“He’s picking up speed again,” Luther said. “I think he’s spotted us.”
“He can’t know it’s us,” Irene said. “He thinks Oliver is dead or very badly hurt.”
“He’s smart,” Luther said. “Maybe he’s starting to realize he’s been tricked.”
“If that’s the case, he’ll start taking even more chances,” Oliver said. “That would be good.”
Luther glanced at him. “You did say he was the impulsive type.”
Oliver accelerated gently.
Up ahead the lights of the stolen car appeared briefly in the fog before vanishing around another curve.
Chapter 55
Julian got only the smallest of warnings—a slight mushiness in the previously very crisp steering.
He was driving Oliver Ward’s car. A real engineering marvel. There couldn’t be a problem with the steering. It wasn’t possible.
Ward had tricked him once tonight but there was no way the magician could have known that he would take the custom-built car.
No one would dare steal Oliver Ward’s car.
No one except me.
He went into the next curve too fast. He stomped on the brakes and had to overcorrect with the steering. The tires shrieked.
The brakes and the steering suddenly went to mush. He was going into a turn much too fast. He had no control.
In the next horrifying instant, the fastest car in California was airborne, sailing over the high cliffs.
He had just enough time to realize that this time he had underestimated the target, that there was no exit strategy.
He screamed, just as so many of his targets had screamed. He wanted to beg for his life but there was no one to hear him.
His last conscious thought was that he could not be hurtling toward his own death. It was not possible. No target could fool him. He was Julian Enright.
Chapter 56
Oliver accelerated out of a turn and realized that he could not see the lights of the Cord.
Luther said, “He may have found a side road.”
“There aren’t any near here,” Oliver said.
“It’s possible he’s way ahead of us,” Irene said.
Black skid marks came up in the Oldsmobile’s headlights.
“I don’t think so,” Oliver said.
He braked and brought the car to a halt on a narrow turnout. Opening the door, he grabbed his cane and a flashlight and climbed out. He stood for a few seconds, listening. The only thing he could hear was the endless crash of the surf on the rocks below the cliff.
He took his gun from the holster. Luther and Irene emerged from the car and followed him. Luther took out his gun and a flashlight. Irene held her small pistol in one hand.
“Stay back,” Oliver said to her. “Please. If he’s still alive, he’ll be armed.”
It didn’t take long to find the Cord. It was a crumpled mass of metal on the rocky beach below. The smell of gasoline was strong in the air.
Julian Enright had been flung out of the vehicle. He had landed on the rocks a short distance from the wreckage. His neck was twisted at an odd angle.
Luther looked at Oliver and said, “You were right about him. Definitely the impulsive type.”
“He was an easy read,” Oliver said. “He was so damned sure he was smarter than everyone else. He was the master puppeteer who manipulated others. People like that never believe they can be manipulated, too.”
“What about the fake notebook?” Irene asked.
“He had it when he ran out of the villa,” Oliver said. “It must be down there in the wreckage.”
“I’ll go down and take a look,” Luther said.
Irene glanced at him. “Is that absolutely necessary?”
“We need to be sure,” Oliver said. “I can’t go down there, not with this damned leg.”
“That leaves me,” Luther said. “I’ll get a rope.”
He went to the car, opened the trunk, and took out a length of rope. He removed his jacket and pulled on a pair of driving gloves.
Irene held the flashlight steady so that Oliver was free to handle the rope.
Luther scrambled down to the wreckage. He checked the body first. He put his fingers on Enright’s throat. He looked up and shook his head. Next he went through Enright’s clothes and removed a wallet. He flipped through it briefly and then stuck it back in the pocket of Enright’s jacket.
A short time later he located the envelope that contained the fake notebook.
He made his way back up the cliffs, took the notebook out of the envelope, and handed it to Oliver.
“I’m amazed it survived,” Oliver said.
Luther looked at him. “We should get rid of it. We don’t want people asking unnecessary questions.”
Oliver looked down at the wreckage. The smell of gasoline was getting stronger.
“Got a match?” he said.
“Thought you’d never ask.”
Luther handed him a glossy black matchbook with the words Paradise Club printed in gold on the front.
Oliver struck a match and touched it to one of the pages in the notebook. When he was sure the fire had taken hold, he tossed the burning notebook down onto the wreckage.
The modified Cord exploded into flames.
“Nothing better than fire to clean up a scene,” Luther said.
Chapter 57
The four of them were gathered in the living room of Casa del Mar. Oliver was in his big chair. Luther was pouring himself a whiskey. Chester was mourning the loss of his magnificent creation.
Irene paced the room, restless and unnerved, still shaky with relief. After four long months it was difficult to believe that the personal nightmare that had chased her to California was finished.
“I called the police station,” Oliver said. He stretched out his bad leg. “I explained that someone broke into my place, cracked the safe, and stole my car while I was busy with the emergency drill. When they find the wreckage and recover the body, I’ll identify Enright as a guest here at the hotel. I’ll suggest that he must have gotten drunk and decided to pull a stunt.”
“It will be interesting to see who shows up to claim the body,” Irene said.
“Yes,” Oliver said. “Most wealthy families would commission a funeral director to take possession of the body and accompany it back east.”
“A distraught, grieving parent might feel compelled to make the trip out west himself,” Irene said. “Especially if he’s hoping to find a certain notebook.”
“If someone from the Enright family does show up, we’ll make sure that he or she is given the charred remains of the notebook. The pages will have been destroyed but some remnants of the cover will probably survive. Leather doesn’t burn easily.”
Irene looked at him. “Do you think it might be recognized as a fake?”
It was Chester who responded. “Nah. I did a damned good job with those calculations, if I do say so myself. It would take an expert to figure out that they’re gibberish, and he’d need most of the notebook to verify that—not just the burnt leather cover and some charred pages.”
Oliver sank deeper into the reading chair and rotated a glass of whiskey slowly between his palms. “The illusion is good. It will fool the audience if necessary.”
Chester peered at him. “You’ve still got the real notebook. What are you going to do about it?”
“I’m working on that,” Oliver said. “One more thing. Willie and the others know that they helped capture a suspected hotel thief. They’re aware that the thief took off in my car. In the morning when the police find the accident site, everyone will know the burglar drove the Cord off a cliff. Everyone will assume he lost control.”
Chester shrugged. “That was exactly what happened.”
Luther lounged against the wall, whiskey glass
in hand. “Obviously. Everyone knows that car was unique. That’s why you never let anyone else drive it. Too dangerous.”
“Just another drunk-driving accident,” Chester said.
“One that took care of a professional killer,” Oliver said.
“We had to be sure,” Luther added. “We couldn’t let him escape. He would have come back.”
Irene looked at the others. They had taken a terrible risk and now they were forever bound by a dark secret. The fact that Oliver and Chester had made some last-minute modifications to the brakes and steering on the fastest car in California would never go beyond the four of them.
“More whiskey, anyone?” Luther asked.
Chapter 58
He felt her leave the bed.
He opened his eyes and watched her pull on a robe and pad quietly out the door. She vanished into the shadowed hallway.
He shoved aside the covers, got up, shrugged into a robe, and followed her.
She was in the living room, gazing out over the garden and the pool to the ocean beyond. The first light of dawn was brightening the sky.
He moved to stand behind her and rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. Her tension was palpable. Gently he began to massage the taut muscles.
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” she said.
“You’re thinking about Peggy Hackett, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Now that Enright is dead, I can’t stop thinking about Peggy Hackett, Gloria Maitland, Daisy Jennings, and that other woman, Betty Scott, who died in Seattle nearly a year ago. I know I’m missing some crucial detail but I have no idea what it could be.”
“Some detail that will prove Tremayne murdered all of them?”
“Yes. It’s horrifying to know that I’ll have to wait until another woman dies before I’ll have a chance to find a fresh angle or a new source.”
“I understand.”
She reached up to grip one of his hands. “I know you do.”
They stood quietly for a time.
“Sooner or later another woman will die,” she said after a while.
“You’re sure of that?”
“There’s a pattern.”
“One of the things I learned as a magician is that the mind can play tricks when it comes to seeing patterns. If we want to see them, we can usually find a way to do it. It’s human nature. There are a lot of illusions and effects that rely exclusively on that fact.”
She turned to face him. “Four women are dead. They’re all connected to Nick Tremayne in one way or another. That’s not an illusion, that’s a pattern.”
“You’ve been a little distracted lately.”
“That’s for sure.”
“Maybe it’s time to go back to the beginning and try to view everything in your notes with clear eyes,” he said. “Stop looking for the pattern you think you see.”
“What should I look for?”
“A new pattern.”
She thought about that. “Maybe you’re right. It’s not like I’ve got a better idea. I keep circling back to the question I’ve had from the beginning. Maybe starting over will give me a fresh perspective.”
“What’s the question?”
“Nick Tremayne’s name has been linked to several women in the two years he’s been in Hollywood. But only four of them have died under mysterious circumstances. My question is, what did they know that got them killed?”
“Good question.”
She put her arms around him. He wrapped her close and held her very tight.
Chapter 59
They ate breakfast on the patio—fresh melon, scrambled eggs, toast, and a large pot of coffee—all delivered as if by magic.
“I could get used to room service,” Irene said.
“It has its advantages,” Oliver said.
“So now we wait until the police confirm Enright’s identity and notify his family,” Irene said. “What if it turns out he was a fraud?”
“It’s possible that the man who went over the cliff in my car stole Julian Enright’s identity, but I doubt it,” Oliver said. “It would have been too risky, for one thing. There was always the chance that he would have run into someone from the Enrights’ social circle on vacation out here in California. But that aside, I’m sure the bastard was who he claimed to be.”
“Because of his arrogance?”
“He was a man born to wealth and privilege who thought he could get away with murder.”
“And espionage. He was willing to sell vital national secrets to some foreign interests. That makes him a traitor, as well as a killer.”
“Yes, it does.”
Oliver finished his coffee, kissed her lightly on the mouth, and levered himself to his feet.
Just like a comfortably married couple, Irene thought. Except that they weren’t married.
Details.
“I’ve got to take care of some business in the office,” Oliver said. “Security is keeping a close eye on Tremayne around the clock. In addition, I’ll make sure one of the guards is stationed outside of this villa. Promise me you won’t leave this place alone.”
“I promise,” she said.
She waited until he left, and then she went back inside the villa to collect her notes. She took them outside onto the patio, determined to start at the very beginning.
She would begin the way Peggy Hackett had taught her—by setting down every hard fact she had in her possession, regardless of how ephemeral it seemed. She would follow every loose end. She would ask the question that she had been asking from the very beginning—why the four women had died.
They had each known something, she thought, or discovered something that threatened Nick Tremayne. It was the only explanation that made any sense.
An hour later she sat back and looked at her notes, searching for some pattern that she had not noticed previously. Nothing. The only thing that stood out was the fact that all of the victims except the first one had lived in Los Angeles.
She returned to the short, cryptic note that she had found when she cleaned out Peggy’s desk. It included the name Betty Scott, the woman found dead in a bathtub in Seattle.
And there was a phone number.
Peggy’s advice whispered through her. When you’re stuck, go back over every detail. Find one more detail—because there is always one more detail.
She rose, went into the living room, and picked up the phone.
“Operator, I’d like to call a Seattle newspaper . . . No, I don’t care which one . . . Yes, the Post-Intelligencer sounds fine.”
The phone was answered by a receptionist who sounded rushed. “How may I direct your call?”
“I’m a reporter in Burning Cove, California. I’d like to speak with one of your crime reporters.”
“Hold one moment. I’ll connect you.”
A short time later Irene found herself talking to a bored-sounding individual who identified himself as George.
“You want me to dig out a year-old obituary notice? Why should I do you any favors?”
“Because I’m working on an investigation that involves Nick Tremayne.”
“The actor?” The boredom was replaced by a flicker of interest. “What have you got?”
“I’m chasing leads at this point. But if you give me a hand, I promise to call you as soon as I’ve got a story you can run with.”
“Nick Tremayne, huh. All right. Give me time to go down to the morgue and pull some clips.” He paused. “I’ll have to reverse the charges.”
“That’s fine.”
George called back fifteen minutes later.
“I found the Scott obit but there’s not much info here,” he said. “I don’t see how this is going to help. Scott slipped and fell in her bathtub. Worked at a café. Survived by an aunt who lives here in Seattle.”
&n
bsp; There is always one more detail.
“I need the name of the aunt.”
“Dorothy Hodges. Look, what have you got on Tremayne?”
“I have to move quickly here. I give you my word I’ll contact you as soon as I’ve got all the facts.”
Irene hung up and made the next call.
“Operator, please connect me with Dorothy Hodges in Seattle, Washington. No, I don’t have the number or the address. Yes, I’ll hold.”
It turned out that there were three D. Hodgeses in the Seattle telephone directory. The operator connected Irene to the right one on the second attempt. A middle-aged woman answered.
“This is Dorothy Hodges. Whom did you say is calling?”
“You don’t know me, Miss Hodges. I’m a journalist doing some background research on a movie actor named Nick Tremayne.”
“Heavens, dear, you must have the wrong number. I don’t know Nick Tremayne. I don’t know any movie stars. This is Seattle, not Hollywood.”
“I have reason to believe that Tremayne may have known your niece, Betty.”
“Betty? She passed almost a year ago.”
“Yes, I know, Miss Hodges. Did you ever meet any of Betty’s boyfriends?”
“No. I know that, for a time, she dated a young man who wanted to become an actor. Betty fancied herself in love with him. But she never brought him around to introduce him. I don’t remember his name.”
“I understand Betty lived in a boardinghouse.”
“She was a bit wild, I’m afraid. Ran with a fast crowd. I had to insist that she move out. I just couldn’t tolerate the smoking and the drinking and the partying. She visited me once in a while when she needed rent money. All she ever talked about was her dream of going to Hollywood with her boyfriend. She was sure they would both become stars. Poor, foolish girl.”
“Did she ever do any real acting?”
“Oh, yes. She made a couple of films here in Seattle. She was very excited about them. But they never got released.”