After Midnight (12 page)

“Is that what you boarded my ship to tell me?” the commander demanded.

“No, it isn’t,” Simon admitted, “but it’s time somebody did. You’re not the law, Commander. Marina Beach isn’t your flagship and Wanda Warren isn’t a killer because you say so. Now I’m going to ask what I did come aboard to ask: did you give Roger money after his marriage?”

“No!” the commander thundered.

“Not any money at all?”

“Not one penny! Spoiled brat! Mr. Drake, I raised that boy to face the music—”

“—the way you wrote it,” Simon added, “and I think you’re tone deaf. But that’s beside the point. The fact is—and you must be aware of it—Roger was getting money from some source. He couldn’t have lived as high as he did on his salary.”

This
time Simon struck home. The cigar twisted and broke in the commander’s fingers.

“What are you implying?” he demanded.

“Not a thing—I’m stating an obvious truth. Your son got extra money from some source. Whatever it was may have caused his death.”

“His wife—”

“His wife didn’t buy the Mercedes,” Simon said, “or pay the rent on the house on Seacliff Drive. But I think you’re aware of that You cut Roger’s income for a purpose.”

“To bring him to his senses!”

“Which, by your standards, meant leaving his wife and returning to the life you had planned for him. You knew Roger was accustomed to living well. Without you he had no source of supply—but he continued to live high. And what else did he do? On the first Sunday of each month he came out here to see you. But he didn’t stay. He left his wife on the yacht and went off fishing in a small boat for hours at a time. What did he catch, Commander?”

Commander Warren hurled the broken cigar down on the desk top.

“Mr. Drake,” he said, “I don’t understand what you’re trying to say, but I’m damned sure that I don’t like it!”

“Are you sure Roger went fishing?” Simon asked.

“How should I know? I never set foot on that confounded boat!”

“Then you don’t actually know that he fished at all. He could have returned to the mainland—”

The air was suddenly cool and thin as if Simon’s words had penetrated a new atmospheric level. The commander’s eyes were narrow and penetrating. Simon suddenly knew what an enemy would feel with a torpedo racing toward him through the water.

“I think it’s time for you to leave, Mr. Drake,” the commander said.

“And I think it’s time for you to stop making irresponsible charges on television,” Simon said. “There’s such a thing as being too anxious to fix guilt. It might boomerang. You did wonder how Roger lived, didn’t you?”

“Get out!”

Simon didn’t argue. He stepped away from the desk and then, for just an instant, paused to absorb all the dignity and tradition that had been Roger Warren’s heritage. It prompted one passing observation.

“I wonder how far a man will go to protect his name,” he said.

The sea was as smooth as blue satin going out to the yacht. The return trip was rough and choppy and the blue had turned to a troubled gray. At this time of the year the weather was as changeable as a teen-ager’s passion and Simon, not being a natural sailor, felt lucky to make the mooring at all. No sooner had the little green boat nudged the dock than Charley Becker made her secure. He watched Simon climb out and scowl back at the sea. Becker grinned appreciatively.

“I see you didn’t get thrown overboard,” he said.

“Not quite,” Simon admitted.

“You didn’t get piped aboard either.”

It was more a question than a statement, and that meant Becker was still curious in spite of his previous protestations of indifference. Simon watched him secure the boat and became aware of something that should have been obvious all along. Becker’s small boats were of different colors: green, red, orange, blue, yellow—and one new white boat. He then reflected on the black hull of the yacht fast receding into the darkening sky and on a barely visible gray rowboat moving slowly toward the dock.

“What kind of fisherman was Roger Warren?” he asked.

Becker completed his work and wiped his hands on his faded blue jeans.

“We never talked fishing,” he said.

“But you did see him come in with the white boat on four different Sundays. He must have made some catches. Didn’t he talk about them or have any pictures taken at the end of the pier?”

“Man,” Becker said, “I run a bar and a restaurant as well as hire boats. You must think I’ve got nothing to do but pass the time with my customers.”

“What kind of rig did he use?”

“Rig? A regular deep sea rig.—Say, that’s peculiar now that I think about it. Warren carried a deep sea rig but he never went out on the deep sea boats. He used the white outboard.”

“What’s the cruising range of the white boat?”

“It’s not the range,” Becker protested. “A good sailor could go out as far as he wanted to go in the white boat as long as he had the fuel to get back. But the deep sea boats are equipped to handle big fish. They have tanks, hoists, ice—”

“Is there any other place along the coast where Warren might have put in?”

“Any other commercial dock, you mean? Not for at least ten miles—and my boats are marked. No other rental outfit would accept them.”

“But there are some private docks,” Simon suggested.

“Sure there are. Some people have everything. What’s your problem, Mr. Drake? Do you think Warren left his wife on his old man’s yacht and then went to meet another dame somewhere along the coast? Say, that would be a neat trick, wouldn’t it? No wonder she killed him!”

Simon had to do something to discourage all this negative thinking. He met Becker’s cynical smile with a bland stare.

“Which ‘she’?” he queried.

Becker stared at him in surprise.

“Which
she?
” he echoed.

“If there were two women, doesn’t that leave a choice?”

With Becker thoroughly confused, Simon was free to continue his investigation in another quarter. He returned to the bar, where a pair of truckers were bothering the cook for beers and thence to a phone booth near the entrance to the dining room. It was still too early for the lunch trade and the dining room was empty. He contemplated its emptiness and kicked open the door of the booth while he called Hannah. He wasted no time on preliminaries.

“Hannah,” he said, “you once told me that one of
your
old flames was the Harbor Master at Long Beach. Is that true or were you bragging?”

“I never brag,” Hannah answered, “and I never have affairs with harbor masters. The gentleman to whom you refer was a witness at my second marriage.”

“That’s even better,” Simon said. “You’re still on speaking terms. When I hang up, I want you to call him and ask what ships—ocean going class—passed within a few miles of Commander Warren’s yacht on the day of his son’s death. The vessel I’m looking for was coming in from an Oriental port—probably Hong Kong.”

“Why?” Hannah asked.

“Because the Orient is where paper is made from bamboo fibers, and that’s the kind of paper Roger Warren unwrapped from a package the night of his death.”

Hannah Lee was the only woman in the world to whom he would have confided so much so soon. But that was all he would confide. He hung up quickly before she could give him an argument. He left the booth and walked into the dining room. There was something nostalgic about being there alone. Days ago he had come into this room with Wanda and discovered a clue on the juke box that had led straight back to Nancy Armitage and a sudden about face that was astonishing even in something as changeable as a woman. Now the big box with the wide glass face was a magnet. It drew him across the room until he stood before it staring down at the list of titles housed inside. Everything was automatic now. Put a coin in the slot and uncover an eye witness who really hadn’t seen anything incriminating after all. Put in another coin and jar loose that something in his subconscious that warned him the conversation with the commander had been more heat than light. The usually cool head of Simon Drake was clouded. It hadn’t stopped him from kissing the young widow good night—and he had yet to kiss any woman just once.

But Simon never dropped the second coin. Behind him, the truckers finished their beers and left the bar. Charley Becker was free to pursue a suspicious vigil.

At Simon’s elbow, he said:

“Did you want to buy something else, Mr. Drake? More coffee? A beer?”

“What else do you have for sale?” Simon coaxed.

“I already told you. Nothing but what you see.”

“What I want to buy,” Simon said, running one finger down the list of recordings, “is something I don’t see. The record ‘Infidelity.’ It was here last week. Who took it out of the box?”

“Nobody touches that box but the man who services it,” Becker answered. “If something isn’t there that was there before, it wasn’t getting any plays. That’s business. No plays—no money.”

“What sells a record—the title?” Simon asked.

“I couldn’t say. I sell food and liquor and rent boats. With music I just listen to what the customers pick.”

“But before a customer hears something he likes—that first play when the first dime goes into the slot—isn’t the choice made by title?”

Becker was confused. Simon Drake was a lawyer and lawyers talked up a storm in one direction and slapped you down from another. Cautiously, he said:

“All right, the choice is by title. What are you driving at?”

“Guilt,” Simon said. “The human race reeks of it. We give ourselves away all the time. Are you married, Mr. Becker?”

“Twice,” Becker said.

“Currently?”

“Currently—yes and no. Why, Mr. Defender? What’s it to you?”

“Nothing personal. But if you had been playing around and came here to put a coin in the slot, wouldn’t the title ‘Infidelity’ catch your eye?”

Becker thought about it and then nodded his head excitedly.

“I see what you mean—guilt.”

“Guilt,” Simon repeated solemnly.

He still held a coin in his hand. He slid it into the box and punched a number at random. Instantly, the room exploded in a wild go-go beat that reminded him of a discothèque in Santa Monica and he wondered, with another kind of guilt, how Wanda looked wriggling in one of those overhead cages under a revolving spot.

“… the little foxes that spoil the vines,” he murmured.

Becker looked confused again, and this time the subject was too difficult to explain. Simon left him to cope with the go-go and went outside. The trucks were gone and there were no other vehicles in the parking lot except an old station wagon with “The Cove” lettered on the door and the Volkswagen sedan that belonged to the cook. Simon got into the Jaguar and pulled out onto the highway. A domestic sedan was parked on the shoulder at the first turn—a favorite pull-off point for camera bugs—and Simon barely noted it as he shifted into fourth gear and floored the gas pedal.

Inside the restaurant, Becker ignored the juke box and returned to the bar. Drake’s visit had upset him. Lawyers were tricky and murder was a bad business. Charley Becker knew how to make out: see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. That was his style for customers, cops and legal brains, and it would take a smarter man than Simon Drake to get any more out of him. He glanced at the big brass clock over the cash register that plugged a popular beer and calculated how much trade he could expect for lunch. Light, he decided. This would be a slow day. Sam, the cook, would have time to cram for his teachers’ college exams between short orders even if the relief was late. Some things like that a man of experience knew without a college education. How to live by his wits in a changing world. The easy warmth and palsy approach that made customers feel important when they sidled up to the bar. The way to roll with the punches of life without a mansion in the Heights or a yacht in the harbor to go home to. Becker had the shine on his damaged ego pretty well restored when he became aware that someone was seated at the shadowed end of the bar. He donned his broadest grin and approached the newcomer.

“Say, I remember you,” he said. “I never forget a customer or a customer’s drink. Now, don’t tell me. You’re Beefeater over rocks. Right?”

“Right,” the customer said.

Becker beamed.

“I told you! I never forget a customer or a customer’s drink. Now, where did I put that Beefeater? I don’t get many calls for English—”

Becker was leaning forward to scan the labels on a double row of bottles behind the bar when a blackjack laced across the back of his skull. He didn’t even have time to remember why he shouldn’t have talked so much about Charley Becker’s remarkable memory.

At about the same time Becker’s body was being dropped off the end of the boat pier at The Cove, Simon Drake was examining a raw silk sport shirt with side tabs and a two way collar. Observing him was a tall, blond salesman whose card read: “August Mayerling—Manager.”

“If you wish to try on the shirt,” Mayerling suggested, “we have dressing rooms in the rear. But I do think jade will go better with your eyes than heather.”

“That’s nice,” Simon reflected. “You noticed my eyes.”

Mayerling’s automatic smile disclosed two rows of small, even, porcelain-capped teeth.

“Here at The Profile we specialize in color-tone. The
complete
man must be expressed in the garment or we aren’t satisfied—because we know the
complete
customer isn’t satisfied.”

“Did Roger Warren specialize in color-tone, too?” Simon asked.

Mayerling stopped smiling.

“Roger Warren,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Now why would a nice customer ask about Roger Warren? You’re not a reporter. I can always tell a reporter. Yes, now I recognize you. You’re Simon Drake.”

“Thanks,” Simon said. “Recognition is sweet. But getting back to Roger Warren—”

“Why, Mr. Drake? You won the case. Why get back to Roger Warren?”

“Because he was murdered. Because, before he was murdered, he worked in this store. Was he a good salesman?”

“He was adequate.”

“Only adequate? Why did you hire him?”

“His appearance was good—and his manners. Politesse is observed at The Profile.”

“But Warren lived high. Did you wonder how he did that on his salary?”

“Considering his background—no.”

“He was disinherited.”

“I didn’t know that until after his death.”

“Did he have a special clientele—any unusual friends?”

August Mayerling met Simon’s calculating stare with eyes as bland as a purebred Weimaraner. Politesse was being observed at The Profile where everything was as nice and fragrant as an orchard in full bloom.

“I can’t say that I noticed,” Mayerling murmured. “The shirt, Mr. Drake, is imported—from Italy.”

It was exactly five o’clock when Simon returned to the house on Seacliff Drive. The drapes were still drawn and every light was burning. Wanda came to the door in a tangerine chiffon robe that hit her just below the knees. She wore nothing on her feet.

“I just stepped out of the shower,” she explained. “It’s been a rough day. Last night I took a couple of pills and slept, but about ten-thirty this morning the world fell on me. I didn’t think you were coming.”

“Why not?” Simon asked.

“Because that’s how I felt—as if everybody and everything was gone and nobody was ever coming back.”

“I know the place you mean,” Simon said. “I’ve been there a few times myself. Now go back to the bedroom and put on your sexiest dress. I’ll mix you one martini.”

“One?” she echoed.

“They come that way, too. As an appetizer—not a pool to drown in. Olive or onion?”

“Just over ice,” she said.

Simon went to the bar. The bamboo wrapping paper was still in the wastebasket. He folded it carefully and put it inside the knife drawer. Then he found the gin and vermouth and went to work. When Wanda returned wearing a simple black sheath and a pair of red, spike-heeled slippers, her martini was waiting.

She drank slowly—like a lady, not a lush.

“Did you know The Profile was a fairy haberdashery?” Simon asked.