stepping under the shower. It had been a frustrating day and he was continually hampered by having to work in a city with which he was only superficially acquainted and where he was almost totally devoid of the sort of contacts he needed. He wrapped himself in a big bathrobe and looked at the time. It would be the middle of the night in England; he abandoned the idea of phoning Kitty. He switched on the television and went rapidly through some quiz games, ‘Bugs Bunny’ and a black-and-white film about the French Revolution. He made himself a toasted ham sandwich, opened a tin of mixed nuts and settled down in front of a situation comedy. The boat moved lazily as a big ketch slid out from its mooring.
It was 9.30 when the telephone rang. A polite voice inquired if he was Mr Boyd Stuart.
‘Rampart Division, Los Angeles Police Department. Sergeant Hernandez. Traffic accident investigation.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘You rent a white BMW from Citisenta Rentcar?’
‘That’s right? Where is it?’
‘Right now it’s being shovelled into the back of a dump truck, Mr Stuart. When did you miss it?’
His mind raced ahead, trying to decide whether to confirm that his car had been stolen.
‘Are you still there, Mr Stuart?’ the police sergeant asked.
‘Was the thief hurt?’
‘He sure was, sir. The gas tank exploded and made a fireball that scorched three lanes of the Harbor Freeway. Nothing left of him to identify, I’m afraid.’
‘No other car involved?’
‘No, sir. We figured it was stolen. The car rental company know about the accident already – that’s how we got your number – but you’ll have to come down to the station tomorrow and do some paperwork with me. Ask for AI Follow-up. Would noon be OK?’
‘I’ll see you at noon, Sergeant Hernandez.’
Stuart fetched the notebook from his jacket pocket. There was a phone number scribbled in the margin of the page of addresses. They had told him to use it only in an emergency. This was an emergency. He dialled the number and heard an answering machine telling him that Dr Curtiss was not available at this time but, if the caller would leave a name and address and telephone number, he would call back. If the caller was in pain, the recorded voice added, an osteopath on emergency call would be sent immediately.
‘I’m in pain,’ said Stuart and gave the south Pasadena address that London had told him to give in such a situation.
He sat with the lights off and the curtains drawn back. He could see the harbour lights reflected in the water and the dark outlines of countless boats. An osteopath was a good cover for a case officer, he thought. Not too difficult to get a licence, and it would account for him going anywhere at any time of day or night.
The osteopath arrived at midnight. Stuart heard him clatter down the gang-plank. This was the man whom London had assigned to control him. Some agents in the field could operate for years and never meet their controller and Stuart studied him with interest. This man was a swarthy forty-year-old, with short hair and tired eyes which he rubbed sometimes with the back of his fist. He was wearing light blue cotton trousers, an openneck shirt and a dark blue cashmere cardigan. He carried a black leather case which he put down just inside the front door.
‘We’ll close the curtains if you don’t mind,’ said the man. He walked across the cabin and closed them without waiting for a reply.
‘The pain …’ said Stuart.
‘Never mind all that crap that London told you to say,’ said the man. ‘Just pour me a scotch and water and tell me why I had to be dragged away from my chess game.’
Stuart gave him the whisky and watched him pour a lot of water into it. Then the man switched on the TV and tuned it to the Japanese channel. ‘Sit close and talk softly,’ said the man.
‘Didn’t you check this boat for bugs?’ said Stuart.
‘Sure we did, but why take chances?’ He sipped his drink. ‘Are you a chess player?’
‘Not seriously,’ said Stuart.
‘We play for money, and I was on a winning streak tonight …’ He pulled a face. ‘No matter, tell me the story.’
Stuart went carefully through the whole business. At the end of it, the man did not react for a long time. He stared at the small screen of the TV set as if enjoying the Japanese singing contest. ‘Centinela Boulevard exit from the freeway,’ he said finally. ‘Just about the only one I can think of, in the whole city, where there’s no entrance ramp on the other side.’
‘That’s why I lost them,’ said Stuart.
‘Could be they chose it for that very reason. It would be a good way to do it. Stick in the fast lane all the way to the changeover … cut suddenly across the lanes to the exit, and leave you ahead with no alternative but to take the Centinela ramp and find yourself in a tangle of street traffic … Too bad you didn’t get a better look at the man in the Porsche.’
‘It was a deliberate killing, you mean?’
The case officer did not answer him. He said, ‘The accident investigation cops have a routine they call AI Follow-up. I don’t want you getting tangled into it. You make sure you’re Mr Clean when this Sergeant Hernandez talks with you.’
‘OK.’
‘Give me the keys of that kid’s Datsun; I’ll handle that. I’ll give you another car and put the keys into your mailbox well before noon. Just forget you ever saw this British kid from the Washington embassy. Tell the cops you left your car in the marina car park with the key in the ignition. Plenty of people do that; the cops won’t be arguing about it. No other keys on the ring, were there?’ he said, suddenly anxious. The Japanese vocalists were becoming noisy.
‘I’ll switch that TV to some other station.’
‘Leave it,’ said the case officer. ‘Were there any other keys?’
‘Just the hire-car keys.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ said Stuart forcibly.
‘Well, at least you did something right,’ said the case officer with a sigh. Stuart let it go. A man dragged away from a game he had been winning deserved some indulgence. ‘Go through with your dinner with Breslow tomorrow. Don’t mention losing your car unless he brings it up. Play the innocent. Say the embassy guy phoned you to put you in touch.’
‘It could be Breslow had a hand in the killing,’ said Stuart, irritated by the man’s casual manner.
‘So you’re not just a pretty face,’ said the case officer with mock admiration. He reached for his black leather medical case and opened it to reveal a thick wedge of documents and a cardboard box. He opened the box before giving, it to Stuart. ‘I brought this for you,’ he said. It was a brand-new, blue-finish .38 revolver still in the special preservative wax-paper wrapping. ‘You know how to use it, I suppose?’
