James Chase - Figure It Out for Yourself

Where did Mary Jerome come in on all this? Who was she? Brandon had made a feeble attempt to find her, but appar-ently 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 even-ing 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 handforks, 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 ter- race. 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…’

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.