Текст книги "Snowball in Hell"

Автор книги: Josh lanyon

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Chapter Five

Pearl scrambled out of her cab before it stopped. She darted across the shining wet sidewalk, past the fish sculptured fountains, spumes of white shooting into the dusk, and disappeared through the side entrance of Union Station. Nathan swore, finally found a parking slot, and turned the engine off. He was out of the car, and loping across the wet and oily lot, following Pearl as he'd been following her since the moment she snuck out of Sid Szabo's apartment building and into a waiting taxi.

Inside Union Station was a madhouse. Porters hustled, families greeted and friends good-byed, the sheer volume of sound rising from the marble floors and Spanish tiles, soaring up and disappearing into the cathedral-high ceiling and the gigantic iron chandeliers. Nathan scanned the milling crowd for Pearl's hat-a silly little fur doughnut balancing on Pearl's silly little platinum head. But there was no sign of either the hat or Pearl as he avoided small children, animal carriers, and stacks of luggage, pushing his way through the mob of holiday travelers and GIs.

In answer to his urgent question, the gateman jerked his thumb towards the wide entrance leading to the tracks.

There was only one train at the platform, and it was starting to move.

Nathan ran, swinging himself up the steps as the train began to pick up speed. It took him a moment to catch his

breath. He mopped his face on his rain-damp coat, and then set out to find Pearl in the crowded coaches.

He strode through four coaches filled with merry travelers-but no Pearl. He pushed open the door to the dining car. That was packed too, and he almost missed her, wedged in between a steamy window and a fat lady in a bright blue coat. Pearl was mostly hidden behind an open menu, but he spied the fur doughnut dipping drunkenly over the menu.

A steward came forward and Nathan let himself be led to a table, politely insisting on one with a good view of his quarry.

If he'd suspected Pearl knew she was being followed, he was soon reassured. She scanned the menu leisurely, put it down and smiled discouragingly at the friendly overtures of the fat lady.

All at once Nathan was very tired. His side was hurting from his sprint to catch the train. He picked up a menu, glanced it over. He wasn't hungry; he was rarely hungry these days, but he had to keep his energy level up. He watched Pearl over the top of his menu.

She stared determinedly out the window at the sky turning indigo, and the fat lady eventually gave up and devoted her earnest attention to a fashion magazine no doubt full of clothes she would never be able to wear.

The steward came and Nathan ordered a sandwich and a glass of milk. He ate with half an eye on Pearl, and half an eye on the rest of the passengers. The sky changed from indigo to purple, Pearl finished her meal and squeezed-with

great difficulty-around the cooperative but ungainly lady in blue.

Doyle drained his milk glass, waited a few moments, and followed her out to the last car. It was a smoker car, about half-full with passengers. He took the seat across from her, lit up and stared out the window. In the reflection he watched Pearl take out a little jeweled cigarette case, select a cigarette, and tap it on the case. Her gaze fell on Doyle.

He glanced over as though only noticing her. «May I?» he said, pulling his lighter out.

She nodded, leaning towards him, watching him from beneath the foolish fur doughnut.

«Thanks.»

He nodded politely, snapped his lighter closed, and returned to watching her in the darkened window. She studied him appraisingly.

«Say,» she said. «Have we met?»

Doyle turned back to her. Cocked his head. «I'm not sure,» he said slowly, and he offered her his best smile. She smiled back. They always did. He looked unthreatening, like-he had been told by a slightly inebriated starlet-a gentleman.

He watched the conductor working his way slowly down the aisle, asking for tickets. A gabby old guy stopping to shoot the breeze with just about every passenger.

«I'm sure I've seen you around. You live in Los Angeles?» She pronounced it «Los Angle-less.»

«That's right.» He expelled a stream of smoke, watching her working it out.

«You ever come around to the Las Palmas club?»

He widened his eyes. «Hey,» he said. «You're her! The songbird.»

She laughed, delighted. Preened a little.

«Nice job you do on that 'I'm Getting Sentimental Over You' number.» Nathan told her, and listened to her warble on about the rest of her repertoire-and then who she was going to be auditioning for next summer. He let her run 'til she was out of steam, and then he said, «I was at the club on Saturday night. The night the Arlen kid was nabbed.»

Her smile slipped. She stared down at her cigarette. «Oh.»

«Shame about that.»

«Yes.»

«So where are you headed?»

She relaxed. «Little Fawn Lodge. Not far from Indian Falls.»

He had a vague idea Indian Falls was located somewhere in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. He mimed surprise, and it wasn't hard. «There's a coincidence. That's where I'm headed.»

«You're kidding!» There was something funny in her face. «But … the ski resorts are all pretty much closed since the war.»

«Well, you see,» Nathan confided, «I'm not a skier, I'm a writer.»

«A writer,» Pearl repeated slowly. She was watching him with narrow eyes. «What kind of writer?»

«Screenwriter. For the pictures.» He figured that would impress her, but she remained wary. He'd misstepped, miscalculated either her paranoia or his own recognizibilty.

«You're kidding.»

He shook his head. «I needed to get out of town. Needed some peace and quiet so I could work. Thought of the lodge.»

«You'll get plenty of that.» She gave him that same discouraging smile she'd given the fat lady. «Well, it's been swell shootin' the breeze.» She jabbed her cigarette out, nodded to Nathan, rose and started down the aisle.

«See you around,» Doyle said to her back. She didn't respond.

Damn.

«Tickets please,» said the conductor, reaching Nathan at last.

«I'll need to buy one from you,» Nathan said, pulling out his wallet. «I'm going to Little Fawn Lake.»

The conductor drew the ticket pad from his pocket. «Didn't think it was open. Most of the resorts are closed now. Hope you made reservations. It's not weather to be sleeping out in.» He disconnected a strip from the ticket pad, punched it, and handed it to Nathan. «Train stops at Indian Falls. You'll have to hire a car.»

«That's all right,» Nathan said, hoping it was. He didn't kid himself he was up to spending the night in freezing temperatures. He paid for the ticket, considering his finances. He hadn't started the day planning on a ski resort holiday.

The train continued on its way through the deepening darkness. He stared out the window. The black-plum sky had a luminous quality that made the trees and mountains stand out in stark relief.

The wheels of the train clackety-clacked along the rails in soothing monotony. Every so often the whistle blew sounding through the night, echoing through the pines and slopes.

Now what? He'd found Pearl Jarvis-and the fact that she was trying so hard to avoid being found surely meant she knew something worth knowing-something that might help his own position.

He wondered if Lt. Spain would think he was trying to skip town.

The train wheels rumbled along the track. He closed his eyes, putting his head back for a moment. He had learned to snatch sleep where he could find it, and this seemed to be a safe enough place for a catnap….

A German flare arched high into the night. Machine-guns and forty-millimeter guns opened up, firing from across the dunes, slicing the night with yellow, green, blue, and red tracers-pretty, like fireworks. Tongues of colored flame licking out, licking hungrily for the transports high overhead, knocking them out of the sky. He watched them go down, burning. He turned his head and Matt was standing next to him, watching him. Matt's face was shadowed by the fire, little pinpoints of flame in his pupils.

«Where there's smoke,» he said, and he smiled that smile that made him look younger and almost affectionate.

Nathan started awake to a surge of new passengers coming down the aisle, taking the seats around him. He sat up, automatically reaching to straighten his tie, and realized the train had stopped. Turning to the window, he peered out, trying to see which station it was. Old-fashioned Christmas

lights hung from the station pavilion. Several lights were dead, like missing teeth in a wide grin. A peeling sign read ..di … all.

Hoping it wasn't an omen, Nathan rose, steadying himself on the back of a seat, and made his way hastily down the aisle towards the platform. He found his path blocked by two nuns struggling with a mountain of parcels, and, instinctively, he stopped to help them shove their packages out of the way. It only took a minute, but as he reached the platform, he saw a Ford station wagon sedan pull up at the far end of the pavilion. A familiar tan coat and fur hat slipped inside, and the Woody glided away.

Nathan swore under his breath, crossing the platform and walking out onto the street. He looked around himself.

Indian Falls was a resort town, but if it hadn't been for the tatty fake pine garland strung across Main Street, it could have passed for a ghost town. A steady wall of closed shops stood across from the railroad station: a beauty parlor, a pawn shop, a cigar store, a lending library, a Chinese laundry. Nathan peered at his watch. It was eight-thirty.

He went back to the now deserted station and read the sign on the ticket window. BACK IN ONE HOUR. Swell. He stared at the final twinkling lights of the departing train now vanishing into the pine-thick mountains.

Now what?

One thing for sure, it felt cold enough for snow. He shivered and looked up at the starry sky. Not a cloud anywhere. That was the good news. The bad news…

He walked back out to the street. Far down the block he spotted lights. A corner all-night drugstore. He started walking.

It was warm and bright inside the drug store. It was also mostly deserted. An elderly woman with a Swedish accent pointed him to a public phone, and Nathan dug for change, wondering if the woman took much heat from idiots mistaking her for a Kraut.

It took time and persistence, but at last he reached LAPD Headquarters, and, to his surprise, with a little more persistence he actually got through to Lt. Matthew Spain.

«Spain here,» he answered, still crisp and efficient at eight-thirty-no, nine o'clock-at night. Spain worked late for a married man, but that was homicide.

«It's Nathan Doyle,» Nathan said.

There was a funny pause, and then Spain said, «What can I do for you, Mr. Doyle?»

«I've located Pearl Jarvis. She's staying at Little Fawn Ski lodge up near Indian Falls. It's in the Sierra Nevadas.»

«I know where Indian Falls is. I used to camp there,» Spain said, sounding almost human. «How'd you find her?»

«I followed her from Los Angeles.»

«By car or train?»

Doyle couldn't see why it mattered, but that was a cop for you. They liked all the I's dotted and the T's crossed. No loose ends. Not so different from a good reporter, really.

«By train. I'm in Indian Falls right now, trying to get a ride up to the lodge.»

«Why are you telling me this?» Spain asked, and his voice was back to its normal brisk and impersonal tone. «You're unusually cooperative for a newsman.»

«Because-« Nathan changed his mind, and took a chance on the truth. «I want you to hurry up and solve this thing.»

Spain asked smoothly, «Any particular reason? Or are you just a concerned citizen, Mr. Doyle?»

«I … think you know my reason,» Nathan said very quietly, although there was no one to overhear him, no one at all in the drugstore now except for him and the little old lady with apple-red cheeks and hair as white as powdered sugar.

There was another surprised silence on the other end of the phone.

Then Spain said, «You're heading up to the lodge, you said?»

«If I can hire a car.»

«Try not to spook her.»

Nathan snorted. «Tell it to your granny,» he advised, and Spain chuckled.

«I'll be seeing you,» he said, and rang off.

Nathan replaced the phone on the hook and approached the grandmotherly-looking lady behind the counter.

Twenty minutes later he was on his way to Little Fawn Lake in a battered pick-up truck driven by Mrs. Svensson's grandson, a big blond man with a hook in place of his left hand.

«Where'd you stop that packet?» Doyle asked as they left the silent streets of Indian Falls behind, winding slowly up

through the mountain roads. Giant pines and incense cedars blocked the waning moon.

Svensson didn't look at him, pushing the car into first gear with the hook as the car began to climb. «What's that?»

«Where'd you lose the arm?»

«Bombing run over Wilhelmshaven.» Svensson looked at him.

If you were of eligible age and not in the service, there had to be a damn good explanation, and Doyle made his excuses. «Reporter. I was in Tunisia with the Brits. The Eighth Army.» He wasn't ashamed of being a journalist, but by the end of his stint he'd begun to feel strange about recording and observing the free world's struggle for survival without taking part in it himself.

«Where'd you get hit?» Svensson asked, and Doyle shot him a surprised look.

«Medenine,» he said, and the other man laughed.

«Mina,» he explained. «My Grandmother. She can always tell. She nursed a lot of boys in the other one. The first one.»

«The War to End All Wars,» Doyle murmured.

«Yeah. When you think this one's ending?»

Doyle thought it would be another two or three years, but Svensson believed it would be winding up pretty quick now that the Americans were in, and they passed the rest of the trip talking it over.

The highway grew narrower and steeper, seeming to wind up into the stars. One side of the road was thick forest, and the other a sheer drop into darkness. And then they pulled

around an S-curve and the lodge was before them-just waiting for Heidi and the goats to show up.

«That's it,» Svensson said. «Little Fawn Lake Lodge.»

It must have been modeled on one of those Swiss chalets that populate snow globes everywhere. All that was missing was the snow.

A narrow gravel drive lined with foot-high Christmas trees curved under a trellised porte-cochere, and beneath the dead vines and bare bones of the car port was a door bedecked in a giant holly wreath. The drive itself snaked back to the pine-lined highway and disappeared in darkness.

There was no sign of the Woody station wagon, but that was no surprise. Pearl had had quite a start on Nathan.

He paid Svensson and thanked him, and went into the lodge thinking of possible explanations for his missing luggage. He'd picked up a toothbrush and a couple of essentials at the drug store, but it was going to be hard convincing anyone he'd actually planned this excursion.

The front door jangled cheerfully thanks to a bunch of silver bells. Nathan found himself in a warm, cozy lobby with a high ceiling beamed with rough logs. Colorful woven rugs lay on the wooden floor, and cheerful chintz framed the big bay windows. A twelve-foot Blue Spruce trimmed in old-fashioned, handmade ornaments towered next to a fieldstone fireplace at one end of the long room. At the other end were two arched doorways. A sign over one doorway indicated the bar, and the second doorway led to the dining room. A staircase wrapped in evergreen started at the back of the

room, climbed six steps and veered off into two separate branches.

There was no one at the reception desk. Copper lamps cast mellow light over vases filled with bayberries and holly. Out of date magazines littered tables.

Nathan walked over to the front desk and examined the leather bound register lying there.

The most recently arrived guest was Doris Brown of San Diego.

It crossed his mind briefly that it was possible she'd given him the slip. She had gotten cagey on the train-what if she had hired a car and gone somewhere else? But according to old Mrs. Svensson, there wasn't anywhere else to go-unless she had stayed at the town's only hotel. Doris Brown sounded made up, and Pearl Jarvis was originally from San Diego.

He relaxed for the first time since losing Pearl at the station. She was here. He just needed to find a way to talk to her.

Wandering over to the dining room, he glanced in. A waitress came out of the kitchen and began setting the empty tables; apparently they were done serving nobody for the night and preparing for the next day's non-existent rush.

«Good evening,» a voice said from behind Nathan.

He turned, and there was a thin, pale woman with red hair in a painfully-tight bun. He knew her hair was painfully tight from the pinched look on her face. Or maybe it was her shoes. Or maybe she'd gotten a glimpse of herself in the mirror: the red hair clashed horribly with the purple polka dot dress she wore.

«May I help you?» she asked. «I'm the hotel manageress.»

«Hello,» Nathan said. «I was hoping to find a room.»

«In the dining area?» the woman asked.

«Well, no,» he admitted. He gave her his best smile, but she wasn't having any.

«Do you have reservation?» she inquired.

Since she would almost certainly know if he did, this seemed unnecessary, but perhaps she was short on amusement up here in the snowless mountains.

«I made this trip on impulse,» he said.

«You must have. You don't appear to have any luggage.»

«There was a mix-up at Union Station.»

«I see.» She smiled a frigid smile that indicated she saw only too well. «If you'll just follow me.»

She turned smartly on heel, and goose-stepped back to the lobby, Nathan trailing.

Planting herself behind the garland-decked desk, she examined the key rack behind her, glanced through the register, peered out at the dark night. If a nail file had been present, she'd have probably done her nails. At last she seemed to recollect Nathan.

«May I ask how long you on staying? Or will that depend on impulse as well?»

Nathan wondered if the dearth of hotel guests was totally due to the war.

«Just overnight.»

She nodded as though she sincerely doubted it, but pushed the register towards him.

Nathan signed his name.

«I see Doris has already arrived,» he said with pleasure. «What room is she in?»

Her eyes rested on him for a long moment. «I'll let the young lady know you've asked after her.»

«Ah,» said Nathan. «Of course.»

«I'll see you to your room,» the manageress said, in the tone of one planning to lock him in for the night.

«I hate to trouble you,» Nathan began.

«No trouble,» she said, not bothering to try and make it convincing. She took a key from the rack behind her.

She escorted Nathan upstairs to a pretty little room with pink flowered wallpaper and two big windows frothed in dotted Swiss. There was a double bed, two white chests of drawers, a little table, and a white rocker with pink satin pillows.

«You share a bath with room number seven. However, there is no guest in room number seven tonight.»

«Ah,» said Nathan.

The key was handed over with the air of one who had serious misgivings, and the manageress departed with the news that someone would eventually be up to make the bed.

Nathan moved to the nearest window. His room was in the center of the hotel. Two dark, apparently uninhabited wings stretched away to the left and right. The night was cold and crisp and clear. A gray Plymouth sat idling under the porte-cochere, exhaust smoking in the frosty air.

There was a knock on the door and the waitress from the dining room entered to make the bed, which she did quickly.

«Not many guests, I suppose,» Nathan remarked.

«It's shaping up all right,» she said cheerfully. «We just got two more in for the night. Decided they couldn't drive all the way to Santa Rosa tonight.»

Santa Rosa by way of Indian Falls? That was a new one for the mapmakers.

«I forgot to ask downstairs, you don't happen to know which room Doris is in, do you?»

«The blonde lady who arrived this evening?»

«That's right.»

«Number fourteen. Right down the hall.»

Nathan tipped her and she went out.

He waited a few minutes, poked his head out of his room and made certain the coast was clear. He stepped out into the hall and walked quietly down to number fourteen. The light shone beneath the door. He put his ear against the white wood and listened. Floorboards creaked beneath soft footsteps. Doris/Pearl appeared to be pacing the floor.

He considered trying to talk to her again, but decided to postpone it for now. She appeared to be unsettled, and he already knew she was wary of him. He would have a better chance if she ran into him casually downstairs. And if that didn't work, he'd just have to risk knocking on her bedroom door. Not that Pearl struck him as a girl unused to gentlemen knocking on her boudoir door.

Nathan went downstairs to the bar. There were three empty high-backed booths, a row of tiny tables with checked cloths in front of a long built-in-and also empty-wooden bench, and a bar angled across the rear corner of the room. A boy too young to drink stood behind it.

Nathan perched himself at the bar, studied the wall of bottles in front of him, and ordered the VAT 69.

«Quiet around here,» he remarked.

«No snow,» the kid said, which was a refreshing take.

Nathan drank his drink and waited. No one showed up. He ordered another. He thought how strange it was to be sitting here in warmth and light sipping a liqueur-blended Scotch whisky-one of his favorite Scotch whiskies at that-while on the other side of the world men were dying by the droves.

«I should probably be closing up,» the kid said.

Nathan studied him. In about a year he'd be old enough to draft. «One more for the road?»

The kid nodded, poured him another drink.

Nathan sipped reflectively. He didn't think Pearl Jarvis was the kind of girl who would be very happy sitting by herself in her room all evening, but maybe she was worn out from her trip.

He wondered if Spain would drive up himself, and how long it might take him-assuming he started right away. No more than six hours surely?

Abruptly, Nathan was tired. Why not leave it to Spain? He could go up to his room and grab forty winks-which was about all he could sleep these days.

He paid for his drinks, started to rise, and then sat back down as two men entered the taproom. He saw the kid open his mouth to protest, and then give it up. He understood why.

They looked like Tinseltown's idea of hoods-or comic relief. One was bald and burly. The other looked sort of like Harpo Marx, blunt featured with lots of light, fuzzy hair. They

sat down at one of the high-backed booths. Nathan caught the eye of the bald-headed man. Nathan nodded politely. The man nodded back.

He seemed vaguely familiar to Nathan. He studied the pair a longer moment; neither man paid any further attention to him, and yet … the hair prickled at the back of his neck; a feeling that had saved his skin more than once.

The youthful bartender went over to take their drink orders, and Nathan nodded goodnight to him, and went upstairs, conscious of two pairs of unfriendly eyes pinned to his shoulder blades.

At the top of the stairs he waited, leaning back against the wall, safely hidden by the corner.

And waited.

No one left the bar in pursuit of him, and feeling a little foolish, he moved on toward his room. Then on impulse he continued onto Doris Brown's room. The light had vanished from under her door.

He stood there for a moment, thinking, and then he headed quietly along the corridor to his own room.

Locking his door, he slipped off his shoes and jacket, removed his tie, and lay down on the bed. He lit a cigarette and stared up at the ceiling, thinking.

After a time he stubbed out the cigarette and got up, stepped back into his shoes, shrugged back into his jacket, put his coat on and let himself out of his room. There was no sign of anyone in the hall. He went to the top of the staircase and looked down. The lobby was empty, but he could hear voices from the bar.

He considered. If he went down the stairs and out through the lobby, they were liable to spot him, and even if they didn't, they could hardly miss the cheerful jingle of bells on the front door. He looked down the hallway to where it angled abruptly off into darkness. That hallway had to lead to the closed left wing of the hotel. If there was an outside exit, and there had to be, he could probably get out that way and not be seen.

He moved quickly, quietly down the hall, rounded the corner and kept walking as the light from the main part of the hotel faded behind him. It was a long, long hallway. At the far end was a staircase, also in darkness. He felt his way down it, moving as quickly as he could, one hand holding to the banister. No pine garland here. It smelled dusty and closed up.

On the bottom level he found a door. The knob turned and he walked out into moonlight as bright as phosphorus. The cold was like a punch to his lungs, his breath frosted in night air scented with pines and distant snow. It smelled like Christmas, and an odd pang shot through him remembering long ago holidays.

He stuck close to the building, making his way toward the row of garages about a hundred yards beyond the rear of the hotel. They were arranged in an arc around a cement court, and in the center of the court stood a high pole topped by a blazing light. Apparently there were no worries of attracting enemy aircraft up here.

The door of the fourth garage from the left was slightly ajar.

Nathan's footsteps crunched on gravel as he walked towards the garage, the sound sharp in the night. He dragged open the door. The gray Plymouth gleamed in the artificial light. He tried the car door handle, but it was locked. Suspicious minds, he thought with a faint grin. He cupped his hands funnel-style against the glass window, trying to read the car registration, but it was too dark inside the garage.

Walking round to the front of the car, he eased the hood, propped it up, and then felt around 'til he found the distributor cap. He unscrewed it, slipping it into his pocket.

That ought to ensure Pearl didn't disappear in the night with the two heavies from the taproom.

He started back for the hotel, walking briskly. He paused long enough to leave the distributor cap in one of the flower boxes beneath the window of a ground floor room, and then walked on 'til he came to the side entrance.

He opened the door, stepped quietly inside-and the floor dropped out from under him. He plummeted down into darkness lit with red and white flares, tracers and shell bursts exploding around him.