Mr. Williams shrugged and lighted a fresh cigarette. "I been here before."
"Well, I haven't, and I like it." Then an idea struck Alan. "I forgot to ask you—did you turn my letter over to the steward?"
"Yeah. I slipped him five bucks. He'll mail it in Valparaiso."
That was the only feature of this whole affair that Alan hated: the necessity for lying to Gail. He had squirmed throughout the writing of the letter. But, he reflected with a smile, it had been a good one. He had equipped himself with travel folders and had given vivid descriptions of each port at which the Tropicana would stop, and—from his own imagination—had supplied anecdote. He was thinking, when she learns the truth—someday—she'll never trust me again. And I shan't blame her.
At a few minutes before ten the next morning they went to the terminus of Pan American Airways, made their declarations, signed them, and stepped aboard the Clipper for the flight to Miami. With almost boyish enthusiasm Alan gazed down at the sapphire waters of the Gulf, and then later, at the long, narrow keys at the tip of the Florida peninsula. Within an hour and a half after leaving Havana they were circling the Dinner Key airport at Miami.
They went through the customs formalities quickly, neither man having made any purchases in Havana. They walked into the enormous waiting room and there were greeted by a tall, thin, grave man. Chuck said, " 'Lo, Doc. Meet Alan Douglas." To Alan he said, "This is Doc Greer. He carves you up tomorrow."
Dr. Sherman Greer had a pleasant smile. Alan sized him up quickly and experienced a feeling of confidence. As they rolled away from Dinner Key in Greer's car with its New York license, Alan and the surgeon chatted. It was a relief, reflected Alan, to talk to someone—anyone— who spoke in other than monosyllables. He had tried ineffectually to break through Chuck Williams' reserve. The white-faced, expressionless young man spoke only when he had to.
The car skirted the water front of Miami on Biscayne Boulevard and then swung to the right over the Venetian Causeway. In Miami Beach they turned northward along Collins Avenue. They passed 44th Street, drove a few more minutes past lovely estates, and then Dr. Greer stopped in front of a particularly attractive place and said, "Here we are. Open the gate, will you, Chuck?"
Chuck did as he was bidden. Watching him, Alan had the odd feeling that in these past few minutes his bodyguard had assumed certain qualities that were almost human. There was a spot of color in Williams' cheeks, the faintest bit of warmth in his hard eyes. They drove inside and Alan looked around and drew a deep breath. If Chuck had warmed up to this place, Alan felt that it was only natural.
Lew Hartley's estate was not one of the show places of Miami Beach, but it was definitely and lavishly beautiful. Lew had spent about a quarter of a million dollars on it, and he had received a dollar of value for every dollar expended.
The sprawling two-story house was of modified Spanish architecture, its austere whiteness relieved by vivid splashes of color. It rose from the midst of a velvety lawn, and was shaded by magnificent trees. In well-ordered beds there was a profusion of flowers: roses, carnations, sweet peas, snapdragons, petunias, delphinium, larkspur. Along the east and south sides of the house the azaleas and japonicas were beginning to come into radiant bloom. The driveway was lined with royal palms and there was a screen of rambler roses cutting off the swimming pool from the street.
Far beyond the house Alan could see the ocean and hear the steady, pleasant booming of the surf. The beach was broad and white—and private. A decorative stone wall separated the property from Collins Avenue, and from the neighbors on either side. There was a garage, which architecturally matched the big house. The second floor of this garage contained rooms for the male servants. The women servants lived in a small, neat cottage on the grounds, yet shielded from the garden by high hedges and flowering shrubs.
And so from the avenue to the ocean, the property belonged to Lew Hartley. And across Collins Avenue he owned a strip of property covering the narrow stretch between the avenue and Indian Creek. On that side there was a small boathouse and a dock at which was moored a seventy-five-footer, as well as a smaller and speedier craft.
Sherman Greer walked about the grounds with his prospective patient. He said, "Well, what do you think?"
Alan spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "That's a tough one to answer. I've never come in personal contact with luxury like this. The idea of spending the winter here... Boy!"
Dr. Greer led the way inside. There were no servants about, nor were there to be any until Alan had recovered from the operation and all traces of the improvised surgery had been removed. He showed Alan his room: a huge one with two windows overlooking the ocean and two facing south. It was furnished handsomely, and attached to it was a dressing room and a luxurious bath. "It's Hartley's room," explained Greer. "That's why you inherit it."
Alan seated himself on the edge of the bed and lighted a cigarette. He said, "Mind if I ask you a few questions, Doctor?"
"Certainly not."
"This operation... What's the program?"
"You'll eat a reasonable dinner tonight. We operate in the morning, fairly early. It won't be nearly as bad as you think. I'll use local anesthesia. You won't feel the slightest pain. You see, I didn't want to use an anesthetist. The fewer people who know..."
"I understand."
"As a matter of fact, you'll have a rather odd nurse. It'll be Wayne Hamilton, Hartley's attorney. I believe you met him in New York. I've trained him to help me, and he'll do pretty well. And I will remain here myself to take care of the postoperative treatment."
Alan said, "That sounds O.K.—but formidable. I suppose the patient is always a trifle apprehensive."
"No need to be, Douglas. You may have a slight swelling at first, but with only moderate discomfort. There will probably be a low-grade temperature. If I'm half as good as I'm supposed to be, you'll be right as rain and enjoying yourself within four weeks."
"Will I look like Mr. Hartley?"
"Approximately, yes. Precisely, no. That would be an impossibility. You'll let your mustache grow, of course. Your size, weight, bone structure, color of eyes, formation of teeth, plus the scar I'll give you and the prominent nose—well, you'll look so much like Lew Hartley that no one but an intimate would ever suspect the masquerade, and Hartley's few intimates—such as myself, for instance —are in the know."
Alan said, "And afterward?"
Sherman Greer glanced at him sharply, then looked away. The thought flashed through his mind that there would be no afterward; that this rather pleasant young man was slated to play the role of Lew Hartley not only in life, but in death as well. He said carefully, "I can bring you back to where you started, Douglas. All but the nose. And if you'll pardon my saying so, you'll wind up with a much nicer nose than you have now."
Alan laughed and rose. "Mind if I take a look around?"
"Help yourself. I'd keep away from the road, though."
"I understand." Alan walked downstairs, trying to accustom himself to this luxury. He found himself smiling at the thought that his role for the next few months would be that of master of this place. He was to be Lew Hartley, the servants and casual visitors would think he was Lew Hartley. The prospect was far from unattractive.
He walked out of the front door and turned toward the beach. The day was clear, the sun unusually hot for this time of year. He saw someone swimming toward Lew Hartley's private beach. The swimmer emerged and ran lightly across the hard sand toward Alan.
The young man looked once. He looked a second time. He said, "Wow!"
The girl who was coming toward him was—to put it mildly—spectacular. She was tall and she carried herself well. As for figure, nature had not been merely generous; it had been lavish. The curves were ample, and superbly distributed—yet the impression was one of slimness. Voluptuous slimness, if there is such a thing, decided young Mr. Douglas.
She continued walking toward him, moving with an easy, graceful stride. Apparently she had not
yet seen him. She raised her arms and pulled off the swim cap. A mass of hair, the color of new pennies, cascaded about her neck. She was close enough then for him to see that her complexion was blonde—flawlessly, strikingly blonde —and that her eyes were of clearest blue.
She saw him then, and approached him deliberately. She was apparently unmindful of the brevity of her swim suit. He knew that she intended to speak.
She came to a halt in front of him and eyed him from head to foot with a deliberation amounting almost to insolence. Then she said matter-of-factly, "You're the guinea pig."
His brown eyes met her blue ones. He borrowed a page from Chuck Williams' book and said nothing.
"You're Alan Douglas, aren't you?"
He smiled and shrugged. "Maybe I'm supposed to ask who you are."
She smiled radiantly. "Smart lad, aren't you? Cagy." Then she said, as though she were sure he'd understand, "I'm Sunny Ralston."
He said, "It fits."
She laughed ringingly. "Come off it, fella. I'm in on this too, you know."
He said, "I'm afraid I don't know very much."
"You mean they haven't told you about me?"
"No."
"Well, what do you know about that?" The idea seemed to amuse her. She said, "How do I shape up?"
"I think you know the answer to that one."
"I've been told." She eyed him again. "You're not so bad yourself."
"Thanks."
"You look better as you are. But I can see... yeah, they can make you look like Lew." Again he remained silent.
She smiled. "You're supposed to like me, mister. Think you can make the grade?"
"That shouldn't be hard."
"We'll be together a lot." Something seemed to strike her as highly amusing. "Well, why don't you ask me who I am?"
"All right—who are you?"
"I'm Lew Hartley's girl friend." She came close to him and spoke softly. "His own personal property. I go with the house." She paused a moment, to let her words sink in. "I'll be living in the room next to yours for a few months. And whether you like it or not, you've got to pretend to be crazy about me."
Chapter Seven
Within one week after the operation, Alan Douglas began to enjoy himself. The postoperative pain had given way to what could not be termed more than a slight discomfort, there had been no complications, the trifling fever had vanished, and he was not limited as to diet.
True, his face was swathed in bandages and there were times when he became acutely aware of the fact they had done things to his nose and leg and forehead, but it wasn't too unpleasant to relax in this luxurious room, to gaze out at the blue and white surf, and to be waited on by so decorative a creature as Sunny Ralston.
The huge house was virtually empty. Dr. Greer was present, of course, and Wayne Hamilton was very generally in evidence. Occasionally the expressionless and taciturn Chuck Williams eased into the room, remained for a few brief moments, and vanished again as silently as he had come. Theoretically, they shared the housework; actually, Sunny Ralston did most of whatever was done.
Alan Douglas had lived an average life. He was neither too sophisticated nor too innocent, but Sunny was a new experience for him. He had read of girls of her type, but this was his first contact with one—and he admitted to himself that the experience was far from unenjoyable.
There was something essentially pagan about the girl. Most of the time she wore slacks and at other times she walked about the sickroom in bathing suit and house coat, the latter revealingly open. Under all conditions she wore nothing more above the waist than a halter.
The quartet remained on the Hartley property. Excursions were barred to them because the house had not yet been officially opened, and it was no part of their plan to attract attention until Alan should be in condition to appear before the world as Lew Hartley. Dr. Greer and Wayne Hamilton spent endless hours instructing him on how to act when he did commence to circulate. Hamilton seemed to have the greater faculty for making himself understood.
"It's this way, Alan," he explained: "Hartley is an unsociable person, and even when you've said that, you haven't said half. I doubt if anybody has ever really liked him. He knows that and appears to relish it. He barks at everybody. He's rude to waiters. Acting that way will be your hardest job."
Alan nodded. "It won't be easy."
"But you've got to do it. Lew Hartley acting decently, or showing respect for the feelings of others—that really would attract attention."
"How about here—inside the grounds?"
"You can act pretty much as you please. But you must watch the servants. We're going to hire colored help from Miami. I suppose it's all right to be moderately decent to them—although to make it look good, you've got to fly off the handle once in a while."
"I'll try." Alan hesitated a moment, then asked a direct question: "What about Sunny?"
A glint of amusement showed in Wayne Hamilton's eyes. He said, "I thought she'd startle you."
"That doesn't begin to express it." Alan chose his words carefully. "I'm trying to get the setup, so I won't stub my toe."
Wayne Hamilton said, "I suppose you've figured out the relationship between Lew and Sunny."
"Yes."
"She's attractive—and expensive. Very expensive. Lew makes it a point to go everywhere with her. You'll have to do the same thing."
"That doesn't sound unpleasant."
"It won't be." Wayne Hamilton's eyes narrowed. "But remember one thing: When you're out with her, your name is Lew Hartley. When you get back to this house, you're Alan Douglas."
Alan flushed. "I don't think I needed that warning."
"Maybe not. But Sunny is volcanic."
Wayne Hamilton went downstairs and strolled toward the beach. There he found Dr. Sherman Greer lolling in a cabana. He pulled up a chair, slipped on a pair of sun glasses, and lighted a cigarette. He said, "I've been talking to little Rollo. He was asking where he fitted into the Sunny setup."
Sherman Greer laughed. "The young lady has a way with her. I think she's the only thing I've ever really envied Lew Hartley."
The lawyer's glance flicked across the face of his companion. "Do you understand the legal setup in this case, Doc?"
"Not entirely."
"Let me straighten it out for you. Lew has taken care of us handsomely—but he doesn't trust us."
"Why should he?"
"That's a debatable point. Anyway, there are precisely four of us who know any of the truth. Chuck Williams and Sunny Ralston know about the masquerade. They also know that a very fatal accident is going to happen to our pseudo Lew Hartley. They have been told that Lew has made adequate provision for them in his will, which is true. But that's all they do know, Doc. They are not to know what he will look like after you finish altering his appearance. They won't know where he's going and they'll never know what name he assumes."
"In other words, he's ditching them completely."
"Yes. But they don't suspect that. And even if they did, I doubt if it would make much difference. He's leaving them a lot of money."
"And us?"
"We know the whole business. It had to be. I'm his contact with the old life. I made all the preliminary arrangements. Aside from myself, you'll be the one person in the world who will know exactly what he will look like. You could make trouble any time you wanted. So he has insured against that."
"How?"
"In his will, he has set up two trust funds. I'm the beneficiary of one, and you of the other. They run into the millions. The only way either of us could cause Lew any real trouble would be by proving that he was alive. The minute either of us did that, the trusts would cease to be, since they're created under his will, and a will only operates after a man is dead. So he trusts our desire for money considerably more than he trusts our loyalty."
"He's a shrewd man," observed the doctor. "A very shrewd man. He takes with him all the money he can. He leaves the rest in such a way that we'd have to cut
our own throats if we wished to cut his. The stakes are big, Wayne. They're worth the risk."
Hamilton shrugged. "The risk is a minimum," he said. "That's where our young friend Alan comes in. He's too honest himself to distrust anybody. And before he can begin to suspect anything..." Hamilton paused significantly.
"Chuck will make it look like an accident, of course."
"Naturally. And, so far as the world is concerned, Lew Hartley will be dead... and we'll all be happy."
"Except young Douglas."
"Yes. Except him. But he won't be around to worry about it."
Dr. Greer asked casually, "What's he doing now?"
"Just as I came out, Sunny was breezing into his room for some gin rummy."
"They get along well together."
"Yes. But Chuck Williams doesn't like it."
Greer leaned forward. "What do you mean?" he inquired.
"Don't you know?" Hamilton tapped the ash from the end of his cigarette. "Chuck has been crazy about Sunny ever since Lew acquired her. But he's the sort of lad who'd never dream of two-timing his employer. It isn't honor, it's simply that he doesn't think that way. I believe he even admires Lew. But he is as much in love with Sunny as he could be with any woman, and I don't believe he would relish the idea of her stepping over the line."
The doctor nodded. "Fits in rather neatly, doesn't it? Chuck is employed as young Douglas' executioner. But because of jealousy, he'll inject real enthusiasm into his work."
"Something like that. At least we have nothing to worry about."
And at that moment neither Alan nor Sunny was worrying. She was sitting at his bedside, house coat open, disclosing her pale yellow fragment of a bathing suit. Between them was a checker board, which they used as a table for their daily session of gin rummy. He was saying, "You know, you don't have to be this nice to me."
The Corpse That Walked Page 4
