The Surfside Caper (8 page)

I said, “I’m in a telephone booth near the corner of Main on—” I leaned out and squinted at a street sign on the corner. “—Bay Avenue. Come down here and we’ll split a jug of clam juice.”

He gave a wary grunt.

I said, “Of course, drinking clam juice could be illegal at this time of night. The law might take mine away before you get your share.”

He got the idea. He said. “Stay there.” He hung up.

I gave him ten minutes. He took eight. His big cream-colored Cadillac wallowed around the corner and dipped to a stop beside the booth. The door came open. I made a quick run across the deserted sidewalk and climbed in. He jetted off toward the bay. Above the purr of his motor I could hear a wailing siren coming back from Craybaugh’s flower farm.

He said, “What gives, Flynn?”

I said, “I’ve been out to Milo Craybaugh’s place to pick flowers. Somebody there objected. They called the cops.”

He swung the Caddy down a sidestreet and then angled back to the road to the Surfside. The speedometer clicked up to eighty as we left town. I found a cigaret and lit it.

He said, “Who’s Milo Craybaugh?” as if he’d never heard the name.

I said, “The guy who had dinner with Annette Lofgren.”

He said, “Oh, the jockey type.”

I said, “That’s right. Only Craybaugh won’t ever ride another winner. He’s been scratched.”

Dolphin braked the car for the turn into the Surfside road. He kept braking until we stopped. He swung his big head warily in my direction.

“Get it said, Flynn. I don’t like to be horsed around at one-thirty in the morning.”

I said, “Milo is dead. From a bullet. It went into the back of his head.”

Dolphin blew air through his fleshy lips. “You went to his place and bumped him?”

In Dolphin’s world you visited people to kill them, like you’d drop in to have a neighborly drink.

I said, “Why should I go out to his farm to kill Craybaugh when all I had to do was look on your
lanai.
That’s where I found him.”

He stopped blowing air through his lips. He settled in his seat and looked through the windshield at the pattern his headlights made on the blacktop road. He started up the Caddy and rolled it onto a wide stretch of gravel in the V of the junction. He cut the lights, but he left the motor ticking over.

He said, “There isn’t a body on my
lanai.”

I said, “I hauled Milo home in his own stationwagon. His night watchman nearly caught me. I had to swipe a truck and run for it.”

Dolphin’s voice was heavy with suspicion. “You don’t work for me, Flynn. Why try to cover for me?”

I said, “I can think of a lot of reasons, but none of them would flatter you.”

He grunted. He said, after a minute, “Why would anybody bump the guy at my place? I never even heard of him before.”

I said, “He heard of you. He knew you were here on some kind of a deal. He thought I was in the same deal, on your side.”

Dolphin grunted again. He said, “Craybaugh. Craybaugh … Wait a minute. That was the name on the truck that you suckered into running off the road.”

I let his words hang in the air while he took time to light one of his expensive cigars. He didn’t seem to have anything more to say. I said, “That’s the same Craybaugh. He’s also Annette Lofgren’s fiancé.”

Dolphin’s cigar tip jerked in the darkness. He said, “You talked to this guy before he was shot?”

I said, “We had a real cozy chat on your
lanai.
That’s where I found him.”

The cigar glowed, showing me Dolphin’s expression. It wasn’t a happy one.

“When was this?”

I said, “You went for a ride with Annette.” I paused. He didn’t waste time on a denial. I went on. “I hiked to your place to see what I could smell out. Craybaugh was already there. He put a gun in my ribs. We chewed the fat awhile. He thought I was down here working for you.”

Dolphin scowled. “Doing what for me?” he demanded.

“He didn’t say. But I got the idea it was tied in with Annette. Which could explain Craybaugh’s interest.”

Dolphin said, “So you talked. Then what?”

I said, “Then one thing led to another and he pitched me over the
lanai
wall. By the time I came to and climbed back, he was dead. And that brings it right down to you.”

“Why to me?” Dolphin said. “I was out riding with the Lofgren dame. You said so.”

I said, “What time did you two get back?”

“Who watches clocks?” he said.

I said wearily, “Dolphin, I’ve got questions that need answering. Tonight. Before the Rio Pollo cops come and haul me away. Because when they do, I’ve got to have answers, and good ones. Lieutenant Colton would like nothing better than to have me as a guest in his jailhouse. So stop playing it coy or I tell the cops Milo died on your
lanai.”

He thought a moment. He said, “If the cops are coming for you, this isn’t the place to talk, Flynn.” He switched on the lights and gunned the Caddy back to the road.

He drove right past the entrance to the parking area. He stopped where I had parked Milo’s wagon earlier. He said, “Cut through the trees to my place. The doors are open.”

I said, “You’re getting the idea real good now.” I climbed out of the car and started walking.

I
HOPED
Dolphin wouldn’t he in a hurry to get from the parking lot to his cottage. I had a lot of questions that needed answering, but right now I was in no shape to ask them.

I stopped at my own cottage long enough to wash my face and hands and change to another lightweight suit. I felt a little better but still not up to handling Dolphin.

He wasn’t going to scare easily, I thought. I trekked through the woods to his
lanai.
I climbed the wall and let myself into the living room by the unlocked French doors. And, I knew, if he didn’t scare easily, he couldn’t be pushed into answering some of the questions I had ready for him.

I put water to heat on his stove. I searched the cupboard and found a jar of instant coffee. The water boiled. I stirred the coffee into the pot and poured myself a cup. I tasted it carefully. I can tell the shape of my nervous system by my reaction to the stuff. If it tastes at all close to drinkable, then I’m hanging by my synapses.

This tasted like nectar.

I sat at the kitchen table and smoked and sipped coffee. My watch read 2:00
A.M
. I got up, a fresh cup of coffee in my hand, and started to prowl. I wasn’t thinking at first of checking Dolphin’s stuff. I just couldn’t sit still. But one thing led to another and I stood in the bedroom doorway looking thoughtfully at his suitcase on the rack.

I went to the living room. I turned off the lights. I cracked the front door and peered outside. The path was empty. I scouted the
lanai.
Nothing there but dying moonlight.

I left the doors open and the rooms, except for the kitchen, dark. I took Dolphin’s suitcase and laid it on the floor in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. I started through it, keeping one ear cocked for his footsteps.

The suitcase held nothing but a couple thousand dollars worth of clothes. I put it back. I risked the bedroom light long enough to check the dressers. They were empty. So was the closet. Dolphin was keeping everything he owned in his suitcase. Habit, I thought. The way a man who lived for thirty years on the edge of having to run would act.

I turned out the bedroom light. I checked the living room desk. Still nothing. I went back to the kitchen and poured myself the last of the coffee. I tried the cupboards and drawers there. I made a final check of the bath. I didn’t know what Milo had come here to look for, but he obviously wouldn’t have found it. There was nothing to find.

My watch read 2:30. I was still alone. I turned out the kitchen light and went back to the front door. I looked out again.

I heard footsteps. Three pairs came down the main path. They didn’t hesitate at the junction. They turned south, toward my cottage. An unforgettable voice said, “Take the back, one of you on each side.”

Lieutenant Colton had arrived.

I stayed by the open door, listening to the tramping sounds Colton’s men made as they marched along the sides of the cottage. I heard the loud rap of Colton’s knuckles on the door panel. It wasn’t a diffident sound. He wasn’t going to be polite to me this time. My being a guest at the Surfside no longer meant anything.

Milo Craybaugh was dead and Colton’s mind was operating just as I expected it to act. I would need a lot of evidence to convince him that I hadn’t killed off Rio Pollo’s pet payroll, Colton knocked again. He called, not too loudly, “Open it up, Flynn.”

Flynn stayed where he was.

Colton’s footsteps retreated down the porch steps and around toward the back. He said to someone, “Go in through those
lanai
doors. If they aren’t unlocked, kick out a pane of glass.”

He walked back to the front door. I heard it open as one of his men went in from the
lanai.
The door closed. Lights came on, showing faintly through the trees.

I could picture Colton and his men pussyfooting from room to room with their guns drawn. The picture grew sharper. They stopped looking for me and started looking for evidence. And they found it.

That damn gun of Milo’s. It was still under the mattress where I had hidden it when Tibbetts came. No good cop would miss it. And the suit I’d just changed was in the closet. I wondered how much forest dirt, how many traces from Milo’s wagon, showed on it.

I could almost hear Colton’s happy gurgle as he clamped handcuffs on my wrists.

I couldn’t wait for Dolphin. Not now. Not just on the hope that he would give me the answers I needed. I had to find those answers for myself and I had to find them in a hurry.

I stepped onto the porch and shut the door quietly. I moved carefully into the woods. I was looking for the path Tibbetts had used to carry Annette to her apartment.

I learned one thing before I found it: I could never qualify as a Boy Scout. No animal would even wait around while I tracked him down. I stepped on every dead branch and pile of dry leaves in the Surfside forest trying to locate that path.

I found it and stopped. I tried to hear above my own hoarse breathing. I was expecting to see a flashlight, to hear Colton’s voice. But there was nothing. The night was still, without any breeze. I had only my own gusty breath for company.

I made better and quieter time now. I needed a flashlight. I lost my way twice and wandered onto the golf course. But eventually I reached the end. I stood in shadow and stared thoughtfully at Annette’s doorway.

Tibbetts or Annette first? Annette, I decided. She was the crux of this affair. Tibbetts might know everything that was going on or he might know a little and be guessing a lot.

I walked to Annette’s door and tried the knob. It was hoping for a lot to expect Tibbetts to have left the door unlocked. He hadn’t. I unlimbered my ring of pass keys. The first one slid into the grooves but turned nothing. I was on number six before I had a positive response. I opened the door and walked into the dark living room.

The bedroom door stood open, a patch of light against blackness. I walked toward it, listening for her breathing. A slice of moonlight slid through a crack in the drawn draperies over the window. It revealed a mound on the bed.

I could smell perfume and powder. I could hear nothing, not even Annette breathing. I stepped into the room. The moonlight showed me more now; a bare shoulder and an arm trailing toward the floor.

I took two fast steps. I put my hand out, touching the shoulder. The skin was cold and clammy. I wondered if she was dead drunk again or all the way dead?

I reached for the bedside lamp.

She wasn’t dead, but from her appearance she didn’t have far to go. Her skin had that peculiar quality of bled fowl. Her breathing was so light that I had to put my ear an inch from her mouth to hear it.

I sniffed her breath. An odor, half cloying sweetness, half medicinal, registered on my nose. I saw a glass on the bedside table. I sniffed it too. It had the same odor. The glass had drying white powder around the rim.

I felt Annette’s pulse. It was barely ticking over. I made a fast trip into the bathroom medicine chest. I found what I expected, a box of sleeping powders. There were nine in small envelopes. The label on the box read: “No more than
one
envelope every twenty-four hours.” The prescription had come from a San Francisco drugstore.

I looked into the bathroom wastebasket. It contained a few wadded facial tissues, a hank of hair like a woman pulls loose when she combs out a snarl, and three of the small envelopes.

I picked up the telephone. I had the operator ring Ingrid’s room. On the eighth buzz, Ingrid said sleepily, “Hello?”

I said, “This is hotel security. We’re checking on a Lawrence Flynn. You made a reservation for him here. He’s skipped without paying his bill. Mrs. Lofgren wants to talk to you about it right away.”

She couldn’t miss recognizing my voice. She said, “Larry! What is this all about?”

I said, “That’s what it’s all about—Larry Flynn. Come to Mrs. Lofgren’s office at once, please.” I hung up.

I wasn’t playing games. I wasn’t being coy. I was protecting my flank. Hotel switchboard operators, especially those on the eleven to seven dead shift, like to tune in on late phone calls. And some of them like to talk about what they hear. I wanted Lieutenant Colton to get the information I had just passed on. I wanted him to think I had skipped out.

And at the same time I wanted Ingrid here to help me with Annette.

I went back to the bed and listened for Annette’s breathing. I had to bend closer to her to hear anything at all now.

• • •

Ingrid hadn’t wasted any time dressing. She came in wearing only a thin summerweight dress. She hadn’t bothered to comb her hair or put on make-up. Her face was still puffy from sleep, but her eyes were bright and alert.

She said, “You’re in trouble, aren’t you, Larry? I saw two police cars parked outside.”

I didn’t feel like pussyfooting at this time of the morning. I said, “One of those cars brought a homicide cop named Colton. He’s looking for me. He thinks I killed a guy named Milo Craybaugh. He thinks I killed that truck driver, Samuels, too.”

I led her toward the bedroom. “So I’m on the run. And if Colton catches you with me, then you’ll be in the mess too. I won’t blame you if you go back to bed and forget I ever called.”

She didn’t hesitate. She said, “Just tell me how I can help.”

I opened the bedroom door. I pointed to Annette. I said, “I came to her to get some answers. I found her this way. It looks like she took a triple dose of sleeping powders. I called you because I remembered you had a roommate who pulled this stunt once.”

Ingrid walked up to the bed. She didn’t waste time asking questions. She bent and sniffed Annette’s breath. She put her hand on the pale, damp skin. She said, “Make some hot, strong coffee. I’ll look for an emetic. She hasn’t been out too long.”

I went into the kitchen and put water on to boil. I could hear Ingrid rattling around in the bathroom. She joined me, frowning. “No emetics. Are there any eggs?”

There were eggs. I got them out of the refrigerator. Ingrid broke three into a cup, separating the whites from the yokes. She moved with a brisk competence that I envied. My own hands were busy shaking coffee all over the countertop. I had the heebies.

Ingrid said, “I’ll need some help. Bring a big pan and a jug of lukewarm water.” She took the egg whites into the bedroom.

I found a two quart kettle and a quart pitcher. I filled the pitcher with water. I carried everything after Ingrid into the bedroom. She had Annette propped up against pillows. Annette was like overcooked spaghetti. There was no solidity to her.

Ingrid was holding tight to Annette’s shoulders. She said, “Bring some towels, big ones.”

I brought towels, Ingrid spread one under Annette’s chin and down over her breast. I was vaguely conscious that Annette was completely naked.

Ingrid said, “Now hold her.”

I held Annette’s bare shoulders. Ingrid tipped Annette’s head back and started pouring the egg whites down her throat. She used the same technique Tibbets had earlier with the liquid he had fed Annette. Only this took more work, more patience. There wasn’t enough aliveness left in Annette now even for her throat muscles to help out.

The egg whites went down. Nothing came up. Nothing happened at all. Ingrid followed the egg whites with a glass of luke warm water. Still nothing.

She said, “Get her up and walk her.”

I threw back the covers and lifted Annette in my arms. I slid her down until her feet touched the floor. I put a little weight on her legs. They folded limply. I lifted her back up. I held her against me, her feet barely brushing the floor and began to walk around the room.

Ingrid said, “Don’t jiggle her so hard. What is this all about, Larry? Why should anyone suspect you of murder?”

I stopped jiggling Annette and waltzed with her. I said, “Colton suspects me of murder because someone set it up to put the finger on me.”

I filled her in on what had happened. I owed her an explanation now. Before, I had been anxious to keep her out of my troubles. I still felt that way, but she did have a right to know what was going on.

I said, “That’s where it stands. Annette went for a ride with Jacob Dolphin. She came back and got drunk. The last I saw of her, Tibbetts was pouring something down her throat.”

“Do you think he could have given her the sleeping powders?”

I said, “He could have. But why would he? The poor devil is in love with her.”

“Maybe he was jealous because she went out with Dolphin.”

I said, “I doubt that. I think her relationship with Dolphin is strictly business, and that Tibbetts knows it. No, she took the sleeping powders herself. I’m fairly certain of that. But I don’t know why.”

Ingrid was watching Annette’s slack features. A frown worried her forehead. “Do you think
she
killed those men and then tried to kill herself?”

I said, “She could have shot Milo, but I can’t see her breaking Samuels’ neck.”

“She could if she knew just how to push or snap or whatever you do when you break a neck,” Ingrid said. “He was unconscious, wasn’t he?”

I hadn’t thought of it that way. I slowed my waltzing down.

Ingrid said, “Only you told me that she was engaged to this Milo and he was trying to help her. It doesn’t make sense for her to have killed him.”

I said, “It doesn’t make sense for anyone to have killed him—except me. That’s the way Colton will think. Milo and I had a fight, remember.”

Ingrid wasn’t listening. She was frowning harder. She said, “She isn’t reacting at all, Larry. And she should. She wasn’t awfully far under when I got here.”

I stopped jiggling Annette. I put her on the bed. I was sweating hard. I looked down at her slack, pale features as I drew the covers over her.

I said, “Maybe I’d better call a doctor.”

“That will mean the police,” Ingrid said.

I said, “To hell with the police. I can’t let her die just because a pea-brained cop thinks I killed his leading citizen.”

I reached for the phone on the bedside table. Ingrid put a hand out, holding my wrist. “Maybe that man Tibbetts will know what to do. You said he took care of her when she passed out earlier.”