1971 - Want to Stay Alive (7 page)

Beigler stood for a long moment, staring at the body, his face hard and set, then he walked through the sitting room, ignoring Riddle and out into the hot night air.

“It’s our boy again,” he said to Lepski. “Set it up. Get the squad down here. I’m taking Riddle out of here.”

Lepski nodded and using the car’s telephone, he called headquarters.

Beigler returned to the bungalow.

“The press will be swarming around here any time now,” he said. “Let me take you home, Mr. Riddle.”

Riddle got heavily to his feet.

“I don’t want to go home . . . just yet. Of course you want to question me. I’ll take my car . . . you follow me. We’ll go down to Main Bay . . . it’ll be quiet there.”

Ten minutes later, Riddle parked his car under a palm tree. Main Bay was a day time favourite for beach lovers, but at night, it was always deserted.

Beigler joined him and the two men sat side by side on the sand. There was a long pause, then Riddle said, “This is a mess, isn’t it? It’s the end of the road for me. Why did that bastard pick on me?” He accepted Beigler’s cigarette and both men lit up. “If I hadn’t had a flat tyre this wouldn’t have happened. It’s fate, I suppose. I’ve always got to the bungalow before Lisa did, but tonight, I had this flat and she was there ahead of me.”

“Would you fill me in, Mr. Riddle?” Beigler said. “It’ll all have to come out. I’m sorry. I need everything you can give me. This nut could kill again.”

“Yes . . . go ahead . . . ask what you like.”

“Who’s the woman?”

“Lisa Mendoza.” Riddle stared at the glowing tip of his cigarette. “You know about my wife. Of course I should not have done it, but I’m not getting any younger . . . call it a last fling. I ran into Lisa. Something sparked off between us. She was a lovely person and lonely like myself.” His voice became unsteady and he paused. “There it is. I bought the bungalow. It was our love nest . . . that’s what the tabloids will call it, won’t they?”

“Did you have the bungalow long?”

“Eighteen months . . . nineteen months . . . something like that. Both of us knew it couldn’t last . . . what does?”

“How often did you meet?”

“Every Friday night. It was a fixed thing . . . like this Friday night.”

“She didn’t live at the bungalow?”

“Good God, no! We only used it on Friday nights. She has her own home. We chose Friday as my wife always goes to bed early on that night. We entertain on Saturdays and she needs extra rest.”

“Who knew about this arrangement, Mr. Riddle? I mean apart from you and Miss Mendoza.”

Riddle looked blankly at him.

“Knew?”

“Did you confide in anyone . . . any of your friends?”

“What an odd question.”

Beigler restrained his impatience.

“It’s not so odd. You’re preoccupied with what has happened to you. I’m preoccupied with a killer who has killed twice and could kill again. He knew McCuen’s habits. It looks to me he also knew your habits. Was this association of yours a secret? Did you confide in anyone?”

Riddle crushed out his cigarette in the sand as he thought.

“Yes . . . I understand. I’m sorry. I’m being selfish. I see what you’re getting at. Yes, I did confide in a few of my very close friends, but they wouldn’t . . .”

“I’m not saying they did, but maybe through them there was a leak. Could I know who they are?”

Riddle rubbed his forehead.

“There is Harriet Green: she’s my secretary. She leased the bungalow. Then David Bentley: I sail with him, he’s my closest friend. Terry Thompson: he’s the manager of the Opera House. He was Lisa’s friend. He knew and approved.” He paused, thinking. “Luke Williams: he was my alibi for Friday nights. We were supposed to be at a bowling alley. My wife approved of this. She thought the exercise was good for me.”

In the brilliant moonlight, Beigler scribbled down the names in his notebook.

“You said you had a flat tyre?”

“Yes . . . I went to get my car and found the off side front tyre was flat. Bates, my chauffeur, was off duty so I changed the tyre myself. I’m not good at this kind of chore and it took time. Usually I get to the bungalow at nine o’clock. I wasn’t worried. I knew Lisa would wait for me. I got to the bungalow thirty-five minutes late. I found her. That’s it. Anything else?”

Beigler hesitated. Was it possible, he asked himself, that Riddle had quarrelled with the woman and had killed her? Could he have painted the word on her back to shift suspicion from himself? But looking at the tragic face, he was satisfied.

“No, go home, Mr. Riddle.” He got to his feet. “The Chief will want to see you. I’ll get a couple of men over to your place right away to keep the press off you.”

“Thanks.” Riddle stood up. He turned to look at Beigler. “It’s a mess, isn’t it?” He hesitated, then offered his hand. A little surprised, Beigler took it. “Thanks for being so understanding.”

“It’ll work out,” Beigler said.

“Yes.”

Riddle turned, got in his car and drove away.

Beigler grimaced. Then with a shake of his head, he got in his car and headed back to the bungalow.

***

Alone in the small, stuffy cabin, Poke Toholo listened to the commentator on the small screen. Chuck and Meg were out. He had told Chuck to take Meg dancing and to keep her out late.

The fat, excited looking man with the love nest as his background was waving his microphone as he talked. A few moments ago, Lisa Mendoza’s body, covered by a sheet, had been brought out of the bungalow on a stretcher and the stretcher had been fed into the waiting ambulance.

“So the Executioner strikes again,” the commentator said dramatically.

“First Dean K. McCuen, one of our best known citizens, shot to death yesterday, now Lisa Mendoza, known to music lovers of this City as a fine violinist, has been strangled and her body defiled by the killer’s signature. There is no one in our City this night who isn’t asking the same question: not if this lunatic will strike again, but when will he strike again and who will be his next victim. I have with me Chief of Police Terrell . . .”

Poke smiled. The atmosphere was building up beautifully, he thought. He listened to Terrell’s plea against panic, knowing the rich and the spoilt would not be reassured. It would need now only one more killing for real stark panic, so necessary to his plan, to have the City in his grip.

Chuck must be more closely involved this time, Poke thought. Up to now, Chuck’s only contribution had been to help steal the rifle and to let the air out of Riddle’s tyre. That had been necessary to give Poke time to reach the bungalow and to find the woman there on her own. But the next killing would be different. It was time Chuck earned the promised money: time for him to be so involved, he couldn’t rat.

Poke’s attention was drawn back to the lighted screen.

The commentator was now whispering with a man who had joined him.

Poke heard the commentator whisper, “For God’s sake! Are you sure?”

The other man nodded and moved out of the camera’s range. The commentator mopped his sweating face with his handkerchief as he faced the camera.

“Folks . . . I’ve just heard Mr. Malcolm Riddle is dead. This will shock you as it shocks me. While driving back to his home, after being interviewed by the police, Mr. Riddle apparently lost control of his car. The car plunged over the cliff into the sea at West Point. Mr. Riddle . . .”

Poke got to his feet and stretched. It was building up even better than he had hoped. He looked at his watch. The time now was a few minutes after midnight. He turned off the television set, then taking off his flowered shirt and dropping his blue hipsters, he went into the shower room. Some minutes later, he put on faded red pyjamas and lay on the bed. He turned off the light.

His mind went back to the moment when he had broken into the bungalow. The lock on the back door had offered no resistance. He had waited in the darkness. She had arrived at 21.25 as he knew she would from Luke Williams whispered conversation with another Club member at the bar while Poke was serving them drinks. He was standing behind the drapes in the big bedroom. He watched her undress. She had tossed her stockings carelessly from her and they had landed within a foot of where he was hiding. He had meant to use his hands, but as she had supplied the weapon, he had accepted it.

The sound of a car driving into the garage broke his thoughts. He slid off the bed and peered through the curtains.

Chuck and Meg were walking to their cabin. He heard the door slam and then listened to the murmur of their voices. He stretched out on the bed again.

Tomorrow . . . the final killing . . . then the harvest.

He lay awake for some time, thinking. It was working out exactly the way he had planned. In a week the money would begin to come in.

He was still thinking about the money as he drifted off into sleep.

***

Lights burned in Mayor Hedley’s penthouse on the top of City Hall.

The time was 02.33.

Hedley had just got rid of Pete Hamilton and five other pressmen. They had given him a roasting that left him furious, white faced and sweating.

His wife, Monica, a forty-three year old motherly type of woman, sensible and nice, sat in a chair away from him. Chief of Police Terrell sat in a chair facing him.

“Lawson, dear, you must try to calm yourself,” Monica said soothingly. “It’s not good for you to get so worked up. You know . . .”

“Calm myself?” Hedley’s voice exploded, “calm myself! Don’t you realise this goddamn thing could lose me my job? Calm myself you say! With a lunatic killer loose in this City!”

Monica and Terrell exchanged glances.

“But honey if you did happen to lose your job, would it matter so much?”

Hedley clenched his fists and sucked in a breath of exasperation.

“You don’t understand. Monica . . . please go to bed. I want to talk to Frank.”

“But I do understand, Lawson.”

“You don’t! What you don’t seem able to grasp is the whole City is exploding!”

“Is it?” She got up and walked gracefully to the big picture window and looked at the residential skyscrapers that surrounded City Hall. Only a few lights showed in the many windows. “I would say most folk are in bed and asleep. The only people exploding as far as I can see are a handful of pressmen and you.”

“Monica, will you please go to bed.”

“Yes, of course.” She smiled at Terrell, then made her way to the door.

“Lawson is very civic minded, Frank,” she said at the door, then she was gone.

There was a long pause, Hedley said, “Monica doesn’t appreciate the implications behind all this. I don’t have to tell you, you and I could be out of office tomorrow, do I?”

Terrell took out his pipe and began to fill it.

“Could we?” He regarded Hedley. “I’ve been waiting to tell you something, Lawson. Now Monica isn’t with us, I’ll say it. In my view, you’re acting like an old woman who thinks there is a man under her bed.”

Hedley flushed red.

“Are you talking to me?” he demanded, then under Terrell’s steady stare, he managed to control his temper. “You can’t say a thing like that to me!”

“I’ve said it,” Terrell said mildly. “Now, for a change, listen to me.” He paused to light his pipe, then when it was going to his satisfaction, he went on, “I’ve been Chief of Police for fifteen years. I’ve done a job and I know it as you know it. Just because we have a nut loose who has killed two people there’s no cause to panic and that is what you are doing. You should know as I know every so often a City gets a nut. This is nothing unique.”

Hedley pressed his finger tips to his forehead.

“But this is happening to Paradise City!”

“That’s right. What’s so special about Paradise City? I’ll tell you. Paradise City is the playground of some of the richest, most arrogant, most vulgar and most unpleasant people in this country. So a killer arrives: a fox among the golden geese. If it happened in any other City you wouldn’t bother to read about it.”

Trying to keep his voice steady, Hedley said, “It’s my duty to protect the people I serve! I don’t give a damn what happens in any other City! It’s what happens here that counts!”

“So what is happening here? A nut has killed two people. Getting into a panic won’t find him.”

“You sit there and talk,” Hedley said angrily, “but what are you doing?”

“I’ll find him. It’ll take time, but I’ll find him. Right now, by the way you and the press are behaving I get the idea you and they are creating an atmosphere the killer wants.”

Hedley reared back in his chair.

“What do you mean? Be careful what you’re saying! So far you and your men haven’t done a goddam thing to impress anyone! Two killings! And what have you got? Nothing! What do you mean by saying I’m creating an atmosphere this lunatic wants? Just what the hell do you mean by saying a thing like that?”

Completely unruffled, Terrell crossed one thick leg over the other.

“I’ve lived in this City most of my life,” he said. “For the first time I smell fear. I have smelt money, sex, corruption, scandal and vice, but never fear . . . I’m smelling it now.”

Hedley made a gesture of exasperation.

“I don’t give a damn about that! You’re accusing me of making an atmosphere this killer wants . . . you’d better explain!”

“Have you asked yourself what is the motive behind these killings?”

Terrell asked. “Why this killer publicises himself? When I have a murder case on my hands, I ask myself what is the motive? Without a motive, a killing is tough to solve. So I have asked myself what is the motive behind these two killings?”

Hedley dropped back in his chair.

“Why look at me? This is your job, goddamn it!”

“That’s right. It is my job.” Terrell puffed at his pipe. “No murder is ever committed without a motive. When dealing with a nut, the motive is obscure, but it is there, if you look for it hard enough. McCuen was a typical product of this City. Lisa Mendoza was a musician. There is no connection between these two except one thing: their deaths are the means to publicise a man who calls himself the Executioner. It’s a clever name . . . a name that makes an impact. With a name like that, he gets headlines. With a name like that, he has started a panic in this City. Until I find something else, I think that is the motive . . . to create panic in this City.”