Davidian Report (3 page)

“Don’t mention it,” Armour pushed aside the appreciation. “You boys find out if your friends are around. If not, come back and ride in with me. I’ll wait.”

Steve’s fists tightened on the valise handle. But he managed to speak quietly, even pleasantly to the bastard. “Don’t wait. We’ll be all right from here on in. Thanks for the lift.” He walked away fast, the soldier on his heels. They separated inside the door, without any word, each on his own errand.

The terminal was as crowded as the desert shack had been, with those dogged friends and relatives who wouldn’t give up. The loud-speaker rasped endlessly, “Flight Nine arriving by bus from Palmdale. Pick up your baggage at the street entrance. Flight Fifty-nine arriving—”

Albion wasn’t in the milling crowd, wasn’t leaning on the ticket counters or on the newsstand. Steve began a slow pace past the chairs. Each one was occupied by a stranger. The phone booths were empty. He went into the men’s room, this too was empty. It didn’t add up. Albion would not have left the air terminal until Steve got there, no matter what the hour. Unless something had gone wrong earlier and Albie hadn’t come at all. But that didn’t add up either. There’d have been a substitute. Albie was thorough.

Steve covered the room again, as if he could have missed Albie on the first count. He wasn’t there on the second either. While he was knuckling his brains, his conscious eye beheld the two doors leading to the court in the rear. He strode to the nearest, the one on the right, and pushed out into the fine fog. Albion must have ducked out here for some reason, possibly because he’d spotted something off color within. Something Steve couldn’t be expected to recognize; he hadn’t met the California boys.

There were no shapes in the fog, no one on the bench just outside the door, no one leaning over the fence looking out to the blurred landing field. Steve walked over to peer down the empty ramp. No one. Nothing. Turning back he saw what he had missed before. Across the court on a smaller bench, there was someone or something, a darker mass against the fogged dark. For a moment he was motionless, conscious only of sounds, his breath and the dripping of fog from the roof. Then he moved quickly, quietly. It was Albion, hunched there in his worn raincoat, a shapeless, colorless hat pulled over his eyebrows. He might have been asleep, but his knees were placed together too neatly, his hands crossed over them in peace. Steve didn’t touch him. He tilted the man’s hat brim with one careful finger, but he had known before that. He walked away, returning to the lighted, busy terminal by the far door.

No one seemed to notice his re-entrance. He lit a cigarette, steadying it with cold fingers. The immediate move was to get a cab into Hollywood. He was heading for the street exit when the soldier emerged from Men’s. Reuben’s face had grown old again from fatigue or disappointment. From both. He said, “Your friends not wait either?”

“Looks like they didn’t,” Steve admitted. He couldn’t have been as long outside as it seemed. Unless the kid had been told to wait for him.

Reuben walked along towards the door. “You don’t suppose that Armour guy’ll still be hanging around?” It was a wishful query.

“No,” Steve said. Although he wasn’t sure of the soldier, he offered, “I’m getting a cab. You can ride along with me to Hollywood if it’ll do you any good.”

Reuben was appreciative. “I’m heading that way.”

And then they saw the big car, the rear door still wide, Haig Armour emerging from the tonneau. “No luck?” Armour’s voice implied that he’d known there wouldn’t be. “You two must have taken the place apart, nail by nail.” He’d changed the seating, he had Timothy by the driver and he himself took the jump seat. The girl slept on in her corner. She didn’t stir when Reuben shoved beside her, making room for Steve. But if you touched her she wouldn’t topple; she was breathing.

“And now?” Armour asked.

“We’ll get off in Beverly Hills.” Steve settled his valise under his heels.

“Where are you going?” There was a hint of impatience in the big voice and Steve wanted to answer it straight:
None of your God-damn business!
But he said. “Hollywood. We’ll take a cab from Beverly Hills. I’m sure Miss Talle isn’t up to any more side trips.”

“Yes.” Armour agreed too readily. “You can drop us and then Wilton will take you two wherever you want.” He blocked Steve’s protest. “It’s a hired car.”

Steve shut his mouth. Rube was already accepting in his lackadaisical fashion, “Well, thanks, Mr. Armour. Someday I’ll give you a lift.”

Fatigue silenced all of them. The fog ebbed and flowed about the car through Westwood and into Beverly Hills. They turned away from the city on a broad avenue sentineled with giant palms, slender and tall as Watusis. The fronds were lost in the dark white mists overhead.

The driver held speed to a walk. The avenue was sparsely lit, the intersections lost in the fog. Again theirs seemed the only vehicle in motion, themselves the only living organisms in a vanished world. The Beverly Hills Hotel was a beacon, its yellow lights penetrating the gray. The car didn’t hesitate at the hotel. For a moment anger seized Steve. And then he realized from the growing darkness that they were moving into Benedict Canyon. The climb was tortoise slow, the driver pulling under far-spaced and dim street lights to decipher the street signs.

The girl said, “I don’t know where we are.” It was the first thing she’d said since leaving the airport.

Haig Armour didn’t sound too sure. “Wilton will find it. You know your aunt’s place?”

“I can’t see a thing.” Her yellow-crocheted forefinger rubbed against the window as if she could make a hole in the density.

One estate was like another on the Benedict Canyon road, shrubs and trees, the mass of big houses fading into the white shadows. Wilton was out of the car, turning a flashlight on the country-style white mailbox, lettered in black. And he was again in the car, heading further up the Canyon. It wasn’t more than a long city block before be repeated the routine, this time returning to open the rear door.

“This is it, Miss Talle.” He didn’t talk like a chauffeur, there was a quiet authority in his voice.

Miss Talle said, “Good night.” She didn’t say thank you, possibly she’d said it before, or was too sleepy to care. Armour helped her out of the car. Wilton carried her expensive luggage through the gate. She stumbled after the man. He could have driven closer to the house; the iron gates of the drive were closed for the night but he could have opened them. Steve wondered.

Haig Armour took the place she’d vacated. It shoved the soldier closer to Steve, Armour was bulkier than the slip of a girl. Through a yawn, he commented, “Her uncle is Eldon Moritz.”

The name was nothing to Steve. Or to Reuben.

“She dances. Ballet.”

It meant no more than that Haig Armour had asked her a few questions while they’d waited at the airport.

Rube asked, “Is she in the movies?”

“She’s been in a couple. Just background motion.”

Steve asked, “What does her uncle do?” If the name meant something to Armour, it wouldn’t hurt him to know.

“He’s a director,” Armour said.

Wilton’s steps crunched on the gravel. He came out of the fog, climbed under the wheel without a word. He somehow managed to turn the car in the narrow lane and it crawled down the long winding hill again to the lighted oasis of the hotel. End of the run for Haig Armour and Timothy Leonard. Armour tried once more. “You boys want to put up here for the night? I can take care of you.”

Steve spoke up before Reuben could get in an acceptance. “Thanks. I’ve got to check into Hollywood.”

If the private was disappointed, he didn’t let on. “I guess I better find my outfit before they think I’m lost. I’ll go on in with Steve.”

They repeated their thanks, watched Armour’s confidence climb the broad steps to the hotel porch, the silent Leonard at his heels. A uniformed attendant appeared for the luggage. And Wilton was suddenly standing at the car door, looking in.

Steve said, “You can drop me at the Roosevelt.” Reuben didn’t say anything.

The fog held, now faint, now furry, along Sunset and the Strip into Hollywood, turning over La Brea to the boulevard. Both Steve and Rube swung out at the tall lighted hotel. They had their bags in hand, there was no reason for the man to leave the wheel. Reuben said, “Thanks for the ride.” Steve added. “Thanks.” He gave a half salute. You wouldn’t be expected to tip Armour’s driver, and besides, he wasn’t a driver.

Steve stood there on the walk until the car had pulled away, filing in his memory what he had seen of the man. Not a hired driver. Plain-clothes cop? Federal Bureau? Haig Armour wouldn’t be in town on an unimportant assignment. No one could say with certainty that Armour had actually left the F.B.I. Certainly he’d been prosecuting Justice cases, he was a lawyer, wasn’t he? Weren’t they all who had joined in Armour’s generation? But it could be a cover-up for more secret Bureau work.

Reuben was eyeing the big hotel dubiously. “You going to stay here?”

Steve didn’t like the way he was sticking, yet it needn’t mean anything. It could be the kid didn’t know his way around town and didn’t have much coin. “No. I’m heading for a flea-bag up the street. I didn’t think His Worship had to know.” It wouldn’t hurt to offer. “You can bunk with me tonight.”

Rube spoke quickly. “I’m not broke. I didn’t want any more handouts from Mr. Armour. Next thing he’d be winning the war single-handed.” He crimped the grin. “It’s too late tonight to start looking for the guys I was supposed to meet—”

“I said you could bunk with me,” Steve repeated. It was too brusque. He softened it. “I already won one war. I don’t want any more medals.”

The hotel he was heading for was past Highland, halfway between the Roosevelt and the Drake. An easy walk even with the valise to carry. There didn’t seem to be any big black car cruising the empty street. Rube had another dubious eye when they came abreast the Balboa.

Steve reassured him. “It’s a flea-bag. But Hollywood style.” The lobby was small and fancy, glassed like a conservatory. It had enough red leather banquettes to set up a cocktail lounge. “A friend recommended it.” Albion had said it was convenient.

The desk clerk asked no questions, only the rent in advance of registration. He was a blenched old man, his sparse hair dyed a ruddy brown. Steve paid, handed over his valise to the soldier. The key he put in his pocket; let the hop pick up a duplicate.

He said, “I got to make a phone call before I turn in.” He walked past the phone booths out of the hotel.

He remained slantwise on the pavement outside until he saw Reuben disappear behind the elevator doors. He headed south then to Selma Street. He’d memorized the location from Albion’s notes. Even this near to Hollywood Boulevard, there were yet relics of a gentler day, old frame houses of the era of front porches and wisteria vines. These patches too would go; but they weren’t shabby yet, they were well-kept, lived-in homes.

The fog was lifting with the early dawn; it was past four by his watch. He peered for numbers; he was on the wrong side of the street but he did not cross until he had found the house he sought. It was not as kempt as its neighbors, its gray paint was thinned by time. There was an old wooden swing and an old wicker rocker on the porch. The vines were without leaf this near to December.

No lights showed within, no shadow stirred behind the old-fashioned stiff lace curtains masking the front window. Steve climbed the three wooden steps of the porch without sound. He stood silently before the front door, not wanting to start this. After a moment his finger touched, barely touched, the bell.

He waited, his hands dug into the pockets of his coat, his hat half covering his eyes. At this hour a faint bell might not awaken a household long asleep. But he waited, reluctant to ring again, and the door came open. He couldn’t see the man inside. A deep voice was overlaid with old European accent and suspicion. “What is it that you want?”

He answered, “Mr. Oriole.”

The door was pulled wider, evidently as an invitation to enter. Steve walked in. He was in a small gloomy hall, papered in mottled wine color, cramped with an oversized oak hall tree, a chest to match, and a two-shelf bookcase. By a side window there was a worn leather armchair, eternally holding the sag of a large man, and a scuffed oak table strewn with newspapers. Above on the wall was a telephone with a coin box. A staircase climbed behind the chair, carpeted in the same worn green as the hall, the same color as the limp brocade drapery separating this room from what would be a parlor on the left. The staircase turned at a landing, hiding the upper floor. Directly forward where the hall narrowed into a corridor, another limp curtain covered another room. The only light on was a dim bulb hanging in the corridor.

The man was as shabby as the room. Flabby flesh drooped on his large stooped frame, on his shapeless face. He was half bald, the lank hair over his ears and neck a dirty gray-brown; his small dark eyes were both wary and uncurious. He wore gray trousers, shapeless as elephant shanks, a wrinkled shirt without collar or tie, and old felt bedroom slippers over his brown cotton socks. He probably hadn’t been to bed, only snatched a laydown while waiting for Steve to report.

Steve questioned, “Mr. Oriole?”

“I am Mr. Oriole.”

“Steve Wintress.” He didn’t take his hands out of his pockets.

Mr. Oriole began plaintively, “Where have you been? I have for hours been expecting you—”

Steve interrupted, “Trying to get here.” He demanded roughly, “Where the hell is Albion?”

“He did not meet you?”

“He did not meet me,” Steve parroted. He knew how to deal with stationmasters like Oriole. Jump them before they could start on you. “No one met me.”

Mr. Oriole spoke with concern. “Mr. Albion was there. He telephoned to inform me the plane would be late.”

“Maybe he got tired waiting.”

“Not Mr. Albion,” said Mr. Oriole.

Not Albie, never Albie. He took orders with a bulldog grip. Efficient, trustworthy Albion. Steve wondered which side had killed him. Not why, only who. He said, “I’ve got to see him. He has my plans.”