Tightrope (Burning Cove #3)(77)

The last spark of life in his eyes died. Matthias knew he was gone.

Luther’s jaw tightened. He got to his feet.

Sirens sounded in the distance.

“That will be the ambulance and the cops,” Luther said.

Matthias looked at the briefcase. Without a word he crossed to the table and unlatched the case.

There was one object inside—a small leather-bound notebook. Matthias took it out.

“Are we going to give this to the FBI along with the cipher machine?” he asked.

“We’ll make that decision after we examine it,” Luther said.

“Help.” Vincent’s Hyde’s deep, resonant voice boomed through the club. “Somebody call a doctor. I’m bleeding. I may be dying.”

Matthias went to the railing and looked down. Hyde was downstairs, clutching his head with one hand. His elegant jacket and crisp white shirt were rumpled and bloodstained.

“Mr. Hyde,” Amalie exclaimed. She rushed forward to grip Hyde’s arm. “You must sit down. Let me help you.”

Raina looked at him. “There’s an ambulance on the way, Mr. Hyde.”

“That is very good news,” Vincent said. He sank down onto a chair. “I have no idea what happened to me. I must have tripped and struck my head.”

Matthias leaned over the railing. “What’s the last thing you remember, Hyde?”

“What?” Vincent craned his neck to peer up at the mezzanine. “Oh, it’s you, Jones. All I recall is that a waiter brought me an urgent message from my chauffeur. Something about a studio executive waiting to talk to me in private outside in the gardens. I remember walking down a path and . . . that’s it. The next thing I knew I was waking up under an orange tree with this dreadful headache.”

“Got a hunch Jasper Calloway lured you into the gardens and knocked you out,” Matthias said.

“My chauffeur?” Vincent’s eyes widened in shock. “He attacked me?”

“Looks like it,” Matthias said.

“After all I did for him,” Vincent moaned. “I should have known he’d turn on me one day.”





Chapter 53


“I, for one, will be very happy when those FBI special agents get here to take charge of the cipher machine,” Amalie said. “I can’t wait until it’s a long, long way from Burning Cove.”

The four of them were gathered around one of the cocktail tables on the main floor of the club. She and Matthias occupied one side of the booth. Raina and Luther sat across from them. They were alone now. Dawn was rising over Burning Cove.

A short time ago the police had taken charge of Calloway’s body. Luther had sent his staff home to recover from the drama. Vincent Hyde’s head wound had been dealt with by an ambulance attendant. A police officer had driven him back to the Hidden Beach Inn. Irene Ward had rushed off to file the story in time for it to make the morning edition of the Herald.

Detective Brandon had taken charge of the cipher machine. Amalie thought he had appeared uncharacteristically cheerful at the prospect of the glowing press reports that would soon appear in the Herald. Irene had assured him that the story of how the Burning Cove Police Department had uncovered a plot to steal a top secret military device would go national. The public would be given to understand that the FBI was very grateful for the assistance of the local police.

That, in turn, would come as news to the FBI. Luther predicted that the Bureau would be annoyed but that its reaction would be nothing compared to the outrage of the director of the Accounting Department. He would be downright horrified.

“Good riddance to Lorraine Pierce, too,” Raina said. “Once she starts talking she’ll have a lot of information to give to the FBI or the Accounting Department, depending on which agency gets custody of her.”

“They will probably fight over Pierce,” Luther said. “There are no feuds like the feuds between government agencies. But that’s not our problem.”

“I still can’t believe that one of Hollywood’s most popular gossip columnists was part of a gunrunning ring operating out of the heart of Hollywood,” Raina said.

“The more I think about it, the more I find it hard to understand how a legendary agent like Smith was able to operate out here in California undetected for so long,” Amalie said. “It certainly doesn’t say much for the efficiency and effectiveness of our intelligence agencies.”

“No,” Matthias said, “it doesn’t.”

“But, unfortunately, it does sound all too familiar,” Luther said. “The Bureau spent the last decade chasing bootleggers and mob figures. These days they’re looking for Communists under every bed. As for the few remaining spy agencies focused on the rest of the world, they’re currently a handful of alligators fighting internal battles for money and power in the very small swamp that is Washington. Again, not our problem. Time to see what’s in that notebook.”

He unlatched Calloway’s briefcase and took out the leather-bound notebook. Amalie and the others watched.

“Huh,” he said.

“Well?” Raina said. “Don’t keep us in suspense.”

Luther frowned. “It looks like a collection of poems. Handwritten, not printed. Smith may have fancied himself a poet.”