Darkest Hour (17 page)

“I’ll keep this,” he said, “and you forget that you ever saw it. Do you recognize the handwriting on the envelope?”

It was a florid scrawl that looked familiar. Both remembered the flourish with which Monte Monterey autographed his publicity stills.

The small flat key was engraved with the number
28
.

“It’s a locker key,” Simon explained, “and the locker is in the La Verde airport. Now forget that I told you.”

“What’s in the locker?” Vera asked.

“I don’t know. Whatever it is has caused two—perhaps three or four deaths. Forget that I told you that, too.”

“But if it’s so important,” she protested, “why didn’t Monte write something on this card?”

There was an obvious answer.

“He didn’t have time,” Simon said.

The bus that ran along Orange Street in La Verde was tagged “Orange Street—Airport Blvd.” That was what Simon remembered as he pocketed Vera’s unsigned post card and locker key. Briefly he sketched out what must have transpired during the unknown portion of Monterey’s last night on earth. He had tried desperately to reach Hannah at the Gateway Bar, failed and fled toward Orange Street. The schedule showed that the last bus passed through the area after two-thirty; hence, it was quite possible that he had caught a bus at about twelve-thirty and ridden on past the Seville Inn all the way to the airport. Why? Because the contact he wanted most to make—Whitey Sanders—was expected in from Tucson at any moment. It was the logical place to look for him.

“But he didn’t meet Whitey,” Vera protested. “Whitey would have told us, wouldn’t he?”

She was beginning to feel the pressure too. Fear. Suspicion. Doubt. The old do-it-yourself brainwash.
If
Monterey’s death wasn’t accidental … if Sam’s death wasn’t accidental …

“I think Whitey would have told us,” Simon said. “Why not? But something could have happened before Whitey landed that caused Monterey to rush back to the hotel. This key tells us that he put something in locker number 28 in the waiting room of the La Verde Airport. He mailed it to you because he must have learned that Sam was dead and his death made you the next of kin. And that’s interesting.”

“I hardly knew Monte,” Vera said.

“That’s what I mean. He sent the key to you because he didn’t trust any of the people he did know. Vera, I asked you not to ring in the police about the mess in Sam’s study. Now I’m not so sure. Do you have a friend in town you could stay with for a few days?”

“There are no ghosts here,” she said quietly. “I’m not afraid.”

“I’m not afraid either—of ghosts,” Simon answered. “But you saw Sam’s film strips. You know the way Kwan died. We’re not doing business with nice people, and they may decide to come back again and interview you in person.”

Vera was brave but she was nobody’s fool. “Maren Moody asked me to stay with her as soon as she heard about the accident,” she reflected. “Maren’s my boss at the real estate office.”

“Where does she live?”

“In Enchanto. I can give her a shout—”

“Do it. I’ll drop you off on my way home.”

But Simon didn’t go home. He deposited Vera, complete with overnight case, at a pleasant little cottage with a white water view and then nosed the XK-E inland. La Verde. Home—where, as Buddy Jenks had so aptly observed, all things go to die. At some period between the elegant dream of the builder of the Seville Inn and the advent of the freeway, affluence had reached the little city and left its trademark: the glass and native rock cathedral of the sky worshipers—the La Verde City Airport. It was midafternoon when Simon arrived. The scheduled flights had come and gone but the field was littered with private planes and the waiting room housed a few suburban wives waiting for commuting spouses. Simon had no difficulty locating the block of steel lockers just outside the coffee shop. He was fingering his pocket for the key when the P.A. system broke into the sprightly musical-comedy air with which it was soothing the impatient waiters and announced: “Mr. Simon Drake report to the information desk, please. Mr. Simon Drake—”

Alarmed, Simon swung away from the lockers. The information booth was about twenty paces inside the front entrance and as conspicuous as a gunboat in the Los Angeles river. If Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were in the house, he was a perfect setup for their style of primitive group therapy. But the sweet young thing behind the information desk was all smiles and charm, and she asked if Mr. Drake would be so kind as to ascend the stone slab stairway across the foyer to the V.I.P. waiting room on the upper level: request of Mr. Whitey Sanders. Simon turned to look in the direction her well-manicured fingers were pointing and saw Whitey, incongruously attired in a white ruffled dinner shirt and black tuxedo pants, waving to him from the upper landing. The gesture was far more inviting than the butt end of a stolen .38.

Simon took the slab steps two at a time. Whitey was wearing black patent-leather pumps with black grosgrained bows. All six-foot-plus of him looked as pretty as a layout for evening-wear fashions for
Esquire
. He slipped one arm about Simon’s shoulder and guided him through an unlettered door into the inner sanctum of the airborne elite. It was a huge semicircular room with wide-angle windows commanding a view of the landing field, the parking lot and a horizon full of snow-capped mountains that belonged on a travel poster. A few deep-cushioned Mediterranean lounge chairs faced the view, and a robotlike bartender was busy opening a bottle of cola behind the small but extremely well-stocked bar. Whitey advanced to the bar and took the cola from the bartender’s hand before he could transfer it to an amber glass that had kept some Mexican glass blower in frijoles for a week.

“What are you drinking?” Whitey asked.

“What if I asked for cream soda?”

“You would get it.”

“I was afraid of that. Make it a Scotch-rocks…. Where’s the waterfall?”

There was no waterfall. What Simon’s ears had picked up was the civilized sound of a needle-spray shower. Beyond the bar area was a screened section to which Whitey now led Simon with the bright eagerness of a small boy displaying the family’s new house.

“This is the recreation area,” he said. “In the distance you will note a slate-bed billiard table. Blue felt top. Easy on the eyes. The exercise equipment you see is all chrome-plated. We also have masseurs, male and female, available by appointment.”

“No swimming pool?” Simon chided.

Whitey smote his sun-tanned brow in mock chagrin. “Now why didn’t I think of that?” he moaned. “But we do have a sauna and a hot therapy bath.”

“I wonder how the peasants travel these days,” Simon reflected.

“Peasants? At six bucks an hour for labor who’s a peasant?”

“Anybody over forty-five without a credit rating,” Simon remarked, but Whitey wasn’t listening. He had downed the Coke and was combing through a walnut-paneled locker for his dinner jacket. “I saw you drive in,” he said. “You surprised me. What’s with you and the airport?”

“Legal leftovers,” Simon said. “I came to make sure Hannah’s clean on that parking-lot accident.”

“Something on your mind?”

Whitey’s dinner jacket was teal blue with narrow satin lapels; his eyes were icy blue with narrowing pupils, and Simon had several things on his mind. The sound of the shower had stopped. At any moment the door to the shower room might open, and he had no idea what company had inspired Whitey’s elegant attire. This wasn’t the occasion for an audience. Simon talked fast.

“When we met last Tuesday morning,” he began, “we were both too concerned about Monterey’s plunge to get hung up on details. I had the impression then that you didn’t reach La Verde until morning. You were due in before midnight. What delayed you?”

“Weather,” Whitey said.

“I don’t think so. I flew in from San Francisco early Tuesday morning and the weather was fine.”

“Not in Tucson.”

“I can check your flight log.”

“So you can.” Whitey Sanders finished his drink and chucked the bottle inside the locker. He was irritated. “Damn it, Drake, why all these questions? I hate lawyers. I pay ‘em small fortunes to keep me away from other lawyers. All right, if it’s so important I’ll tell you when I got in Tuesday. It was exactly one-twenty by my perfectly synchronized watch. I was tired so I went straight to my bungalow at the hotel. I didn’t see Alex until a few minutes before I came to the Seville. The first I heard of Monte’s death was when I got there. I’d come to see Hannah. Does that satisfy you?”

“Did you see anyone at the airport when you arrived?” Simon asked.

“Of course I did! The ground crew, the man in the control tower—The coffee shop was closed but I think a janitor was scrubbing up the foyer and there must have been a guard or two on duty somewhere. If you must know, I wasn’t paying attention to such things. I had a passenger with me on the flight.”

“Oh,” Simon said.

“Yes, oh. Not a female passenger—which isn’t as interesting for either of us. I was carrying a man who came to La Verde looking for land. I’m still a realtor. I still work for a living.”

Whitey looked at the shower-room door as he spoke; when it opened the missing portion on Monterey’s last night on earth came as clean as the bright drops of shower spray glistening on Teutonic blond hair and rolling down beautifully sun-lamped shoulders. The lavish photo spread in
Chic
had come to life. Max Berlin, stark naked, stood in the doorway with a towel in his hands.

He showed no embarrassment. He commanded the scene and knew it. “I thought I heard voices,” he said brightly. “I say, Sanders, that needle spray is really something.”

His accent was on the Oxford side. He raised the towel and began to dry his chest, but his eyes never left Simon’s face. The overhead light caught in the huge sapphire on his finger. The identification was complete. Arrogant, cool and confident—this was the man Simon had seen at the top of the stair well at the Seville Inn. He seemed shorter without the flamboyant black hat and suit. He probably wore lifts on his shoes.

Simon glanced at Whitey. “Your passenger?” he queried.

“My passenger,” Whitey said. “Max Berlin. He’s been staying at my ranch the past week. Today we flew over some land I’m trying to sell him, and tonight we’re off to a dinner party in Palm Springs. Want to come along, Drake?”

“Sorry. I’m booked for the evening.”

“Drake—” Berlin mused. “Of course, Simon Drake!” He laughed boyishly. “You see, you are famous, Mr. Drake. I recognized you at once. Are you working on another murder case? Has another fair lady been accused of killing her husband?”

Berlin was having his little joke. He knew exactly what had happened at the Seville the previous night, and he knew that Simon knew he knew. He tossed the towel onto the floor and moved to the locker. “I’m taking your word, Sanders, that my dinner clothes have been sent to this place. Yes. Everything seems to be here.” He began to dress slowly starting with a dress shirt inspired by an overpaid matador. Innocently, he inquired: “Am I disturbing a private discussion? I can dress in the shower room.”

“You can back up my story,” Whitey announced. “You were with me when we landed Tuesday morning. Did you see anyone on the premises aside from the working staff?”

“Anyone? Do you mean anyone or someone in particular?”

“Ask Drake. It’s his brain storm. He’s been playing twenty questions with me without establishing whether we’re looking for an animal, vegetable or mineral.”

“Oh, an animal, I’m sure,” Berlin said. “Homo sapiens—or is it
cherchez la femme?
Sorry, Drake, but I can’t help you. I took careful note of the facilities when we landed. It’s quite impressive for so small a field, and then Sanders had told me that he sold the land for the airport to the city which made it even more interesting. But I saw no one lurking in the shadows or waiting at the entrance gate. Should I have seen someone?”

The key to locker number 28 was still in Simon’s pocket. Without it he might have let Berlin charm him out of the truth he knew. But several people were dead because of what that key kept out of Berlin’s reach and Simon didn’t intend to join the club. “I think you’ve just answered that question,” he said. “You shouldn’t have seen anyone because no one was there.”

The picture was clearing. Monterey had come to the airport looking for Whitey. He would have queried operations and learned that Whitey’s plane was coming in—such details would be cleared by later investigation. Through the wide glass windows of the waiting room he would have seen Whitey’s plane land and two men descend from the cabin. Whitey Sanders accompanied by the one man who could frighten Monterey into putting the evidence he had been holding for Sam Goddard into a locker and then getting out of the building before he could be seen. The shock of that moment must have been traumatic. Little wonder that he returned to the Seville so shaken that the night clerk thought he was drunk.

By this time Max Berlin had pulled on his trousers and gotten into his dinner pumps. Simon was right; they had lifts. “Have I time to make one telephone call?” he asked Whitey. “I forgot to call my broker this morning. I may be penniless.”

Both men laughed but Simon knew whom Berlin wanted to call. The Joy Boys had to be brought up to date.
Simon Drake is at the La Verde Airport. He’s on to something. Get him and find out what he knows
. Whitey glanced at his wrist watch. “It’ll be about ten minutes until they roll out the plane,” he said. “There’s an outside line at the bar.” Max Berlin moved out of earshot on the other side of the partition and Simon polished off the last of his Scotch.

“Where did you pick up the fat-farm king?” he asked Whitey.

“In Tucson. He’s looking for a secluded area for another spa. I convinced him that Californians have more spread.”

“What do you know about him?”

Simon’s glass was empty. Whitey took it from his hand and set it on a padded exercise table.

“All I need to know,” he said. “His checks don’t bounce. We’re none of us any better than we can afford to be, are we? He escaped the Krauts and landed on his feet. That’s enough for me.”

“Maybe he didn’t escape,” Simon said.

Whitey was momentarily shaken—but only momentarily. “Look, Drake, I sell land. The Supreme Court says I can’t discriminate. That’s good enough for me. Besides, suppose Berlin was a Nazi. That’s thirty years ago—more. People have to forget things.”

“Not some things,” Simon said, “unless we want to go back to tails and claws and swinging from trees.” He couldn’t say more because Berlin emerged from behind the partition all smiles and charm.

“Everything’s under control,” he said. “I’m ready for take-off. Sure you won’t come, Drake? My host has promised a lavish evening with lovely feminine company, dancing, wine—”

“It might ruin my waistline,” Simon said.

“Then I will invite you to one of my spas. My specialists could take care of any excessive bulge for you.”