The Good Old Stuff (6 page)

Darrigan walked out into the morning sunlight. The death of Temple Davisson was beginning to emerge from the mists. Sometime after he had left the Coral Tour Haven and before he appeared at the Aqua Azul, he had entangled himself with someone who wanted that cash. Wanted it badly. They had not taken their first opportunity. So they had sought a second choice, had made the most of it.

He parked in the center of town, had a cup of coffee. At such times he felt far away from his immediate environment. Life moved brightly around him and left him in a dark place where he sat and thought. Thought at such a time was not the application of logic but an endless stirring at the edge of the mind, a restless groping for the fleeting impression.

Davisson had been a man whose self-esteem had taken an inadvertent blow at the hands of his young wife. To mend his self-esteem, he had been casting a speculative eye at the random female. And he had been spending the day trying to engineer a deal that would mean a most pleasant profit.

Darrigan and Kathy Marrick had been unable to find the place where Davisson had taken a few drinks before stopping at the Aqua Azul. Darrigan paid for his coffee and went out to the car, spread the road map on the wheel, and studied it. Granted that Davisson was on his way home when he stopped
at the Aqua Azul, it limited the area where he could have been. Had he been more than three miles south of the Aqua Azul, he would not logically have headed home on the road that would take him through Indian Rocks and along Belleaire Beach. He would have cut over to Route 19. With a pencil Darrigan made a circle. Temple Davisson had taken his drinks somewhere in that area.

He frowned. He detested leg work, that dullest stepsister of investigation. Sharing it with Mrs. Marrick made it a bit more pleasant, at least. It took him forty-five minutes to drive out to the Aqua Azul. Her raspberry convertible was under shelter in the long carport. He parked in the sun and went in, found her in the lobby chattering with the girl at the desk.

She smiled at him. “It can’t be Nero Wolfe. Not enough waistline.”

“Buy you a drink?”

“Clever boy. The bar isn’t open yet. Come down to the cabaña and make your own and listen to the record of a busy morning.”

They went into the cypress-paneled living room of the beach cabaña. She made the drinks.

“We failed to find out where he’d been by looking for him, my dear. So this morning I was up bright and early and went on a hunt for somebody who might have seen the car. A nice baby-blue convertible. They’re a dime a dozen around here, but it seemed sensible. Tan men with bald heads are a dime a dozen too. But the combination of tan bald head and baby-blue convertible is not so usual.”

“Any time you’d like a job, Kathy.”

“Flatterer! Now prepare yourself for the letdown. All I found out was something we already knew. That the baby-blue job was parked at that hideous Coral Tour Haven early in the afternoon.”

Darrigan sipped his drink. “Parked there?”

“That’s what the man said. He has a painful little store that sells things made out of shells, and sells shells to people who want to make things out of shells. Say that three times fast.”

“Why did you stop there?”

“Just to see if anybody could remember the car and man if
they had seen them. He’s across the street from that Coral Tour thing.”

“I think I’d like to talk to him.”

“Let’s go, then. He’s a foolish little sweetheart with a tic.”

The man was small and nervous, and at unexpected intervals his entire face would twitch uncontrollably. “Like I told the lady, mister, I saw the car parked over to Drynfells’s. You don’t see many cars there. Myron doesn’t do so good this time of year.”

“And you saw the bald-headed man?”

“Sure. He went in with Drynfells, and then he came out after a while.”

“After how long?”

“How would I know? Was I timing him? Maybe twenty minutes.”

Darrigan showed him the picture. “This man?”

The little man squinted through the viewer. “Sure.”

“You got a good look at him?”

“Just the first time.”

“You mean when he went in?”

“No, I mean the first time he was there. The second time it was getting pretty late in the day, and the sun was gone.”

“Did he stay long the second time?”

“I don’t know. I closed up when he was still there.”

“Thanks a lot.”

The little man twitched and beamed. “A pleasure, certainly.”

They went back out to Darrigan’s car. When they got in Kathy said, “I feel a bit stupid, Gil.”

“Don’t think I suspected that. It came out by accident. One of those things. It happens sometimes. And I should have done some better guessing. I found out this morning that when Temple Davisson wanted a piece of property he didn’t give up easily. He went back and tried again.”

“And Mr. Drynfells didn’t mention it.”

“A matter which I find very interesting. I’m dropping you back at the Aqua Azul and then I’m going to tackle Drynfells.”

“Who found the little man who sells shells? You are not leaving me out.”

“It may turn out to be unpleasant, Kathy.”

“So be it. I want to see how much of that tough look of yours is a pose, Mr. Darrigan.”

“Let me handle it.”

“I shall be a mouse, entirely.”

He waited for two cars to go by and made a wide U-turn, then turned right into Drynfells’s drive. The couple was out in back. Mrs. Drynfells was basking on her rubberized mattress, her eyes closed. She did not appear to have moved since the previous day. Myron Drynfells was over near the hedge having a bitter argument with a man who obviously belonged with the battered pickup parked in front.

Drynfells was saying, “I just got damn good and tired of waiting for you to come around and finish the job.”

The man, a husky youngster in work clothes, flushed with anger, said, “Okay, okay. Just pay me off, then, if that’s the way you feel. Fourteen hours’ labor plus the bags and the pipe.”

Drynfells turned and saw Darrigan and Kathy. “Hello,” he said absently. “Be right back.” He walked into the back door of the end unit with the husky young man.

Mrs. Drynfells opened her eyes. She looked speculatively at Kathy. “Allo,” she said. Darrigan introduced the two women. He had done enough work on jewelry theft to know that the emerald in Mrs. Drynfells’s ring was genuine. About three carats, he judged. A beauty.

Drynfells came out across the lawn, scowling. He wore chartreuse slacks and a dark blue seersucker sport shirt with a chartreuse flower pattern.

“Want anything done right,” he said, “you got to do it yourself. What’s on your mind, Mr. Darrigan?”

“Just checking, Mr. Drynfells. I got the impression from the police that Mr. Davisson merely dropped you off here after you’d looked at the land. I didn’t know he’d come in with you.”

“He’s a persistent guy. I couldn’t shake him off, could I, honey?”

“Talking, talking,” Mrs. Drynfells said, with sunstruck sleepiness. “Too moch.”

“He came in and yakked at me, and then when he left he
told me he could find better lots south of here. I told him to go right ahead.”

“How long did he stay?”

Drynfells shrugged. “Fifteen minutes, maybe.”

“Did he wave big bills at you?”

“Sure. Kid stuff. I had my price and he wouldn’t meet it. Waving money in my face wasn’t going to change my mind. No, sir.”

“And that’s the last you saw of him?” Darrigan asked casually.

“That’s right.”

“Then why was his car parked out in front of here at dusk on Friday?”

“In front of here?” Drynfells said, his eyes opening wide.

“In front of here.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, mister. I wasn’t even here, then. I was in Clearwater on a business matter.”

Mrs. Drynfells sat up and put her hand over her mouth. “Ai, I forget! He did come back. Still talking, talking. I send him away, that talking wan.”

Drynfells stomped over to her and glared down at her. “Why did you forget that? Damn it, that might make us look bad.”

“I do not theenk.”

Drynfells turned to Darrigan with a shrug. “Rattle-headed, that’s what she is. Forget her head if it wasn’t fastened on.”

“I am sorree!”

“I think you better phone the police and tell them, Mr. Drynfells, just in case.”

“Think I should?”

“The man is still missing.”

Drynfells sighed. “Okay, I better do that.”

The Aqua Azul bar was open. Kathy and Darrigan took a corner table, ordered pre-lunch cocktails. “You’ve gone off somewhere, Gil.”

He smiled at her. “I am sorree!”

“What’s bothering you?”

“I don’t exactly know. Not yet. Excuse me. I want to make a call.”

He left her and phoned Hartford from the lobby. He got his assistant on the line. “Robby, I don’t know what source to use for this, but find me the names of any men who have sold chains of movie houses in Kansas during the past year.”

Robby whistled softly. “Let me see. There ought to be a trade publication that would have that dope. Phone you?”

“I’ll call back at five.”

“How does it look?”

“It begins to have the smell of murder.”

“By the beneficiary, we hope?”

“Nope. No such luck.”

“So we’ll get a statistic for the actuarial boys. Luck, Gil. I’ll rush that dope.”

“Thanks, Robby. ’Bye.”

He had sandwiches in the bar with Kathy and then gave her her instructions for the afternoon. “Any kind of gossip, rumor, anything at all you can pick up on the Drynfellses. Financial condition. Emotional condition. Do they throw pots? Where did he find the cutie?”

“Cute, like a derringer.”

“I think I know what you mean.”

“Of course you do, Gil. No woman is going to fool you long, or twice.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself.”

“I hope, wherever your lady fair might be, that she realizes by now what she missed.”

“You get too close for comfort sometimes, Kathy.”

“Just love to see people wince. All right. This afternoon I shall be the Jack Anderson of Madeira Beach and vicinity. When do I report?”

“When I meet you for cocktails. Sixish?”

On the way back to Clearwater Beach he looked in on Dinah Davisson. There were dark shadows under her eyes. Temple Davisson’s daughter had been reached. She was flying south. Mrs. Hoke had brought over a cake. Darrigan told her he had a hunch he’d have some real information by midnight. After he left he wondered why he had put himself out on a limb.

At four thirty
he grew impatient and phoned Robby. A James C. Brock had sold a nine-unit chain in central Kansas in July.

Darrigan thanked him. It seemed like a hopeless task to try to locate Brock in the limited time before he would have to leave for Redington Beach. He phoned Dinah Davisson and told her to see what she could do about finding James Brock. He told her to try all the places he might stop, starting at the most expensive and working her way down the list.

He told her that once she had located Mr. Brock she should sit tight and wait for a phone call from him.

Kathy was waiting at her cabaña. “Do I report right now, sir?”

“Right now, Operative Seventy-three.”

“Classification one: financial. Pooie. That Coral Tour thing ran way over estimates. It staggers under a mortgage. And he got a loan on his beach property to help out. The dollie is no help in the financial department. She’s of the gimme breed. A Cuban. Miami. Possibly nightclub training. Drynfells’s first wife died several centuries ago. The local pitch is that he put that plot of land on the market to get the dough to cover some postdated checks that are floating around waiting to fall on him.”

“Nice work, Kathy.”

“I’m not through yet. Classification two: Emotional. Pooie again. His little item has him twisted around her pinkie. She throws pots. She raises merry hell. She has tantrums. He does the housekeeping chores. She has a glittering eye for a pair of shoulders, broad shoulders. Myron is very jealous of his lady.”

“Any more?”

“Local opinion is that if he sells his land and lasts until the winter season is upon him, he may come out all right, provided he doesn’t have to buy his little lady a brace of Mercedeses and minks to keep in good favor. He’s not liked too well around here. Not a sociable sort, I’d judge. And naturally the wife doesn’t mix too well with the standard-issue wives hereabouts.”

“You did very well, Kathy.”

“Now what do we do?”

“I buy you drinks. I buy you dinner. Reward for services rendered.”

“Then what?”

“Then we ponder.”

“We can ponder while we’re working over the taste buds, can’t we?”

“If you’d like to ponder.”

They went up to the bar. Martinis came. Kathy said, “I ponder out loud. Davisson’s offer was too low. But he waved his money about. They brooded over that money all day. He came back and waved it about some more. Mrs. Drynfells’s acquisitive instincts were aroused. She followed him, met him outside of here, clunked him on the head, pitched him in the Gulf, and went home and hid the money under the bed.”

“Nice, but I don’t like it.”