The Brink of Murder Page 4

  “Of course,” Mary Sutton answered. “It was dark-blue canvas. He carried a couple of suits, shirts, man things.”

  “Man things?”

  “Electric razor—cosmetics. It’s gone, isn’t it?”

  “It’s gone. Did he usually carry this attaché-case?”

  “If he had work to do on the plane.”

  “And a flight-bag?”

  “A what?”

  “A leather flight-bag—brown. He had such a bag when he left the building. The man in the garage saw it.”

  Miss Sutton seemed puzzled. “It must have been something he just bought,” she mused. “I don’t see why—unless he planned to stay away longer than a few days.”

  “Miss Sutton, you are sharp,” Simon said. “I can see why Barney wanted you on his staff. How long have you been executive secretary?”

  “Two years.”

  Two years. Time changed some things but not Barney Amling’s eye for a beautiful woman. It was easy to envisage Mary Sutton sweeping into a hotel lobby in Mexico City and making everything function perfectly for her boss. It would have been a pleasure for any man to dictate letters poolside while she modelled her bikini.

  But Barney Amling had gone off without this woman.

  “In two years a secretary can learn quite a bit about her boss,” Simon reflected. “Have you noticed any changes lately? Did Barney seem under any special pressure?”

  “Pressure?” Mary Sutton echoed. “A job like Barney’s is nothing but pressure. That’s why it takes a man of his calibre to handle it.”

  “What about other pressures? Family, for instance.”

  “Family? Oh, if you mean Kevin that was nothing, really. It’s just so much easier for young people to get into trouble these days. Barney handled that beautifully.”

  She assumed that Simon knew what she was talking about. He was about to ask for details when the door to Barney’s office burst open and a tall white-haired man with a ruddy face stepped into the room.

  “Mary, I’m sorry to break in like this,” he said, “but Paul wants to see you right away. There’s some kind of mix-up with the audit. Oh, hullo Drake. Paul said you were here. I’m Ralph McClary. Maybe I can help you.”

  McClary was a well-preserved 55 who must have worked out regularly in a gym to keep his boyish figure. He flashed a brief Chamber-of-Commerce smile that did nothing to conceal the pressure of the moment. Simon had the distinct feeling of having walked in on a family squabble.

  “Thanks,” he said, “but I was just leaving.”

  McClary looked relieved. “I don’t want to rush you,” he said, “but Miss Sutton knows where everything is in this office and we do have a problem.”

  “I’ll be right with you, Ralph,” Mary Sutton said. “A woman’s work is never done.”

  Simon walked back through the corridor and was passing the glass-enclosed secretarial pool when a bright young voice from behind his shoulder spun him about. A slender girl of almost twenty, clutching a coffee mug in one hand, called his name.

  “Mr Drake, please wait. A telephone call came for you while you were with Miss Sutton. It was Mrs Amling. She thought you might be here.”

  “Is she still on the phone?”

  “No, but she left a message. She asked if you could come out to her house right away. It sounded urgent.”

  The hand that wasn’t holding the coffee mug held a memo slip. On it was an address and telephone number. Simon accepted the memo and thanked the girl. He hoped she would drink the rest of the coffee before it spilled all over Pacific Guaranty’s expensive carpet.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CAROLE AMLING’S CALL was perfectly timed. Simon wanted to talk to her and it was several years since he had visited the Amling house. The address was welcome. It wasn’t a long journey. Time was when the trip would have taken an hour and a half on the red car with a bus transfer at the end of the line, but nobody minded much because they weren’t in a hurry and there were interesting things to see along the way. Some day historians might mark the end of civilization, such as it was, with the advent of the freeway. A man who might have helped an elderly lady with a shopping bag climb up into the red car before the motorman slammed the doors (even if he didn’t give her his seat) thought nothing of loosing a verbal barrage of abuse at the same elderly lady when her ‘64 Falcon faltered on an elevated highway. The carbon monoxide arteries also blocked out such pleasures, in season, as the scent of blooming jasmine and the spicy tang of wet eucalyptus trees trembling in the rain. A hillside draped with Bougainvillaea was reduced to red and purple splashes that flashed by like a psychedelic light display, and even on such a rare day as this one, when the snow-capped crest of Old Baldy was visible beyond the fields of high-rise, the phenomenon came with a sense of nostalgia as if one were looking at an old picture postcard of the city Aunt Cora visited in the winter of ‘41. Even Simon could recall the scene as viewed from the saddle of a three-wheeler.

  But it passed too quickly for detailed reminiscence. Suddenly he was off the freeway and rolling through wide streets that threaded the hills from which the area took its name. Some thrills never paled. Cresting the rise that revealed the first blinding view of the sun-drenched ocean roused boyhood dreams of exploring with Balboa. Whatever made anything so familiar seem to happen for the first time, had its own kind of magic. A mile and a half further and Simon turned in at a driveway marked by rock slab gateposts inspired by Stonehenge. The long driveway terminated in front of a sweeping contemporary house with a three-car garage. A shiny red VW station-wagon nuzzled the garage doors like a tardy chick trying to reach the shelter of maternal feathers before a storm, and Simon parked the Jaguar behind the little car. He could hear the homely hum of a dutiful vacuum cleaner as he walked towards the house.

  He rang the front door bell. The vacuum cleaner sound continued through two more rings before the door opened and Carole Amling smiled hello. She wore slacks and a hip-length sweater with a chain-link belt. Her hair was caught up in a bandana-like cap and her face was as free of cosmetics as if she had just stepped out of a shower. She was tense, but relaxed somewhat at the sight of him.

  “Oh, it’s you, Si,” she said. “Come in. I didn’t expect you so soon. I hope you didn’t pick up a few citations on the way.”

  “I lucked out,” Simon said. “Besides, nobody can catch me.”

  He stepped into the entry hall and Carole closed the door behind him. The vacuum cleaner was still whining in the next room.

  “I forgot to turn off the sweeper,” she explained. “I’m not usually so domestic. A cleaning woman comes in once a week, but I had to do something to keep busy. I suppose it’s a primitive instinct—a woman trying to protect her home in time of stress.”

  Simon followed Carole into the living room. The Amling house sat firmly on solid ground but gave the impression of being cantilevered into space over the restless ocean 100 feet below. They were like two people in a space capsule waiting to be launched. Carole turned off the vacuum sweeper and Simon stopped the countdown.

  “Your message sounded important,” he said.

  “Oh, it is,” Carole said. “Eric took your advice. He went to the airport this morning and searched through all the parking-lots. He telephoned just before I tried to reach you at Barney’s office. He’s found Barney’s car. It’s parked in the Pan-Am lot.”

  “When was it left there?”

  “We don’t know. I forgot to give Eric the spare keys so he couldn’t look inside. Barney usually forgets and leaves the parking ticket inside the car even though the recorded message at the entranceway tells him not to. But the car is there.”

  “Then we know that he did go to the airport. Has Eric checked the other airlines?”

  “He was going to start doing that right after he talked to me. There’s so many of them and it does take time. But I thought you would want to know about the car right away. Besides, I wanted to talk to somebody, Si. Would you like coffee?”

  “L
ove it,” Simon said.

  “Good. Just sit yourself down anywhere and I’ll duck into the kitchen—”

  “Why can’t I go along and have my coffee in the kitchen?”

  “That’s an even better idea. Come along.”

  The kitchen, like almost every room in the house, had an ocean view. While Carole busied herself with the percolator, Simon squatted atop a stool at the serving counter and watched a distant freighter plough across the horizon in search of San Pedro. Carole opened the coffee can and dumped generous spoonsful into the pot.

  “Did you learn anything at Barney’s office?” she asked.

  “Not a great deal—except that he has an attractive young secretary.”

  “Mary Sutton? Yes, she really is something, isn’t she? Intelligent, too. Barney swears by her.”

  She plugged in the pot and looked at Simon’s face. It was silly to spar over the question he was about to ask. There was no time for polite evasions.

  “I know that you’re wondering if she was more than a secretary,” Carole said. “The answer is no. Barney and I consider ourselves very modern—but not about some things. Both of us got our romancing out of our systems before we were married.”

  “So did I,” Simon said, “but I got a very real response to Mary Sutton the minute I saw her, and I don’t work with her every day. She reminds me of you, Carole.”

  Carole Amling nodded soberly. “Physically, a little. And I know it’s commonly thought that erring husbands instinctively look for a woman resembling the one they married. Maybe that even has something to do with why Barney pulled Mary Sutton out of the secretarial pool. But Barney doesn’t play around. I can’t vouch for the time long ago when he was propping up his ego with a bottle. That was all BD.”

  “BD?”

  “Before the divorce that didn’t finalize. We had everything out before the reconciliation—and we didn’t decide to try again because of the child. I have no use for people who use their children for whipping boys to keep something going that was never meant to be. The thought of a hereafter has never bothered me, but there should be some kind of hell for that type of hypocrite to at least equal the hell they create for their kids. I went back to Barney because I loved him—and still love him. He wanted me back for the same reason. We’ve made it work, Si. It’s a good marriage. So, in spite of what’s going on in that lively mind of yours, I can’t buy the idea that Barney’s deserted me for another woman.”

  “I didn’t suggest that.”

  “No, but you’re wondering. Well, I’ll tell you something else. If Barney had found someone—someone for whom his passion was so strong he would sacrifice his home and children—he wouldn’t sneak off with her. He would have come to me and told me first of all, because that’s the kind of man Barney Amling is and you know it.”

  The coffee had begun to boil. Carole took down two mugs from a cabinet and set them on the counter. Then she took down a sugar bowl and made a movement towards the refrigerator. “Do you take cream?” she asked.

  “Black,” Simon said.

  “That’s right. I remember.” She poured coffee into both cups and put the pot on warm. Then she looked at Simon across the counter and smiled.

  “So much for sex and the single secretary,” she said. “What else did you learn at Barney’s office?”

  Simon hadn’t learned nearly as much at Barney’s office as he had learned in Carole’s kitchen. When he didn’t answer her question immediately she began to understand. She dumped two teaspoonsful of sugar into her coffee cup and began to stir methodically. “I did go on strong about Barney’s virtue, didn’t I?” she reflected. “Oh, how I hate to talk to lawyers who are always listening with the third ear! All right, what do you suppose a woman thinks when her husband goes off for more than a week without a phone call or a wire?”

  “She thinks she’s been deserted,” Simon said, “and then, if she’s wise, she talks herself out of her fantasies with just the kind of logic you just used on me. Don’t spoil it. Now, what I learned in Barney’s office was very little. According to Mary Sutton, he planned to go to the conference in Mexico City and she was looking forward to the trip. Then he changed his mind. The last-minute switch was a surprise to her. I didn’t get the chance to talk to McClary. There’s some sort of audit going on at the office and everybody’s uptight. Did Barney mention that to you?”

  Carole shook her head. “He usually doesn’t—about business matters, I mean. He always said that I had enough responsibility with this house and the boys.”

  “I suppose they’re in school now?”

  “Both of them. I drove Jake to his this morning—that’s why my car’s out. Kevin’s in high school and has a motor bike.” She paused to glance hurriedly at the wall clock. “He’ll be home for lunch. He says the school cafeteria gives him ulcers. He’s a big fellow now—as tall as Barney. Last night he came to my room after I retired and asked if I’d like to have him bring in a cot and sleep at the foot of my bed.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said that I’d be all right alone—but it was sweet. Imagine, Kevin wanting to protect me—”

  Her voice broke a little and Simon decided to change the subject. “What did he have in the flight-bag?”

  Carole looked blank. “The what bag?”

  “The old man who tends the garage at Pacific Guaranty said Barney was carrying the garment-bag, a raincoat and a flight-bag. A leather one.”

  “Barney doesn’t own a leather flight-bag. His is canvas—like the rest of his luggage. It’s in the hall closet now. I saw it when I took out the sweeper.”

  “He might have bought another one.”

  “But why? Unless he was going on a long trip. Oh, Si, what’s going on?”

  She put her head down on the counter and wept for a few moments. Then she looked up and scrubbed at her eyes with a wadded Kleenex. “Don’t you hate women who cry,” she said.

  “Not as much as the ones who don’t when they have a reason,” Simon said. “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we go down to the airport with those spare keys and have a look inside the car?”

  “Kevin’s coming for lunch.”

  “You said he was a big boy now. I’ll bet he has a latchkey of his own.”

  “I put up my hair last night. I’ll have to comb it out. I look a mess.”

  There was nothing healthier than a woman worried about her appearance. Simon grinned. “As a matter of fact, you do,” he agreed. “Go comb your hair and put on something that’s pretty and not black. I’m going to take you to lunch, too. Some place where we can have a couple of cocktails.”

  “I have to be back to pick up Jake at three-thirty.”

  “I promise to have you back in good time and stone cold sober. Now scoot.”

  She didn’t have any more arguments. She hurried off towards the bedroom wing with her heels clicking hard on the Mexican tile floor. She was one of those too-well controlled women who could crumple like a paper hat in the rain if left alone with too many problems. The idea was to get her out of the house for a while. Simon poured himself a second cup of coffee and was just getting resettled on the stool when the staccato blast of a motor bike roared into the courtyard and stopped. Moments later Kevin walked into the room. It had to be Kevin. He looked like an old photo of Barney touched up so the blond hair reached his shoulders. He had the refrigerator opened before he noticed Simon. With a milk carton in his hand he said:

  “Hello. I didn’t see you sitting there. I think I should know you.”

  “You have a good memory,” Simon said. “The last time I saw you you were wearing a cub-scout uniform. I’m Simon Drake.”

  “Drake? Oh, sure. My father talks about you. Is that your Jaguar parked outside?”

  “Yes,” Simon said.

  “Twelve cylinders?”

  “That’s what they told me.”

  “Wow! I bet it moves.”

  Kevin poured himself a tall glass of milk. An electric kettle was pl
ugged into the wall socket. He lifted the lid and sniffed appreciatively.

  “Cream of mushroom,” he said. “Like some soup?”

  “No thanks. I’m taking your mother out to lunch.”

  “That’s good. She needs it.”

  Kevin ladled up a bowl of soup and took the adjacent stool at the counter.

  “I suppose you’re here because of my father,” he said.

  “That’s right. You talked to him on the telephone just before he left the office, I understand. What did he say, exactly?”

  “Exactly?” Kevin pondered the question. “Just that he was going to make an emergency flight and would be back early next week.”

  “An emergency flight? Didn’t he say he was going to Mexico City?”

  “He didn’t say where he was going. When I told Mother about the call she said it must be to Mexico City because Dad told her there was some kind of important meeting going on down there. I even asked him if he was going to Peking or Moscow or some place like that.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Because he came on with a big line about leaving me in charge of the family. I guess he was trying to impress me to keep my nose clean while he was away.”

  “Did you tell your mother what he said?”

  “No. She’s got enough troubles.”

  “You’re right. She has got enough troubles. You’re eating too fast, Kevin.”

  Kevin stopped ladling the soup into his mouth and said: “You sound like my coach.”

  “Football?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you look like great quarterback material, Kevin.”

  The conversation didn’t get any further because just then Carole came back into the kitchen. Her hair was combed and she had put on a bright-green dress and carried an amber-coloured knit coat on her arm.

  “There’s cream of mushroom, Kevin—” she began.

  Kevin grinned and held out his already empty bowl.

  “You eat too fast,” Carole said.

  “You sound like Mr Drake,” Kevin said.

  “Mr Drake and I are going out to the airport,” Carole added. “Eric found your father’s car this morning.”