Severed Key Page 8

  “What’s new?” Simon asked. “You seem fascinated.”

  “I am. The plumber has just delivered a bath—and, Simon, it’s one of those double models. A bath for two!”

  Simon smiled. “Maybe the house is being built for newly-weds.”

  “Oh, no!” Hannah insisted. “I’ve watched since the ground was broken and there hasn’t been a woman on the premises. No man would be foolish enough to build a house for a woman without letting her help plan it. The owner is a bachelor. I sent Chester to investigate. He’s about sixty and very athletic.”

  “Obviously,” Simon said.

  “And artistic. One room is a studio with a huge skylight and an ocean view. Mr Bernardi—that’s the owner’s name—does sculpture and ironwork.”

  “Custom-built baths, probably. I hate to tear you away from this, but have you seen the morning paper?”

  “I didn’t have time.”

  “I can believe that. Now, put those binoculars down on the window ledge and come downstairs with me. Chester is whipping up a salad for lunch.”

  “You know he’s no good with salads!”

  “That’s why I came to fetch you. I’ll read the front page aloud while you’re working, and you can give me your most thoughtful opinion of the suicide of Arne Lundberg.”

  Hannah made the salad while Chester set three places at the breakfast bar. He didn’t mind the invasion of his kitchen. He had only taken the job to tide him over until he earned his teaching credentials. While the others worked, Simon related the pertinent details of his evening with Jack Keith leading up to their call at Lundberg’s apartment, and then read the brief news story concerning the death by drowning. Hannah listened intently.

  “Why did you say that Lundberg committed suicide?” she demanded. “The newspaper makes a qualification: ‘apparent suicide’.”

  “Because suicide was the general assumption of the other tenants at the complex last night. After all, Lundberg had just lost his fiancée in that plane crash.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  Hannah frowned and shook her head. “It doesn’t sound right. If he had been seventeen or eighteen—maybe. That’s a very unstable age for a young man. At twenty-four he’s more likely to react to that kind of tragedy by getting drunk, getting in a fight, and getting another girl—in the order named.”

  “Well, he did get drunk. That’s as far as he went.”

  “Then his death’s an accident instead of suicide.” Hannah was good at reading faces. When she saw Simon’s doubtful frown, she added: “Or are you holding something back from us?”

  “Not exactly,” Simon said. “I’m waiting for Keith’s report on the autopsy—and a few other things. We still don’t know the significance of the severed key.”

  “Didn’t you find the other half in Lundberg’s apartment?” Chester asked.

  “With a police investigation in progress? We didn’t look and we didn’t ask. That’s another thing Keith’s checking. But we did see Sandovar again—if that’s who he really is—acting like a playboy all over the Hong Kong bar.”

  “Playboy?” Hannah echoed.

  “That’s how he looked. Dressed like a Cardin model and taking over the piano from the hired talent.”

  Hannah sighed. “His father, the general, was very musical. He brought a guitar to my hospital room once and played for almost an hour. But that was a private performance. Juan doesn’t seem to have his father’s dignity.”

  Chester laughed. “Dignity went out with the waltz, Hannah. This Sandovar sounds like a swinger.”

  “Or maybe just plain Johnny Sands,” Simon suggested.

  “Never!” Hannah insisted. “I would know that face anywhere. Do you still have the broken key, Simon?”

  “I do.”

  “Good. I was afraid that you might have given it to the police.”

  “No chance. They had enough on their hands with Lundberg’s death.”

  Hannah had finished with the salad. She handed the bowl to Chester and he served. After the first mouthful Simon nodded approvingly. “Chester,” he said gravely, “you see that Hannah keeps up with her exercises. I’d sure hate to see her lose that dexterity with a fork and spoon.”

  Simon’s paper-work kept him occupied all afternoon. Chester had a night class and Hannah gave him permission to drive her ancient red Rolls if he would drop her off at the community centre where she was coaching the local dramatic club. The evening wore on but there was still no call from Keith. It was nine o’clock when the front doorbell dragged Simon out of his study. He went to the front door and found Pete Franzen on the veranda. At first glance, he appeared to be alone.

  “Hello, Drake,” he said, stepping into the light of the hallway, “I’m sorry to bother you like this, but something’s come up that won’t wait.” He turned and beckoned to a man who stood in the shadows of the veranda. “I think you two have met,” he added, as the man stepped inside the house. “This is Lieutenant Howard of the LAPD.”

  “You’re a long way from the home precinct,” Simon said.

  “That sometimes happens,” Howard remarked. “May we come in?”

  “Certainly! It’s after hours. Why don’t we go into the bar and relax a little?”

  Simon’s highly polished mahogany bar was an original from an old San Francisco hotel; the red plush stools, which matched the red plush walls, were new and designed for comfort. Franzen removed his hat and straddled one of the stools in a casual manner, but the Los Angeles detective, who still wore his fedora, stood as grim and unbending as a model for a law and order poster. Simon went behind the bar and picked up the bottle of bourbon. He looked at Franzen, who nodded, and then poured a drink. He looked at Howard and Howard shook his head.

  “This is a nice place you’ve got here, Mr Drake,” he said. “Lieutenant Franzen told me how you bought this old house and restored it. I guess a criminal lawyer makes a lot of money these days.”

  “I suppose a criminal lawyer does,” Simon conceded, “but I’m not a criminal lawyer. Primarily, I’m a corporation lawyer. I take an occasional criminal case if it appeals to me. I know you’ve had a long drive out here, Lieutenant, and I don’t think you came to admire my house or to discuss my financial situation. Just why are you here?”

  “Because I brought him,” Franzen said, quickly. “My office received a call from Howard’s about two hours ago. When I learned the nature of the business, I said it would be better if he came out and talked to you himself. I think you know a private investigator named Jack Keith.”

  Simon was about to pour himself a drink. Sensing trouble, he recapped the bottle and answered: “Of course I do. He does a lot of investigative work for me in conjunction with my profession.”

  “Is that what he was doing at Lundberg’s apartment last night?” Howard demanded. “Is that what the both of you were doing?”

  “No,” Simon said. “Keith was on my boat with me Saturday when we joined the rescue operation after that airliner crashed into the sea. Later, we were in the shed where the recovered débris was gathered when Lundberg came in and began to yell about his dead fiancée. You must have seen it on the TV news or read about it in the newspapers.”

  “I did,” Howard admitted.

  “Well, that’s it. Keith and I had a dinner engagement last night. Over cocktails, he suggested that we look in on Lundberg and see if he had recovered from his traumatic experience.”

  The story did sound thin, but Simon had no intention of disclosing the existence of Keith’s Stockholm letter until he learned what was behind Howard’s enigmatic scowl.

  “How did you know where he lived?” Howard demanded.

  “His address was in the Sunday Times’ coverage.”

  “And that’s the only reason you came to the apartment?”

  “The only reason,” Simon lied. “What’s this all about, anyway? If you want to know why Keith went to Lundberg’s place last night, why don’t you ask him? Wh
y come all the way to Marina Beach and quiz me?”

  In the brief silence that followed his question, he could hear Franzen’s swizzle stick circulating the bourbon and water, and he knew, without asking further, why the Los Angeles detective had made the trip. Keith was in trouble. The law was looking for him here.

  “I wish I could ask him,” Howard answered, “but he can’t be found. I don’t suppose you’ve seen him?”

  “Not today,” Simon said.

  “When was the last time you saw him yesterday?”

  “I can’t tell you that exactly. You know when we left Lundberg’s apartment—you put us out. We returned to Keith’s place and had some food and then he took me downstairs in the building to a party. I was tired. I cut out as soon as I could.”

  “Alone?”

  Franzen chuckled. “Howard,” he interjected, “Mr Drake is a man at the threshold of matrimony. He’s about to marry the loveliest—”

  “Alone?” Howard repeated.

  “Alone,” Simon said. “Not that I didn’t have offers.”

  “It was that kind of a party?”

  “In Keith’s building they usually are. Why not? He’s young, virile and unattached.”

  “And Keith stayed at the party?”

  “Yes. I haven’t seen him since. But I did talk to him on the telephone in the middle of the morning. He told me—”

  Simon hesitated. Howard’s manner was still too grim to induce volunteered information.

  “He told you what?” Howard asked.

  “That he would phone me again.”

  “And did he?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Then I’ll have to ask you to let my office know the instant he does call you,” Howard said; “and I’m sure that he will. He might have one of those occasional criminal cases that intrigue you, Mr Drake. Believe me, he needs a good lawyer.”

  “Keith?” Simon echoed. “Why does he need a lawyer?”

  “Too much party,” Howard answered. “It seems that when Keith left the party, he didn’t leave alone. One of the neighbours in that building you talked about dropped by his apartment this afternoon to borrow a cup of gin and found the door open. She went inside calling for Keith. He wasn’t there but his date of the previous evening was still in his bed with the belt of his dressing-gown tied around her throat so tightly she hadn’t breathed for hours.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SIMON WAITED FOR details, but Lieutenant Howard was a close-mouthed man. He had made the announcement in his own time so that he could watch Simon’s reaction. What he saw must have reassured him that Keith had made no contact, because Simon’s face betrayed his shock and incredulity.

  “I don’t believe it,” Simon said.

  “The body is now in the LA morgue,” Howard remarked. “You can see for yourself any time you like.”

  “But it doesn’t make sense. Keith likes women and women like him. He’s no sadist.”

  “Her name is Tracy Davis, Caucasian, aged twenty-three. The lady who gave the party you attended identified her and admitted that she had dated Keith several times. He even had her photograph in his apartment.”

  “He had nearly a dozen photographs of girls in his apartment,” Simon said.

  “But only one of them was found dead in his bed.”

  “But it doesn’t make sense. I was—” Simon bit back the words. If Howard didn’t know that he had spent the previous night in Keith’s apartment, there was no need to volunteer information. “—I talked to Keith on the telephone this morning,” he added. “He called from downtown where he had been getting the information on Lundberg’s autopsy. Would he have gone down there and left a dead woman in his bed?”

  “Stranger things have happened. Anyway, we don’t know yet how long she’s been dead. He could have killed her this afternoon. One way or another, I think he’ll be looking for a good lawyer, and you’re smart enough to tell him to go to my office when he does call—if you’re his friend, that is.”

  “Yes, I’m smart enough to do that,” Simon agreed.

  It was the arrival of Chester and Hannah returning from their respective appointments that broke up the discussion. Howard and Franzen left the house together. When they were gone Simon relayed the information he had been given. Their response was as shocked as his own had been.

  “That doesn’t sound like Jack Keith,” Hannah said, “even if he is one of those nosey private detectives.”

  “It sure doesn’t,” Chester agreed. “If Keith had killed a woman, he wouldn’t have left her in his own bed. Somebody else’s, maybe, but not his own.”

  “What’s more, she wasn’t there this morning,” Simon added. “I didn’t go into the bedroom, but I could see the bed through the open door.”

  “Maybe somebody’s been using Keith’s pad for a love-nest in his absence.”

  “In that building anything’s possible.”

  “Of course, he could have had too much to drink,” Hannah reflected.

  Simon didn’t realize how taut his nerves had become until his hand closed over the whisky glass Franzen had left on the bar with enough force to crack the glass. Muttering an oath, he grabbed the bar towel and scrubbed at the cracked ice spillage. “Now you sound like that LA detective,” he said. “Yes, Keith had a few drinks with me last night—probably a few more after I left him. We were relaxing. But he was sober when I talked to him this morning, and I’ve never known him to get drunk on the job. You don’t support a life-style like Jack Keith’s without a clear head.”

  “But he hasn’t rung you,” Hannah said.

  “No.”

  “Maybe he thinks your phone’s bugged,” Chester suggested.

  “And maybe he’s right. But if he does think that—then he knows about the dead woman. Hell, he has to know about the dead woman. He drives a bronze Cadillac registered in his own name. The police would have picked him up before this if he wasn’t hiding out someplace. When you have eleven—no, make it ten now—lovely lady friends there’s bound to be a secluded garage available. Chester, I’m going back to the city—”

  “Not tonight!” Hannah ordered.

  “Why not tonight? If Keith’s in trouble I’ve no time to waste. I want to get a look at that lady at the morgue.”

  “In the middle of the night? You won’t make friends at City Hall that way! Besides, you promised Keith you would wait here for his call. Give him a chance and give yourself a night’s sleep. You need a clear head, too, you know.”

  Hannah was right. There was still a chance that Keith might call or even put in a personal appearance. And Simon did need sleep. He left Chester to lock up and went to his room. He undressed, got into his pyjamas and set the alarm for seven o’clock. He got into bed and went to sleep immediately, because Jack Keith was a big boy who could take care of himself, and he was still sleeping when the bell ringing at his ear sent him groping for the alarm clock. He located it in the darkness and blinked at the illuminated dial. It was four-twenty-five. He put down the clock, turned on the lamp and picked up the telephone. The ringing sound stopped and he heard Wanda’s voice, tense and a little hoarse, saying:

  “Si, it’s me. Did I get you out of bed?”

  Simon surveyed his elongated body beneath the blankets, wiggled his toes for affirmation, and answered:

  “No, I’m still in it. Wish you were here.”

  She tried to giggle but it didn’t come off well. “Si,” she said, “where is Jack Keith?”

  Simon stopped wiggling his toes and sat up in bed.

  “What do you know about Keith?” he demanded.

  “Nothing! Not a darned thing! That’s what I’ve been telling some police investigators for the last hour. They were waiting for me when I finished the last show. They asked a lot of questions about Jack and asked when I saw him last. They acted as if I were hiding him someplace, and then they said that I’d better not try to hide him if he did show up because he’s wanted on the suspicion of murder. Si, what’s happe
ned? What’s this all about?”

  “Damn!” Simon whispered. “Howard could have left you out of this!”

  “Who’s Howard?”

  “The LA cop who had you interrogated. And I don’t know what it’s all about, baby. I wish that I did.”

  “Was somebody murdered?”

  “So I hear. I don’t know who it was—a woman. That’s all I know. A dead woman was found in Keith’s bed—”

  “In his bed!” Wanda shrieked. “How was she killed?”

  “Strangled, I think.” “But why would Jack Keith—?”

  “Exactly! Why? It doesn’t make sense, does it? Wanda, listen to me. I don’t want you getting upset over this. I don’t know where Jack is, but I do know that he’ll have an alibi when he does show up, because he’s no killer. I think it’s dirty pool for the police to drag you in a thing like this, and if they try to question you again I want you to tell them that you will answer no questions on the advice of counsel.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “And I’m sorry that I called you at such an hour.”

  Simon grinned. “Now that’s an unnecessary apology. Any hour of the day or the night—”

  “Are you really in bed?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “So am I. Honey, I was just thinking. Do you remember that night before I opened at the Sahara? That night I was so tense and we went driving into the desert and just kept driving until we found that tiny motel—”

  “Wanda,” Simon broke in, “there’s something I have to tell you. The police came to see me about Jack, too. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve bugged this phone and are recording our conversation. Now, what was that you were saying?”

  He heard Wanda laugh and this time there was no tension. That was good. “I was about to say that I love you,” she answered. “Is that allowable?”

  “If there’s a law against it,” Simon responded, “they’ll never be able to enforce it.”