Carnival of Death Page 8

  “Schaeffer here,” the lieutenant answered his phone.

  “This is Tom Daly,” Daly said. “And I’m calling from Dr. Murman’s office.”

  Schaeffer sounded tired. “Don’t tell me you’ve found some other way that chloral hydrate could have been given to Kelly?”

  “No,” Daly admitted. “I just want to report something, Charlie, and ask a question. I’ll ask the question first. Have you had any luck locating Dr. Alveredo?”

  “No, not yet,” Schaeffer said. “I have a man checking the state medical roster now.”

  “Doesn’t it seem strange to you that he should leave before you boys got there?”

  The homicide man considered the matter. “Not particularly. He could have been a tourist who didn’t want to get mixed up in a local killing and be forced to spend part of his vacation in court or have to come back here as a witness. Those things happen. Now what do you want to tell me, Tom?”

  “Have you a copy of last night’s paper?”

  “On my desk.”

  “Look at the picture on the front page.”

  “I’m looking.”

  “Look at the big-eyed little girl, the one riding the pony right behind Mickey and Paquita Laredo.”

  “I see her. Who could miss her? She’s a little doll. What about her?”

  “Gene and I just talked to her and the child is as bright as she looks. And if you will send someone out to 4780 Bougainvillea Court to talk to her and her mother, preferably a Spanish speaking policewoman, I think you can erase two of the murder charges against Mickey and cut three clowns out of the picture.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “The little girl saw the whole thing. And she says there were only two bufóns, or clowns, beside Mickey. And she also told us it was the clown who threw the money out of the truck who shot the old roustabout and Mrs. Wilson.”

  The homicide man was skeptical. “How could she tell which clown did what when all of them were wearing identical costumes?”

  Daly told him. “Because whoever planned this thing made one slip. Mickey always paints a few tears on one of his cheeks. That can be verified. And little Miss Luisa Vinifreda Teresa Garcia, that’s the child’s name, saw the shooting from less than ten feet away. And she said it couldn’t have been Mickey because the bufón who did the shooting wasn’t crying.”

  Schaeffer was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, he was even more skeptical than he had been. “Come off it, Tom. Why don’t you and Gene stop nosing around and go back to Las Vegas? You know that’s damn slim evidence, especially coming from a five-year-old child.”

  “But you will send someone to talk to her?”

  “If you insist. At least you’ve come up with something. And that’s more than the men I’ve sent out there have been able to do. You say that address is 4780 Bougainvillea Court?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay. I’ll send a policewoman out. But you realize that even if the child’s story does hold up it isn’t going to help the Laredos. There’s still the matter of the chloral hydrate. And you know as well as I do that anyone who conspires to rob, or who takes part in an armed robbery in which a death results, is equally guilty with the actual killer.”

  “But Gene and I don’t believe the Laredos had any part in this.”

  “The District Attorney’s office doesn’t feel that way. In fact Carter is so certain he has sufficient evidence to ask for an indictment that we’ve booked the Laredos on suspicion of murder and the preliminary hearing will probably be held tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Why so soon?”

  “Be reasonable, Tom. Three people are dead and one hundred and sixty-eight thousand dollars are still missing. You can imagine the pressure that’s being brought to bear on us.”

  “By whom?”

  “The armored truck company. The public. The newspapers. The powers that be.” Schaeffer added, “My advice to you is to stay out of this, Tom.”

  “Maybe I should,” Daly admitted. “But there’s too much that doesn’t add up. Pinning this on the Laredos is too pat Did you check on that Volkswagen I asked you to?”

  “Yes. We couldn’t find any car registered to a Thomas or a Tommy Banks. But we did find a 1961 Volkswagen, license number HIU - 587, registered to a Miss Thelma Banks. Her address is in San Bernardino County. Rural Box 36A, Route 3. But I don’t see what good that’s going to do you. That’s a good one hundred miles from here. Up off the Rim Of The World Highway, not far from Big Bear City.”

  Daly wrote the address on the margin of the newspaper. “Thanks a lot, Charlie.”

  “You think this Banks had something to do with the armored truck job?”

  “I think so.”

  “Who is he?”

  “The eighteen-year-old punk who worked for Laredo. The hired hand who was supposed to run the miniature train, but who didn’t show up yesterday morning.”

  “That doesn’t make him guilty of anything.”

  “No,” Daly admitted. “Not in itself. But when Gene and I talked to Laredo and his wife, they told us that when Mickey asked the old man if he’d recognized the clown who’d shot him, he said, ‘Yeah. Sure, boss. I thought he looked familiar. I make him now. It was the young clem.’”

  Schaeffer wasn’t impressed. “Okay. I’ll put out a pick-up on him. But, frankly, I don’t put too much credence in the story. If it’s true, why didn’t Laredo tell us?”

  “There,” Daly said, “you have me. Possibly because he knew you wouldn’t believe him. Have you believed anything else he’s said?”

  “Just one thing. That he hated Kelly enough to kill him. And the revolver we found in his catchall box and the polygraph bore that out.”

  Daly cradled the phone and used his breast pocket handkerchief to pat at the beads of perspiration on his face. “You heard?” he asked DuBoise.

  DuBoise, reluctantly, stopped paying visual tribute to the crossed and shapely legs of the registered nurse sitting back of the reception desk. “Some of it. Enough to know that our next stop is probably Big Bear.”

  “Any objection?”

  DuBoise was philosophical about it. “No. Working with you, I’m used to such things. One windmill is much like another. Besides, I got you into this thing by scheduling Laredo on your program.” He was puzzled. “But who is this Thelma Banks? And what relation is she to Tommy?”

  “I haven’t the least idea,” Daly said. “Let’s drive up and find out.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  THIS HIGH on the mountain it was cold even with the heater in the car turned on. It had started to snow shortly after they’d passed the Lake Arrowhead turnoff and they had been forced to stop and put chains on the rear wheels of the car. One of the steel links had come loose and with every revolution of the wheel it beat up at the inside of the fender with metallic monotony.

  Traffic on the main road had been heavy but since they’d turned off on Route 3 the only signs of life were the occasional lights shining through the windows of the weekend cabins set well back in the almost solid ranks of redwood and pine trees. The unpaved side road was deeply rutted with tire tracks but if the snow continued to fall as heavily as it was falling, within an hour it would become impassable.

  “What do you think?” Daly asked.

  “I think,” DuBoise said, “that if we had any sense, we’d turn around and go back. But now that we’ve come this far, I admit I’m rather curious to learn what relation this Thelma is to — what was it Laredo called him?”

  “The clem?”

  “Ah, yes. And a very descriptive name. Almost as intriguing as geek.”

  According to the information they’d been given at the last service station they’d stopped at, there was a ski lodge a few hundred yards from the cabin for which they were looking.

  Daly was about to give up when he saw the lights of the lodge. He drove into the snow-crusted parking area, stopped the car and led the way into the building. After the cold, rarefied mountain
air, the heat from the blazing logs in the huge natural stone fireplace felt good. He and DuBoise warmed their hands for a moment, then walked through the open doorway into the dimly lighted bar.

  Its only occupant was a bored barman wearing a red vest with brass buttons. Daly laid a bill on the bar. “A double bourbon, please. No water.”

  “I’ll have the same,” DuBoise said.

  “Yes, sir.” The barman poured the two drinks, then did a double take as he looked at Daly again. “Say, aren’t you Tom Daly? The guy on television, the one who has his own show on KAMPC-TV?”

  “That’s right,” Daly said.

  The barman poured another dollop of whiskey into the two glasses. “Yes, of course you are. We keep it so damn dark in here I didn’t recognize you. This is a pleasure, Mr. Daly. I watch you every night you’re on the air. But what are you doing way up here?”

  Daly drank his drink. “That’s a long story. But before we go into that, let me ask you a question. How come, in a nice place like this, you don’t get a bigger play than you do?”

  The barman winced. “Don’t say that, Mr. Daly. Don’t even think it. If we did any more business, I’d quit. And the season is just beginning. Believe me, we’ve had skiers and cheaters and guys and dolls on the make hanging from the rafters from late Friday afternoon. Up until a couple of hours ago. But you see the bulk of our crowd always pulls out late Sunday afternoon because most of them have to be back at work tomorrow morning.”

  “I should have thought of that,” Daly said. He pushed his glass back for a refill. “Now, as to why we’re here. We’re looking for a cottage or a cabin owned or occupied by a Miss Thelma Banks. And we haven’t any idea what she or it looks like. But it’s on Route 3. The box number is 36A. And we were informed it’s only a few hundred yards from a ski lodge. So, seeing your lights, we turned in.”

  The barman was pleased to be able to help. “You turned in at the right place. I know who you mean. That is, I don’t know the Banks dame, but I know the cottage she lives in. It’s in the hollow just beyond the lodge.”

  “She owns it?” DuBoise asked.

  “No,” the barman informed him. “A real estate firm in Big Bear City owns it. As it was told to me, she rented the cabin at so much a month, by the year, almost a year ago. But she never uses it except on weekends.”

  “Is she married or single?”

  “I haven’t any idea.”

  “Can you tell us what she looks like?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Daly asked.

  “That while I’ve seen her a lot of times, she’s never come in here and I’ve never seen her close up. Like I said, she only uses the cabin on weekends. Then she’s usually with a different John each time and they pack in their own provisions and liquor.” The barman hesitated. “I hope I’m not speaking out of turn and she’s a friend of yours.”

  “No,” DuBoise assured him, “we’ve never met the lady.”

  “Then I can say it. Most of us here at the lodge have her pegged as a high-class hustler. You know. One of those fancy pants broads who works the carriage trade and charges so much for a weekend, with the liquor and food thrown in free.”

  Daly said, “Then I assume she’s young and fairly pretty.”

  “That much I can testify to, at least secondhand. Some of the help who have seen her say she is in her middle twenties, uses a lot of makeup, has a beautiful shape and must buy her perfume by the quart. The expensive kind, too.”

  “Do you happen to know the make of car she drives?”

  “Yes. Sometimes a beat-up little Volkswagen. Sometimes a big, late model pink Cadillac.”

  “Her business must be good,” DuBoise said.

  Daly asked, “Is she a blonde or brunette?”

  “A blonde. A platinum blonde. The flashy kind.”

  Daly rebuttoned his topcoat. “Thanks a lot, fellow. Do you know if she’s in her cabin now?”

  “No. That I don’t know, Mr. Daly. But you can’t miss it It’s just down the road about two hundred yards, set maybe a hundred feet back in the trees. With the number 36A painted on the mail box.”

  The night seemed darker, the cold more intense, the fragrance of the pines more pronounced. As they crossed the parking area to Daly’s car the only sound was the crunch of the crusted snow under their feet.

  “Incredible,” DuBoise said.

  Daly asked what was so incredible.

  DuBoise looked up through the falling snow at the dark silhouette of the trees. “These trees. The silence. The snow. That we can be so close to one of the greatest cities in the world and still be so far away. Except for the lights of the lodge, this could be the forest primeval.” He blew on his hands to warm them. “A very cold forest primeval.”

  Daly asked, “Shall we take the car or walk?”

  DuBoise studied the road. The falling snow was rapidly filling the ruts. The road dipped after it passed the lodge. The snow would be deeper in the hollow. “Why don’t we walk?” he suggested. “As you know, I am quite fond of the opposite sex. But, under the circumstances, I have no desire to be snowbound with a prosperous fille de joie.”

  It took them a few minutes to walk the short distance. When they came to the mailbox it was so heavily coated with ice and snow they were unable to read the number painted on it. It didn’t matter. There was only the one cabin in the hollow and a 1961 Volkswagen sedan bearing the license plate number HIU-587 was parked just off the road.

  Daly and DuBoise walked up the snow-covered drive. The shades on the windows of the cabin were drawn but enough light seeped out around their edges to prove that the cabin was occupied. They listened at one of the windows and could hear music. Back of the music a male and female voice were holding a desultory conversation, but it was impossible to distinguish the words.

  “What do we do now?” Daly whispered. “Bang on the door and ask her if she knows Tommy Banks, what relation he is to her and where we can find him?”

  DuBoise debated the question, then whispered, “On the chance she may be more deeply involved in this thing than being related to Laredo’s part-time employee, why don’t I go around in back before you knock on the door? Just in case she should try to take off before we can question her. I’d hate to have made this long drive for nothing.”

  Daly nodded. “You’ve a point. I’ll count to fifty to give you time to reach the back door.”

  He counted to fifty, slowly, as he watched DuBoise wade and flounder through the knee-deep snow that had drifted up against the side of the house. When he’d disappeared into the night, Daly threw away the cigarette he was smoking and climbed the shallow stairs to the porch and knocked on the front door of the cabin.

  The music stopped abruptly. There was a moment of silence. Then a male voice asked, “Who’s there?”

  “My name is Daly, Tom Daly,” Daly called. “And I’d like to speak to Miss Thelma Banks.”

  “What do you want to talk to her about?”

  “I’m trying to locate a Tommy Banks. And I have reason to believe she may know where I can find him.”

  “Just a minute, please,” the voice answered him.

  It was cold waiting in the night, but the barman at the lodge had been right about one thing. Even with a closed door between them he could smell the scent of the expensive perfume affected by the Banks woman.

  Daly waited the requested minute, two minutes, listening to the furtive scurrying on the far side of the door. Then, becoming impatient, he raised his hand to knock again and there was a metallic snick as the bolt on the inside of the door was drawn and the same male voice said pleasantly, “Come in, Mr. Daly.”

  Daly turned the knob he was gripping and opened the door. After the almost stygian darkness of the outside night the brightly lighted interior of the cottage blinded him for a moment. The studio-type room was overwarm and reeked of perfume. A small fire was burning in a fieldstone fireplace.

  As he entered the cabin, Daly sai
d, “I’m sorry to disturb you. But …”

  He stopped speaking as he realized he was, seemingly, alone in the room. There was no one in front of the fireplace or in either of the two overstuffed chairs. A woman’s intimate garments and a green wool dress were dropped carelessly on a huge white bearskin rug beside a rumpled king-sized bed, but no one was occupying the most obvious, and most obviously recently used, piece of furniture in the room.

  Daly transferred his attention to a partially closed door on the far side of the room. “What’s the big idea? This isn’t a raid. All I want is to …”

  Before he could complete the sentence, the click of a light switch plunged the room into darkness. Daly sensed motion to one side of him. He turned instinctively and the viciously swung barrel of a heavy revolver crashed against his head, the force of the blow numbing him with pain. He tried to call to DuBoise and couldn’t The pain was too intense. In desperation he thrust out his hands in the sudden darkness to grapple with the person who had attacked him and felt soft fur. Then one of his groping hands closed around an even softer, bare, well-rounded piece of flesh that could only be a woman’s breast.

  The contact seemed to amuse the woman. She laughed softly as she took his hand from where it was and slid it down her nude body to the juncture of her thighs.

  “Nice?”

  Only half conscious, his knees giving under him, Daly heard the male who had spoken before say tersely, “Okay, Thelma. Stop amusing yourself by giving the sucker a cheap thrill and let’s get out of here.”

  “All right,” the woman agreed.

  Then, still pressing Daly’s hand to her body, she beat at his head again and again with the barrel of the pistol she was holding in her other hand.

  • • •

  Four sounds intruded on Daly’s returning consciousness. He could hear a car motor being raced. He could hear gunfire. He could hear Gene DuBoise cursing in French. Closer by he could hear the crackling of flames and was suddenly aware of intense heat. Then the sound of the car motor died away, strong hands grasped his arms and, still swearing, DuBoise dragged Daly’s limp body through the open door of the burning cabin, across the small porch and out into the snow.