Читать книгу The Lucky Duck Affair - Mel Gilden - Страница 4

CHAPTER ONE

CHANCE MEETING AT A MEXICAN RESTAURANT

Amos True looked out over the Hollywood Hills and smiled. Because it was spring, and Los Angeles had just experienced one of its rare rainstorms, the bushes and trees were a deep green. Cool air rolled in off the hills, and True hungrily inhaled the fragrance of sage and eucalyptus—they pleasantly spiced the smell of the eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee that were half-finished on the table before him.

“What are you smiling at?” the woman across the table asked. She was slim, one might say almost willowy; her pert round face under short dark hair had something of the elf in it. It would be easy to believe she was kidding or trying to pull a fast one even when she was not doing either.

“Just you, my dear Polly,” True said. “You and the hills and a pretty fair breakfast. It’s a beautiful morning.”

“Breakfast on the patio,” Polly St. Jough said with satisfaction. “How civilized. And you deserve it,” she went on. “We both do after all that trouble with the two divas.”

True shuddered. “I knew there was a reason I didn’t like opera.”

“Opera is not the problem.”

True frowned. “No,” he admitted. “Murder is the problem, as usual.” He carefully buttered a slice of toast while Polly sipped her coffee.

“You need a vacation,” she said. “And I will help you take it. Nothing will wear a person out like dealing with the dirty little secrets of other people.”

“Those dirty little secrets paid for this civilized breakfast,” True reminded her.

She kicked him under the table, doing little damage to either her slipper-clad foot or his stockinged shin. True was a big man; his enemies—of which he had a few, both social and professional—often described him as looking like a gorilla. He was not handsome, exactly, but had a pleasantly ugly mug, and his brown hair was always well-barbered. People who met him for the first time were often surprised by his grace. “You know what I mean,” Polly said.

True meditated while he nibbled some of his buttered toast and chewed. “Yes,” he said at last. “I know exactly what you mean. But here’s an idea. We’ll take the Auburn up the coast and have lunch in Santa Barbara.”

Her eyes got big, but Polly attempted to look innocent. “Then what?” she asked.

True said nothing, but wiggled his eyebrows at her lustfully, like Groucho Marx.

Polly laughed, sounding like a tuned set of bells.

True leaned across the table at her, about to confide more, when deep in the big white stucco house behind them the front doorbell rang out the chimes of Big Ben. True threw down his napkin and walked quickly into the house.

“If it’s Lieutenant Ochoa with news of someone’s dirty little secret,” Polly called after him, “tell him we are full up and don’t want any more.”

True chuckled as he approached the front door and pulled it open. Waiting on the step was a slim man in a brown suit that was only slightly darker than the color of his skin. He had a pencil-thin mustache, beneath which was a shy smile. He held his fedora in one hand.

“Why, Lieutenant Ochoa,” True cried with delight. “Polly and I were just talking about you.”

“That can’t be good,” Ochoa said as he stepped inside the house.

“No need to be suspicious,” True said. “Have you had breakfast?”

“I was hoping you would ask.”

“I don’t suppose you are here just for the free food,” True said as he led Ochoa along the cool dim hallway to the back patio, stopping briefly in the kitchen to pick up a coffee mug.

“Of course not. I’m here to bask in Polly’s warm glow.”

“I thought so,” True said as he and Ochoa emerged into the sunlight.

“What’s that about a warm glow?” Polly asked.

Ochoa gave her a quick peck on the offered cheek, and sat down at the table. He took a piece of toast and began to slather it with butter. True filled the clean coffee mug and Ochoa took a quick sip. He sighed with pleasure.

“Well?” True asked.

“Well, nothing,” Polly said. “If you’re here to tell us about some new horror, we don’t want to hear about it.”

“No. As a matter of fact I’m here to report that something has gone right for a change. Famed opera singer Madame Von Klempt has confessed to the murder of Madame Francesca.”

“You see, Amos,” Polly said, “it’s officially time for a vacation.”

True grinned. “That’s fine, fine,” he said. “Are you sure that’s the only reason you’re here? That and to bask in Polly’s warm glow?”

“Now who’s suspicious?” Ochoa asked.

The police lieutenant finished his breakfast quickly and stood up while he tapped his mouth with a napkin. “Sorry to rush off,” he said.

“Crime won’t wait,” True suggested.

“You got that right.”

After True had escorted Ochoa back to the front door, he returned to the breakfast table and stood next to Polly, who was still idly sipping her coffee.

“Let’s get cracking,” True said as he began to collect dirty dishes. “We’re burning daylight.”

Just this once they left the dirty dishes in the sink. They hurried down to the garage where they got into True’s Auburn Speedster, a long bone-white automobile that, despite its length, seated only two comfortably; it was mostly engine at one end and mostly trunk at the other.

True quickly navigated the switchbacks and hairpin turns that would take them from his home down the narrow road past other stucco houses hidden behind walls and dense foliage. Like True, most of the people who lived in the hills liked their privacy and could afford to maintain it.

At Sunset Boulevard he turned right and headed west. The traffic was not bad in Hollywood that morning. Soon they passed Sid Grauman’s Chinese Theater, and the spire of the optimistically named Crossroads of the World. In Beverly Hills the street suddenly became residential, and they motored past long, low, ranch-style houses with front lawns big enough to accommodate putting greens. The university came up on their left and was behind them in an instant. As Sunset became more snake-like, the houses got farther and farther apart, and soon they were driving between rows of eucalyptus trees and wide open fields dotted with cottonwoods and live oaks. At last they reached the coast route and True turned north.

The cliffs of Santa Monica rose on their right while on the left waves marched in across the sparkling ocean from Japan and hurried up onto the sand. The fresh sea smell compounded of sea salt and kelp invigorated them. Polly laughed and playfully punched True in the shoulder. They drove past beach towns, some of which were no more than a bar and a gas station huddled together against the salt spray.

The trip to Santa Barbara was a pleasant drive of about two hours, and when they arrived True sought out Veracruz, his favorite Mexican restaurant.

“Señor True,” cried the patrón, a man in a frilly white shirt and black pants.

“Javiar,” True cried in response and they hugged like brothers. Javiar bowed politely to Polly, then lead the two of them toward an empty table.

“Amos True, is that you?” a large man called as he half-stood up at a table on the other side of the room. He had thin reddish-brown hair and a hang-dog face.

Javiar stopped, uncertain what to do. He looked to True for guidance.

True looked across the room and immediately smiled. “Is that you, Otto?”

“It is. Come sit with us.”

True twirled his finger at the man and his table, and Javiar dutifully led him and Polly to it. True shook hands with Otto. “Polly, this is Otto Laird. We were in college together. Though I think both of us had more hair back then.” He introduced Polly, and Laird said he was charmed.

Then Laird introduced the other man at the table. “This is Zoltan,” he said.

“How do you do, Mr. Zoltan?” Polly said.

“Just Zoltan,” the man replied using the remains of a European accent True could not identify. A tiny smile came and went quickly on Zoltan’s face.

Zoltan had no hair whatsoever, and a triangular head with his chin making a single point at the bottom. His brilliant blue tie, whose color was obviously chosen to match the astonishing color of his large eyes, was decorated with astrological symbols.

Javiar brought a pitcher of margaritas as well as the usual silverware and napkins for True and Polly.

True sipped his drink and smacked his lips. “It’s been a long time,” he said.

Laird agreed. He seemed a little uncomfortable. “Perhaps it is fortunate that we ran into each other.”

“That sounds ominous,” Polly remarked.

“Yes.” Laird glanced at Zoltan, who nodded in reply to Laird’s unspoken question.

Before either of them had a chance to explain, a waitress in a colorful Mexican peasant outfit approached the table and took their order. Because neither True nor Polly had had a chance to look at the menu, they both had “the usual.”

When the waitress had retreated, True asked the logical question: “Why is it fortunate that we ran into each other?”

Laird sighed. “As you may have heard, I recently bought an old cruise ship, which I’ve refitted as a luxury resort for gambling and general relaxation. I call it the Lucky Duck.”

“I’ve heard about your ship,” Polly said, “but I didn’t know gambling was involved.”

“You don’t mix in the right circles,” Laird said. “Word gets around.”

“Gambling is illegal in California,” True said. “You must be beyond the three-mile limit.”

“That’s right. And I’ve been doing pretty well out there so far. Then, about a month ago the ghost of Captain Henry Robbins began to haunt my ship.”

“Who?” Polly asked.

“Captain Henry Robbins, the previous captain of the ship. It was called the Hippocampus back when Captain Robbins was in command.”

“Assuming there are such things as ghosts,” True said, “why would he haunt the Lucky Duck?”

“Opinions vary,” Laird admitted. “Anyway, since he began, business has fallen off seventy-five percent. Most people are afraid of ghosts whether they admit it or not. I certainly am.”

“Very wise,” Zoltan said. “There are few things more dangerous than an angry ghost.”

“You sound as if you’ve had experience in this area,” Polly suggested.

Zoltan inclined his head once in her direction.

“That’s why I hired Zoltan,” Laird admitted. “He is a medium.”

“Ah,” True remarked.

“I know that tone,” Zoltan said. “I have heard it from the mouths of unbelievers before.”

“Well,” True said in a placating voice, “let’s say I am more inexperienced than unbelieving.”

“Nicely said,” Zoltan admitted.

“Nice of you to say so,” True said. “But you obviously have your expert, Otto. Nothing you’ve said so far explains why you feel fortunate for running into me.”

“Actually, it has nothing to do with the haunting. I’d merely like to invite both of you out to the Lucky Duck as my guests. I’m throwing a little party for Clair de Lune and her director, Brad Windsor. You know them?”

“Not personally, but I read the papers. Miss de Lune is supposed to be the next big thing in moving pictures.”

“That’s her,” Laird agreed. “Come on out this evening by water taxi. Gamble or not. Stay as long as you like.”

True thought for a moment. “A lot of water under the bridge, Otto.”

“Many gallons,” Laird agreed. He stared at True as he waited for the answer, as if the answer were of more than casual interest.

“We’ve been needing a vacation,” Polly said. “This sounds like fun.”

“You heard the woman,” True said. “We’ll be there.”

“I’m pleased that’s settled,” Laird said.

The rest of the meal was spent in general conversation, mostly comprised of True and Mr. Laird relating adventures they’d survived in college.

“That never happened,” Polly remarked again and again. “Did that really happen?”

“Some of it,” True admitted. “There was really no cow involved.”

“I believe it was a dog,” Laird added.

Zoltan didn’t say much while all this was going on, but he did managed to crack a smile occasionally. He ate very neatly. His own margarita seemed to have no effect on him.

After a while Mr. Laird took Zoltan away, leaving True and Polly to look out a big picture window at the parade of tourists passing by, and at the ocean crashing into the beach beyond.

Polly looked at her watch. “If you really intend to visit the Lucky Duck this evening, we’d better start back.”

True took a sip of his drink and smacked his lips gently. At this point there wasn’t much left in the glass but crushed ice. “We wouldn’t want to disappoint Otto,” True said.

“We could, you know.”

“And we would if his invitation was just a friendly gesture.”

“You think there’s more to it?” Polly asked.

“I do. But I couldn’t tell you why.”

“One of your ‘feelings’?”

“A nuisance, I know—”

“Maybe he just wants a bigger crowd for Miss de Lune’s event.”

“Maybe.”

“Gracias, Javiar,” True said to the patrón. “Superb as usual.” He paid the bill and left an enormous tip.