Never Bet Your Life

by George Harmon Coxe

  “A person-to-person call,” he said, “to Los Angeles. Mr. Jeffrey Harding.” He spelled the name and gave the address, and ten minutes later he was talking to a man who had been his classmate at law school.

  “I want you to check a will for me, Jeff,” he said when the amenities were finished. “Got a pencil? … Okay. An Albert L. Colby. Died about six months ago, so the will should be a matter of record…. I’m not sure but it could be Los Angeles, Beverly Hills, or maybe Santa Monica.”

  He laughed at his friend’s protest, “Sure, I know it’s a lot of territory, but do the best you can…. Sure…. I’d like to know the will’s provisions, the amount of the estate, who inherits. I think the firm handling the estate is Leeman & Vance. I can’t give you the address but it should be in the Beverly Hills directory…. Good boy. Call me here between seven and eight, your time,” he said, and gave his number….

  Carl Workman and the Widow Collins had the beach to themselves and when Workman spotted Dave he beckoned.

  “Park it, son,” he said. “This is Mrs. Collins—Mr. Barnum. Thelma—Dave.”

  Thelma wore dark glasses that all but covered her penciled brows, so Dave could not tell much about her eyes or what she was thinking. He revised his opinion about her thinness as he sat down, for he saw now that there was enough roundness here and there to warrant the word slender. But he had been right about her age. Small lines had started to work along the corners of the mouth and eyes, and in the neck. Her face was oily with lotion but her skin was pale, and her slightly accented voice seemed more affected than cultured when she acknowledged the introduction.

  “Thelma’s been over around St. Petersburg,” Workman said, “and she’s having a look around this coast.” He grinned at her and said: “She’s decided to stay here a few days.”

  “I like it,” she said, a faint huskiness in her languid voice. “This beach is quite marvelous.”

  She opened an expensive-looking straw bag and took out a leather cigarette case and a gold lighter. Workman took the lighter from her when she offered the case to Dave. She put a cork-tipped cigarette between her painted lips when Dave refused and held her face up so Workman could give her a light.

  She chatted pleasantly on about this and that and Dave answered as pleasantly when an answer was necessary, the thought coming to him that somehow the woman reminded him of Liza. They could not have been more opposite in looks and figure and yet the idea remained they had much in common. He could not say why; he only knew that to him they seemed like the same type of woman, though exactly what that type was he did not know.

  She came up on her knees when she flipped her cigarette away. She said she mustn’t get too much sun at first. She brushed sand from her fingertips and fitted her cap with care around her auburn curls. When she removed her glasses Dave saw that her eyes were green; her glance, as she smiled at him, was bold and secretly speculating.

  “Are you coming in?” she asked.

  “In a minute,” Workman said. “You go ahead.”

  She walked away, hips swinging and shoulders high. For a moment Workman seemed to watch her with approval and then his eyes sobered and he looked at Dave.

  “How’d you make out?”

  “About what?”

  “With Vaughn. You said you had a date.”

  Dave considered the matter thoroughly before he replied. He had not talked to Workman before and was not sure that Vaughn would want him to go into the information he had about Stinson. On the other hand Workman had impressed him as a very capable guy. He had been a policeman himself; he was also under some suspicion. With the idea that it might be worth while to get Workman’s reaction on certain things, he said that Vaughn was beginning to think that Stinson might be guilty.

  “Me too,” Workman said.

  “Why?”

  “Nothing in particular. It’s just that I’m leery of these quiet, harmless-looking guys. They blow up all of a sudden, Stinson know about the mortgage and he was here. If he made up his mind to do the job it would have been a cinch. Was a cinch—because up to now he’s gotten away with it.”

  Dave listened to certain other remarks in the same vein, none of them new. He waited until Workman had finished before he changed the subject, reconsidering now an earlier decision.

  “Who besides Resnik,” he said, “would want to kill Betty?”

  “Betty?” Workman gave him a hard bright stare. ‘“Are you kidding?”

  “I wish I thought so.”

  “When?”

  “Last night on her way back from Boothville.”

  Then he told the story as he knew it, glancing covertly at the other from time to time. Workman did not seem to be aware of the inspection. He was staring seaward, his tanned face somber, his narrowed gaze bleak.

  “You tell Vaughn?” he asked finally. “What did he say?”

  “He said he hadn’t been able to find out a thing.”

  “He’d need some luck on a caper like that. Probably a stolen car.”

  “Or a rented one. Resnik could arrange a thing like that.”

  “Resnik could if he had to.” He gave Dave a moment of quick inspection. “You figure Resnik slugged you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ever figure that even if he did it wouldn’t prove he killed Gannon? That shooting could have happened before.”

  Dave said it had occurred to him.

  “I think you have to look at it this way,” Workman said, deliberate now. “If Resnik shot Gannon he’d probably try a stunt like that with a car. If he did, and he failed last night, he’ll try again. If he didn’t kill Gannon, that’s something else.”

  “If it wasn’t Resnik, who was it?”

  “There,” said Workman, “you’ve got me.” He might have said something more because deep down his amber eyes were disturbed. But just then Thelma called to him.

  He looked at her standing thigh deep in the breaking surf. He said: “Nuts!” impatiently but he waved back at her and stood up. He looked down at Dave.

  “I’ll see you,” he said. “Keep your eye on Betty, Barnum. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to her. And it could, you know. It just possibly could.”

  Dave watched the tanned, muscular figure lope down toward the water. He considered what had been said and out of it all he had but one impression: Workman was disturbed. It showed in little ways that defied analysis but the impression remained.

  It was one thirty before Dave was ready for lunch and when he realized he still had a half hour before the Coffee Shop would close he walked along the drive behind the units until he came to Stinson’s stall.

  The car was a two-year-old, two-door sedan, gray, the finish still quite good. Dave examined it from behind while he visualized the angle of contact a car would make in forcing another off the road.

  “The right rear fender,” he said, half aloud. “Or maybe that side of the bumper.”

  He moved a foot or so to his right and then he saw the scratch. It was a dent really, not deep, but there was a brightness of metal which suggested it had been put there not too long ago. It was well down near the rear of the flaring fin of the mudguard, just in front of the bumper. He stared at it, his interest quickening, and leaned close.

  “Take it easy,” he said to himself. “Don’t get excited. You don’t know if that dent was made yesterday, the day before, or five days ago.”

  He examined the surface to see if he could find any signs of a different color paint but detected nothing that helped him any. He was aware that the right sort of spectroscopic analysis might disclose something of value but there was certainly no clue that he could see with the naked eye. He backed away, the excitement still working on him. He examined the left rear fender.

  There was a dent there too, though not in the same place and not so new looking. He moved toward the front and found a scratch on the left front fender and there was a scrape of paint, not gray, on the outer curve of the bumper which spoke of another near accident.

&n
bsp; He moved back into the open, the excitement oozing away as common sense began to assert itself. The more he thought about it the more he realized that most cars nowadays had dents or scratches somewhere on them. And yet there was a stubbornness working on him too that made him continue his survey, bringing him now to the next stall and the small sedan which occupied it.

  It was a current model with Florida plates, dusty but new looking underneath. The rear bumper had a dent in it. There was a scrape on the right rear fender that extended for a foot or more but was not deep enough to show the metal underneath. There was a scratch on the door panel.

  He stuck his head in the lowered window on impulse, wondering who the car belonged to, and on the dash he saw a small metal plate which proclaimed the owner as a Drive-Urself establishment with a Tampa address.

  “The Widow Collins,” he muttered and backed away.

  He glanced along the line of carports, empty now in the middle of the day. Betty’s was on the other side and he intended to look that one over too before he finished, though by now he was ready to admit that his knowledge of such matters was not sufficiently expert to do much good.

  Stopping again opposite Stinson’s car, he stooped down to examine once more the dent he had first noticed. He was standing that way when he realized someone had come up beside him unnoticed.

  “Looking for something?” George Stinson said, pleasantly enough.

  Dave flushed and felt embarrassed. Stinson’s pink face held a half-smile, and behind the spectacles his light-blue eyes were curious but not annoyed. Dave gave him a moment of thoughtful regard and, because the strain had been working on him for quite a while, he saw the other not as a polite and inoffensive man who had always been pleasant to everyone but as a possible murderer. He himself was by nature courteous and considerate of the feelings of others. Now, however, he answered directly, deciding to play it on the nose.

  “I was wondering when you got that dent.”

  Stinson bent down to see what Dave meant. He shook his head and made a noise in his throat that sounded like a small chuckle.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I didn’t even know it was there.”

  “Someone back into you while you were parked?”

  Stinson’s smile went away. “I told you,” he said stiffly, “it’s the first I’ve seen it.”

  “Were you on the road last night?”

  “When?”

  “Any time.”

  “Why?”

  “Because someone tried to force Betty down a bank last night on her way back from Boothville.” He went on, his tone level and distinct, seeing the stiffness grow in Stinson’s face as the color left it but keeping on until son, not his business at all. It was Vaughn’s job and he had finished.

  “You’re suggesting it might be me,” Stinson said, his voice shaking.

  “That dent’s in the right spot. I was just wondering.”

  Stinson’s eyes flared and the temper that Dave had wondered about came to the surface. He took a small step forward.

  “Why, damn you, Barnum! I’ve got a good notion to—” He did not finish the sentence but he looked mad enough to do whatever it was he had in mind. “Betty!” he said. “You miserable young sneak! What the hell do you mean by accusing me?”

  He took another step, his lips quivering as he fought to control them. “Get away from that car and stay away from it. If you’re so damn sure of yourself why don’t you go to the police?”

  Dave backed up a step without realizing it, so savage were the manager’s words. The fury of it surprised him not only because the reaction seemed out of proportion to the provocation, but because it suggested the reaction of a man already emotionally disturbed.

  “I have,” he said and then, not meaning to but stung by Stinson’s manner, the rest of it slipped out.

  “I also went to Eaton yesterday afternoon,” he said, “and talked to Ed Greer about that motel you’re going to buy, that option you were in such a hurry to get.”

  He knew it was not his business to be accusing StinVaughn would know how to handle it. He knew that, as he spoke and saw Stinson’s bespectacled face compose itself in stiffness, its color gone, the eyes stricken.

  “Vaughn’s checking,” he said. “He’ll be around to—”

  He broke off abruptly because he was talking to himself. Stinson had turned on his heel and now he was walking rapidly away and Dave watched him, feeling ashamed not so much at his outburst as at his own lack of self-control. What, he asked himself, was getting into him? Why should he be so nerved-up and jumpy and uncertain?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  DAVE AND BETTY went to the beach that afternoon shortly after three. Far to the right Frank Tyler lay on his back sunning himself. Fifty feet away and somewhat nearer the water Carl Workman was stretched out on his stomach, a towel covering part of his head. To the left, in isolated splendor, Mrs. Craft was asleep under her umbrella.

  They spread their beach towels and got cigarettes going and stretched out on their stomachs to improve their tans. Then, because they had never been alone like this since that first day on the beach, they began to talk about themselves as is the custom with couples in love.

  What they had to say was neither new nor original, for they spoke of likes and dislikes and were happily surprised to discover that, along with millions of others, they shared a mutual fondness for sea food, with particular emphasis on oysters and lobster, medium rare steaks, green salads, and blueberry pie. Music, they decided, was a must, especially “Dixie” when the mood was right. Bach, Beethoven, and the longhairs were absolutely essential, but between them and “Dixie” there was not too much to excite them. Piano players and records, yes. Chopin and Tatum, Horowitz and Chittison.

  It was all good fun and it took them quite a while to cover the subject thoroughly. Finally, her mood suddenly more thoughtful, Betty asked what Dave would do now. He had leaned up on one elbow to watch her better and he was examining the way her sun-bleached brown hair grew along the side of her head above the ear, the spacing of the freckles on the bridge of her small cute nose. He said what did she mean, what was he going to do?

  “Well—you’ll be sort of rich now, won’t you?”

  He chuckled at her frown. He said he didn’t think so. He said he didn’t know if the Club 80 property was free and clear or not. He didn’t know anything about Gannon’s debts or what the taxes and estate expenses would be.

  “Of course I’ll have something,” he said. “Maybe more than I ever expected to have at one time. But I can’t see how it will make much difference. Maybe I’ll drive a Pontiac or a Buick instead of a Ford, and I can have a nicer apartment. But other than that—”

  He let the sentence hang as his mind went on. “I’m a lawyer,” he said, his voice slow with thought. “I’m with a fine firm and if I keep my eye on the ball I should do all right. Money? I figure if you get money you can lose it too. Bad investments, speculation, one thing or another. The only real security a man has is within himself. If I’m a good lawyer and I work at my trade I’ll have a knowledge and experience and some sort of success that no one can take away from me, whether I’ve got money in the bank or not.”

  It was quite a speech and he realized how it might sound. He was about to say something to counteract it, when he saw a gleam in Betty’s eyes that stopped him. He did not know what it was because he had never seen it before. He only knew that the hazel eyes were softly misty, that what he saw way down deep quickened his pulse and was very wonderful to behold.

  She could not have known about the look but she must have known how she felt. Perhaps she realized she was exposing some secrets of her own because in the next instant she smiled brightly and glanced over at Mrs. Craft.

  “Do you think she’s asleep?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there are people on the beach and things to see.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like us. If you think she’s
bored I could give her something to think about.”

  She considered this with open eyes. “Oh?”

  “If I sat up and kissed you—”

  He sat up.

  She sat up.

  Her eyes said she approved but her voice and manner were mockingly horrified.

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  He laughed aloud. Over under the umbrella Mrs. Craft stirred. “Come on,” he said, “let’s get wet.” He offered a hand and pulled her to her feet and they headed for the lines of curling surf.

  The afternoon had nearly gone when Dave had finished dressing. He was glad about that because he had nothing to do except eat and wait around for a telephone call from California that would not come until ten o’clock.

  At six o’clock he remembered about the news. The radio was still tuned to station WTCX so he snapped it on and listened absently. Then he sat by the front window to watch the activity outside, for this was the time of day the tourists began to stop for the night and the routine always fascinated him. It gave his imagination something to do as he speculated about these people who came so swiftly and were as swiftly gone when morning came.

  A car would pull in—mostly northbound cars at this time of year—and either the man or the woman would get out, a little stiffly usually, and stumble toward the office door. There would be a minute or so of preliminary decision made at the desk and then the man or woman would come out and get back into the car.

  This, to the observer, was the crucial moment. Either the car would whip back onto the highway in search of other quarters or turn slowly into the drive. At the same time George Stinson or Mrs. Leland, who lived down the road and acted as a sort of managerial assistant, would come out, key in hand, and move along the lawn to a vacant unit while the car nosed into the proper port. Then both the man and woman would appear to inspect the premises. Usually that was the end of it and Mrs. Leland—it was Mrs. Leland who was doing the honors tonight—would scurry back to await the next car. Some time later the NO VACANCY sign was usually flashed on and that was the end of the performance for the day.

  Dave snapped off the radio when the news was finished. He started toward the kitchen to make his nightly cocktail and then he turned back, his dark-blue eyes focused in thought and a new narrowness growing in them as his frown came.