‘Why?’ Breslow asked him leaning close. ‘Why did you want to kill me? It’s too late for that.’
Boyd Stuart swung into the forecourt of the Big O Donut Shop where the Santa Monica Freeway passes over La Brea. The tyres of the car squealed loudly enough to make the police officers drinking coffee there crane forward to look out of the window.
Billy Stein and Mary Breslow were in the car with him. He had contacted them as soon as news came that Stein had been seen. Boyd watched while Billy Stein ran into the coffee shop to talk to the policemen. It was better that there was a relative present; the policemen would be more understanding about a relative. Whatever it was that Billy said to the two policemen, it was enough to make them abandon their coffee, pick up their doughnuts and hurry out to their car. It swung round and up the ramp to the freeway with Boyd Stuart in hot pursuit
‘They won’t be in time,’ said Mary-more because she wanted to hear Stuart contradict her than because she was calculating her father’s peril. She did not dare do that. If Billy’s father really wanted to carry out his threat, he had surely had time enough to do it now.
‘It will be all right, Miss Breslow,’ said Stuart. He put his foot down. It was not easy to keep up with the police car. The black and white swung over to the number one lane and had its lights flashing. An old Buick accelerated past and cut steeply into the space between them. Stuart cursed. People did that sometimes, following police cars for no other reason than to join in the excitement.
By the time the police got to the studio entrance their radio had sent the news ahead. A studio guard in a smart black-leather zipper jacket was standing at the open gates.
‘Studio number four,’ he shouted. ‘The chief will meet you at the main door,’ he told the driver.
The car moved off again, grunting and groaning in the dips and potholes of the badly maintained studio road. Stuart’s car pulled through the gate behind the police car. The gateman decided they must be some sort of undercover detail and let them go.
They parked alongside the black and white and scrambled out. The officer, name-tagged Cooper, reached for his pistol.
‘It’s my father,’ Billy added hurriedly.
The cop turned round to look at them both. ‘Take it easy, folks,’ he said. ‘And stay outside.’ The passenger officer had unlocked the shotgun from its rack under the front seats. Now he pumped it to put a shell in the chamber.
The chief security guard for the studio led them inside through the massive soundproof doors. There was an oppressive silence. Silently, Officer Cooper put his hand on the chest of the security man to indicate that he should remain here at the door. The passenger officer, still holding the shotgun in the high-port position prescribed by regulations, moved silently over to the vegetation, keeping away from the windows. From this side of the set, he could see what a fake the whole thing was: the heavy window openings and marble surrounds were plasterboard and laths, with the rumpled ends of patterned paper poking out of the clamps.
‘This is the police.’ The voice sounded unnaturally loud. There was no reply. The policeman stepped into the set, keeping well behind the half-open door. ‘Jesus!’ he said softly as he caught sight of the opulent room and the huge Nazi eagle over the door.
Breslow released his hold on Stein’s pulse. It had been nothing more than a formality: Stein was dead. From somewhere a long way away, Breslow could hear voices but his mind was too absorbed to hear them properly. He picked up the ridiculous Mauser that Stein had been carrying and stood up. Poor old Stein.
Officer Cooper saw the sudden movement, shouted ‘Freeze!’, brought his pistol up high and double-gripped it to shoot.
‘Papa!’ It was a scream rather than a call. Mary Breslow came running into the line of fire and grabbed her father. ‘Papa, Papa, Papa!’ She kissed him and held him tight, seeing nothing and caring for nothing, even when her foot accidentally touched Stein’s body.
Breslow seemed to see the policemen and Billy Stein for the first time. He blinked.
‘He fell, Billy. He fell from the gantry up there.’
Billy Stein looked down at the body and twisted his hands. He did not want to touch this bloody figure which bore such slight resemblance to his father. He looked round at the others. They expected something from him, so Billy knelt and, suppressing a shudder, put one hand upon his dead father’s shoulder. Perhaps they expected him to cry or to wail, but all that would come later. It would be something only between him and his father; Billy Stein was not given to public display of emotion.
‘My father couldn’t climb up there, Mr Breslow.’
‘He could and he did, Billy. He had this gun; he was trying to kill me. He said I’d killed his brother.’
Officer Cooper turned to the chief security guard. ‘Where’s the phone?’ And to his partner he said, ‘We’ll tell them he’s badly hurt, OK?’
The detective nodded. It was always better to say the body might still be showing signs of life. That way they would not have to wait for the coroner’s office to send someone down here. Better that he went to the receiving hospital and was pronounced ‘dead on arrival’-that way they could get back on the job.
‘I’m going to take you for treatment, then to headquarters, Mr Breslow. We’ll soon get it sorted out downtown.’ Officer Cooper had spent nine years on radio cars. He had long ago learnt that it was easier to take into custody a prisoner who thought it would all be sorted out quickly and conveniently.
‘No need for the handcuffs,’ said Mary Breslow.
‘Regulations, I’m afraid, miss. Felony suspects have to be cuffed.’ He flicked the cuffs on to Breslow’s wrists with practised agility. The last time Mary saw her father on that terrible day he was in the back seat of the black and white, leaning well forward with his hands stretched behind him, and the passenger officer was reading to him the Miranda rights.
‘Well, you’re happy now, I suppose?’ Billy Stein asked Stuart.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You chased him and harassed him. You threatened me and locked me up. Now he’s gone and you’ll get your medal.’
‘Don’t, Billy!’ Mary Breslow told him. ‘Don’t talk that way.’
‘They killed him,’ Billy insisted. ‘Your father didn’t kill mine. These bastards did it.’
‘Get in the car, Billy,’ said Boyd Stuart. ‘I’ll take you home.’
‘What am I going to do?’ said Billy. ‘Me and dad… we’ve always been together. He’s always done everything for me.’
Stuart took Mary Breslow’s arm and guided her close to Billy Stein, who was leaning on the car roof with his face buried in his folded arms.
45
Willi Kleiber had regained consciousness in a wooden hut in South Carolina. The lush green marshlands, through which the rains from the Appalachian Mountains flow in a thousand rivers to the Atlantic, provided an ideal hiding place. Rutted, potholed tracks meandered through the trees to a dilapidated pier. From there they had taken him to one of the little islands which hang along the coastline like iron filings on a magnet.
There was no electricity and the only communication with the mainland was by short-wave radio. The men with Kleiber wore cotton trousers and sweat shirts, with lace-up boots to protect their ankles against the snakes. It was hot and almost unbearably humid. The only sounds came from the insects and the ocean, and the only movement was that of the shrimp boats far out to sea.
There was a physician there-a young man, his skin as black and shiny as a newly polished limousine. He had come from Charleston on a motorcycle and now as twilight came he was fretting to get away. He pronounced Kleiber fit and signed accordingly, before they heard the sound of his bike clattering down to where the motorboat was waiting to ferry him back to the mainland.