The Surfside Caper
Page 12
I said, “When I watched you two He like hell for each other.” I went to the door. “Tibbetts can settle the matter with his own conscience. He can’t use mine.” I looked squarely at him. “I’m not being noble, Tibbetts. I’m not protecting you or Annette. I’m still thinking of Nils.”
I looked away from him. I didn’t want to see his face any longer. I said, “With all the money you have, Annette, I suggest you stake Tibbetts to a good lawyer and let him tell his story to the San Francisco cops. They’ll probably pin a medal on him.”
I put a hand on the doorknob. “Then I suggest you sell this place to Global Hotels and both of you get the hell out of here. Go live on Milo’s farm. Make love in his flower beds. But don’t foul up what Nils worked a lifetime to create.”
I walked out. I couldn’t stay there. Not with them. I didn’t have the stomach for it.
I had a bellhop pack Ingrid’s bags. I put them and my own in the Porsche. I drove into Rio Pollo and to the neat little stucco hospital overlooking the bay.
Ingrid was waiting for me. I helped her into the car. She sat with one leg out straight. It was taped from ankle to knee. Her other knee was bandaged too. Both her hands were hidden by great swaths of cloth covering her from the elbows down. She had rammed that cliff face hard.
I said, “Was that true when you told Colton that Dolphin got you to go with him by telling you that I was on the run and needed your help?”
“Of course it was true,” she said. “I didn’t realize he was lying until we were halfway up the mountain. Then I started asking questions. I wanted to know why he had me sneak into his car. And I wanted to know just where you were—and all sorts of things like that. He tried to answer but I knew he was lying. I said so and then he … he told me what he was going to do with me when we got to the top of the cliff.”
I started the Porsche rolling. I took one hand off the wheel and touched her. I said, “No wonder you were willing to jump. Even so, it took a lot of guts. How bad are you under those bandages?”
“Not too bad,” she said. “The doctor said I’ll be all right in three days.”
I said, “That’s perfect.”
She said, “Perfect? Larry, where are we going? You aren’t taking me home, are you?”
I said, “We’re going to a little motel down the coast. It’s right on the water. Not a fancy set-up like the Surfside, but each unit has a nice kitchen and a big, soft double bed.”
“A double bed! With me in this condition?”
I said, “I can’t think of a better condition for you to be in. How often does a man get a chance to go to a motel with a girl who can’t slug him for three whole days?”
I drove a little faster.
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Copyright © 1961 by Louis Trimble.
Copyright © renewed 1989 by R. Mary Todd Trimble.
Published by arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency.
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
eISBN 10: 1-4405-4204-X
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4204-6
Cover art © 123RF/yurok