Darkest Hour (5 page)

“No,” he answered, “I’m going up to have a passionate orgy with my paramour and I don’t want to be disturbed.”

Simon turned away from the desk with the irritating certainty that Miss Penny wasn’t at all jealous. That was a shame. She was very attractive and that thought reminded him that he had forgotten to telephone Wanda, who was in New York rehearsing a play. The romantic hazard in clearing a beautiful entertainer of a sensational murder charge was that the ensuing publicity had sparked a new career. Wanda was too unsure of herself after the tragedy to start a second marriage without some ego-boosting therapy. An offer to appear in a new Broadway play appealed to this need, and Simon was agreeable. The separation gave him time to adjust to the impending loss of his long-cherished bachelorhood. The field was still stimulating, but it was Wanda who came to mind when he left Miss Penny. That was a good sign. By the time he reached this conclusion, Simon was in the automatic elevator. His hand hovered over the floor selector and then touched
four
. He would call Wanda later.

• • •

He was the sole passenger. The elevator rose rapidly and opened into the corridor that terminated at the patiolike passageway separating the deluxe suites. The sky was a clear, smog-free blue against which the Spanish towers rose proudly to cut off the graceless commercial clutter below. Looking down, he could see gardens and treetops on one hand, the mosaic tile floor of the chapel courtyard on the other. Unfamiliar with the inn, Simon had to search for room 464. He located it only steps away from a circular staircase leading down to the spot where the dead man had been found. Encircled by an iron grille railing and closed to public use by a securely padlocked iron gate, the stairs were inaccessible to anyone not intent on self-destruction or made reckless by drink. Below, a heavy tarp weighted by sawhorses concealed the bloodstained tiles where Monterey had landed. To the uninformed observer, the obstruction merely marked a workman’s repair zone, and around it the mundane commerce of the day continued without pause.

Simon turned back to room 464. He approached the door with the key to Hannah’s room; there was always an outside chance that it might fit the lock. He was laboring over the keyhole when a familiar voice at his shoulder put an end to operation lock-pick.

“I think this pass key will work much better,” Miss Penny said.

Simon sighed and stepped away from the door. “You followed me,” he scolded.

“You left tracks,” she said. “What was I to think when one passenger entered the elevator bound for the second floor, and the indicator didn’t stop until it reached four?”

“I’m just curious,” Simon said.

“I think morbid is the word. Do you really want to go inside?”

She did have a pass key in her hand, and she seemed serious. She was also much more attractive without a registration desk to block off some of the more interesting areas of her anatomy.

“Why isn’t there a police guard?” Simon asked.

“Why should there be? There’s no criminal investigation to my knowledge, and the management certainly doesn’t want to draw attention to a suicide’s room. It might get jinxed and we’d have an unrentable suite on our hands.”

As she spoke Miss Penny unlocked the door. It was a heavy, cloister type that swung inward on the huge room where the drapes were still drawn, but there was no sign of recent occupancy. All of Monterey’s belongings were at the police station. The room was clean.

“Satisfied?” she asked.

Simon frowned. “Something’s missing,” he said.

The room was beautifully furnished: huge bed, dresser, lounge chair and side tables, desk …

“Where’s the desk chair?” Simon asked.

“Oh—it’s being cleaned. It has a fabric seat cover. There was a stain on it. Oil.”

“Oil?” Simon scanned the carpet. It was gray with a deep pile and had been recently cleaned. But there were some traces of oil. “Montgomery’s shoes were oil stained,” he said. “I wonder why he stood on the chair.”

There was no molding on the high vaulted ceiling, no hiding places, no chandelier. He opened the closet. The shelf was easily accessible, and Monterey, Simon remembered, had lifts on his heels. He found a luggage rack that opened to the approximate height of the desk chair and climbed up on it. There was a row of cloister windows above the bed that opened out through a section of saw-tooth roof; but they were securely locked and out of reach even from the luggage rack. He stepped down and took the rack to the bathroom. There was no window at all and no cupboards or shelves above normal reach. Outside the bathroom a pair of steel-framed French doors opened onto a tiny balcony looking down on the service yard. Each suite on this side of the wing had a similar balcony. Simon set up the rack again and climbed onto it.

“Don’t!” Miss Penny cried. “You’ll fall!”

He looked down. The guard rail came to his ankles and the drop would have flattened anyone’s profile.

“I wonder why Montgomery didn’t make his leap from here,” he mused, and at that instant the luggage rack gave way. Simon grabbed wildly for the top of the steel window frame. Clinging to it by one hand, he twisted his body and grasped the heavy copper rain gutter with the other and then hung spread-eagled, his feet dangling just inside the low railing, until Miss Penny could react and remove the rack, leaving space for him to drop to the balcony floor.

He landed, facing her, only inches away. She was very soft and feminine and smelled good.

Simon inhaled. “Chanel Number Five?” he guessed.

“Avon, two-fifty,” she said. “Now, sir, please stop reenacting the suicide and get out of here before we have another ambulance case. I shouldn’t have allowed you inside the room at all.”

“Why did you?” Simon asked.

“I don’t know … Yes, I do. I saw the name Hannah Lee on the registration card, and I knew that Simon Drake was her attorney.”

“Her slave,” Simon corrected. “Go on.”

“That’s all there is to it. I saw you on TV when you defended Wanda Call. I wanted to see you in person.”

“Disappointed?” Simon asked.

“I can’t answer that question on so short an acquaintance, and I must get back to the desk.”

Miss Penny picked up the broken luggage rack and walked to the door. She stood there jangling the large key in her free hand until Simon took the hint, and followed her out of the room.

“One more question,” he persisted. “You said that you took Monterey’s call last night when he asked to be awakened at eleven-thirty. Did he mention where he was going at that hour?”

“He did not. And I didn’t ask. Discretion, Mr. Drake, is the better part of hotel management.”

She locked the door, tested it and then marched off toward the elevator. It was too bad. With such devotion to duty, she was probably the manager’s girl.

Hannah was holding court in room 211. Seated in an armchair before the cold fireplace, a silver service on the low table before her, she had made a remarkable recovery of vitality, poise and elegance. Sleep was forgotten. Hannah had an audience, and she never missed a curtain. Simon unlocked the door and found himself facing this tableau: Hannah flanked by two handsome males of widely contrasting ages. The one who leaned against the mantel, nervously twisting a key chain with an astrological symbol, was indecently young and slim of hip. He wore bright blue cords, white thongs and a white jersey about one centimeter tighter than his skin. The mane of carefully groomed long hair and the vibrations of nervous intensity could mean only that this was Buddy Jenks of the magic horn. The other male was a giant: at least six-foot-four, wiry and mature. His oiled-teak skin contrasted sharply with the military-cut cap of snow-white hair. His eyebrows were white, his teeth were white, his jeans and jacket were white. He wore black field boots and looked as if he slept, if at all, on his feet.

Simon closed the door behind him. “I’m Simon Drake,” he said, “and you’re Whitey Sanders and Buddy Jenks.”

“Simon,” Hannah remarked, “would you like a cup of coffee? It’s hot.”

“Later. Right now I’d rather talk to Sanders. I’ve just been looking at a dead man he used to know.”

Hannah poured the coffee anyway, and Sanders accepted the cup without taking his eyes from Simon’s face.

“Monterey,” he said. “Hannah told me. He tried to reach me at the club last night.”

“How do you know?”

“My bar manager told me when I got in a couple of hours ago. He also told me that Hannah was in town and I had all the hotels checked out to find where she was staying. Buddy told me about the accident in the parking lot. Weird, isn’t it?”

“Do you know why Monterey wanted to kill himself?”

“No idea—unless it was money trouble. He usually lived beyond his means. I would have helped him. No need to panic because I was a few hours late.”

“It wasn’t money trouble,” Simon said.

Hannah had poured a second cup of coffee for Buddy, who accepted because he needed something to do with his hands besides twirl the key chain.

“Monterey was carrying nearly two thousand dollars. His clothes were hand-tailored and he had a lot of expensive items; cuff links, cigar case—”

“Two thousand dollars was small change for the Monterey I remember,” Sanders said. “It could have been pocket money for the weekend.”

“That was in his heyday. He hasn’t worked in years.”

“In films, no. But he made investments. He made most of his piles before the big income tax hit. Remember the prewar days, Hannah?”

“I remember
all
of the prewar days,” Hannah said dryly, “and I still went broke. So did Monterey. He had exhausted every source of credit in Hollywood before he left the area. What are you driving at, Simon?”

“Your infallible eye, Hannah. You said Monterey looked panic-stricken last night. Running scared. Suicide is an act of despair. It happens when a man can’t run any farther.”

Whitey Sanders’ eyes were an icy blue, and they glittered over the rim of his cup. He lowered it slowly. “Are you insinuating that Monterey didn’t commit suicide?” he asked.

“I never insinuate,” Simon said. “All I know is that he was very much alive last night when he rammed Hannah’s Rolls with a rented car. He got out and ran toward her—clung to her car and then, and who knows why, cut and ran. This morning he’s found at the bottom of a four-story stairwell.”

“And what’s Monterey to you?” Sanders snapped.

“Nothing. But Hannah is my dearly beloved friend and the best poker player west of Vegas. If hanky-panky is in the air, I don’t want the hanky-pankying near her. Was Monterey married?”

“How the hell would I know?” Sanders said.

“Never,” Hannah observed. “I know about such things, children, and Monte wasn’t the marrying kind.”

“Was he a queer?”

“Horrors, no! He’d duel you with sabers if he were alive and heard you say that! His Latin manhood would boil up like a volcano! No, Monte was normal. He just wasn’t the domestic type.”

“Then why did he have a wedding ring?”

Simon didn’t mention the inscription. He let the question stand and watched Hannah’s surprised gasp and the way Sanders’ white eyebrows shot upward. He didn’t let anybody comment. At the instant before Hannah’s mouth began to move he added:

“And why did he rent a car in Santa Monica and drive all the way to La Verde, and then ask the desk to call him at eleven-thirty because he had an appointment? And don’t get touchy, nice people. I’m not needling you for the fun of it. I’m trying to think like the La Verde County D.A. will be thinking when he holds the inquest into the death of Monte Monterey.”

“And if anyone has anything to hide, let him speak now or beware of the consequences,” Hannah concluded.

“Exactly. Now I’ll have a cup of that coffee, if you please, and accept any contributions from the audience.”

Whitey Sanders put down his cup and went to the telephone. “Alex?” Sanders asked. “I need a simple answer to a simple question: Alex, what time did you get that call from Monterey last night? … Before ten…. Right. And then he set up the appointment to meet me at the bar at eleven-thirty? … Right. Okay, Alex, thanks.” Sanders dropped the telephone into the cradle and turned to Simon. “That explains your appointment,” he said.

“And you have no idea what it was for?”

“If it wasn’t money—no. I haven’t seen Monte in more years than I can remember. I didn’t know he was in the country, let alone in La Verde, until I talked to Alex this morning. How could I know why he came back?”

“Maybe to die,” Buddy suggested.

He was a nice, quiet boy: very intense and aware of all that had been said. His statement was startling, and so he put down his empty cup on the mantel and explained: “Like an elephant. I mean, if a guy’s going to kill himself, he might want to come home to do it—sort of subconsciously. You know?”

“I think Buddy’s analysis is very sound,” Whitey said. “In any event, as you suggested, Drake, the coroner and the inquest will make the decision. I’ll see that Monte has a fine funeral. He wasn’t religious, but he would appreciate the send-off. I’m not sure how many of his family are still alive. He lost a brother in the war. I think there were several sisters, too. One was a real beauty. She tried the Hollywood scene for a bit with Monte and then got smart and made a good marriage. Died a good many years ago. You remember her husband, Hannah. Sam Goddard. He published a newspaper. Flamboyant son of a gun. I think he retired—”

Simon drained his coffee cup. It was clear to the last drop with no sediment at the bottom. Carefully noting this completely irrelevant detail, be put down the cup on the service table and removed an almost forgotten newspaper from his pocket.

“Are there any reviews?” Buddy asked.

Hannah and Buddy were two of a kind. Simon didn’t answer. He shook open the paper and handed it to Sanders.

“This Sam Goddard?” he asked.

Nobody said anything then for several minutes. Sanders’ white eyebrows crouched over the bridge of his nose, and he seemed to pale to a kind of putty color under the tan. “Sam’s dead,” he said hollowly. “Sam was killed when his car went off the highway in the fog yesterday.” He ran one finger down the news column. “Yes, here it is. ‘Goddard’s wife, the former actress Lola Morales, preceded him in death fifteen years ago—’ My God, imagine them remembering that she was an actress! I handled her, you know. She didn’t have more than six or seven minor roles, and most of them were in Monte’s early Westerns. As long as she worked with Monte she could sleep alone. Then Sam met her at a studio party and swept her off her feet. He was quite a lady-killer in those days, and Lola was the only eighteen-year-old virgin outside convent walls. It was a real love match. Lola did all right for herself. She died young and still lovely.”

Whitey Sanders fell silent. It was Time moving in to make the scene. Old Father Time with his scythe and hour glass and the cold wind hovering about him. Buddy was still too young to sense that special kind of cold, but the others knew what it was. A silent bell was tolling, taking a bit of each of them with it as it knelled. Brusquely, Sanders shoved the newspaper back into Simon’s hand.

“Coincidence,” he said. “Damned eerie coincidence. Well, what do you say, Buddy? Shall we get back to the motel? You need a rest before rehearsal. Have to be sharp tonight. After the send-off you got last night, the word will be out and we’ll be packed.” Sanders turned to Hannah. “Hannah, sure I can’t put you up for a few days?”

“Hannah’s checking out,” Simon said. “I’m sending her home in a limousine. I’ll drive the Rolls back myself.”

He used his man-of-the-house voice which left no room for argument, but while he was ushering Sanders and Buddy out of the room Hannah got hold of the newspaper and wouldn’t give it up until she had read every word of Sam’s obituary.

“I wonder if Monte knew about this before he died,” she mused.

“Were they such close friends that the news of Sam’s death would have triggered suicide?”

Hannah knew about such things. Her long years of semi-invalidism had given her the time (she needed no incentive) to collect all the local gossip. It was filed away in bright purple compartments in her mind.

“I doubt that,” she answered. “It’s fifteen years since Lola died, and she never had much to do with Monte after she married. Old Hollywood had more castes than India—it still does. When Lola became a publisher’s wife she automatically moved into another sphere. Society-page clique. Not that Sam was wealthy—that came later. Oh yes, she was a beautiful girl; Whitey’s right about that. But she wasn’t Sam’s great love. I could tell you that story.”

“I’m sure you will,” Simon said, “but later.”

He managed to get her out of the building and into the limousine without attracting any attention and then returned to the room. Hannah, if so inclined, could sleep on the way, but Simon hadn’t been near a mattress for more than twenty-four hours. He slept for a couple of hours and then awakened very suddenly. The autopsy report. He decided to play a hunch and picked up the telephone and called the Gateway Bar. Whitey Sanders wasn’t on the premises. He gave his name and was given a private number which connected him with the swimming pool at Sanders’ private cottage on the motel grounds.

Sanders recognized his voice and said, “Come over and have a swim. The water’s fine and the scenery is better than centerfold.”

Simon could hear feminine laughter and a lot of splashing in the background. “You tempt me,” he said, “but I’ve got to get back to The Mansion. I called to ask a favor.”

“Want to borrow a plane?”

“No, I’m driving Hannah’s Rolls back. What I want is a photostatic copy of the pathologist’s report when they get through carving up Monterey. I have a feeling you might have a few connections at City Hall.”

“I may have. What’s up? Have you learned something I don’t know?”

“Nothing,” Simon answered. “I just remembered that Monterey had a broken whisky bottle in his jacket pocket. Some of it spilled on his clothes. I’d like to know how much was inside.”

He heard Whitey Sanders breathing into the telephone for several seconds. “Okay,” he said finally. “Can and will do. Drive carefully.”

By the time Simon checked out of the hotel there was no indication that any tragedy had occurred on the premises. Miss Penny wasn’t at the desk when he paid his bill. A slight, balding gentleman with a Rotary Club smile officiated over the money changing.

“Just for the record,” Simon said, “what is Miss Penny’s first name? Or is that a management secret?”

The smile hovered cautiously over the signature on Simon’s check, approved and said: “Bonnie, Mr. Drake.”

Bonnie. It had a good ring to it. Simon walked slowly across the lobby to the wide glass doors keeping an eye peeled on the off chance she was nearby. Once outside the doors, he strolled through the patio to the shopping arcade for one last inspection of the death scene. The arcade was getting pretty good traffic at this hour. The curio shops and dress shops were open and the tourists were in buying moods. They walked briskly across the mosaic tile floor completely unaware that a man had died with his face flattened against those tiles mere hours ago. The canned music from the mall set a smart tempo in the background, and nobody but Simon Drake was interested in that circle of tile at the bottom of the stair well.

Almost nobody.

Simon stood alone in the center of the circle, half listening to the music and trying to straighten out a puzzle in his mind. And then, quite naturally, his gaze rose and he looked up the round stair well along the steps that were never used because of the iron gate at the top of the well. And there, as his eyes reached the gates, he saw a watcher.

It was a man. Tall and striking in appearance. He stood close to the railing gripping the top bar with one hand. He wore black shoes, a black suit and a black hat with a wide, stiff Spanish-style brim. His face was shaded and his features indistinct but he didn’t move, and Simon had a sense of standing all alone in that tile corridor like a specimen on display. A light flashed. The figure moved slightly and the sunlight captured a brilliant jewel on his hand. A gust of wind swirled down the arcade blowing dust and debris, and Simon turned away to wipe a particle from his eye. When he looked up again, the figure was gone. At the witching hour, with Hannah’s imagination to weave a spell, the incident might have seemed an apparition. But it was midafternoon, and Simon had no respect for any spirits less than eighty proof. He left the hotel and walked down the musical mall to the old courthouse.

• • •

Lieutenant Rickey was waiting with a release for the Rolls. “Drive carefully,” he said.

That was the second time Simon had been so advised. It was nice to have people concerned about him. It was the small-town flavor coming through.

He got the Rolls out of the garage and started driving back toward the coast. It was a bright and shining afternoon, typical tourist weather without a cloud on the horizon. Simon had just about convinced himself that Hannah had overdramatized the parking-lot incident and that there were no loose ends in the unexpected death of Monte Monterey when he became aware of a strange, irritating sound under the hood of the Rolls. Motor-listening was automatic when he drove Hannah’s car—particularly so after the accident. Usually a stethoscope was required to hear anything once the hood was closed. The sound was metallic. The sound was a rattle. Apparently there had been some engine damage after all. He watched for an off-highway parking area and pulled off at the first opportunity. He got out of the car and raised the hood and found a small lead container with a timing device wired to the carburetor.