The Brink of Murder Page 3
Wanda finished drinking the wine and let the glass slide off on to the carpeted floor. “Si,” she said soberly, “is that what you would want me to do if you had trouble like that? Would you want me to leave you?”
Simon slipped one arm under her head and pulled her halfway across his body. She smelled fresh and clean with just a whisper of musky perfume. “Yes,” he answered, “I want you to leave me anytime it’s necessary to save me from myself—but not tonight. Tonight I don’t want to be saved from anything—not even by a minister’s daughter.”
Simon’s free hand reached out and turned off the bedside light. Firelight was enough.
“I feel guilty,” Wanda murmured. “Here I am safe and happy with my husband while Carole Amling is so worried. Do you really think he’s gone off on a hush-hush business trip?”
“I wish I knew the answer to that question.”
“He might have had a wreck with the car.”
“You heard Dr Larson say he had checked out the hospitals. Besides, honey, Barney is a prominent man. If he was in an accident anywhere it would be headline material as soon as the police found his credentials.”
Wanda didn’t speak again for some time. Simon hoped the firelight would make her drowsy, or that the wine would make her passionate. Anything to distract her from Carole Amling’s problem. But his own mind was troubled and Wanda was developing an uncanny way of catching his moods. Finally, she said:
“I think he would have telephoned her no matter what kind of business trip he was on.”
And so they would talk about it. With a warm sense of discovery Simon realized this was one of the things marriage was about: having someone to talk with when you were burdened.
“There’s something I didn’t tell Carole this evening,” he said. “It wasn’t the right time. If Chester hadn’t clued me in that Carole was at the house I might have blurted it out.”
Wanda sat up abruptly. “Do you know where Barney Amling is?”
“No. It’s nothing like that. What I didn’t tell Carole was that I saw Barney recently. I normally see the Amlings about once every two or three years, but I’m still the family retainer. Three weeks ago Barney telephoned and asked me to stop by his office. He sounded urgent so I made the trip a few days later. What he wanted was to have me draw up a trust giving his house to his two sons.”
“Carole’s house?”
“That’s right. When Jake Ehrenberg died nine years ago he left some lots in Palos Verdes to Carole. Big Jake had made and run through several fortunes. He was married three or four times. That bequest was all he had left. Barney was doing great then so they built a place that must have cost nearly a hundred thousand then and is worth a lot more today.”
“Did Carole know about the trust?”
“I don’t think so. Barney always handled the family business. She would sign anything he asked her to sign. I completed the transfer before we went on our cruise. The interesting thing was that Barney had paid off the loan in a lump sum—over fifty thousand dollars. He had clear title. He said that he wanted the trust to avoid taxes.”
“But what about Carole? He cut her off without anything.”
“On the contrary, honey. The boys are minors so Carole would naturally be their guardian and conservator of the estate if anything happened to Barney. What he actually did—and I didn’t think of it until I learned he was missing—was protect Carole.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s simple. If Barney’s got himself into financial trouble—lost heavily on the market, for instance—that property is safe from any claims or attachments. In brief, nobody can take away Barney Amling’s home because he doesn’t legally own one.”
CHAPTER THREE
ON THE FOLLOWING morning Simon sent off ten cables to ten European playgrounds where Jack Keith might be holidaying and then drove the Jaguar north on the freeway to a new commercial centre in Los Angeles where the Pacific Guaranty tower was located. The building spired up from a cluster of small shops erected over a huge underground garage. Because of his previous visit Simon knew the parking area assigned to employees of the association and deliberately nosed the black XKE into a lane lettered: “Reserved for Mr Amling”. He switched off the ignition as an angry attendant barged out of his pillbox office to call attention to the violation. He was an elderly man with cotton-white hair and a plastic nameplate pinned to his blue smock that identified him as Karl Handleman. Ignoring the rebuke, Simon got out of the car.
“You’re just the man I want to see, Mr Handleman,” he said. “I understand that you’re the only Pacific Guaranty employee Mr Amling entrusted with information about his trip to Mexico City.”
The flattering choice of words had a tranquillizing effect. Handleman turned them over in his mind like a surface miner uncovering a vein of precious stones. “Well, now that I think about it, that’s the actual truth,” he reflected.
“Fine,” Simon said. “I’ve made the right contact.” He dug a business card out of his pocket and presented it to the old man. Handleman read it slowly, his lips silently forming each word.
“ ‘Simon Drake. Attorney at Law.’ Hey, I remember you. You came here to see Mr Amling a couple of weeks ago. I remember that sporty car of yours.”
“Good. Now that you know I’m a friend of Mr Amling maybe you’ll answer a few questions. When Mr Amling left here on his way to Mexico City was he carrying luggage?”
Still flattered but brusque, Handleman answered: “Sure, he had luggage. One of them garment-bags. The kind with hangers inside that fold up.”
“Was that all?”
“No. He had a brown leather bag with straps on it. And he had a raincoat—a black one—folded over his arm. I asked if I could help him with the luggage because he seemed kind of loaded down, but he wouldn’t let me. He stowed everything in the trunk of his car—except the raincoat. He put that on the front seat.”
“What car was he driving?”
“His car, of course! His silver-grey Mark IV Continental. Say, Mr Drake, why are you asking all these questions?”
“I saw Mrs Amling yesterday,” Simon said. “She was worried that her husband hadn’t taken enough luggage for an extended stay. You know how women are. They think of their husbands as little boys.”
Handleman bought the story. “Now, that’s the truth, ain’t it?” he crowed. “Well, you just tell his missus that Barney Amling can take care of himself. If any man alive can take care of himself, that man’s Barney Amling.”
Simon had more questions but he didn’t want the old man to suspect Barney was missing. He took two steps towards the elevators and tossed another question, casually, over his shoulder. “I don’t suppose you remember what time it was when Mr Amling drove out of the garage?”
“Sure do,” Handleman said. “It was on a Friday and I always get a sportscast on my little TV in the office Friday afternoon. They talk up the big games scheduled for the weekend. The programme comes on at four-thirty and it was a minute or so after the first commercial break when Mr Amling came down the elevator. It was just a minute or so after four-forty-five.”
“You’re a good man, Mr Handleman,” Simon said.
Simon walked to the automatic elevator and started the ascent. The executive offices were on the penthouse level and it was a long ride up. The car took on passengers at the first level where he glimpsed the shopping mall through briefly opened doors. The storm that lashed the coastline had cleared and only wet earth on the landscaped areas and a prevalence of raincoats on pedestrians travelling under directions of the late weather reports gave evidence of recent rain. The air was fresh and chilly, cleared of smog by the wind, and several million Angelenos could breathe deeply and recall the good old days before death by asphyxiation became an urban goal. After the ground-level stop the elevator was express for the first twenty floors. Finally, reaching the penthouse floor, Simon stepped out of the little box and entered the domain of Pacific Guaranty Savings and Loan.
“Paul, please! We have to co-operate. Barney left specific instructions—”
Mary Sutton looked up and saw Simon standing just inside the doorway and made a mental transition from one problem to another. For such a woman this was an instant process. She was very young considering the importance of her position. About 26, Simon decided. A little older than Wanda and very like Carole Amling at the time Little Jake was born. Very like—except that Mary Sutton was a working girl instead of the pampered daughter of a wealthy man. Accustomed to quick decisions, she stared at Simon for a few moments and then stepped forward—smiling.
“Mr Drake, isn’t it? If you’ve come to see Mr Amling I’m sorry. He isn’t here.”
“I know,” Simon said. “Mrs Amling told me. That’s why I’m here. What’s all the excitement?”
“No excitement. Only confusion. Normal office procedure.”
“Who are the heavies?”
“Government men. SEC. We’re having an audit. If you didn’t come to see Mr Amling, whom do you want to see?”
“You’ll do nicely for a starter. Who’s the red-head imitating Cagney?”
Mary Sutton laughed. Her laugh was lower than Carole’s. Sexier. “That’s good,” she said. “I’ll have to tell Paul that one. Paul—” She seemed to have authority as well as the more obvious attributes because the red-haired boy responded on cue. “—this is Mr Simon Drake, Barney’s lawyer. We’re going into Barney’s office for a few minutes. Can you handle the federals?”
“The gang-busters, you mean?” Paul Corman asked. “I just give them access to anything they ask for. Those were my orders, boss.” He slipped an arm about Mary Sutton’s waist in a possessive gesture intended for Simon’s benefit. It must have been a one-way understanding because she drew gracefully away and took Simon’s arm.
“Anything they ask for,” she repeated. “Do you see what alert employees we have here, Mr Drake? Come along. Barney’s office is just across the hall and we won’t be disturbed.”
Barney Amling’s office was twice as large and completely quiet. The drapes were closed but Mary Sutton moved quickly across the room to open them. Sunlight flowed into the room. The carpet was spotless and there was no dust on the desk. Mary Sutton stood behind a high-backed leather chair and waited.
“Now, what can I do for you, Mr Drake?” she asked.
“Where’s Barney Amling?” Simon demanded.
“In Mexico City.”
“Mrs Amling doesn’t think so. She’s checked every hotel and all of the family acquaintances. Nobody’s seen Barney.”
“Then I don’t know where he is. Word was left for me that he was going to Mexico City to attend a monetary conference.”
“Were those the only instructions?”
“No. Mr Amling left some files in his office safe. I have the key. My instructions were to co-operate with the Security Exchange Commission lawyers who were scheduled to pay us a visit.”
“Did you know about that before Barney left?”
“Yes. We were notified some weeks ago.”
“Is it routine or something special?”
Mary Sutton hesitated for the first time. “I don’t think I’m at liberty to answer that, Mr Drake. When Mr Amling returns—”
“Miss Sutton,” Simon said sternly, “according to Mrs Amling, Barney telephoned home a week ago Friday and said he was going to Mexico City for a few days. He hasn’t been heard from since. She asked me to do what I could to locate him. A woman does that sort of thing when the man she loves is missing. She worries.”
He watched her face for reaction. Her hands tightened on the back of the chair, but she was still a business woman with a decision to make. She made it.
“No, it isn’t a routine check,” she admitted. “It concerns some CDs—certificates of deposit. When money is tight an organization such as this is authorized to pay premium interest if the demand warrants. Pacific Guaranty issued over a million dollars’ worth of term certificates about two years ago. So did a lot of other lending agencies. Now they’re beginning to come due and some of the lending agencies have been served forged certificates.”
“Forged? How could that happen?”
“Possibly because someone pilfered printed certificates and sold them fraudulently. Two government agencies—the SEC and the FBI—are involved. I’m sure none of Pacific Guaranty’s CDs were forged and so is Barney—Mr Amling. Naturally, we co-operate with government departments.”
“And that’s what the briefcase brigade is doing here.”
“Right. It’s not a sneak attack even if Paul Corman gives that impression. He doesn’t know as much about this business as he thinks he does. There’s one in every office.”
“Did anyone other than you and Barney know about this?”
“I doubt it. Mr McClary is second in demand, so to speak, but he specializes in real estate.”
“I see. Now, about this conference in Mexico City. Had Barney given any indication that he might attend?”
“Oh, yes. We talked about it several weeks ago. I sometimes accompany Mr Amling to such conferences. I was looking forward to it. I love Mexico. Then Barney decided other business matters were more pressing and decided not to attend. I suppose something came up that Friday—someone called him and he changed his mind.”
“Without telling you?”
“I forgot to mention that I left the office early that afternoon. I’m a ski buff and the snow at Mammoth was perfect. I drove up Friday afternoon and didn’t return until Sunday night. The first I knew about Mr Amling’s change of plans was when I came to work on Monday.”
“Aren’t business travel reservations made through the office?”
“Naturally, when there’s advance notice. I suppose in this case Mr Amling simply called the airline and picked up his ticket at the airport.”
“But he didn’t.” Simon said. “Mrs Amling checked.”
Now, for the first time, Mary Sutton almost lost her poise. “Oh,”
she gasped. “Then perhaps—but that’s not likely.”
“What’s not likely, Miss Sutton?”
“That Mr Amling drove to Mexico City. It’s done, of course, but it’s so much slower—”
“And Barney was in too much of a hurry to even go home and say goodbye to his family.”
“Yes, I know. Still, if he did drive and had an accident—”
“The hospitals have been checked, too.”
“I was thinking of an accident in Mexico—or even some minor traffic violation. I’ve heard of tourists being hung up for weeks with that sort of thing. The police should be able to check that out.”
“Mrs Amling doesn’t want the police involved,” Simon explained. “Barney Amling’s a prominent figure. She’s afraid of hurting him through the press.”
“Oh, that’s well and good,” Mary Sutton said, “but I’m sure Captain Reardon could handle the inquiry without publicity.”
“Who is Captain Reardon?”
“One of Barney’s—Mr Amling’s best friends. A police captain. They play golf almost every week. I’ve made the appointments myself.”
She stepped out from behind Barney’s chair and leaned over the desk. A leather-bound appointment book was in place beside the telephone and a silver-framed photo of Barney in football gear. She opened the cover and flicked through the pages. “Well, it does seem to be some time ago,” she mused.
“No, here’s one. ‘Golf with Reardon’. It’s dated 5 September—that’s more than two months ago. Still, they are such good friends I would have thought Mrs Amling would have gone to him first of all.”
“I’ll ask her about that when I see her,” Simon said. “Right now I’ll have a look at that book if you don’t mind.”
Mary Sutton relinquished the appointment book without protest. Her mind seemed to be on something else. Her fingers played across the top of the desk as if searching for something that wasn’t there. Simon opened the book to the date of Barney’s departure. It was free of notations except for a scribbled: “Lunch with Pucci”.
Simon handed the book to Mary Sutton. “Did you make that notation?” he asked.
She examined it. “No, that’s Barney’s—Mr Amling’s writing.”
“Go ahead and call him Barney,” Simon said. “I do and I’m not as close to him as you are. Pucci. Vincent Pucci?”
“Yes. He’s a big borrower.”
“Good credit rating?”
“The best.”
“So I’ve heard. Did Pacific Guaranty finance all the Pucci developments?”
“Many of them.”
“But that’s real estate. You said Mr McClary handled that branch of the business.”
Mary Sutton laughed. “You are thorough, aren’t you? I’m beginning to feel as if I were on the witness stand. Mr Pucci is very big business indeed. He likes to deal with the top man.”
“Did Mr Amling—now you’ve got me doing it. Did Barney keep this appointment?”
“I suppose he did. Nobody stands up Vincent Pucci.”
Simon replaced the appointment book on the desk and took a turn around the office. It reeked of success and power—things that made a man like Barney Amling tick. He opened a panelled door and found a private washroom. He tried another door and found a closet. The closet was empty except for a thin black leather attaché-case.
“I understand Barney kept a wardrobe-bag packed and ready for emergency flights,” he said. “Have you seen it?”