Severed Key (7 page)

“I’m Simon Drake and Mr Keith always is thirsty,” Simon said. He handed the porter a bill and took the escalator down to the lower level. Approaching the bar, he could hear the low, gut beat of an excellent jazz combo. Inside the bar, he paused long enough for his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness surrounding the stage at the far end of the room. While he waited, one tall shadow detached itself from the cluster of shadows at the bar and came to meet him glass in hand.

“What are you drinking?” Keith queried. “Plain booze or something with a gardenia floating in it?”

“Scotch rocks will do nicely,” Simon said.

Keith relayed the order to the bartender and appropriated one of the tables facing the stage.

“You made good time,” he said, “and you’re wearing a tie.”

“You look garrotted yourself,” Simon said.

Keith scowled and tugged at his four-in-hand. “Barbaric custom,” he admitted, “but they set a very fancy table in the Granada Room. Whenever I’m flying this high, I come down here to catch the early show.”

A raven-haired waitress appeared out of the shadows and deposited Simon’s drink on the table. Keith put a note on the tray and watched admiringly as she walked away. Her waist was no more than twenty-two inches and her pelvis action, bouncing at the rhythm of the jazz piano, was accentuated by a skin-hugging mandarin sheath.

“And you’ve always had a weakness for Asiatic types,” Simon recalled.

Keith snapped his fingers. “Now, that’s what I forgot! I didn’t check back with that lovely lady at the LAX auto rental booth. Too busy doing homework.”

“Homework?”

“Research—on the other lovely, Sigrid Thorsen. If the lady came in a week ahead of schedule, as broken-hearted Arne Lundberg told the press, she was either descending on him without so much as a telegram or she had someplace else to go for that week—like a hotel.”

“Like the Century Plaza?”

“It turned out that way, yes. This is where a reservation was being held in her name. It was made three days ago by Trans-America Tours in New York City….”

“Pretty posh accommodations for a TV starlet,” Simon reflected.

“That’s what I’ve been thinking—and especially when her husband-to-be was toiling away as a truck driver to raise the scratch for a honeymoon nest. Of course, some girls get squeamish as they approach the altar. She might have wanted a last taste of glamour before moving into the suburban tract set. But do you know who else is registered here? The lad in the ice cream suit who was waiting at the airport for Angie Cerva.”

“Johnny Sands?”

“Right. I saw him this afternoon at the pool. He’s even prettier in swimming trunks.”

The Scotch was excellent even if the dialogue was puzzling. Simon drank deeply and then put down his glass. “Jack,” he said, “I’ve had a long, long drive this day to and from San Diego and thence to this oh, so hush-hush meeting. I’m in no mood for hankie panky. Are you on a case and need legal advice, or is this just another wild guess like your identification of the lawmen watching Cerva at the airport Saturday? It so happens that I was introduced to both of the gentlemen at lunch today. They are not policemen; they are members of the Atomic Energy Commission attending a seminar—”

“Hold it!” Keith ordered. “Look what’s happening on the podium.”

What was happening was in the way of an eviction. The pianist had completed his number and taken his bows. Now he was being jovially ejected from the piano bench by an energetic young man with a familiar smile. It was Johnny Sands, sartorially splendid in a ruffled bullfighter’s shirt, a bright blue tuxedo jacket and tight black trousers. He sat down before the keyboard and began to play. His style was easy and distinctive. The back-up band caught the rhythm and came in softly as the melody progressed.

“Speaking of the devil,” Keith mused. “Hey, Johnny Sands likes the spotlight, doesn’t he?”

“He’s good,” Simon said.

“He’s better than good. He must have slipped the pro. a nice piece of change to get away with this.”

“According to Hannah Lee, he has a nice piece of change,” Simon remarked. He explained to Keith the reasoning behind Hannah’s surprising identification of Sands’ photograph in the
Sunday Times
and watched the reaction set in.

“Raul Sandovar,” Keith reflected. “Didn’t some reporter label him ‘The Bloody Butcher of the Caribbean?’ He was gunned down by a squad led by his best friend, if I remember my Latin dictators.”

“Never trust a best friend in a revolution,” Simon said. “I think you’re right.”

“Then Johnny Sands—Juan Sandovar—would be the child Raul’s widow took to Switzerland where he had banked a fortune. Wow! He
is
loaded. He can play my piano anytime!”

While the recital continued, Simon took the cuticle case from his coat pocket and opened it out on the table. He removed the severed key and handed it to Keith.

“What do you make of this?” he asked.

Keith examined the key and read the inscription on the tag.

“Was this in the case all the time?” he asked.

“That’s where I found it. Hannah thinks it’s a romantic souvenir—some kind of love symbol. I was thinking of taking it to Arne Lundberg—”

Keith’s response to the suggestion was surprising. “Good idea,” he said. “Let’s go.” He shoved back his chair and came to his feet.

“Now?” Simon asked.

“Why not? Unless you want to listen to the Latin playboy’s whole repertoire. I have a feeling he’s just warming up.”

“What about our dinner?”

“It’s too early for that now. Let’s work up an appetite. If Lundberg cared as much for that girl as he seemed to when he heard she was dead, he could probably use some human companionship.”

Keith left a tip for the waitress and started for the door. Simon drained his drink and followed. Outside the dusky sky had darkened behind the pokers of amber light on the face of the building, and the Avenue of Stars was bathed in a kleig-like brilliance as they reached the upper level. Keith’s Cadillac was parked in the rear lot. Simon grabbed his arm as they hurried through the lobby.

“Shouldn’t we call Lundberg first?” he asked.

“No use. I dug his address out of the Sunday paper and tried to reach him several times this afternoon. No response. He’s probably got the phone off the hook.” Keith paused and took a letter from his coat pocket. “This was in my mail box when I got home Saturday night. I didn’t find it until this morning, and that’s what sparked my search for Sigrid Thorsen’s hotel reservation.”

Simon moved closer to the brightly-lit window of one of the lobby shops. What Keith had given him was an envelope—legal size and bearing a Swedish stamp and a Stockholm postmark. Inside was a letter on the stationery of a Swedish export firm, typewritten in English. It was addressed to Jack Keith. He read quickly.

Attached to the letter was a snapshot of Sigrid and a blond young man with a broad smile. Although he was wearing a sweater and hiking shorts instead of overalls, the man was easily recognizable as Arne Lundberg. On the back of the snap was a handwritten note:
Sigrid and Arne
—
1968
.

“I’ve got the bank draft in my office safe,” Keith remarked as Simon returned the letter. “Under the circumstances, it doesn’t seem ethical to accept the retainer. By this time Thorsen must know that his daughter is dead. Still, it did spark my curiosity.”

“So that’s why I was invited to dinner,” Simon mused. “I suppose the lovely Sigrid was an only child.”

“And no man is good enough for Papa’s baby? You may be right. That’s why I wanted to see Lundberg before getting involved.”

They reached the end of the passageway and came out on to the street. The Sunday storm had cleared the air in the basin. The night was cloudless and cool and, beyond the fields of high-rise, the black hills were studded with lights. Keith found the Cadillac and eased it into the stream of eastbound traffic. Lundberg’s address was in Hollywood. Keith drove north on the Avenue of Stars and then turned east at Santa Monica Boulevard.

“The trouble with being a professional investigator,” he said, “is that you still have to go digging for answers even when it’s too late for the question.”

Arne Lundberg’s apartment was on the second floor of a new complex designed for swinging singles. Monday was normally a slow night even for the under-thirty age-group, but this Monday was special—as they discovered as soon as Keith drove into the guest parking lot. A pair of black and whites were parked at the main entrance, one with the lights still blinking, and a long white ambulance blocked the driveway. Gleaning information from the babble of voices in the chorus of curious tenants was similar to un-mixing a deliberately garbled radio message, but by the time Simon and Keith reached the guarded doorway to Lundberg’s apartment, they had learned the cause of the congestion. Lundberg was dead. Suicide. Drowned in his own bath. Drunk. Despondent. Broken-hearted over the loss of his fiancée. Piece all the chatter together and, verifiable or not, the simple fact was that Arne Lundberg was dead.

“I was the one who called the manager,” one well-developed female insisted. “That television—all night and all day! I was going crazy. If you fellows are reporters, I was the one who called the manager and complained—”

A very young uniformed police officer stood in front of Lundberg’s door.

“No admittance to any but authorized personnel,” he intoned mechanically.

Simon moved brusquely forward. “District Attorney’s office,” he snapped. “Who’s in charge here?”

“Lieutenant Howard,” the officer responded. “Hollywood Precinct—”

Simon and Keith pushed through the doorway before the young officer could ask for credentials. The apartment was a one-bedroom—furnished in contemporary motel naughahide: a divan, a lounge chair facing the television set, a coffee-table cluttered with newspapers that had spilled over on to the wall-to-wall carpeting and a few lamps. Most of the lights were on, as were all the lights in the bedroom and bath. “Make way for the stretcher!” somebody bellowed and Simon stepped quickly into the bedroom. The bed was turned down but hadn’t been used. A police officer was guarding the shirt, trousers and underwear that had been discarded
en route
to the bathroom, and inside the bathroom a stocky plain-clothesman with a narrow-brimmed felt hat riding on the back of a shock of red hair barked orders to the white-coated stretcher bearers who were proceeding towards the bath.

“Don’t let the water out of the tub when you remove the body. We found a whisky glass floating in it. The lab men will want to make an analysis to see if it contained only whisky. Okay, lift him gently. That does it—”

He stepped out of the bathroom and saw Simon and Keith watching the procedure.

“What the hell are you two doing here?” he roared. “I gave orders that nobody comes in this apartment but authorized personnel!”

Keith dug out his licence and held it out for scrutiny. “Authorized personnel,” he said.

“Whose authorization?”

“Father of the dead man’s fiancée—the girl who was killed in the airline crash Saturday.”

“Thorsen? You’re working for Sigrid Thorsen’s father?”

“Right. When did this happen?”

“Check it out with the lab tomorrow when the autopsy report’s in,” Howard said. “All I can tell you is that the water in the tub is cold and the next door neighbour says his TV was playing all night and all day. Why did Sigrid Thorsen’s father hire a private detective?”

“To learn if his daughter was marrying the right man, I suppose.”

Howard accepted the explanation without question. By this time Lundberg’s naked body had been placed on the stretcher. His face, chest and arms, normally tanned by the sun, now had an ugly grey cast. The arm dangled over the side of the stretcher. When one of the attendants raised it and placed it across his chest, a band of stark white flesh traced where he had worn a ring. An instant later the corpse was covered by a grey blanket and the stretcher rolled through the bedroom on its way to the hall.

“Suicide?” Simon asked.

Lieutenant Howard studied Simon through narrowed eyes. “I’ve seen your face in the newspapers,” he remarked. “You’re Simon Drake.”

“Acknowledged,” Simon said.

“Are you really going to marry that sexy night-club singer?”

“In a matter of weeks.”

Howard sighed. “Some guys have all the luck. Now, Lundberg’s luck ran out, wouldn’t you say? It does look like suicide, doesn’t it counsellor? The living room’s cluttered with newspapers all opened to coverage of the air crash that killed his girl. The television, which was playing when we got here, is set to the top news station. There’s an almost empty whisky bottle on the floor next to the chair facing the television and a glass was floating in the tub when we found the body. The bed hasn’t been slept in …” Howard paused, staring intently at the bed. “What’s missing?” he asked abruptly. “Something’s missing. Tell me, Mr Private Detective, what
don’t
you see on that bed?”

Howard was about thirty and quick of eye. He knew his job. Simon and Keith looked at the bed. It was king-size. The sheet and blanket were turned back as if Lundberg had prepared for bed. There were two pillows: one with a crisp white pillow case and the other with no case at all. On the bedside table was a lamp, a radio-alarm clock and a set of keys.