Severed Key (3 page)

Some enterprising reporter had dug up a studio portrait of Arne Lundberg’s lost love: Sigrid Thorsen. Ash-blonde, high Scandinavian cheekbones, bee-stung lower lip. She was described as a Swedish model who had come to New York a year ago and found employment making television commercials in the east. Twenty-two.

“A year younger than Wanda,” Simon mused. “Damn, that hurts.”

“According to this story, she had known Lundberg in Stockholm,” Keith added. “He came over first and got a job in a TV series in Hollywood. When the series washed out, he found another job and had been saving money for a house. He had the down payment and the marriage licence application. Here’s another photo on the inside page—Lundberg just after he found that case you fished out of the water. Hey, look at this! Look who’s standing just behind his left shoulder!”

Simon took the paper. Captured on film was what they hadn’t seen at the warehouse: the handsome profile of Johnny Sands.

“He was interested in that plane,” Keith said. “He was waiting at the warehouse.”

“Slow down,” Simon cautioned. “We were at that warehouse too—we were even out on the search—and we weren’t meeting anyone on the plane. You have a suspicious mind.”

“That’s why I’m a private detective instead of a paper-hanger. You may be right. Just the same, I’m tearing out this list of passengers so I can give it a more careful check. You never know when my life might depend on knowing who was coming in on that plane and why Angie Cerva was hanging around the air terminal. Any more Scotch in that bottle?”

“Help yourself,” Simon said. “I’m always generous with other people’s booze. I wonder which one of these doors leads to the bedroom.”

Luck was on his side to the extent that he located the bedroom behind the first door he opened, but there was a complication in the presence of a very feminine nightgown and chiffon robe laid out invitingly across the foot of the bed. Simon took a blanket out of the closet and returned to the living room.

“Cappy’s girl left her nightie,” he explained. “I forgot about her. She might come in from a flight.”

“What size was the nightie?” Keith asked. “Might be worth waiting for. But that’s right—you’re practically a married man now. You’re still welcome to come back to Beverly Hills with me and share my pad.”

But Simon was already tucking himself in with the appropriated blanket on Cappy’s oversized divan. “Thanks, but I’m fine here,” he said. “I don’t intend to move until morning.”

“Good. Did you get your report?”

“It’s in the boat—” Simon started to get up and then changed his mind. “It’ll keep,” he said. “Close the door softly when you leave. I think I’m asleep.”

It was daylight when Simon opened his eyes. He climbed off the couch and switched on the television set on his way to the windows. Opening the drapes, he peered out on a grey world washed with rain. The storm was over. The wind was down, and this was the left-over squall that would probably clear by mid-afternoon. The sea would be rough, but nothing like it had been on that impulsive search for survivors. A religious service on the television reminded him that the day was Sunday, and yet few, if any, of the slender-masted sailing craft or the motor launches had left their berths. He looked at his watch. Five-thirty. The Sunday sailors had spent too much time on the search. He switched the television channels in the vain attempt to find a newscast and then turned off the set and went into the kitchen. He made himself coffee and scrambled eggs. It seemed a shame to leave the dirty dishes, but Cappy undoubtedly had a day worker who came in to clean up—or the stewardess who had left those lovely things in the wardrobe closet might have spells of domesticity. The important thing was to get started back to Marina Beach as soon as possible.

Leaving the apartment, he picked up Cappy’s morning paper from the sheltered doorstep and checked the weather box to verify his instincts. Morning rain clearing in the early afternoon. He tossed the paper into the apartment, left the key on a lamp table, and let the latch lock behind him.

A sudden quickening of the rain sent him sprinting to the boat. He clambered aboard the wet deck and raced to the cabin door. It was unlocked. Because of the excitement when he and Keith had left the ship with what they had recovered from the sea, it was impossible to remember if it had been locked. He stepped inside to a scene of violent disorder. The lockers were open, drawers were pulled out and dumped on the floor, berths were unmade. He checked the compass and radio equipment and found everything intact. The binoculars and the oilskins were where Keith had left them. His next thought was the Meechum report, which contained sensitive information on a prospective land development. Industrial espionage methods could put the CIA to shame—but the zipper case was as he had left it and nothing appeared to have been touched. He straightened the cabin, climbed back into his oilskins and went topside to free the craft from its moorings. A dour-faced security guard was waiting for him on the dock.

“You’re not Captain Anderson,” he said tersely.

“I’m Anderson’s friend, Simon Drake,” Simon answered, “and I own this launch.”

The guard took a step closer and wiped a raindrop from the end of his craggy nose. “So you are,” he said. “Don’t mind me nosing around now. Had some trouble down here last night. I ran off a prowler about midnight. Lose anything?”

“The cabin was messed up, but nothing seems to be missing,” Simon said.

“You’re lucky. Got to watch these boats ever’ minute what with all the hippies around about. They steal anything they can move—blast it loose if they can’t. Even take the boats. But I guess I scared ‘em off with my flashlight. Still, you might think a night like last night—the storm and the airliner tragedy—would discourage ‘em. Guess not. I hear there was trouble at the warehouse where they stowed all that stuff that was fished out of the sea. Imagine that! Ghouls! Nothing but ghouls!”

“What happened at the warehouse?”

“I don’t know the details. Some things stolen, I hear.”

“Any more bodies recovered?”

The security guard shook his head vigorously. “By this time they’re all shark meat. Heard one of the passengers was a fourteen-month-old baby. Now that just makes me feel sick inside. The coast guard’s still searching, but they won’t find anything. Not in a sea so full of sharks. Going out again?”

“Going home to Marina Beach,” Simon said.

The guard nodded. “You’ll be okay. We’ll see the sun set tonight. But it’s sure lucky I came along with my flash last night. You might not even have an engine in that thing.”

Simon fished a bill out of his wallet and handed it to the guard. “No charge,” he insisted. “The Marina Corporation pays me.”

“Then have a cup of coffee on me—and thanks.”

Simon started the engines and began to move slowly through the channel. There was little activity at the warehouse—a couple of black and whites and some uniformed guards. The crowd of curiosity seekers were gone. Within twenty-four hours the tragedy would be forgotten to all but a few people—such as Arne Lundberg who could not forget about that honeymoon cottage. Outside the breakwater the sea was rougher than Simon expected and he began to regret that last nightcap from Cappy’s best Scotch—or to regret not having brought along the bottle. It would be a longer trip than he had bargained for with no free time to study the Meechum report unless the sea was a lot smoother farther down the coast. At least he was going home.

Late that afternoon the sun finally won its battle with the clouds and the wet sand of a public strand at Marina Beach became a glistening gold bar at the foot of a craggy ledge. Deserted in the rain, the strand now lured out a few sundown strollers. A boy and a girl walked hand in hand. The girl was eighteen; the boy almost nineteen. Straight, copper-hued hair hung almost to the girl’s waist, a bright mane worn over a blue-tasselled poncho and faded blue jeans frayed at half-calf. Barefoot, she carried leather sandals in one hand. Her face was piquant if not pretty; her eyes were wide and brown. She was called Sunny. The boy, who wore a fringed leather jacket, tan levis and brown army shoes, was called Bob. His hair, light auburn in colour, curled at the nape of his neck. Both wore leather loops about their necks from which dangled silver peace symbols. They talked little, being at a stage of life where conversation was superfluous. They held hands and laughed hysterically over nothing at all, or stood silently watching the shore birds race the waves for shell fish tossed on the sand as if observing a religious ritual. They were deep in the throes of adolescent love and oblivious to everyone but themselves.

The girl giggled. “The birds run so fast their legs look like little wheels,” she said.

The sun had etched a gold line above the crest of Catalina Island and the clouds were turning shell pink.

“Evening red and morning grey sends a traveller on his way,” the boy remarked.

The girl’s hand tightened over his. “Don’t say that,” she begged. “Don’t say anything about going away. It scares me.”

“You like it here?”

“It’s groovy. I mean, hasn’t it been just groovy all summer? I don’t want anything to change—ever.”

“Everything changes,” the boy said. “I got to find someplace steady where I can make some bread.”

The storm had washed a tangled pile of seaweed ashore. When they reached it, the girl dug at it with her toes, popping the bulbous pods in squealing delight. The boy’s arm slid loosely about her waist and rested on her thigh. Teasingly, she pulled away and darted backward—but the seaweed was slippery footing and she fell. Her laughter broke off in a sharp cry of pain.

“What is it?” Bob cried. “Are you hurt?”

“It’s
hard
under there,” she explained. “Look, I cut my leg.” She rolled sideways exposing one white calf on which an ugly gash was oozing blood. The boy reached down and pulled her to her feet.

“There must be a rock under that seaweed.”

“No, Bob, look. It’s a box. No, it’s a suitcase. I cut my leg on the lock.”

The boy knelt in the sand and scooped away at the seaweed until the suitcase was dislodged from the tangled mass. It was a quality piece of luggage about twenty-four inches long. Airline type luggage pale blue in colour. The boy brushed away the sand that was caked on the initials and read aloud:

“S.T.” He picked it up by the handle. “It’s heavy,” he said.

“How do you suppose it got here?” Sunny asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe a guest from one of the hotels took it down to the beach for some reason and forgot it.”

“Is it locked?”

Bob tried the catch and nodded. “Tight as a drum.”

“I’ll bet everything inside is all soggy.”

“Maybe not. It’s one of those waterproof deals they advertise on TV. Say, maybe it washed off a yacht in that storm we had yesterday. That was some heavy sea!”

“I’ll bet it did.”

“And now whoever it belongs to is maybe a hundred miles away and doesn’t know where it was lost.”

“S.T.,” Sunny agreed. “What shall we do with it?”

The boy looked quickly up and down the beach. They had come across the patch of seaweed in a secluded cove and there was no one in sight in any direction. “I could break the lock with a rock,” he suggested.

“Oh, don’t! The case is scratched a little—that’s all. I’ll bet Tray could get it open without breaking the lock and then we could sell it at the second-hand store.”

“I could get it open myself,” Bob said defensively.

“Honey, I know you could. But Trav has all those groovy tools in his VW and, oh wow, I’ll bet you could get five or six dollars for this if the lock isn’t broken.”

“Ten!” Bob declared. “And you know what else? I’ll bet the rich bitch who lost this off the yacht has some goodies inside. Maybe one of those fancy lace peng-wahrs—”

“Oh, Bob, you’re so funny!”

“—and some fancy little panties and bras.”

“Silk, satin and bows,” Sunny added.

“Or jewellery. Do you like diamonds or poils?”

By this time the girl was almost hysterical with laughter. “Let’s take it back to the pad,” she declared. “Finders keepers.”

“And losers weepers,” Bob added. “Look, Sunny, we’re just like the shore birds. We get our bread from the sea. That rich bitch on the yacht won’t miss it.”

Bearing their cache, Bob and Sunny walked towards the cement steps that led up from the beach. They were young, they were in love, and they never wasted money on newspapers or wasted time listening to anything but disc jockeys on the radio. They hadn’t heard anything about the jet airliner that had crashed into the sea, and the lovely face of Sigrid Thorsen staring out at them from the front pages on the newspaper vending machines meant nothing at all.

AS THE DAY cleared, a few hardy Sunday sailors took out their boats to get the feel of the sea, found it rougher than they had bargained for and scurried back to harbour. The slips were well occupied by the time Simon rounded the breakwater and brought the small cruiser into port. Approaching the dock, he could see Chester, Hannah’s cook-turned-athletic director, waiting in Simon’s black XKE. Chester was a handsome black with a Phi Beta Kappa key on his watch chain, a ready wit and a pair of strong arms ready to make fast the boat as soon as he saw Simon at the wheel.

Hannah’s been up on the tower with a pair of binoculars most of the day,” he reported. “She sent me down here to meet you about an hour ago.”

Simon got his gear and the Meechum report out of the cabin and began to lock up. “Sorry to cause so much trouble,” he said. “Hannah shouldn’t have worried. I could take a cab up to the heights.”

He glanced up at the bluff rising high above the marina. The late sun glinted on the three-storeyed tower of The Mansion that was visible to the initiated who knew where to look. For all he knew, Hannah might have the glasses focused on him now.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Chester said. “She didn’t spend all that time looking for you. Somebody’s building a house just below yours and Hannah’s fascinated. It’s a man—a bachelor with grey hair and a yellow Porsche. There’s romance in the air.”

“I’m jealous,” Simon said.