Ed McBain - The House That Jack Built

The place had a Forties look about it.

Matthew figured it for a Mom-and-Pop dream gone sour — come on, Maude, let’s move to Florida, buy ourselves a little motel down there, live like a king and queen, whattya say? Back then, you couldn’t build hotels or motels on any of Calusa’s beaches, the local zoning regulations were that strict. All the motels — some ten or twenty of them in all — were strung out on U.S. 41, the Tamiami Trail. The few infrequent souls who happened onto the Gulf Coast didn’t mind driving the five, ten, fifteen miles to the beach, depending on location. The beaches were wild and virtually unpopulated in those days; you could swim naked and alone at high noon. The town itself was nothing more than a sleepy little fishing village.

All of that changed in the late Fifties, early Sixties, when Calusa and the West Coast of Florida got discovered. The minute the builders and contractors sniffed money on the prevailing winds, they set about convincing the politicians that tourism would be a good thing. So the zoning regulations changed and the hotels and motels began sprouting like mushrooms on the white sands. Goodbye to the aspirations of all those Mom-and-Pop motels along the Trail. Except for the very height of the season — like now, in February, in the rain — the motels on the mainland were empty, and you couldn’t build a dream on vacant rooms.

Matthew got out of the Karmann Ghia, opened his umbrella, and walked over the muddy driveway to the office. A woman in her late thirties was behind the counter. A little black plastic plaque with the words IRENE McCAULEY, MGR., stamped onto it in white was on the counter alongside a clear plastic holder containing American Express application forms. A newspaper was spread open on the counter. Irene McCauley, if that’s who she was, stood leaning over the newspaper, elbows on the counter, reading the newspaper. She looked up when Matthew came in. She watched him as he closed the umbrella.

“Is the sign busted again?” she asked.

“What?” he said.

“The ‘No Vacancy’ sign,” she said. “It’s sometimes on the blink. If you’re looking for a room, we’re booked solid through the rest of the month.”

“Are you Miss McCauley?” he asked.

“ Mrs . McCauley,” she said.

Pity, he thought. She was an extremely good-looking woman. Solemn blue eyes. Shiny brown hair worn almost to her shoulders, bangs on her forehead. Black short shorts and a black halter top. Slender nose, generous mouth. Good breasts. Good legs, too, what he could see of them behind the counter. She realized he was checking her out. Raised her eyebrows. So? her expression said. Everything in the right places? He felt suddenly embarrassed.

“Mr. Hurley is expecting me,” he said. He was lying. “Can you tell me what unit he’s in?”

“Eleven,” she said. “Next to the last one on your right.”

“Thanks,” he said, and opened the door, and opened his umbrella, and stepped out into the rain.

The approach he’d worked out was a simple one:

Mr. Hurley?

Yes?

Matthew Hope. I’m an attorney. Summerville and Hope. I’m representing Ralph Parrish, who’s been charged with the murder of his brother, Jonathan Parrish.

Yes?

So far, so good, everything on the up and up.

Now came the change of pace.

Mr. Hurley, my client has given me your name as a witness to certain events that occurred on the morning of January thirtieth. Before we answer the State Attorney’s demand for notice of alibi. I wonder if I could have a few words with you.

So, okay. Two possible reactions.

Yes, I am that person your client saw running off, and I did witness a murder, but We been afraid to come forward. It wasn’t your client who committed that murder, it was…

Who?

That was the first possible scenario.

Benevolent witness fingers the true murderer. In which case, all of Matthew’s troubles would be things of the past, and so would Parrish’s.

Second scenario.

The dangerous one.

I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.

In which case. Mr. Hurley, the possible man in black, was also the possible murderer.

What then?

Sorry to’ve bothered you. sir. and get the hell out of there before Hurley…

Before he what?

Matthew wished Warren Chambers and his gun were here at the Calais Beach Castle.

Head ducked, umbrella tilted against the driving rain like a black shield shunting enemy arrows. Matthew hurried across the courtyard, dodging puddles, leaping across rivulets, and in general doing a fairly good job of broken field running until he stepped shin-deep into a pothole brimming with cold brown water.

“Shit!” he said, and heard someone laugh behind him. and turned to see Irene McCauley standing just outside the office door, hands on her hips, legs fully revealed now and as long and as shapely as he’d suspected they were. Tight black shorts, loose black halter top. legs slightly spread in black backless high-heeled sandals — he suddenly realized what she reminded him of the poster for Damn Yankees , when he was still a kid and the show was playing Chicago. Lola getting whatever Lola wanted by standing spread-legged in what looked like just her underwear and black high heels, give ‘em the leg-and-crotch shot, Gwen.

“That’s a real bad one,” Irene said. “Catches a lot of people. I should have warned you.”

“Better late than never,” he said sourly.

His shoe, his sock, and part of his trouser leg were covered with mud. He looked down at them. He lifted the sodden trouser. Mud on his leg, too, above the sock. He put down his foot. Water squished in his loafer.

“Let me get you a towel,” Irene said, and went back into the office.

He followed her there. He stood outside on the front step, under the umbrella, looking out at the rain, feeling stupid.

“Well, come on in,” she said. “This isn’t a priceless Persian rug.”

It wasn’t a priceless any kind of rug, for that matter. It was only green linoleum, worn through in spots, especially directly in front of the counter and in front of the sofa on the right-angle wall. The screen door clattered shut behind him. He had the sudden feeling — as he sat on the sofa and took off his loafer and his sock, as he accepted a clean white towel from this woman with the solemn blue eyes and the shiny brown hair — that he had lived through all of this before, had sat in a small room that smelled of wet garments and dry heat while the rain fell steadily outside.

“Thank you,” he said.

Their eyes met.

“I should have warned you,” she said again.

He began drying his leg, his foot.

“Let me wring out that sock for you,” she said.

“No, really…”

“No trouble,” she said, and picked it up from where it lay on the floor near his loafer, her hand in sudden closeup, fingernails painted a bright red, hand closing on the blue sock, she moved out of the frame, he raised his eyes. She opened the screen door, stood holding it open with her hip as she wrung out the sock.

Beyond her, rain swept the courtyard.

He had been here before, had lived through these moments before.

“I love rain,” she said suddenly.

The screen door clattered shut again.

“Let me throw this over the heater,” she said.

“I really have to see Mr. Hurley,” he said.

“He won’t be going anywhere in this rain,” she said, and went behind the counter. He watched as she draped the sock over the protective guard of the electric heater. “I’ll have to fill in that hole once the season’s over,” she said. “Come summer, it gets dead as a doornail down here, I’ll have plenty of time to fix it.”