The Instant Enemy (5 page)

“You tell me. He’s your boy.”

Belsize shook his head. The lines in his face deepened, like cracks in his conception of himself. “He’s mine in a very limited sense. I can’t follow him down the street or out on the highway. I have a hundred and fifty clients, a hundred and fifty Davy Spanners. They walk through my dreams.”

“I know you can’t make it for them,” I said, “and nobody’s blaming you. I came here to get your professional judgment on Davy. Does he go in for crimes against the person?”

“He never has, but he’s capable of it.”

“Homicide?”

Belsize nodded. “Davy’s pretty paranoid. When he feels threatened or rejected he loses his balance. One day in my office he almost jumped
me.”

“Why?”

“It was just before his sentencing. I told him I was recommending that he be sent to jail for six months as a condition
of probation. It triggered something in him, something from the past, I don’t know what. We don’t have a complete history on Davy. He lost his parents and spent his early years in an orphanage, until foster parents took him on. Anyway, when I told him what I was going to do, he must have felt abandoned all over again. Only now he was big and strong and ready to kill me. Fortunately I was able to talk him back to his senses. And I didn’t revoke my recommendation for probation.”

“That took faith.”

Belsize shrugged. “I’m a faith healer. I learned a good many years ago that I have to take my chances. If I won’t take a chance on them, I can’t expect them to take a chance on themselves.”

The waitress brought our sandwiches, and for a few minutes we were busy with them. At least I was busy with mine. Belsize picked at his as if Davy and I had spoiled his appetite. Finally he pushed it away.

“I have to learn not to hope too much,” he said. “I have to school myself to remember that they have two strikes on them before I ever see them. One more and they’re whiffed.” He raised his head. “I wish you’d give me all the facts about Davy.”

“They wouldn’t make you any happier. And I don’t want you putting out an alarm for him and the girl. Not until I talk to my client, anyway.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Answer a few more questions. If you were high on Davy, why did you recommend six months in jail?”

“He needed it. He’d been stealing cars on impulse, probably for years.”

“For sale?”

“For joy riding. Or grief riding, as he calls it. He admitted when we’d established rapport that he had driven all over the state. He told me he was looking for his people, his own people. I believed him. I hated to send him to jail. But I thought six months in a controlled situation would
give him a chance to cool off, time to mature.”

“Did it?”

“In some ways. He finished his high-school education and did a lot of extra reading. But of course he still has problems to work out—if he’ll only give himself the time.”

“Psychiatric problems?”

“I prefer to call them life problems,” Belsize said. “He’s a boy who never really had anybody or anything of his own. That is a lot of not-having. I thought, myself, a psychiatrist could help him. But the psychologist who tested him for us didn’t think he’d be a good investment.”

“Because he’s semi-psychotic?”

“I don’t pin labels on young people. I see their adolescent storms. I’ve seen them take every form that you could find in a textbook of abnormal psychology. But often when the storms pass, they’re different and better people.” His hands turned over, palms upward, on the table.

“Or different and worse.”

“You’re a cynic, Mr. Archer.”

“Not me. I was one of the ones who turned out different and better. Slightly better, anyway. I joined the cops instead of the hoods.”

Belsize said with a smile that crumpled his whole face: “I still haven’t made my decision. My clients think I’m a cop. The cops think I’m a hood-lover. But we’re not the problem, are we?”

“Do you have any idea where Davy would go?”

“He might go anywhere at all. Have you talked to his employer? I don’t recall her name at the moment but she’s a redheaded woman—”

“Laurel Smith. I talked to her. How did she get into the picture?”

“She offered him a part-time job through our office. This was when he got out of jail about two months ago.”

“Had she known him before?”

“I don’t believe so. I think she’s a woman who wanted someone to help.”

“And what did she expect in return?”

“You are a cynic,” he said. “People often do good simply because it’s their nature. I think Mrs. Smith may have had troubles of her own.”

“What makes you think so?”

“I had an inquiry on her from the sheriff’s office in Santa Teresa. This was about the time that Davy got out of jail.”

“An official inquiry?”

“Semi-official. A sheriff’s man named Fleischer came to my office. He wanted to know all about Laurel Smith and all about Davy. I didn’t tell him much. Frankly, I didn’t like him, and he wouldn’t explain why he needed the information.”

“Have you checked Laurel Smith’s record?”

“No. It didn’t seem necessary.”

“I would if I were you. Where did Davy live before he went to jail?”

“He’d been on his own for a year or more after he dropped out of high school. Living on the beaches in the summer, taking odd jobs in the winter.”

“Before that?”

“He lived with foster parents, Mr. and Mrs. Edward Spanner. He took their name.”

“Can you tell me where to find the Spanners?”

“They live in West Los Angeles. You can find them in the phone book.”

“Is Davy still in touch with them?”

“I don’t know. Ask them yourself.” The waitress brought our checks, and Belsize stood up to go.

T
HE
C
ENTENNIAL
S
AVINGS
building on Wilshire was a new twelve-story tower sheathed with aluminum and glass. An automatic elevator took me up to Sebastian’s office on the second floor.

The violet-eyed secretary in the outer room told me that Sebastian was expecting me. “But,” she added in an important tone, “Mr. Stephen Hackett is with him now.”

“The big boss himself?”

She frowned and shushed me. “Mr. Hackett came back from lunch with Mr. Sebastian. But he likes to stay incognito. This is just the second time I ever saw him myself.” She sounded as if they were having a visit from royalty.

I sat on a settee against the wall. The girl got up from her typewriter desk and, to my surprise, came and sat down beside me.

“Are you a policeman or a doctor or something?”

“I’m a something.”

She was offended. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“That’s true.”

She was silent for a time. “I’m concerned about Mr. Sebastian.”

“So am I. What makes you think I’m a doctor or a cop?”

“The way he talked about you. He’s very anxious to see you.”

“Did he say why?”

“No, but I heard him crying in there this morning.” She
indicateci the door of the inner office. “Mr. Sebastian is a very cool person in general. But he was actually crying. I went in and asked him if I could help. He said nothing could help, that his daughter was very ill.” She turned and looked deep into my eyes with her ultraviolet ones. “Is that true?”

“It could be. Do you know Sandy?”

“I know her to see. What’s the matter with her?”

I didn’t have to offer a diagnosis. There was a soft scuffling of feet in the inner office. By the time Sebastian had opened the door the girl was back at her desk, looking as permanent as a statue in a niche.

Stephen Hackett was a well-kept man of forty or so, younger than I expected. His thick body borrowed some grace from his well-tailored tweeds, which looked like Bond Street. His scornful eyes flicked over me as if I was a misplaced piece of furniture. He gave the impression of wearing his money the way other men wear elevator shoes.

Sebastian clearly hated to see him go, and tried to follow him out to the elevator. Hackett turned at the door and gave him a quick handshake and a definite, “Good-bye. Keep up the good work.”

Sebastian came back to me with bright dreaming eyes. “That was Mr. Hackett. He likes my program very very much.” He was bragging to the girl as well as me.

“I knew he would,” she said. “It’s a brilliant program.”

“Yeah, but you never can tell.”

He took me into his office and closed the door. It wasn’t large, but it was a corner room overlooking the boulevard and the parking lot. I looked down and saw Stephen Hackett step over the door of a red sports car and drive away.

“He’s a terrific sportsman,” Sebastian said.

His hero worship annoyed me. “Is that all he does?”

“He keeps an eye on his interests, of course. But he doesn’t bother with active management.”

“Where does his money come from?”

“He inherited a fortune from his father. Mark Hackett was one of those fabulous Texas oilmen. But Stephen Hackett is a
moneymaker in his own right. Just in the last few years, for example, he bought out Centennial Savings and put up this building.”

“Good for him. Jolly good for him.”

Sebastian gave me a startled look and sat down behind his desk. On it were stand-up photographs of Sandy and his wife, and a pile of advertising layouts. The top one said in archaic lettering: “We respect other people’s money just as profoundly as we respect our own.”

I waited for Sebastian to shift gears. It took a while. He had to shift from the world of money, where being bought out by a millionaire was the finest thing you could hope for, back to his difficult private world. I liked Sebastian better since I learned that he had tears inside his curly head.

“I’ve seen your daughter within the last few hours.”

“Really? Is she okay?”

“She seemed to be all right physically. Mentally, I don’t know.”

“Where did you see her?”

“She was with her friend in his apartment. I’m afraid she was in no mood to come home. Sandy seems to have quite a grudge against you and your wife.”

I meant this to be a question. Sebastian picked up his daughter’s photograph and studied it as if he could find the answer there.

“She always used to be crazy about me,” he said. “We were real pals. Until last summer.”

“What happened last summer?”

“She turned against me, against both of us. She practically stopped talking entirely, except when she flared up and called us bad things.”

“I’ve heard she had a love affair last summer.”

“A love affair? That’s impossible at her age.”

“It wasn’t a happy love affiair,” I said.

“Who was the man?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

His face underwent another change. His mouth and jaw
went slack. His eyes were intent on something behind them, in his head.

“Where did you hear this?” he said.

“From a friend of hers.”

“Are you talking about actual sexual relations?”

“There isn’t much doubt that she’s been having them, beginning last summer. Don’t let it throw you.”

But something had. Sebastian had a hang-dog look, and real fear in his eyes. He turned Sandy’s picture face down on the desk as if to prevent it from seeing him.

I got out the amateurish map I’d found in Davy’s desk and spread it out on top of Sebastian’s desk. “Take a good look at this, will you? First of all, do you recognize the handwriting?”

“It looks like Sandy’s writing.” He picked up the map and studied it more closely. “Yes, I’m sure it’s Sandy’s. What does it mean?”

“I don’t know. Do you recognize the place with the artificial lake?”

Sebastian scratched his head, with the result that one large curly lock fell down over one eye. It made him look furtive and a little shabby. He pushed the hair back carefully, but the shabbiness stayed on him.

“It looks like Mr. Hackett’s place,” he said.

“Where is it?”

“In the hills above Malibu. It’s quite a showplace. But I don’t know why Sandy would be drawing a map of it. Do you have any idea?”

“I have one. Before we talk about it I want you to see something. I got your shotgun back, or parts of it.”

“What do you mean, parts of it?”

“Come down to the parking lot and I’ll show you. I didn’t want to bring it into the building.”

We went down in the elevator and out to my car. I opened the trunk and unwrapped the sad amputated stock and barrels.

Sebastian picked them up. “Who did this?” He sounded shocked and furious. “Did Sandy do this?”

“More likely it was Davy.”

“What kind of a vandal
is
he? That shotgun cost me a hundred and fifty dollars.”

“I don’t think this was vandalism. But it may lead to something worse. It almost certainly means that Davy’s carrying a sawed-off shotgun. Put that together with Sandy’s map of the Hackett place—”

“Good Lord, do you think they’re planning to hold him up?”

“I think he should be warned of the possibility.”

Sebastian made an abortive movement toward the building, then turned back toward me. He was full of anxiety, and some of it spilled. “We can’t do that. You can’t expect me to tell him my own daughter—”

“She drew the map. Does she know the place well?”

“Very well. The Hacketts have been very good to Sandy.”

“Don’t you think you owe them a warning?”

“Certainly not at this stage.” He tossed the pieces of shotgun into the trunk, where they made a clanking noise. “We don’t know for sure that they’re planning anything. In fact, the more I think about it, the less likely it sounds. You can’t expect me to go out there and ruin myself with the Hacketts—not to mention Sandy—”

“She’ll really be ruined if her friend pulls a heist on the Hacketts. And so will you.”

He went into deep thought, looking down at the asphalt between his feet. I watched the traffic go by on Wilshire. It usually made me feel better to watch traffic and not be in it. Not today.

“Does Hackett keep money and jewels in the house?”

“He wouldn’t keep much money there. But his wife has diamonds. And they have a valuable art collection. Mr. Hackett has spent a lot of time in Europe buying pictures.” Sebastian paused. “What would you say to Hackett if you told him about this? I mean, could you keep Sandy out of it?”