The Dark Mirror (A Mike Faraday Mystery Book 1) Read online

  “A drink, Mr. Faraday?”

  I assented to a modest Scotch and allowed myself to be steered to a divan about a block and a half long. The whole place was like Xanadu in Citizen Kane and I kept waiting for the camera boom to come down out of the ceiling. But it didn’t so I said nothing and waited for Horvis to speak.

  He took his time about it, and it was some while after the drinks had appeared, again borne by the rubber-footed Filipino, before he spoke again.

  “What do you know about the Braganza shooting, Mr. Faraday?” The oily voice was free from guile, but I never felt at ease with Mr. Horvis in the short time I knew him. So I swilled my drink around and gazed up at the ceiling before I replied.

  “Only what I read in the papers. He was shot about six times wasn’t he? Nobody knew anything about him and the marksman was never found.”

  Mr. Horvis seemed satisfied. He crossed his immaculately clad legs and looked seriously at his mustard yellow floor.

  I went on, “You had a business deal with Braganza, paid him off and your cheque was found on him after he was cooled. You were in the clear.”

  Mr. Horvis fingered his nose thoughtfully and commenced to pick it as though he were alone.

  “Yes, quite so, I was in the clear.” He sighed heavily and got up abruptly, putting his glass down on a crystal table that would have cost me a year’s salary and then some. He walked nervously up and down and intently examined an arrangement of lines and oblong shapes preserved in a plain wood frame over the fireplace.

  “I have engaged your services, Mr. Faraday … because you have, shall we say, a certain reputation …”

  I said nothing and continued downing my drink. Mr. Horvis shot me a sudden glance and continued.

  “A reputation, if I may say so, for integrity in business dealings and a certain, er … resilience in difficult situations.”

  I encouraged him. “What do you want, Mr. Horvis?”

  He looked pained and his hand fingered his nose again. “All in good time, Mr. Faraday. I had further business with Mr. Braganza. He was to have sold a rather valuable item for me. We met on the second occasion and I handed it over. He was to have brought back the cash.”

  He fidgeted awkwardly with the edge of the carpet. “As you know, he never turned up. Someone probably has both the article and the money. Either way I want one or the other, but preferably the article.”

  “Why didn’t you tell all this to the police?” I asked.

  “Mr. Faraday!” The surprise was genuine. “A man in my position with many contacts in the art world cannot afford to be involved in scandal. No, sir, I had to be discreet.”

  “What was this business?” I persisted. “And what is this article you seem so anxious to keep under wraps?”

  Mr. Horvis pursed his lips in a prim and somewhat unusual manner. He kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

  “Again — to protect both buyer and seller — I am not in a position to reveal the details.”

  I got to my feet. “Thanks for the drink, Mr. Horvis,” I said and started towards the door.

  “Mr. Faraday!” Mr. Horvis was shocked. He almost ran after me across the yellow carpet.

  “Don’t bother to see me out,” I said. “I can find my own way.”

  “You mean you won’t take the case?”

  “Let’s cut out all the poop,” I told him. Pale red spots blazed on either cheek, but he made no answer. “What you need is a gypsy fortune-teller, not an investigator,” I said.

  Mr. Horvis heaved a long sigh and mastered himself with an effort. “You are quite right, Mr. Faraday, it was a silly gambit on my part. Please forgive me. The whole thing is most delicate, most delicate; and concerns other interests than my own. Please have another drink.”

  We returned to the table and I stood waiting while he poured the Scotch. Then I leaned against the plinth of a writhing bronze which disfigured that corner of the apartment and gave him a long look as I drank. He shifted uneasily and went back to the fireplace. The arrangement of lines and blobs seemed to have an inordinate interest for him.

  “Let’s level, shall we?” I asked him. “Suppose I give you a lead. Let’s assume this object, as you put it, is of great value. It would have to be, to go to all this trouble. Then let’s say it’s illegal or you would have called the police …”

  Horvis was silent after I finished speaking. Our cigarette smoke went up slowly, hardly wavering in the warm, still air.

  “Well done, Mr. Faraday,” he said at length. “Seven out of ten, I should say. I cannot afford to be named in this matter.”

  “I see that,” I said. “Even so, you live pretty high for a receiver.”

  Mr. Horvis choked and the red spots were back in his cheeks. He took two paces forward. “How dare you!” he spluttered.

  “Take it easy,” I told him. “No offence. Assume that I’m wrong about you, that you’re in this right up to your altruistic neck, simply for the love of beauty and art.”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Mr. Faraday,” he said, with a faint sneer.

  “Very well, Mr. Horvis. Let’s get down to cases. You want me to recover an object — details unknown. Before I start I want to know a few more things.”

  He smiled slightly. “Then you will take the case?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Providing that I’m not actually breaking the law. What I find and my subsequent actions depend on how the chips fall.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. He moved to an ornate desk at the side of the fireplace. “Let’s get to business, shall we? A down payment on your services. In return I’ll give you a rundown on Braganza and you can take it from there.”

  He sat down and scribbled something in a long pink cheque book. He dried the ink on a blotter and handed me the slip. I put the five hundred in my billfold. It felt about two feet thick and added to my security no end. A door shut softly somewhere in the house and an odd look of strain came back into Horvis’s eyes. He drew me to one side.

  “Would you mind stepping into the conservatory for a moment, Mr. Faraday?” He shut the door behind me among a welter of fleshy-leaved plants. “I have one or two things to attend to.”

  I looked idly about me. The conservatory was about forty feet long and like something out of a jungle nightmare. Bulbous plants writhed towards the roof and the air steamed oppressively. A side door led to another glass annexe and then a sort of porch led to the open air. Through the distorted atmosphere of several layers of glass I could see the negro chauffeur far off in the distance. He was polishing the second car. I started to sweat and after a few minutes I got bored.

  As I got to the conservatory door and yanked it open I heard a soft pop in the silence, something like a car backfire. I walked over to a picture window and could see the car itself, a black sedan parked down near my Buick at the foot of the steps. It slid out while I was watching and disappeared down the boulevard. I walked back into the lounge.

  Mr. Horvis was lying quite near the desk where I had left him. Powder burns had left big yellow scorches round the crimson hole in his chest and little bubbles of blood were still coming from his mouth and spilling across the yellow carpet. His eyes were open and surprised and his little teeth beneath the relaxed upper lip gave him the look of a dead ferret. I didn’t need to look any farther and I had no intention of touching him.

  Whoever had been at work on him, presumably the gentleman in the black sedan, knew his job. He had been shot with a silencer at very close range. My belly muscles were already fluttering, as they always did in the presence of death.

  I walked over to the desk. Incredibly, the Filipino houseboy worked on in the kitchen undisturbed; I could hear him swilling water far off. Not so surprising really, considering that I hadn’t heard much either. Nice work, fella, I told myself. No client, no fee, no case. I glanced down at the carpet. So long, Mr. Horvis. I took out the cheque and tore it up and then put the pieces carefully in my pocket. I would burn them later. A glance at the cheque book a
nd I saw that he had not yet entered the payment on the stub. He had written the cheque on the desk surface and there was no impression on the slip underneath.

  I tore out the corresponding stub. The numbers wouldn’t match, but sometimes people lost cheques or tore them out completely. It would be a minor point. I had my licence to consider. The Filipino houseboy had seen me, of course; I couldn’t get round my visit to the house but no one could say that I hadn’t left before the unpleasantness. I tore out the blotter too. Better to make sure. I picked up my glass and carried it quietly through into the conservatory; the old boy next door in the pink slacks was still doing his Nijinsky act with the tennis racket. He never looked up.

  I found a tap connected up to a plastic hose and swilled out the glass. I dried it on my handkerchief and put it back among the others. I don’t know why I bothered because the houseboy would remember bringing us the drinks. I glanced at my watch. It was about fifteen minutes since the shot and I had to hit the trail. I swore under my breath. Some case. I took a final glance around the lounge and then pussy-footed rapidly back to the conservatory. With a bit of luck, I could make it to the Buick without being spotted by the chauffeur. The conservatory door opened soundlessly and a few seconds later I was through the outer door and into the open air. I straightened up, one hand on the door handle as a big, beefy foot encased in tan brogues clamped down with crushing force on my toes. An enormous form surmounted by a green pork-pie hat blocked out the sky.

  “Hullo, Mike. Going some place?” said Dan Tucker.

  2 - Dan Tucker

  Captain Dan Tucker’s leathery face, scored and traced as though with a fine knife, wore a broad grin, but a frosty glint in his grey eyes belied the humour. He wore a pale yellow bow tie with red dots and his bulky body was impeccably sheathed in a grey lightweight suit. He made no effort to get off my foot and we stared at one another for perhaps five seconds, while my mind slipped its ratchet.

  “Do you think I could have my foot back?” I asked mechanically. “I’d like to use it again some time.”

  “Sorry, boy,” rumbled Tucker gustily. “I thought the floor was a bit uneven.”

  He was unashamedly enjoying the situation. Though he could be ruthless, he was a fair man if you treated him right. I decided to level with him. This was one of the times, obviously, where you treated him right. I sighed and moved away from the doorpost.

  “Come on in,” I said. “I was just on my way to call a cop.”

  “You’ve come to the right shop,” he said. “Phone broke down, I suppose?” There was no trace of sarcasm in his voice. He picked a grape gloomily as we went through the conservatory and spat a pip noiselessly into the bucket as we passed.

  “How did you get here?” I asked, fumbling with the door into the house.

  “Someone just phoned in,” he said. “I took the call in the car about two blocks away. Anonymous.”

  Helpful. Real helpful. Tucker’s voice was entirely without inflection, giving the conversation a curiously detached feeling. We passed the picture window. A black and white prowl car was parked at the front of the steps. The bonnet was slewed right across the front of my Buick. A very tough-looking cop sat at the wheel of the police car and munched an apple. Another was taking a look at my licence details. I was glad I had the torn-up cheque in my pocket.

  “He needn’t have bothered,” I said, hoping to sound light-hearted. “I was coming to tell you.”

  We passed into the lounge and stopped. Horvis was still lying where I’d left him. He was hardly likely to have moved. This wasn’t the movies but it would have been very convenient if someone had cleared him up. The Filipino for instance. My luck was right out.

  “Dear me,” said Tucker. He took off his hat.

  “Very touching,” I said.

  He took a small green apple from his pocket and began to crunch it in strong white teeth. It made a vivid crackling noise in the silence and the heat.

  “Do you have to?” I asked.

  “Very good for the teeth,” he said. “The D.A. likes a nice clean force.”

  His eyes were darting about the room as he spoke. I felt his gaze stabbing at the desk, the cheque book, the area round the body, before he stepped to the window. He rapped on the glass and one of the cops came up the lawn. He came on the double. I was impressed. Tucker found a small lattice pane and opened it. Snatches of conversation came back to me intermittently. I went and sat on the sofa and poured a drink and got my story ready. The cop saluted Tucker and disappeared round the side of the house at a run.

  “A relative?” I asked. Tucker ignored the irony. He went heavily to the phone. An apple core spun through the air and landed neatly in Horvis’s waste basket.

  “Ten out of ten,” I said. “Give the gentleman a grape.”

  Tucker dialled and I sat looking at the lines and blobs on the wall over the fireplace. I still couldn’t make them out. I looked at Horvis again.

  “He won’t keep this weather,” I told Tucker.

  “I’ve just taken care of that,” he said. Outside, through the now open window I could hear the prowl car spitting tinny instructions into the quiet afternoon, heavy with static and what sounded like bursts of music. There was a sudden jabber of noise in the kitchen and the second cop was talking to the Filipino; a figure in livery went round the side of the house at a run. He came up towards the window but Tucker waved him off. He dialled another number.

  “Yes, sir,” I heard him say. “Name Faraday. Naw, I think he’s okay. Anyway, I’ll go work him over. Ring you back. ‘Bye.”

  He put the phone down heavily and stumped back towards me. He sat down in a chair opposite, took out another apple and sank his teeth into it.

  “All right, gumshoe,” he said. “Start talking. But it had better add up.” The smile at the back of his eyes belied his tone.

  “Braganza,” I said. His eyes widened.

  “It figures. I’m glad you said that. Your licence …”

  I put down my licence, my driving permit and a pile of other documents on the glass table. He let them lie.

  “You carry a gun?” He took another bite on his apple and I looked up at the ceiling.

  “No,” I said. “Least, not normally. I did a little judo during the war.”

  Tucker took another bite and said nothing.

  “Do you want to search me?” I asked.

  Tucker sighed and crossed his legs. He gave me a long look.

  “Not necessary. Strangely enough, I believe you. But I am curious about some things. This may take some time.”

  “I’m not going any place,” I said.

  There was the noise of a car engine out in the drive, doors slamming and voices. A sergeant of detectives came in with the Filipino. He was protesting but shut up when he spotted Horvis on the floor. His eyes looked sick. Two men in the white coats of the city ambulance service came in with a stretcher and went in a side room to wait. There were more comings and goings. A police surgeon, a thin, sour-faced man named MacNamara came in with a small bag, spoke affably to Tucker and gave me a chill nod.

  He fussed around the body. Print men began dusting furniture; the body was examined again and Tucker excused himself. He went to join the small knot of men round the heap on the floor. Flash bulbs winked and notebooks were flourished. This carnival went on for about an hour and then the crowd began thinning out. MacNamara went on out to wash up.

  “Report by 6 p.m.,” he snapped to Tucker. He never looked at me. He went on out, treading warily on the carpet. He looked like someone was burning old lino under his nostrils. The phone went again. Tucker answered it.

  “No,” he said. “Have the calls diverted. No statement at present. I’ll prepare something for the press later this afternoon. ‘Bye.”

  He re-joined me near the table. Another apple core flicked through the air. This time it missed the basket and fell on the carpet. The two white-coated attendants came in. Horvis was placed on the stretcher and covered with a sheet. The
y took him on out. Presently the door slammed and then the siren went wailing up Avocado Boulevard. The morgue lay that way.

  I started talking. I told Tucker about my call from Horvis, my line of investigation so far, the earlier part of our conversation.

  Tucker was regarding me suspiciously. “And you’re sure he had no time to tell you anything? You were here nearly an hour, the Filipino tells me.”

  “Something happened,” I said. “I think he heard someone come in. Anyway, he turned me out in the greenhouse for about twenty minutes.”

  “And you sat there eating grapes in that heat, I suppose, all the time?”

  “I stood outside the porch for a bit,” I said.

  “And you became suspicious when he stopped breathing, I take it?”

  “My ears aren’t that good,” I said. “I heard a sort of pop and saw the car drive off. That’s when I came back. You know the rest.”

  Tucker sighed heavily again. “All right,” he said. “This’ll do for now. But don’t leave town.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I was flying out to Palm Beach when you turned up.”

  The phone rang again. Tucker was rather longer this time. When he put down the receiver he sat blowing his cheeks in and out and frowning so hard you could see the creases chasing way across his face like storm clouds on a hill.

  “Trouble?” I said.

  “I’m used to it. That was Sergeant Gibbs. They traced the black sedan you saw leaving. Hired from a garage about two miles from here. Guy paid on the spot, left no address.”

  “Description?”

  Tucker shrugged. “Sure. Medium. Medium sort of guy, medium height, medium build. Wore a grey suit.”

  “Helpful,” I said.

  He started biting another apple. I figured he must have a bushel basket stashed somewhere in back of his pants.

  “So what are we sitting here for?” I said. “Let’s get out and find him.”

  Tucker silently ejected a pip from the corner of his capacious mouth, caught it on the back of his hand and spun it into an ashtray.