‘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?’
‘Point it and pull the trigger?’
He shook his head and reached into his pocket for ammunition. ‘No. You have to load it first.’ He took the gun, broke it and spun the chamber. ‘You’ll get the hang of it. I’m going back to my game.’ He got to his feet and swigged the remainder of his drink.
‘Good luck,’ said Stuart.
The case officer smiled for the first time. ‘The same for you, feller,’ he said. ‘You realize that the guys who zapped that white BMW probably figured you were inside it?’
‘I’m not just a pretty face,’ said Stuart.
‘Don’t buy a holster for that piece. Tuck it in your trousers. It’s difficult to get rid of a holster in a hurry, and I might not be around to help you out.’
‘Can I switch off the Japanese singing now?’ said Stuart.
‘Can you manage that on your own?’ said the case officer as he went back up the gangway.
Stuart remembered the keen young man with the dismantled sports car which would never be put together again, and only with some difficulty resisted the temptation to get very drunk. Involving an outsider in an operational role was considered an unpardonable sin; and this youngster had been ‘diplomatic’. Stuart knew it would go into his personal file in letters of fire.
11
On the Ventura side of the county line, tucked between the mountains and the freeway, Westlake is a ‘planned community’ landscaped tastefully round a man-made lake. It is replete with countless pools and Jacuzzis, tennis courts and stables, and there is a country club where, from the large picture windows of the restaurant, members fresh from the whirlpool baths can look across the tops of their cocktails and anticipate with satisfaction the completion of the second eighteen-hole golf course.
Max Breslow turned off the Ventura Freeway at the Westlake intersection. He turned into the shopping mall’s huge parking lot, passed the realtors, Swensen’s ice cream, Joe’s Photo and the hairdressers. He noted his wife’s yellow Chevette and the ‘Small is beautiful’ bumper sticker outside the supermarket and parked his Mercedes 450 SEL outside Wally’s Delicatessen.
‘Good evening, Mr Breslow,’ said the manager.
‘Good evening, Wally,’ he replied, accepting the common fiction that the manager was the proprietor.
‘Your order is just about ready to go. Can I fix you a drink while it’s packed?’
‘The usual, Wally.’
‘A bloody mary with all the fixings coming up, sir.’
Max Breslow noted with approval that the manager must have had a cold can of tomato juice ready and waiting for him, for the drink arrived almost as soon as he had ordered it. He sipped it while the manager waited for his reaction.
‘Excellent,’ said Breslow. The manager smiled and moved away to get the pickled herring and Westphalian ham which had been ordered on the phone, Breslow realized that he had been manipulated into having a drink. The food was probably not even prepared yet, but he didn’t mind that at all. He was always happy that men-and women too-should find him easy to manipulate, for in that way he was able to read their motives more easily and retain for himself the final control over any situation. That was the relationship he had contrived with Charles Stein. If that fat fellow thought that he was exploiting Max Breslow, well and good. Max would not wish to deprive Stein of that satisfaction. Even years later, long after this delicate business was settled, Max Breslow would allow Stein to brag and bluster about the Hitler Minutes, should he wish to do so. Max would be happy to go to his grave with his share of the secrets. But Kleiber was different. Breslow had the uncomfortable feeling that nowadays Kleiber had gained control.
‘Hello, darling.’
Max looked up and smiled. His wife had changed her hair style and he knew it was important that he comment upon it. ‘You look wonderful, my dear,’ he said. The Italian silk jacket and the matching skirt were cut in a design exported only to the USA. Her afternoon at the beauty salon, the faint tint in her hair, the professionally applied rouge and eye shadow, the bright scarf at her neck, all provided her with that healthy outdoor look which made Californian women so attractive to him, and made her look so much younger than her true age.
And Marie-Louise had adapted to this part of the world with a zeal that still surprised her husband; she went to classes in Japanese flower arrangement and low-calorie Mexican cooking, and even played sitar music on the quadrophonic hi-fi. And yet, despite all her time in America, Marie-Louise had not been able to eliminate from her speech the traces of her Berlin upbringing. Max Breslow dismissed it from his mind and gave his wife a decorous kiss that did not smudge her make-up. She would, he thought resignedly, say ‘darlink’ for the rest of his life, and for the rest of her own life too, probably.
‘You haven’t forgotten that we have visitors for dinner?’ she reminded him.
‘I haven’t forgotten,’ he said. He had been thinking of this man Boyd Stuart while driving home through the canyon. Willi Kleiber, who knew much more about such things, guessed that Stuart must be an agent of the British Secret Intelligence Service. It would be an interesting evening, thought Breslow. Stuart’s organization was one which Max Breslow held in high esteem.