My mind shifted to Marshland. Had he anything to do with the kidnapping? Suppose Souki had found out that Dedrick was hooked up with Barratt and had told Marshland? That would have been a nice item of news: the fourth richest woman in the world married to a reefer smuggler. Marshland might have gone to any lengths to save his daughter from such publicity. He might have hired someone to get rid of Dedrick. It might have been his idea, and not Barratt's, to fake the kidnapping. For all I knew, Dedrick might have been buried somewhere in the grounds of Ocean End. No one had thought of looking for him under four feet of earth.
Where did Mary Jerome come in on all this? Who was she? Brandon had made a feeble attempt to find her, but apparently Marshland had had no difficulty in tracking her down. How had he found out where she was? Why had he gone to her? Why had she bolted after they had talked?
I ran my hand over my hot, tired face, and said, 'Aw, nuts!' I knew I was within touching distance of the key to this business, but my arm wasn't quite long enough. I had to get more information.
How was I going to tackle Marshland? He wasn't going to be easy. After thinking about it, I decided the only way was to be tough. He could either talk to me or to Brandon. The reception clerk would identify him. He couldn't deny he had gone to the Beach Hotel. Either me or Brandon.
I drove down the private road to Ocean End with the evening sun reflecting on the windshield.
The big black Cadillac was parked on the tarmac as it had been parked on my first visit to the house. The two Chinese gardeners were weeding a rose bed as enthusiastically as a man sitting down in a dentist's chair. They poked about in the rich, dark soil with their hand forks, lifting the odd weed and sneering at it, dropping it into a basket and poking again.
The flamingoes were moving about, stiff-jointed, on the lawn below the terraces. Like the Chinese gardeners, they paid no attention to me.
I walked along the terrace, thumbed the bell-push and waited, feeling the sun hot on my back.
Wadlock opened the door. His bushy eyebrows contracted and the eyes under them registered disapproval when he saw me.
'Hello,' I said. 'I'd like to talk to Mr. Marshland. Would you tell him?'
'Will you come in, Mr. Malloy?' He stood aside. ‘I am not sure if Mr. Marshland is in.'
I walked into the hall. It was cool and dim after the hot terrace. I took off my hat, looked inside it for no reason at all, said, without looking at the old man, 'The password is Beach Hotel. Will you tell him?'
'Beach Hotel?'
'That's right. You'll be surprised how he'll react. Do I go in lounge?'
'If you will, sir.'
'How is Mrs. Dedrick?' I asked. 'I heard she hasn't been well.'
'Considering the circumstances, sir, she is as well as can be expected.'
I looked at him thoughtfully, but the old face gave nothing away, so I went into the lounge. It seemed a long, long time ago since I had last been here. I moved on to the terrace again, and looked expectantly up at the veranda where Serena had sat mourning for her loved one. No one was up there. I returned to the lounge, picked a comfortable chair and sat down. The day had been an exciting one. I felt very tired: probably nervous excitement, I told myself. I lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the Mexican saddle hanging on the wall. An enormous bowl of sweet peas filled the room with an overpowering scent that made me feel a little drowsy.
After a while, probably ten minutes, I heard footsteps coming down the stairs.
Serena Dedrick came into the lounge. She was wearing a simple white-linen dress and a rose in her hair. There were dark smudges under her eyes and a drawn, hard look about her mouth. She looked steadily at me as I got to my feet, smiled without warmth, waved me back to the chair.
'Don't get up. Would you like a whisky and soda?'
'Well, not just now, thank you. I wanted to see your father. Didn't Wadlock tell you?'
She went over to a big cocktail cabinet and poured two whiskies. She gave me one, motioned to a box of cigarettes on the occasional table by my side and sat down opposite me.
'My father went back to New York yesterday,' she said, looking anywhere but at me. 'What did you want to see him about?'
I sipped the whisky. It was Four Roses, and very good. I wondered why Wadlock hadn't broken the news and saved her the trouble of seeing me. It occurred to me that perhaps she wanted to see me.
'I wanted to ask him something, Mrs. Dedrick,' I said, but as he isn't here it doesn't matter. Could I have his New York address?'
'Is it so important?'
'It's something I want to ask him. I could telephone him.'
'He is going away. This - this business has upset him. I don't think you could reach him,' she said after a long silence.
I drank half the whisky, set down the glass and stood up.
'It doesn't matter. It isn't all that important.'
She looked at me now, surprise in her eyes.
'But can't you tell me what it is?'
‘The day after your husband was kidnapped, Mr. Marshland called on the woman who said she was your secretary, Mary Jerome. The meeting took place at the Beach Hotel, where the woman was staying. I wanted to ask him what was said and how he knew she was there.'
'My father?'
She stood so still she could have been a statue.
'Yes. He gave his name to the hotel clerk, who would be able to identify him.'
'But I don't understand. How could it be my father? He doesn't know the woman.'
'He's seen her and talked to her. I want to know what was said. If he won't tell me, I'll have to put the information in Brandon's hands.'
Her eyes lit up.
'Are you being threatening?'
'Call it that if you like.'
'My father flies for Europe this evening. He's probably gone by now. I have no idea where he is spending his vacation. He often goes off like that when he wants a rest'
'He's gone at a convenient time - for himself.'
She moved to the terrace window and stared out into the garden.
'You have no idea why he went to see her, have you?'
'No.'
'You can't even guess?'
'No.'
I joined her at the window.
'Mrs. Dedrick, there's a question I would like to ask you.'
She continued to stare out of the window. The flamingoes were looking towards the house, stiff, upright and crochety.
'Well?'
'Do you think Nick Perelli kidnapped your husband?'
'Of course.'
'Why of course? Why so sure?'
She made an impatient movement.
'I don't wish to talk about it. If there is nothing else you want, perhaps you will excuse me.'
'I don't think Perelli kidnapped him,' I said. 'Has it occurred to you that your father has a very sound motive for getting rid of your husband?'
She turned swiftly. Her face had drained of colour. Fear looked at me out of her big eyes.
'How dare you! I won't listen to you. You have no right to come here making insinuations and asking questions. I shall complain to the police.'
She went out of the room. She was crying as she mounted the stairs.
I stood there, brooding out into the twilight. Why had she been frightened? Did she know for certain that Marshland had engineered the kidnapping?
A faint cough behind me made me turn.
Wadlock was waiting at the door.
I crossed the room, paused before him.
'Apparently Mr. Marshland has gone off to Europe,' I said.
The old eyes were expressionless as he said, 'Apparently, sir.'
'Was it Souki who told you about Dedrick or did you find out for yourself - that he was a reefer smuggler?'
I got past his guard, as I meant to. It was a shame to do it to him; he was a little too old to control his reflexes, but I wanted to know.
His mouth fell open and his eyes popped.
'Why, Souki told me…'
&nbs
p; He stopped; a little late. A faint flush rose to his face: but he was too old to be really angry.
'Your hat, sir.'
I took it and slapped it on the back of my head.
'Sorry about that,' I said, and meant it. 'Think no more about it'
He closed the door behind me. Looking back, I could see him watching me through the glass panels. I felt he was still watching me by the time I reached the end of the terrace.
If Souki had told him, Souki had also told Marshland. I wasn't getting ahead very fast, but I was making progress. I got into the Buick, started the engine and stared across the garden at the Pacific. I couldn't go on like this. I would have to do something that would bring the secrets out into the open. But what?
I lit a cigarette and flicked the match out of the car. Then I drove slowly down the private road, thinking.
Perelli had told Francon he was playing card with Joe Betillo at Delmonico's bar on the night of the kidnapping. He had said he left Betillo at ten-thirty. Betillo had said it was nine-thirty. Why? Was Betillo in this or was bribed. If who was bribed, who had bribed him? The evening was before me. Maybe it might be a good idea to check Perelli's alibi. I was in the mood for trouble. Two girls had been murdered this day. A tall, unknown gentleman in sunglasses had tried to lay me among the sweet peas. The fourth richest woman in the world had told me a number of lies. It might be an idea to top off the day with a visit to Delmonico's Bar, the toughest dive on the Coast.
I felt in the mood to be tough. I decided to go there.
chapter twenty-three
Paula's cool voice floated over the line: 'Good evening. Universal Services.'
'Are you all alone there?' I asked, pushing my hat to the back of my head and wiping my forehead. The call-box was as hot as a circus tent, and the last occupant had fallen in a vat of Night and Day, the aristocrat of perfumes, to judge by the smell she had left behind
'Oh, Vic; yes, I'm alone. How did you get on?'
'Nothing to get excited about. Promise me something, will you?'
'What?'
'Never wear Night and Day perfume. It's horrible stuff.'
'Why bring that up? I wouldn't wear it if they gave it to me.'
'That's fine. This call-box stinks of it. I'm feeling stifled.'
'What happened, Vic?'
'Marshland has suddenly rushed off on a vacation in Europe. That's what Serena tells me. It's my bet he was lurking upstairs somewhere, probably biting his nails. I told her he was possibly at the bottom of the kidnapping. She chucked an ing-bing and ran off, piping her eye.'
'Seriously?'
'Well, she looked scared. I think she's thought that all along. These rich, well-connected families have a horror of being lagged out of their shells. The butler was revealing too. Nice old boy: one of the old school. I jumped him about Souki, and before he could stop himself he admitted Souki had told him Dedrick was a smuggler. How do you like that?'
'It doesn't help Perelli very much, does it?'
'You're quite right It doesn't help him a bit. I'm going to do something about him right now. There's a small point you might take care of. Will you send a cable to Jack and tell him what I've found cut about Dedrick? Tell him to get hustling.'
Paula said she would get the cable off right away.
'When you've done that, shut up and go home.' I told her.
'What are you doing?'
'I'm digging a little more. The night's young yet.'
'Don't be reckless, will you, Vic?'
I said I'd handle myself as carefully as I'd handle a Ming vase, and hung up before she could ask any more questions.
I got into the Buick again and drove to Monte Verde Avenue. No. 245 was, as Myra Toresca had said, a small, painted bungalow with crazy paving where the garden should have been and a high, overgrown hedge to foil inquisitive neighbours.
I parked the Buick outside, pushed open the low wooden gate and walked up the path. A light showed in one of the windows; a shadow crossed the blind as I rapped on the front door.
The door opened a few inches. Myra asked, 'Who is it?'
'Malloy.'
She slid off the chain, opened the door. The passage behind her was dark.
'Come in. I was wondering when you were coming.'
I followed her into the lighted sitting-room. I was surprised to see her taste ran to frilly cushions, china masks and ornamental dolls.
She was wearing her windbreaker and slacks. Her eyes were heavy-looking and her face pallid. She didn't look as if she had had much sleep since last I saw her.
'What's cooking?' she asked as she fetched out a bottle of Scotch, glasses and ice. ‘I've been walking the floor since last night.'
Last night! It didn't seem possible that so much had happened in twenty-four hours.
I dropped into an easy chair.
'Plenty, but I'm not sure that it does us any good. I've a little job on you might like to help me with, but before I go into that, I'll get you up to date on what's happened so far.'
She stood before the empty fireplace, her hands in her trouser pockets, a cigarette between her lips, her face set and cold while talked.
I didn't leave out any of the details, and the story took the best part of a half an hour.
'I have a lot of facts,' I concluded, 'but no proof; and it's proof We must have. I must build up a case that'll stand up in court. What I've told you makes a good yarn, but Francon couldn't use it as it stands. The next move is to get the proof, and the only way we can get it is to fight Barratt with his own weapons. The first and easiest move is to try to establish Nick's alibi. He told Francon he was playing cards with Joe Betillo from eight-thirty to ten-thirty. Betillo said he left Delmonico's at nine-thirty. Betillo is a notorious character in Coral Gables. He'd sell his own mother for a dollar. I'm going out there tonight and see if I can find anyone who saw Perelli leave. Maybe someone did, but is scared to get in bad with Betillo. If I can't find anyone, then I'm going to get hold of Betillo, bring him here and persuade him to change his mind about the time Nick left. That all right with you?'
She gave a hard little smile.
'That's fine,' she said. 'If you can't make him talk, perhaps I can.'
'We'll both try. Has Nick any friends? Anyone big and tough who'd help me handle Betillo? He'll need a lot of handling.'
Myra shook her head.
'Nick doesn't make friends easily. We haven't long been here. I'll help you.'
'No. This isn't the kind of outing you take a girl on. Never mind. I'll get hold of Mike Finnegan. He's always ready for trouble.'
'I'm doing it,' Myra said. I'm a little tired of sitting here, doing nothing. I can handle a gun. I have more incentive than your friend; a lot more incentive. Tell me what to do, and I'll do it.'
I studied her, decided to take a chance.
'Look, don't let's have any misunderstanding. We don't want to kill this guy: we just want to make him talk.'
She gave me a look that sent a prickle up my spine.
'Get him here, and I'll make him talk.'
I stood up.
'Well, come on. Let's go.'
She pulled open a drawer and took out a .25, checked the clip and pushed the gun into her hip pocket. She finished her whisky, glanced at herself in the mirror.
'Jeepers! I look a fright. I'm glad Nick isn't here to see me.'
'He'd be glad to see you however you look,' I reminded her and went to the door.
She turned out the light, and together we walked down the garden path to the Buick.
'Suppose we collect Barratt and make him talk,' she said as she settled herself in the car beside me. Wouldn't that save a little time?'
'I'm not too sold on the idea of forcing a guy to talk,' I said driving towards the waterfront. 'It might work with Betillo but not with Barratt. He's too important. He could give us the works, then swear we forced him to confess under torture when he got in the box. That kind of evidence doesn't stand up.'
'If
you don't save Nick, I'm going to get Barratt,' she said in a hard, tight voice. 'That's something I've promised myself.'
I parked the car in the shadows, a few yards from Delmonico's Bar.
'Let's concentrate on saving Nick,' I said. 'There'll be plenty of time to take care of Barratt if we can't do it the legal way. Have you ever been in this joint?'
'Of course I have. Nick used to come here practically every night.'
'I want to look at the room in which Nick and Betillo played cards. Can you swing that?'
'I can if no one's using it.'
'Let's go in and find out.'
We walked up the five wooden steps that led into the bar. Inside was brightly lit and full of people. A juke-box was churning out the Harry Lime Theme. Big, tough-looking men propped up the bar. At the tables scattered around the room girls in halters and shorts were trying to convince their male companions that there was more fun upstairs than sitting in smoke-laden room, drinking rot-gut whisky. They didn't seem to be getting anywhere.
It was the kind of scene you can see in any Warner Bros movie. All you needed was a tracking shot up to Humphrey Bogart and you'd feel at home.
Myra seemed to know her way around. She walked across sawdust-covered floor up to the bar and crooked a finger at one of the barmen.
I stood behind her, waiting for trouble.
Four or five men, as wide as they were tall, who were up at the bar, stopped talking and looked at her.
They looked over their shoulders at me, sneered, turned their attention to Myra again.
'Hello, girlie,' one of them said softly.
This, of course, I thought, is where trouble starts. I was a fool to have brought her here. Instead of getting evidence, I was going to get into a fight with a bunch of toughs as big as Carnera.
Myra turned slowly, looked the four men over, said four words with unbelievable viciousness that froze them in their tracks, turned back to the bar again.
Silently, as if they had peeped into a room in which something was going on that shocked even their unshockable minds, they drifted away from the bar and sat at one of the tables.
1950 - Figure it Out for Yourself Page 12