me.”
Simon nudged Carole’s arm. “Unlock the door. I want a look inside,” he said.
She ran forward and had the door open before Wabash could do any more than yell. Simon slipped inside and ran a probing hand over the top of the instrument panel, the seat and behind the sun shade. The parking ticket wasn’t there.
“I’ve got my orders,” Wabash screamed and Simon took the keys from Carole and opened the glove compartment. The parking ticket was on top of the registration card. He pulled it out and stuffed it into his pocket before Wabash could see what he was doing. He relocked the compartment and settled back behind the steering wheel. There was no object in starting the motor. The tow truck and the prowl car had the lane thoroughly blocked. While Wabash exchanged verbal blows with a couple of honking motorists looking for a place to park he scanned the rear seat. Nothing. He looked at the odometer. It was a new car. It had exactly 6,582 miles on it. When he crawled out of the car his knee rubbed against a lubrication sticker that had been carelessly applied so that one corner was loose. It was from Lew Morely’s Chevron Service dated 10 November 1972 and the mileage at time of service was 6,508 miles.
He got out of the car and found Wabash, arms akimbo, glaring at him. “Are you all through, legal beagle,” Wabash said, “or do you want a free ride into the police garage?”
“Who gave your orders?” Simon asked.
“Who gave me? Who always gives me? I got my orders from my superior officer, Captain Reardon. And if you want to know something else, he got his orders from the FBI.”
CHAPTER FIVE
T HE WALL THAT had been falling on Carole Amling for a week and four days crumbled like Jericho before nightfall. When Simon drove her back to the house in Palos Verdes two shiny black Cadillac sedans were parked beside the red VW wagon. They were identical in every way except that one bore a medical shield on the licence plate holder. They found Eric Larson on the patio shivering in the cold wind that whipped in off the sea. Carole opened the sliding glass doors and let him in.
“Reardon’s here,” he said. “The garage was unlocked. He’s inside using the telephone.”
“Did he say anything?” Carole asked.
“Only that he had to see you on an urgent matter. Where have you been? You look pale.”
“She’s probably weak from hunger,” Simon said. “I wanted to take her to lunch but we ran into some trouble. We went down to the airport to take a look at Barney’s car. The police came and hauled it off.”
“The police? My God, why? Who called them?”
“Reardon. Did you find out anything at the other airlines?”
“Not a thing. Nobody had Bernard Amling listed as a passenger on any flight on Friday night or Saturday morning, so far as I could learn. Carole, are you all right?”
The wall was hitting hard. She walked aimlessly about the room, a stranger in her own house, until Eric forced her to sit down. She looked at her watch.
“I have to pick up Jake at school,” she said. “It’s three o’clock.”
“You’re not going anywhere. Where is the school?”
“Off there—” She waved her hand in a circular direction.
“Look in Jake’s room,” Simon suggested. “He’s probably got some school papers lying about somewhere. I’ll get Carole a drink. Where does Barney keep his brandy?”
For the bar one only had to look. Simon found it in the den. When he returned with the brandy Carole was no longer alone. A man who had to be Captain Reardon had let himself in through the patio door and stood awkwardly like a second groom at a wedding. He didn’t look like a policeman. He was too well dressed, for one thing. He wore a cashmere coat thrown over his shoulders and a well-tailored suit with a yellow checked vest. His shoes were shined and he had taken off his hat in deference to Mrs Amling. His brown hair was thinning on top, not as noticeably as Dr Larson’s, and he
Simon nudged Carole’s arm. “Unlock the door. I want a look inside,” he said.
She ran forward and had the door open before Wabash could do any more than yell. Simon slipped inside and ran a probing hand over the top of the instrument panel, the seat and behind the sun shade. The parking ticket wasn’t there.
“I’ve got my orders,” Wabash screamed and Simon took the keys from Carole and opened the glove compartment. The parking ticket was on top of the registration card. He pulled it out and stuffed it into his pocket before Wabash could see what he was doing. He relocked the compartment and settled back behind the steering wheel. There was no object in starting the motor. The tow truck and the prowl car had the lane thoroughly blocked. While Wabash exchanged verbal blows with a couple of honking motorists looking for a place to park he scanned the rear seat. Nothing. He looked at the odometer. It was a new car. It had exactly 6,582 miles on it. When he crawled out of the car his knee rubbed against a lubrication sticker that had been carelessly applied so that one corner was loose. It was from Lew Morely’s Chevron Service dated 10 November 1972 and the mileage at time of service was 6,508 miles.
He got out of the car and found Wabash, arms akimbo, glaring at him. “Are you all through, legal beagle,” Wabash said, “or do you want a free ride into the police garage?”
“Who gave your orders?” Simon asked.
“Who gave me? Who always gives me? I got my orders from my superior officer, Captain Reardon. And if you want to know something else, he got his orders from the FBI.”
CHAPTER FIVE
T HE WALL THAT had been falling on Carole Amling for a week and four days crumbled like Jericho before nightfall. When Simon drove her back to the house in Palos Verdes two shiny black Cadillac sedans were parked beside the red VW wagon. They were identical in every way except that one bore a medical shield on the licence plate holder. They found Eric Larson on the patio shivering in the cold wind that whipped in off the sea. Carole opened the sliding glass doors and let him in.
“Reardon’s here,” he said. “The garage was unlocked. He’s inside using the telephone.”
“Did he say anything?” Carole asked.
“Only that he had to see you on an urgent matter. Where have you been? You look pale.”
“She’s probably weak from hunger,” Simon said. “I wanted to take her to lunch but we ran into some trouble. We went down to the airport to take a look at Barney’s car. The police came and hauled it off.”
“The police? My God, why? Who called them?”
“Reardon. Did you find out anything at the other airlines?”
“Not a thing. Nobody had Bernard Amling listed as a passenger on any flight on Friday night or Saturday morning, so far as I could learn. Carole, are you all right?”
The wall was hitting hard. She walked aimlessly about the room, a stranger in her own house, until Eric forced her to sit down. She looked at her watch.
“I have to pick up Jake at school,” she said. “It’s three o’clock.”
“You’re not going anywhere. Where is the school?”
“Off there—” She waved her hand in a circular direction.
“Look in Jake’s room,” Simon suggested. “He’s probably got some school papers lying about somewhere. I’ll get Carole a drink. Where does Barney keep his brandy?”
For the bar one only had to look. Simon found it in the den. When he returned with the brandy Carole was no longer alone. A man who had to be Captain Reardon had let himself in through the patio door and stood awkwardly like a second groom at a wedding. He didn’t look like a policeman. He was too well dressed, for one thing. He wore a cashmere coat thrown over his shoulders and a well-tailored suit with a yellow checked vest. His shoes were shined and he had taken off his hat in deference to Mrs Amling. His brown hair was thinning on top, not as noticeably as Dr Larson’s, and he
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