Severed Key (8 page)

“One pillow case is missing,” Keith said.

“Good! Now, why didn’t one of my men notice that? Burrows—” The lieutenant called out to the young officer in the next room. “—since you can’t seem to keep unauthorized people from coming in here, maybe you can locate that pillow case. Try the clothes hamper. If it isn’t there, check with the manager and see if this building has a laundry room. In my bachelor days I used to use one pillow case until it was dirty and then switch to the other pillow.”

Simon had moved closer to the bedside table. He picked up the set of keys. A tiny replica of a licence plate was attached to the ring. He replaced the keys as Howard looked back towards the bed.

“Something else is missing here,” he observed. “No ashtray. I didn’t see any ashtrays in the living room either. But there’s cigarette ash on the floor near your foot, Lieutenant.”

Howard looked down at his feet. The ash was about an inch long and virtually intact. Nobody in the apartment was smoking and there was no smoke in the air. He took a card from his pocket, folded it to make a tent, and placed it over the ash.

“Thanks, counsellor,” he said. “If Lundberg has no ashtrays, he didn’t smoke—but somebody who called on him did. I wonder if this place provides maid service.”

The stretcher bearing Arne Lundberg’s body was now being rolled out of the apartment. Simon walked back into the living room. The white naughahide chair was facing the television set, and the newspapers were spread out on the coffee table and on the floor; but the lamp on the table was in a peculiar position. Simon switched on the lamp and sat down in the chair. The light blinded him. He turned it off.

“What are you doing?” Howard asked.

“Trying to see the television screen through a 200-watt bulb,” Simon answered.

“The light was placed for the papers on the floor.”

“I hope so.”

Simon stood up and began to examine the chair. He switched the lamp on again. Now, from the higher angle, he could see a small reddish-brown smear on the edge of the cushion. He removed the cushion from the chair and handed it to the police lieutenant who had become an interested observer. Something glittered in the webbing at the bottom of the chair, and Simon retrieved the man’s gold ring.

“Capricorn,” he mused, studying the symbol. “The sign of the goat.”

It was a zodiac ring set with one small diamond, but the diamond didn’t shine because the dried reddish-brown substance had covered the set. He handed the ring to the lieutenant.

“Blood?” he suggested.

Howard held the ring under the light. “You can get a complete lab report in the morning. For now, Mr Drake, and you, too, Mr Keith, you’ll have to leave. I’m closing this apartment up like a vault!”

On the way back to the Cadillac, Keith sought out the residents’ parking garage and searched the licence plates until he found the one that matched the identification tag on Lundberg’s key chain. It wasn’t attached to a red Camaro. Arne Lundberg drove a white Datsun pick-up with a camper cab.

THE CROWD AROUND the ambulance parted reluctantly when the blanket-covered stretcher bearing Arne Lundberg’s body was wheeled out of the building. Simon and Keith watched from inside the Cadillac. It was impossible to move out of the parking lot until the ambulance departed. And more cars were arriving—adding to the traffic congestion. Word had got out to the newspapers, and small sport sedans with press cards attached to the windshields were nosing their way into the scene. The stretcher slid inside the vehicle and two white-jacketed attendants climbed inside and shut the door. The siren was turned on and the rotating red light of the ambulance marked its progress through the driveway with a police car escort following closely. Keith switched on the ignition of the Cadillac.

“Shall we follow it down to Receiving?” he asked.

“I don’t think the police lieutenant would appreciate that,” Simon answered. “Besides, you owe me a dinner.”

Keith edged the Cadillac forward into the driveway and then, with a sudden burst of speed, swung in behind the ambulance escort. Brakes screeched and someone yelled an obscenity over the voices of the crowd.

“And up yours I” Keith shouted back. The right front bumper of a dark blue Mustang, which had stopped about an inch away from the left front bumper of the Cadillac, moved back slowly giving Keith the right of way. There was a long dent on the Mustang bumper that wasn’t of recent origin. “That mother must make a habit of getting hit,” Keith muttered. “That’s right, fella, move it! I’m coming through!”

The Cadillac resumed speed and followed the ambulance and its police escort into the street, and, behind the steering wheel of the Mustang, a swarthy young man swore softly to himself.

“Did you see that?” he demanded. “Did you see who was driving that car? That was Jack Keith, the professional snooper who was with Simon Drake when they fished Sigrid’s cosmetic case out of the sea.”

Seated beside him was the big man with straw-coloured hair. He stared after the disappearing rear lights of the Cadillac until it turned into the street and merged with the traffic.

“He snoops too much, Mario,” the big man said. “Have we got insurance for that?”

It wasn’t a
filet mignon
, nor a top sirloin; it wasn’t even a lowly porterhouse. It was a towering stack of finely shaved, over-done roast beef enclosed in an out-sized bun soaked with barbeque sauce. It came wrapped in moisture-proof gold paper bearing the trade mark of a steer’s head and the red lettering: Longhorn’s Beef Sandwich. Jack Keith watched Simon’s expression as he unwrapped the paper, gingerly raised the top of the bun and sniffed the contents.

“I suppose you wanted horse radish,” he said.

“What I wanted was something warranting the wearing of this garrotte,” Simon answered. He put the sandwich down on the bar and undid his necktie. It was one of Hannah’s gifts: wide silver and grey stripes that now made a glittering garland for the wall lamp that was focused on Keith’s liquor stock.

“Picky, picky,” Keith scolded. “You know we couldn’t get in any good restaurant at this hour without a reservation, and I did promise you the best Scotch in town.”

“And I’m still waiting for it,” Simon said. He ate the sandwich hungrily while Keith took out his twelve-year-old stock, poured it into a glass over ice and added one quick spray of soda. Even franchise fare could be edible at ten p.m., which was about eight and a half hours on the far side of lunch. “This takes me back to my early postgraduate days,” he mused, between mouthfuls, “when I was still moonlighting as a mechanic to pick up the rent for my law office—but the office was nothing like this place!”

Jack Keith’s apartment was on one of the highest floors of a new Beverly Hills high-rise, and on nights like this one, when the wind had dispelled the smog, the lights of the city spread out below like a carpet of stars. From opposite sides of a teak-panelled wall, the finely-balanced strains of a stereo emitted a muted Vivaldi concerto for lutes and string orchestra. When, to this gentling atmosphere was added the drink Keith delivered, it was easy to accept the idea that Arne Lundberg, in medieval melancholy, had killed himself for the love of a lady.

“What are you going to do with the five hundred dollars now?” Simon asked.

Keith finished chewing and swallowing the first bite of his sandwich before he answered. “Well,” he drawled thoughtfully, “I have kind of earned it.”

“It should just about cover a month’s rent on this pad.”

“Just about.” Keith put down the sandwich and looked at his watch. “A little after ten here—that means it’s a workday morning in Stockholm. You can enjoy my art gallery while I put in a call to Axel Thorsen. Maybe he can clue me in on the kind of companions Arne had in his youth.”

Keith came out from behind the bar and went into the room that served as his business office. With the door closed, Simon couldn’t eavesdrop, so he set about locating the art gallery, which, discovered, was found to consist of one Klee, two Picasso prints and exactly eleven camera studies of well-assembled young ladies, Caucasian and Asiatic, all of whom had inscribed their photos with expressions of spontaneous, if not undying, love. Simon smiled nostalgically and sipped his drink. His own collection now consisted of three studio portraits of Wanda Call (soon to be Wanda Drake)—which was as it should be. And then he thought of Arne Lundberg and what was missing in his apartment. A few minutes later, Jack Keith emerged from his office.

“I just thought of something peculiar about Lundberg’s apartment,” Simon said. “Sigrid Thorsen was a professional. She must have had dozens of pictures of herself, but Lundberg didn’t have even one in his apartment.”

Jack Keith didn’t seem to hear. He stood thoughtfully rubbing the red stubble on his chin that would probably develop into a beard if he didn’t have a change of heart.

“The only picture of Sigrid in the place was the one in the newspaper,” Simon added.

“If a little thing like that bothers you,” Keith said, finally, “try this on your sounding-board. I’ve just been talking to the export firm in Stockholm where Axel Thorsen worked. Somebody is using me for something and I don’t like it.”

“No Axel Thorsen?” Simon asked.

“Oh, certainly. Axel Thorsen was with the firm for twenty years, and everybody remembers his lovely daughter who went to the United States to become a television star. The problem is this: Thorsen couldn’t have written that letter. He died of a heart attack three months ago.”

The Vivaldi concerto had ended and the music from the stereo was now loud and Teutonic. Keith crossed the room and turned off the set. Silence made a dramatic punctuation for his disclosure.

“Let me see the letter again,” Simon said.

Keith had just finished telephoning the number on the letterhead. The missive was in his hand. He gave it to Simon along with the envelope. Simon scanned the envelope first.

“The stamp is Swedish and the postmark is Stockholm,” he observed. “So we know it was really sent from Sweden.”

“Planes go back and forth every day,” Keith said.

“Right. So it could have been typed almost anywhere by almost anyone and flown back for mailing, or it could have been sent by someone in the export firm.”

“Or by anyone who had access to the stationery and knew the principals involved. How the letter was sent is no problem. The question is: why was it sent?”

“To direct your attention to Lundberg.”

“That leaves us with another big ‘why?’”

“And no Arne Lundberg to question. I’d still like to know
who
wrote this letter. Who, other than Sigrid’s father, would be that interested in Lundberg?”

“There’s still the bank draft. I can check it back to its source—if that means anything. Anyone can buy a money order under any name if they have the cash. It still seems a weird way to make money.”

“You’ll earn it,” Simon said. “You’re going to get that autopsy report on Lundberg tomorrow, and then see if anyone comes to claim his body and his possessions. Try to get a look at the possessions. I’d still like to find the other half of the severed key if for no other reason than to have something to tell Hannah. Now, if you’ll just call a cab for me I’ll get back to the Century Plaza and pick up my car—”

Simon handed the letter and the envelope back to Keith. He pocketed it but made no move towards the telephone.

“I thought you might stay in tonight,” he said.

“And go along with you to the coroner’s office tomorrow? Not on your life! You’re the one who got the fee. I have to get back in the harness. I’ve got a wedding coming up.”

“That’s not what I had in mind. Hell, I might as well confess. That line I gave you on the telephone this afternoon about having a bugged phone was just to get you in here. There’s a little thing going two flights down—a party. We’re expected. In fact, you’re the guest of honour.”

“Oh, no!” Simon said.

“Look, how did I know we were going to run into a corpse before dinner? This was just going to be a nice little celebration of farewell to your bachelor days. Come on down for one drink—just one drink and get me off the hook with Kelly.”

“Who’s Kelly?”

Keith went to his collection of eleven lovely photographs and pointed to the eleventh. The girl inside the frame was an ash blonde with a wide, friendly smile that didn’t quite match the sadness in her eyes. “Kelly Kendall,” he said. “Twenty-two, affectionate and very lonely since both her parents were killed in a plane crash and left her all alone with about four million dollars. She leased an apartment and keeps a continuous party going to keep away the things that go whoosh in the night. Makes a game of it. Always looking for occasions to start the festivities going again—like the time she celebrated the anniversary of the opening of the Trans-Siberian Railway for three weeks. When I mentioned that one of my friends was getting married, she insisted on giving a party. Just one drink, Si. It’ll do you good.”

“So that’s why I had to eat that Longhorn sandwich.”

“Exactly. I promised Kelly we’d be in before eleven and it’s almost that now.”

“Okay,” Simon sighed. “One drink.”

Later, when it was important that he remember details, Simon wasn’t sure how long he stayed at the party. He recalled meeting his hostess; Kelly Kendall, who was beautiful but much too gay. She was travelling at supersonic speed at a level barely discernible to the naked eye. She was going to kill herself, by one means or another, long before the millions gave out and that might be anywhere from six months to six years depending on the strength of her kidneys and her nervous system. She had a girl for him—a dark-haired, blue-eyed lass who was prepared to go all the way and had reached the ear-nibbling stage when Simon set her right. By that time they had progressed through the bee-hive confusion of the living room, den and dining alcove to the narrow sanctuary of the hall. As the din of an amplified combo receded, he unwrapped her arms from his neck and said:

“Honey, there’s something you’re old enough to know. Fun and games is great for a free-lancer like Jack Keith, but when sex gets fused with emotion to the degree that a man anticipates marriage, it’s not just a sport any more.”