold initials—S.T. It slipped from his hands as he deposited it on the deck and slid back against the rail. The impact loosened the catch and the lid sprang open. It was a woman’s case. All the scents and baubles of femininity spread out before him. He had the swift sense of someone who had been very young and lovely, and so he quickly closed the case and stowed it below deck. Emerging from the cabin, he saw Jack Keith remove a soggy, furry object from the end of his hook. He stared at it and handed it to Simon without a word. It was a child’s toy dog—their last trophy from the sea. The radio barked an order from the coast guard that all volunteer searchers return to harbour before dark. Only the coast guard cutter was still searching the area when they turned about.

It was much rougher sailing than when they had put out to sea. Simon wrestled the wheel all the way to the breakwater. Cutting the motor, he noticed that one finger was bleeding from a badly split nail. Keith, seeing the wound, located the cosmetic case Simon had taken from the sea and began to dig through the contents.

“Women usually carry a manicure scissors in these things,” he said. “—And here it is—all cosy in a little zipper case. You snip off that nail before it splits to the quick. I can take the boat in from here.”

“It’s rougher than you think,” Simon said, but he relinquished the wheel. It was dusk. Most of the boats now gliding into the marina like chickens heading for roost carried side lights, but a small sloop, unlighted came along portside a little too close for comfort. Simon, having just finished clipping the loose nail, shoved the scissors and the zipper case into the pocket of his oilskin jacket and grabbed the wheel from Keith’s hands.

“Watch it!” he yelled. “You’re never home free in one of these things until the tie-up.”

He steered in past the breakwater and through to the harbour. Normally at this time of the evening there would have been sounds of music and laughter from the restaurants that faced the harbour. Tonight was different. Activity centred at the dock nearest the Harbour Master’s office, and the sound was from the police PA and bullhorns directing the unloading of crash débris. Light splayed out over the dock at the entrance to a warehouse where a crowd of silent watchers had gathered near a mobile television unit, and uniformed police were opening lanes of admittance for official cars. Seeing no place to dock, Simon took the cruiser back to the slip outside Cappy’s apartment and made it fast. Both he and Keith peeled off their oilskins and then, carrying the cosmetic case and the toy dog, drove in Keith’s car back to the warehouse they had so recently passed.

A white-helmeted motorcycle policeman met them and pointed the way to a parking area.

“Got to keep the entrance clear for the ambulances,” he announced.

“Any more recoveries?” Simon asked.

“Two. One man and one woman. The coroner has just arrived. We’re only letting friends and families of the passengers through now to make identification. What have you got?”

Keith held up the soggy toy. “Fished this out of the sea,” he explained.

The officer was a young man and the sight of a child’s toy struck home. He blinked the sudden moisture out of his eyes and led them back through a cluster of people to the warehouse where the collection of rescued articles was being stored for identification. Pieces of the broken plane were there along with fifteen or twenty pieces of luggage, a few wet blankets and a flight officer’s cap. Simon added the cosmetic case to the accumulation and Keith placed the toy beside the officer’s cap. A harbour official gravely added the items to his official list as Simon scanned the faces in the crowd, grateful that Cappy Anderson hadn’t brought his sister to this depressing arena. Jack Keith brought out a pack of cigarettes, gave one to Simon, and was striking a match for a light when a primitive cry came from the group of spectators. It was a man’s voice—high pitched in grief.

“Sigrid! Oh, my God! Why, Sigrid? Why?”

Simon looked over the flame of the proffered match. The anguished questions had come from a haggard young man who now stood transfixed before the small blue case with the gold initials. He was about twenty-four, slender, with wind-tangled pale blond hair and tortured blue eyes. When he dropped to his knees and began clawing on the latch of the cosmetic case, Simon could read the words: GERARD RENTALS lettered on the back of his grey overalls. One of the guards stepped forward and pulled him away from the luggage just as a reporter with a mini-camera slung over his shoulder shoved through the crowd. Wildly, the young man faced his inquisitor.

“I didn’t believe it,” he babbled. “I heard the passenger list of the crashed plane read over the radio when I was driving in my truck. Sigrid Thorsen, the man said, Sigrid Thorsen on this plane. I didn’t believe it.”

The reporter with the mini-camera pushed past the guard. “What is your name, sir?” he asked.

“Sigrid Thorsen,” the man in grey overalls said.

“No, I mean
your
name, sir?”

“Oh. Lundberg. Arne Lundberg.”

“And you have identified this piece of luggage as belonging to someone you know?”

“My fiancée—Sigrid Thorsen. I don’t understand. Two days ago she telephoned me from New York. She was coming next week, she said. Next week—not today. Why did she do that? Why did she say next week?”

“Perhaps she was going to surprise you,” the reporter said.

“Surprise? Oh, my God! We were going to be married. As soon as she got here, we were going to be married—”

Keith tugged at Simon’s sleeve. “I’ve had enough for one day,” he said. “Let’s get out of here and get stoned somewhere.”

Simon couldn’t think of a better suggestion.

THE USUAL SATURDAY night festivity at The Warehouse didn’t quite come off. Too many local residents had participated in the search for survivors, and too many visitors were on a morbid curiosity hunt. Simon and Jack Keith stayed just long enough for a brace of martinis and a pair of rare steaks, and then drove back to the airport to pick up Simon’s still unclaimed luggage. Civilization was beautiful. No pall of grief or disorder hung over the busy terminal where business progressed as usual, and incoming passengers appeared oblivious to the tragedy that was now headlined on the front pages of the late extras. Simon proceeded to the baggage claim area and picked up his luggage. When he returned to the waiting room, Jack Keith was making small talk with the girl attendant at the Red Arrow auto rental booth. She was a lovely Eurasian with raven black hair and almond-shaped brown eyes.

“I’m a fall guy for Exotic types,” Keith admitted, as Simon herded him towards the street door. “She’s half Korean and half French.”

“You must have exchanged a lot of notes in a short time,” Simon said. “Why don’t you take her home with you?”

“I tried, but she’s not off duty until midnight. What about you? Do you want to shack up at my place tonight?”

“No. Cappy gave me the key to his apartment before he left, and it’s closer to my boat. I know he won’t be coming back tonight. He’ll stay with his sister.”

“Then I’ll drive you back to the marina.”

Keith paused long enough to buy one of the black-headlined newspapers before they returned to the Cadillac. This time the drive to Cappy’s place was more leisurely. “Jeanne,” Keith repeated dreamily. “That must be from the French side of the family. And don’t tell me that I made time. Her name was printed on a plastic card she wore on her blouse. About a size thirty-six, I’d guess.” And then Keith took a sudden turn of topic to what must have been bothering him for some time. “Simon, why do you suppose Angie Cerva came to the city?”

“I’ve no idea,” Simon admitted. “I don’t include syndicate personnel among my clientele—if I know about it.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing. They’re very colourful people. They kill for the fun of it.”

“That’s becoming a favourite international sport. Why are you concerned about Cerva?”

“Because he was waiting for that New York plane. Didn’t you notice? When the PA announcement called for people who were waiting for the flight to come to the information booth Cerva was listening.”

“Cerva was listening, but it was Johnny Sands who went to the counter.”

“That’s right. Just the same, when we get to Cappy’s apartment I want a look at the passenger list in that newspaper.”

Simon was right: Cappy Anderson hadn’t returned. They went inside the apartment and, while Keith began to pore over the newspaper coverage of the crash, Simon found the bar and a bottle of vintage Scotch. “Nightcap?” he asked. Keith, without raising his head, answered: “I never turn down an attractive proposal. Here’s the passenger list. ‘Reverend Peter Gaylord, Albany, NY.’ Now I’m sure he couldn’t have been the passenger Johnny Sands was waiting for…. ‘Allen Quince, Scarsdale—’ Hey, look at this! She was a beautiful piece of merchandise!”