Mecca for Murder Read online

  The doorman shook his head. “Cab. In civvies, too. Good-looking hunk, if the gals like them tall and blond with teeth like a Gleem ad. Am I going to help him or you?”

  “Me,” I said. “When she comes out, her car has a flat. She’ll have to wait a while.”

  “Hey now, General.”

  “Just tell her that. I’ll have my car all set to roll, see?”

  “What about the light colonel? He ranks you.”

  “I’ll worry about the light colonel. Do you or don’t you?”

  “I don’t, General.”

  I took a twenty-dollar bill from my wallet and folded it in half the long way and tapped it against my index finger. “Where else can I spend all this money around here?” I said. He looked interested but not convinced. I took out another twenty.

  I didn’t have to repeat my question. He relieved me of forty dollars with a polite smile and told me the right front tire of the Nash Rambler had looked low when he drove it down the ramp. He tossed me a better highball than he had tossed Fawzia Totah and I returned it with as military a salute as I could muster. Then I went inside and down the clinging wooden stairs to wait for word from Lasitter.

  Lasitter came through one of the turnstyles at 4:35. He was wearing the brown slacks and the white sport shirt. His face was sunburned a pale lobster red.

  “Dressing,” he said. “Man, would I like to plow a furrow over there. He own her?”

  “Get out to the car,” I said. “If I introduce you as my friend Mr. Brown, act like a human being. You know, walking on your hind legs and all?”

  “That supposed to be funny, Drum?”

  “If I don’t bother to introduce you, play it tough and quiet and follow my lead. Okay?”

  He nodded and went up the stairs. I climbed them after him and saw him walking across the lobby with his overnighter. I went outside and nodded at the doorman, who was squawking something into the phone on his call table. He jerked his chin about a quarter of an inch and kept talking. I stationed myself about fifty yards down the driveway, the hotel side of the first sharp curve. A plump woman came down the broad flight of steps and waited for one of the car runners to bring her fire-engine red MG. From here it looked as if she could barely fit inside. A young couple came out and walked in my direction, which was toward the parking lot. And then I saw them.

  He was a big blond guy in a black raw-silk suit. He was wearing black, but it had nothing to do with mourning. What did he have to mourn about? Hadn’t his wife been dead twenty-four hours already? He was holding Fawzia’s hand and smiling down at her while she spoke to the doorman. He was bronzed and handsome and bigger than I am.

  Slowly, I walked the fifty yards back to the hotel entrance. An empress-gold convertible sped by toward the parking lot, its tires spinning gravel like a dog paws dirt. Crazy relationship, I thought. He loves her. He wants to marry her. She doesn’t love him. She doesn’t want to marry him. But she’s got it bad in the endocrines and it isn’t like the head and not even like the heart and all she can do is take it, hating herself maybe because she knows now if she didn’t know before what kind of a heel her Limerock is, cavorting around the Montrose Park Hotel and Country Club twenty-four hours after they run his mother into Toano for killing his wife.

  The doorman was saying, “I’m terribly sorry, ma’am. But you can see how busy we are just now. It may be as much as an hour before I can put a man on changing your flat.”

  “Nuisance,” Limerock muttered. “Shall I buy you a drink inside?”

  Before Fawzia could answer, I said, “Fawzia! Fawzia Totah!”

  The two tanned, healthy faces turned toward me. Fawzia smiled. “Chet. You’re certainly the last person in the world I expected to meet here.”

  “Oh,” I said, going upstairs to join them near the doorman’s call table, “I’m slumming. I was going down to the parking lot when a Caddy came by and nearly splattered me against the hemlock hedge. I turned around and cussed the driver and there you were. At least, I thought it was you. I came back to find out.”

  Fawzia went through the introductions. I shook Limerock’s hand. It was like shaking hands with a wood vise. “Why don’t you join us inside for a drink?” Fawzia suggested. “My car has a flat tire.”

  Behind Limerock’s smile was a blank look, so Fawzia added, “Chet’s the private detective who went out to Tyler Acres with me yesterday.”

  “Oh yes, of course,” Limerock said.

  “Where were you heading,” I asked, “before the Montrose bartender stuck a spike in your tire to give his business a shot in the arm?”

  “We worked up an appetite,” Fawzia said. “We were on our way to an early dinner.”

  I took the ball and headed downfield with it. I said, “Say, how about joining me and my friend for dinner? I just picked him up here and we were kind of hungry ourselves. He’s waiting but in the car. That is, if you don’t mind our company. By the time we’re finished, your car ought to be ready to roll. Right, General?” I said to the doorman.

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “Then it’s settled,” I said. I pried my way between Fawzia and Limerock and took hold of an arm with each hand. “Let’s get going.”

  “What’s wrong with right here in the Montrose Park?” Limerock said. “Have you ever tried their duck orange?”

  I shook my head, stiff-armed the enemy tackler and kept going. I said, “I know a place a little way out in Virginia that has the biggest and best menu south of New York and north of Miami Beach.”

  “That’s some recommendation,” Fawzia said, and we kept walking. We went across the parking lot and Fawzia said, “I was telling Limerock all about your beautiful icebox on wheels. But where is it?”

  “It’s a bad day for cars, I guess,” I said. “My beautiful icebox on wheels is in for repairs.” A moment later I added, “Here we are. Not much, but it runs. Hey, Brownie! Like you to meet a couple of friends.”

  Lasitter stuck his head out through the rolled-down back window and acknowledged the introduction. The look on Fawzia Totah’s face said she was wondering what the hell I was doing with a friend like Mr. Brown.

  “Where is this place of yours, Chet?” Limerock asked.

  “Well,” I said, “if you like it and ever expect to find your way out to it again, you better sit up front with me. I know folks who have starved to death trying to find their way back.”

  Limerock got in front with me and Fawzia shared the back seat with Mr. Brown. Her face said she would much rather share a seat with Limerock. I pulled out of the parking lot and picked up Wisconsin Avenue southbound, then made a right turn on M Street. Five minutes later we were gazing down on the placid waters of the Potomac from the roadway of Francis Scott Key Bridge. Exactly in the middle, a small sign told us we had crossed the state line into Virginia.

  I could feel the uncomfortable weight of the Magnum in its rig, but that wasn’t what bothered me. We had crossed the state line and I didn’t have to use my F.B.I. training to know what that meant.

  “Really, Drum,” Limerock said an hour later. “How much further is it?”

  We had been rolling west on U.S. 211 and were climbing steadily into the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains now. The small talk had petered out a dozen miles this side of the Potomac. I could feel the tension mounting, like something palpable, in the car. I didn’t answer Lyman Lee Tyler’s question. What the hell could I say?

  “Really, Drum,” he repeated. “The flat would have been changed by now. I realize you meant well, but you didn’t tell us it was so far.”

  “I sure am hungry,” Mr Brown said. It was his first contribution to the conversation since the introductions.

  Fawzia played the good sport. “We must be almost there,” she said.

  I looked at my wrist watch. It was a little after six o’clock. Traffic had been heavy at first, but we were well beyond the rim of Virginia suburbs now and the traffic had thinned out. The road climbed and we climbed with it and in ano
ther hour we ought to see the great brooding bulk of Massanutten Mountain which formed the eastern anchor of the Shenandoah Valley near Luray. A few minutes after that we would be off the road and I’d begin breathing again.

  “What’s the name of this place?” Limerock asked. “Shangri-la? Xanadu?”

  “I’m sure we’re almost there,” Fawzia said.

  I lit a cigarette. My hands were wet and dampened the cigarette paper so the smoke didn’t draw well. I glanced at Limerock. He was annoyed, but not alarmed. I still had a few more minutes. A few more miles before they knew, before I’d be forced to drive with the Magnum in my lap.

  Up ahead on our side of the road was a big Georgian mansion, complete with massive white pillars out front and a portico running the entire length of the house, of a type which is common in northern Virginia. It had been converted into a restaurant during the depression.

  “Well,” Limerock said. “Why didn’t you say so, Drum? I’ve heard of the Plantation. Famous for steaks, isn’t it?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “You wouldn’t know?”

  “This isn’t the place I had in mind.”

  We pulled abreast of the Plantation and kept going. Fawzia sighed. Brown chuckled and I wanted to turn around and hit him.

  “Stop the car,” Limerock said. “I don’t care if this is the place you had in mind or not. We’ll eat here.”

  I said nothing.

  “I said, stop the car.”

  I looked at the speedometer needle. Sixty-five. I eased up on the gas pedal. This was not the time to get stopped for speeding.

  “Turn around and go back to the Plantation,” Limerock said. He was teetering now on the edge of ugliness. Fawzia’s presence kept him in check, but when I looked at him again there was a fine dew of sweat on his forehead.

  “I’m telling you for the last time, Drum. Turn around and go back.”

  The highway climbed and looped to the left and you couldn’t see anything of the Plantation now. I cut out of lane to pass a bus bound for Luray Caverns. I whistled some bars from The Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginny.

  “You good-for-nothing God-damned dumb dick!” Limerock exploded. “You sure as hell take the cake.”

  I flicked my cigarette out the rolled-down window and said, “Cool off, Tyler.”

  “What the hell do you mean, cool off?”

  “Just cool off,” I said. “Your old lady’s paying me a thousand bucks to keep you in the country. I’m trying to collect.”

  Limerock lunged across the front seat. He got hold of the steering wheel and tried to force us off the road. I took my foot off the gas pedal and stepped down hard on his instep. He yowled. Fawzia screamed, “Watch out!” The bus came barreling up behind us, the driver and all thirty-eight passengers leaning on the horn. The bus butted us like an angry goat. We bounced a way but rolled serenely on. The bus came up big on our left and the driver shouted something, then passed us, pulled up on the shoulder and came to a stop, air brakes hissing. I didn’t know if he’d read our license plate or not. I couldn’t chance it.

  Limerock was still fighting for the wheel, so I took the Magnum out of its rig and slammed the side of the barrel across his head. He slumped away from me, dazed but conscious. I stopped the Chevvy in front of the bus and tossed the Magnum to Lasitter.

  “Watch them,” I said. “I’ll be back.”

  Fawzia leaned forward over the rear of the front seat, stroking Limerock’s blond head and muttering sweet things. Lasitter looked very pale.

  I found the bus driver pulling at the peak of his cap and studying the front end of the bus. I couldn’t see anything wrong with it. Half a dozen passengers were out stretching their legs.

  “Let me smell your breath,” the bus driver said.

  I came close and said, “Watch out for the garlic.”

  “They ought to pick up your license for a stunt like that.”

  “I hope not,” I said, thinking of another license. “Well, there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong. Does there?”

  The sun was behind us, shining on the rear windows of the Chevvy. I couldn’t see what was going on inside. I looked up and down the road. There weren’t any cars coming.

  “Look,” I said, “are you going to do anything about it or aren’t you?” I wondered how often the Virginia troopers patrolled this stretch of the highway.

  “See your license,” he said.

  I took it out and showed it to him. “Give me a break,” I said. “I’m in bad with the insurance company. One more accident and they’ll drop me.”

  “D.C., huh?” He turned the license over and didn’t see any traffic violations listed. He took a pencil off his ear and made tooth marks in the end of it. He held the license in his hand and studied the front of the bus again.

  “It ain’t that I want to be hard on you,” he said. “They skin me alive if there’s damage and I can’t give them a full report, cops and all.”

  “No damage,” I said.

  “Well, I can’t see none,” he admitted almost reluctantly. He gave the license back to me and said, “Better be careful on the road, that’s all. It ain’t like driving in D.C. Know what I mean?”

  I said I knew what he meant. I would have said I’d vote for him for President if he wanted.

  “Inside, folks,” he said. He didn’t look at me again. The bus door closed and the bus backed up with a roar and returned to the road. In a few moments it disappeared over the crest of the next hill.

  Lasitter was waving the muzzle of the Magnum back and forth like a slowly oscillating fan, covering Limerock in the front seat at one end of the arc and Fawzia in the rear seat at the other. “Make out okay?” he asked me.

  I nodded. I told Limerock, “Mr. Brown will be holding that gun on you the rest of the way. So behave yourself, Jack.”

  Limerock sneered. “Don’t make me laugh, shamus. You wouldn’t let him pull the trigger for a stinking thousand bucks and you know it.”

  “Maybe I wouldn’t. But if you don’t think so, you’re taking a calculated risk that’s liable to cost you.”

  Limerock was calming down now. There was a raw red welt high on his forehead where I’d hit him with the Magnum. He probed it with the tips of his fingers and winced. “Chester Drum,” he said, talking to himself. “I read that name in the papers. Last winter, wasn’t it? Killed a man in Venezuela, but was never extradited …”

  He had his facts somewhat crooked, but I wasn’t going to correct him. It gave him something to think about.

  An hour later we reached our destination, which was a cabin on the western slope of Massanutten Mountain. Rhododendrons grew wild and tall among the pines and oaks around the cabin. There was a porch and split-log walls and a bare plank door, unlocked. Inside were two rooms and adequate furniture if you didn’t mind the wood unpainted and webbing instead of upholstery or mattresses. Half of one of the rooms was a kitchen with a wood-burning stove, metal dishes and a couple of shelves stacked with canned provisions. There was a telephone near the one-tap, cold-water sink, but I knew it was disconnected. The cabin belonged to Willy Harker, with whom I had done some hunting in these hills. If I knew Harker, he was probably up north in the Maine woods now, fishing for trout or waiting for the deer season to start. I envied him.

  There were only two beds, each consisting of four legs, webbing strung across a wooden frame and a surplus Army blanket. Ten yards out back down a slope was an outhouse.

  “Think you can whip something for us out of those cans?” I asked Fawzia.

  “I’m not hungry,” she said.

  “Well, try to get a meal together anyway.”

  “Hey, I found some whisky,” Lasitter said happily, displaying the bottle. He took a long drink and passed it around, but there were no takers.

  “Mr. Brown and I will watch you around the clock,” I said. “Better get some sleep after you grab a bite, Brownie.”

  “In a while, pal,” he said. He tilted the bottle again.
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  “From private eye to kidnaper,” Limerock said, helping Fawzia with the cans.

  “It’s not kidnaping if we’re not caught at it,” I said.

  Limerock turned around and smiled at me. There was no guile in that smile. Only amusement. “Think you can keep us here until next Thursday without getting caught at it?” he asked politely.

  Lasitter took another drink and made a loud contented noise in his throat.

  Chapter Ten

  “Well, I guess I got to keep you honest,” Lasitter said. His face looked mean and ugly as he pushed a dollar to the center of the wood plank table. The table seemed to flutter as a draft of air from the open window whipped the two candle flames which gave us light.

  I showed Lasitter three queens and raked the bills and coins toward me across the table. Lasitter’s face was all bone and shadow in the candlelight as the wind almost snuffed the flame. “You’re sure in a hurry to win back the fifty bucks you gave me,” he said softly but angrily.

  “Playing poker was your idea,” I said.

  “How the hell should I know you were a sharp?”

  I pushed my winnings from that pot and the rest of the game back to the center of the table. Lasitter watched me steadily, not moving, his eyes like two tunnels going deep into the blackness of his skull. “Go on,” I said. “Take what’s yours.”

  “What do you think I am, a welcher?”

  “I don’t want your money.”

  “Ah, you make me sick. This whole setup makes me sick.”

  “Don’t raise your voice,” I said. “They’re sleeping.”

  “You ain’t got any blood in you,” Lasitter complained. “That’s your trouble. We’re out of smokes and we’re out of hootch, but do you give a damn? We’re holed up here like a couple of fugitives, that’s what the hell we are.”

  “I’d like a smoke, Lasitter. And a drink.”

  “So let me drive down to town and get some. Tomorrow. First thing in the morning. Huh?”

  “But I’m not dumb enough to want to go down to Luray and buy them,” I said. “How stupid can you get, Lasitter? How would you like to face a kidnaping rap? Would you like that?”