He glanced out of the window again and said: “Of course, I’ve worked hard. A man has to know quite a bit about a lot of things to run a motel successfully. You have to do some accounting to take care of the tax and employee problems. You get to be an amateur landscape gardener and if you try to run a small restaurant like we do you’re in trouble unless you get someone like Betty Nelson to take over. You have to know something about housekeeping, maintenance, purchasing, insurance, plumbing, heating, air conditioning, law, and diplomacy.”
He smiled and said: “In spite of all that, I like it. It’s what I want to do and, as I say, I’ve done quite well, but I suppose it’s only natural when you like your work to want to be the boss and have a business of your own. I’ve saved some money, though not nearly enough to consider buying a place; that’s why I was—well, rather excited when Mr. Gannon said he had begun to think about selling.”
Dave had been listening to everything Stinson said but now he found himself more interested in the man himself that the subject he was discussing. He realized again that Stinson had a very good motive for murder, and yet he found it hard to believe anyone so inoffensive looking could be capable of such violence. The man’s coloring, the reddish tinge to his sandy hair and lightly freckled skin, suggested a temper and a disposition that could be highly volatile under the proper provocation. That the temper never seemed to show proved nothing. The pale-blue eyes seemed as mild as is voice but this, Dave realized, could be due to the fact that he knew so little about the man.
This was his first job as top man. He had been on it for something over three years. He looked to be about thirty-five now, though this was but a guess, which meant that at thirty-two he had only progressed as far as the assistant manager of a motel….
With an effort he pulled his thoughts back to the matter at hand. “It would be a pretty expensive proposition for Mr. Gannon, wouldn’t it?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“In case of a sale you were entitled to twenty-five per cent.”
“Well—yes.”
“He had also assigned the same interest to his daughter. At the time he spoke to you,” Dave said, while his mind added the thought: if he ever spoke to you at all, “his daughter was dead and he did not know she had reassigned her interest to Tyler. I don’t know the laws of inheritance in California. I don’t know what might have happened to the daughter’s estate if she hadn’t reassigned her interest. The point is, if Mr. Gannon had lived and sold this place he would have had to pay you—”
“I see what you mean,” Stinson said, interrupting. “I meant to mention that. Mr. Gannon said the same thing. He said that when he made the agreement with me he had expected to keep the motel for a great many years and that if I built the business up I would be entitled to twenty-five per cent but now, after only three years—well, he was quite frank about it. He said, and I can quote him, ‘I was too damn generous with you, George.’”
“So what did he suggest?”
“He said he wanted at least $180,000 for the place. On that basis I’d be entitled to $45,000 by the terms of the agreement. But he said if I insisted on that amount he simply couldn’t afford to sell at all. If I’d agree to make a new deal with him he’d give me a flat $25,000 providing he got his price.”
Dave nodded. So did Stinson.
“Naturally,” he said, “I jumped at the chance. I said it would be more than fair. Because you see”—and now he leaned forward and a new brightness began to work in his eyes—“I have my eye on this property in Eaton. It’s smaller, and run down, and I can buy it for $60,000. I have $15,000 of my own. With Mr. Gannon’s $25,000 I’d have $40,000 and I know I could arrange with a bank to buy with no more than $20,000 down, which would leave me that much to put into new furnishings and maybe two more units. The painting and things like that I could do myself.”
Yes, Dave thought. But now you won’t have to borrow. You can buy the property outright.
That thought remained with him because, as with Liza Drake, he could not tell how much of what he had heard was truth and how much was neatly manufactured for his benefit. He realized Stinson had spoken again.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Stinson had leaned back and most of the brightness had gone from his gaze.
“I said, I suppose I’ll have to wait.”
“For a while, yes,” Dave said. “They’re mailing a copy of the will down and it will have to be probated—I don’t know where yet. I don’t know about the tax situation. I’ll have the authority to make some small advances but—”
He shrugged and left the sentence unfinished. Stinson sighed and stood up. He said he understood. He did not mean to be hasty. As he backed toward the door he added that he would be glad to co-operate in any way he could.
Frank Tyler came over a few minutes later with a similar idea in mind but in his case there was no hesitancy or finesse in his presentation. What he had in mind was money, and how soon could he get it.
“Let’s get that mortgage John was talking about yesterday,” he said. “That way I can collect part of my share and be on my way.”
Dave looked at him with wonderment and then disgust, the anger rising in him as he examined the blond features which he had once thought handsome and seemed now to reflect only impatience, petulance, and greed. Seeing him lean indolently against the doorway, all he could think of was that Tyler had caused Gannon all his trouble, killing his daughter and, for all he knew, the man himself.
Tyler must have sensed the thoughts behind Dave’s look because he colored slightly. He sat down abruptly and when he spoke, he spoke not as an actor reading his lines but bluntly and with aggression.
“Okay,” he said. “So I’m the heavy in the piece. I ran off with Alice Gannon. I took her away from a comfortable home and put her in a cheap two-room apartment. To wrap it up neat I drove the car that killed her…. Did you know her?” he asked abruptly.
“Slightly.”
“The greatest kid in the world. I’ve heard how Gannon cracked, trying to jump and all that. I don’t blame him. He was entitled to plenty of remorse. But what about me? I loved her and I killed her. You think I’ll forget that? You think it’s something you get over? Ever?”
Dave listened with sudden amazement. He took another good look at Tyler and now he saw ridged jaw muscles, the stormy brown eyes. His hair was tousled and he needed a shave and his resentment was undisguised. He put his fists on his thighs, arms akimbo.
“I’m an actor,” he said. “I guess you don’t think much of actors. Most people don’t, especially unsuccessful actors; but that’s what I want, that’s what I am. I was lucky enough to get east last summer. I landed a job on the Cape and I met Alice and we fell in love. It’s as simple as that. I met Gannon just once and he hated my guts.”
He hesitated, scowling, as though at the unpleasant thoughts his words had conjured up.
“He said I wasn’t good enough for her, and in that he was right, but he misjudged Alice. She was twenty-four and she was in love and she wanted to get married. She said her father would get over it once he got used to the idea. She never dreamed that anything else could happen. We wired him from New York and again from Chicago. She wrote him from L.A. and wrote him again, and there was no answer, and after a third letter she began to get the idea. It broke her up because Gannon was the only man she’d ever really known until I came along. He was her father and she loved him and she couldn’t understand why he should treat her that way.”
He took a breath and said: “She began to drink a little more than she should and who was I to argue with her? I could hardly keep her in coffee and cake. She had to stick around this lousy little flat because I had to have the car so I could keep looking for work. I got some now and then. An extra spot sometimes, a couple of days here and there, once in a while a radio or TV shot but nothing regular. You know why she re-assigned me her rights in this place? I’ll tell you,” he said.
“Because
we were broke and we thought with that interest in my name I might be able to borrow a bit on it. I owed people here and there and I got tired of hitting my friends for ten or twenty bucks. I took the assignment to my agent and he turned out to be a better guy than I suspected. He let me have five hundred and told me to forget the collateral. To celebrate, Alice and I lifted a few. We decided to go out for dinner to this place down the coast. We got in the car and a trailer truck forced me off the road.”
He stopped abruptly and his mouth took on a sardonic twist. “Quite a monologue, hunh?”
Dave could think of no reply. The driving sincerity of the hard-spoken words carried a ring of conviction and he guessed that this much, at least, was truth.
“So much for the prologue,” Tyler said. He leaned back and crossed his legs. “So how about the mortgage?”
“There won’t be any mortgage,” Dave said, “until I find out what the tax situation is, and maybe not then.”
For another moment, Tyler’s gaze remained stormy. Then, unexpectedly, as though deciding bluster would get him nowhere, he grinned.
“I’d be willing to sell out at a discount for cash.”
Dave shook his head.
“Then how about an advance?”
“Not from me. Not now anyway.”
“I could go to court.”
“Why don’t you?”
Tyler thought it over, apparently too concerned with his own problems to take offense.
“I’ll tell you why I want it,” he said. “Why I came here to see Gannon. I didn’t think he knew Alice had re-assigned her interest to me and I didn’t expect him to pay up. But I was hoping I Could make a deal. Look, how much is this place worth?”
Dave told him what Stinson had said.
“That’s what I mean. I thought maybe if I offered to give back this interest that I would eventually be collecting on, for say ten or twelve thousand now, why then Gannon might go for it. It would be a good deal for him, wouldn’t it?”
He did not wait for an answer but said: “The reason I want that ten is because I’ve got a hook-up with a smart young producer-director and a writer who’s got a sweet idea and knows how to write a sound television script. What we want is to make a pilot film. We have to have that if we’re going to peddle the show. We think it’s a natural, and this ten with what they’ve got would put it over.”
He stood up and began to pace the floor, his gaze roving. “You heard what happened yesterday. I didn’|t even get a chance to speak my piece. Gannon blew his stack.” He turned to look at Dave. “Now it’s different. I’ve really got a quarter interest in this outfit, haven’t I? Do you think a bank would give me a loan?”
Dave rose, knowing that one thing was clear. If Tyler’s proposition would wait, he would most certainly be able to raise all the money he needed. But he did not say so. He did not know why. Something about the man’s personality continued to rub him the wrong way and he still did not know what he was really like inside.
“Why don’t you go to a bank and ask?” he said. “Then you’ll know.”
With that, and having had quite enough of Tyler, he went into the kitchen for a can of beer. He took his time opening it and when he came back the big man was gone.
CHAPTER NINE
BETTY NELSON’S SMALL AND ANCIENT COUPE was gone from its accustomed place when Dave drove the Gannon sedan behind her unit. The transients had not yet started to arrive and the motel had a quiet, deserted look as he passed the office and turned south into the swift-moving traffic.
Overhead the sun was bright, and heat rose in steady waves from the highway, infiltrating the car so that even the breeze seemed uncomfortably humid. The roadside stands looked cheap and discouraged with their lack of customers, and the shirt-sleeved citizens of Vantine moved slowly and kept to the shady side of the street.
Dave drove straight on through, knowing what he wanted to do and making his plans even though the idea persisted that this trip would probably prove to be a fool’s errand. It was really nothing more than a certain native stubbornness that kept him going until, a half hour later, he came to the town of Eaton, which proved to be little more than a crossroads with an overhanging traffic light, a filling station, a drugstore, a half block of one-story shops and offices and, up ahead, a movie theater with more offices on the second floor.
He slowed down after he had passed the traffic light, keeping well to the side of the road until he saw the sign of a motel. He turned into the drive before he realized that the buildings were new and attractive, the grounds tastefully landscaped and kept. The sign said The Plantation and Dave kept on going until he circled back on the highway and headed back toward Eaton, knowing full well the sixty thousand dollars George Stinson had mentioned would hardly be more than a modest down payment on such an establishment.
Back in the village he turned right, toward the ocean, and parked in the nearest space. When he stepped to the sidewalk he found himself in front of a small, square, stucco building. Over the door a sign said: George Bradbery—Real Estate. Underneath, in smaller lettering, were the words, Sales, Leases, Rentals … Business, Residential … Notary Public. The two windows each held a bulletin board on which were listed current offerings. Beside the boards were glossy prints of some of the more outstanding bargains.
Dave opened the screen door and went inside. Immediately in front of him were three yellow-oak chairs and a wicker table on which were some real estate magazines. Beyond this and facing the street was a large flattop desk and still farther back a girl nearly surrounded by filing cabinets was pecking at a typewriter.
George Bradbery was a plump, perspiring man clad in poplin trousers, supported by suspenders, and a short-sleeved sport shirt. He had a large blueprint of some development spread out before him and when he glanced up and saw Dave he rose immediately and came forward, his smile genial, his manner hearty. He offered a warm, damp hand when Dave introduced himself. He said:
“Mr. Barnum, I’m real pleased to meet you. Sit down.” He leaned back, the chair springs protesting with the strain. “Now, sir, what can I do for you?”
Dave smiled back and it was a real nice smile when he worked at it; his manner was as pleasant as Bradbery’s. He said he was going to be perfectly frank. He had no intention of doing business today. He just wanted to make some inquiries and look around; if Mr. “Bradbery was too busy he could come back another time.”
“Never too busy, Mr. Barnum. If a man came in here cold, like you, and offered to buy a piece of property without looking around I’d think there was something wrong. Look around. Yes, sir, that’s the way to operate. Where’re you from, Mr. Barnum?”
“Massachusetts.”
“The Cradle of Liberty. And if you’ve got the idea like some people from the North that the ‘Crackers’ are out to swindle you, you can rest your mind while you’re in my hands. I’m from Pennsylvania myself. Came down here five years ago and it was the smartest thing I ever did. Frankly, Mr. Barnum, I’m a one-hundred-per-cent booster for the town of Eaton, and I’ll tell you why.”
He uncradled his fat neck and began to rock in his chair. “Because it’s got everything. Climate—the Gulf Stream comes in pretty close here, which means we’re warmed in the winter and cooled in the summer—safe bathing, a wonderful beach. There’s an inlet from the sea a mile down the road and that means we’ve got some of the finest fishing in the whole United States. You’ll see the day when this town’ll be built up solid for miles around. Can’t help it. Where’re people going to go? Look what happened to Lauderdale, Hollywood. Look what’s happening to Delray.”
Dave felt himself nodding agreement with each statement. He kept his grin under control. It wasn’t necessary to say a word. All he had to do was nod. He watched Bradbery wave a dimpled hand to the westward.
“Inland across the railroad tracks,” he said, “you’ll find the highest spot in this whole county. Eaton Heights. You couldn’t call it a hill. You couldn’t hardly call it much o
f a grade, but it’s there just the same. You can see the ocean, you get a breeze. Today you can buy a sixty-foot lot for as little as eight hundred and fifty dollars. Tomorrow”—he tipped one hand—“who knows. Houses going up right and left. Retired people, a lot of them. People that want to be near the ocean but not too close, people that want value.”
He belched and said: “Pardon me…. Down here, of course, we’re zoned for business. We’re not going to blow up into any overnight boom, you understand. Just steady, solid growth to accommodate the people who come here to live. Building going on all around you. All you have to do is use your eyes. A hundred and fifty yards down this road you’ll come to the Inland Waterway—Intra-Coastal Waterway’s the proper name. You’ve heard of it?”
Dave nodded. This time he said yes.
“Well, there’s maybe two thousand feet between there and the beach. Down there right now there’re two fine developments started. Houses already going up. Of course, values are different in that section. Prices are higher. Lots start around thirty dollars a foot and go up just as high as you’d want to pay. The ocean front property is all in sound hands but it can be bought, here and there, if a man means business.”
He leaned forward suddenly, as though the chair spring had catapulted him. He lowered his voice and smiled.
“Now,” he said, “just what was it you had in mind, Mr. Barnum?”
Dave pretended to give the question serious consideration. He pursed his lips and frowned.
“It’s just a thought I had,” he said, “but I was wondering if there was a motel around that could be bought right, maybe something not too big. It wouldn’t have to be too prosperous looking if it could be developed.”
“Say no more. I’ve got the place. Fine location. Owner sort of let it run down but a young man with gumption and some get up and go could do wonders with it.”
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