Area of Suspicion

by John D. MacDonald

  Perry’s gray eyes were thoughtful. “I’ve wondered about that. I just can’t see what Mr. Mottling would get out of any—relationship like that. It seems so—petty. And yet—”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  She shrugged. “I suppose it’s meaningless. But you know the sort of man Colonel Dolson is. Self-important, sort of. Something happened a month ago. The Colonel and Mr. Mottling came out of Mr. Granby’s office, through my office. Colonel Dolson was telling Mr. Mottling there were some drawings he’d have to have back immediately. Mr. Mottling said he’d send those drawings back to Dolson when he was damn well ready to release them and not before. Colonel Dolson took it without a murmur, and he knew I heard it, and he didn’t make any attempt to save face in front of me. It was as though Mr. Mottling had some special hold over him.”

  “That isn’t much to go on.”

  “I realize that.”

  “Could you make a guess about the number of government checks that have cleared for Acme?”

  “It doesn’t work that way. Acme gets Dean Products’ checks, out of the D4D account, and the government reimburses us. I’d guess, off-hand, Gevan, the total might be anywhere between one and two hundred thousand dollars.”

  Though I knew what a small percentage that would be of the multimillion-dollar government contracts in the shop, it was a figure that merited a soft whistle of awe. I had an important question to ask, and perhaps I asked it in too casual a voice. “Do you think Ken could have found out about this?” I couldn’t see Dolson as a killer. But I didn’t know LeFay.

  She knew what I meant. “No, Gevan. Ever since Mr. Mottling came with the company, your brother stayed in his office. Nothing was routed to him, and he didn’t take any interest in what was going on. I don’t see how he could have found out.”

  I gave up that line of thought with regret. It would be such a perfect motive, and explain the clever detail surrounding the murder. It was after eight. I knew from the way she was dressed she had gone home before coming to the hotel.

  “Have you eaten yet, Perry?”

  “No. When you weren’t here, I phoned Mother and told her I’d be home after dinner.”

  “Dinner with me, then?”

  “Yes, thank you, Gevan.” She smiled and I noticed a dimple in her right cheek. “It feels funny to call you Gevan out loud.”

  We went down and had a pleasant dinner in the grill. At one point she said, “I’m too honest, Gevan. Now I have to correct a half-truth.”

  “A half-truth is half a lie.”

  “I told you I came to you because I didn’t think she’d talk to Mr. Granby. I had another reason, too. I’m trying to get you so involved in Dean Products you won’t be able to get loose.”

  There was a candle on our table. She sat across from me, smiling, her face young and lovely in the flame’s light. Too young and fresh and sweet. I was too involved with Niki to ever get loose. I thought of Niki in my arms, and in contrast to the gray-eyed girl across the table, the memory of Niki was smeared and shameful—but exciting.

  After dinner I asked her if she’d like to try the Copper Lounge and listen to Hildy’s show, but she said she should go home. I offered to get the car out and drive her back, but she said a cab would be fine. I walked her out to the sidewalk and hailed a taxi and watched her ride off, saw her turn and look through the back window of the cab at me.

  I went to the Copper Lounge. Hildy Devereaux was standing at the bar, laughing and chattng with a young couple. She recognized me and gave me a quick smile. I gestured toward an empty table and raised one eyebrow in silent question. She nodded. I sat and ordered a drink and Hildy came over a few minutes later. I stood up and said, “Not purely social, Hildy, but I wish it was.”

  I pushed her chair in for her. She smiled up at me, saying, “I’m glad you came in. I think my curtain line last time was faintly nasty.”

  “Not noticeably.” I sat down in the chair facing hers. “You set me off in a certain direction so you get a progress report before I spring a question.”

  “Progress?”

  “In a negative way. I won’t go into my reasoning. I just want to tell you that I’m personally convinced that Ken wasn’t shot by Shennary. Shennary was cleverly framed. I don’t know why Ken was killed. Or by whom. But it wasn’t Shennary and that means there was a good reason, premeditation, a lot of damn careful planning.”

  She thought it over. And shuddered. “The way it happened seemed too pat—but maybe I liked that answer better than the way this one makes me feel.”

  “I know. It makes the world a larger, darker place. I don’t have to tell you not to repeat this, do I?”

  “No. You don’t have to, Gevan.”

  “Now this question may seem unrelated. It is—almost. The connection is tenuous. I want your reaction to Curt Dolson.”

  She gave a little start and her eyes widened. “What do I think of him? My God, that’s a change of pace! He’s in my hair, but so are a lot of others. He’s just thicker-skinned than most. He’s got an ego like nothing I ever saw before. He can’t get it through his pointy head that I’m not on the verge of falling into his arms. He has propositions. Some of them include South-Sea cruises and emeralds. He gets pretty intent.”

  “That one with the emeralds is a pretty good offer for a chicken colonel to make, isn’t it?”

  “The boy is pretty well loaded. He owns a business that keeps him solvent enough. He’s so damn smug. And so vain, too. He keeps sticking his chin out so the second chin won’t show. He uses male perfume and goes around smelling like tweed and saddle leather and fire in the heather. Wears a corset, too, if I’m any judge. He’s just a boy at heart.”

  “There’s no chance of his hitting the right proposition?”

  “That better be a joke, and you better start laughing like hell, or you’re sitting here alone, Mr. D.”

  “It was a joke.”

  “There isn’t exactly any halo above these flaxen locks, brother, but at least I can say all favors thus far distributed have been gratis.”

  “I said it was a joke.”

  “Okay, I forgive. Let me give you a briefing.” She changed to an excellent imitation of Dolson’s hearty baritone. “ ‘You can do your singing just for me, my dear. This isn’t the life for you.’ I told him I loved this nasty life, and if I ever gave it up it wouldn’t be for him or anybody remotely like him. Did that stop him? For about a tenth of a second. It took him that long to find my knee under the table. And it took me another tenth of a second to get my cigarette against the back of his hand.”

  I looked beyond her. “It seems you have been speaking of the devil.”

  She rolled her eyes ceilingward. “No. Oh, no! Give me strength.”

  Dolson came parade-grounding up, gave a Prussian bow from the waist, with a cool smile for me and a warm one for Hildy. “Evening, my dear. Hello, Mr. Dean.” He pulled a chair out. “Hope this isn’t taken.”

  “It is now,” Hildy said glumly.

  “Great little kidder,” Dolson said fondly. He sat with back straight, shoulders squared, eagles shining.

  “We were discussing you, Colonel,” I said mildly.

  It took him a moment to decide how to react. He showed us his white teeth and said, “Nothing good, I trust.”

  “We were wondering why a man of your means happens to be on active duty.”

  He shrugged his eagles. “Reserve, you know. Every man who has any training ought to put it at the service of his government. This is a critical era, Mr. Dean. We’re all needed.”

  I sensed the criticism. He sat erect, smelling of Scotch and pine. His nails gleamed with some manicurist’s dedication. His face glowed pink and healthy. It was as though Dolson had erected a facade to conceal the man behind it. Unlike Lester of the shifting masks, Dolson had only one acquired character: the brusque, hearty military man, with faint overtones of king and empire and the playing fields of Eton.

  I wondered if he had been acti
ve in politics in his home town. I wondered how much affability, how much snap and sirring it had cost him to get that Legion of Merit ribbon. I wondered how he looked when he was alone and sat worrying about the money he was making and how he was making it. Was the pink face pouched and old and frightened? Did the plump pink shoulders sag?

  I chose the opening instinctively, the opening he had just given me. “Colonel, I’ve been thinking along those lines myself. Patriotic duty and all that. Getting my shoulders to the wheel.”

  He beamed. “My boy, you’ll feel better for it, believe me.”

  “Mr. Granby says he will withdraw in my favor, and Mr. Karch will back me. At the Monday meeting, I’ll vote my holdings for myself, and take over where Ken left off.” It took three long seconds for the toothy smile to fade away. He goggled at me. He slumped and the padded shoulders of the tunic rode up. He licked his lips. He was suddenly a very worried, very unmilitary, very nervous little man. He forced the smile back, but it had all the humor of a denture ad.

  “Uh—commendable of course. I can understand any man wanting to do his bit.” The heartiness was strained. “But let’s not try to move too fast, Mr. Dean. That would be—uh—like my trying to take over an infantry division. A man should be—objective enough to know when a job is too big for him.”

  “Too big, Colonel? I’m afraid I don’t understand, I’ve run the company before.”

  “I’m afraid this is a different proposition. That was mostly civilian production.” He was getting over shock and warming to his argument. “Stanley Mottling has a national reputation and an astonishing record. It wouldn’t be any service to the company to take over the position he fills so well. And if you don’t mind my mentioning it, a four-year layoff doesn’t sharpen a man’s mind. Stanley Mottling’s last four years have been full of accomplishment.”

  I pursed my lips and nodded. “Maybe there’s something in that.”

  All the confidence was back. “Tell you what. Why don’t you talk to Stanley about going to work under him? There are places where you could be very valuable. That would ease the load on Stanley.”

  “I guess I should reconsider, Colonel.”

  “That’s using the old brain,” he said. “Objectivity.” He had brought his drink to the table and he lifted it and took a long drag with a shade too much relief.

  “I agree I may be rusty,” I said. “So I’ll put my voting weight behind Walter Granby and let him take over.”

  He plunked his glass down. He stared at me. “Granby! Good God!”

  “I’d rather back him. I know the man. I’ve got confidence in him. I don’t agree with some of Mottling’s policies.”

  “Good God!” he repeated in an empty voice.

  I knew it was cruel to get him off balance with one idea and then slap him with the other one before he could get his feet planted. A cruel device—and effective when you need information that can only be given inadvertently.

  He tried to use a tone of sweet reason. “Mr. Dean, you can’t look at the world through a peashooter. Granby is entirely unsuitable, old boy.”

  I had been mild up to that point. So mild, I knew he had forgotten our chat in Mottling’s office. So I discarded mildness and said, “It seems odd to me, Colonel, that you keep taking an interest in the internal affairs of the company. Didn’t we cover that ground once?”

  He murmured something about irreparable damage, critical contracts.

  I turned to Hildy and said, “How long are you going to work here?”

  “As long as the gross stays healthy in the lounge, I guess. Joe says I can sing here until I look like Whistler’s mother, if the gross doesn’t fade.” She made her voice casual and winked meaningfully at me. I glanced at Dolson.

  He seemed to have forgotten the two of us. He was staring down at the table top, motionless. Something about him made me think that perhaps this pseudo-hearty little man was not entirely ridiculous. Cornered creatures fight, and many have sharp teeth.

  He looked at me, unsmiling, and said, “Just one thing. Is that your decision? Nothing can change it?”

  It was not my decision. But it was so strong a hunch that I was able to state it too calmly for him to doubt it.

  He smiled vaguely and got up. “It’s your stock, I suppose. Too bad. I’ll be back, Hildy.”

  “I’ll try to conceal my impatience, Colonel.”

  “Great little kidder,” he said, and patted her shoulder mechanically, taking no notice of her instinctive flinch. I watched him go. He went out the side door of the Copper Lounge, the one that opened onto the flight of wide stairs that led to the lobby.

  Hildy ceremoniously offered her small hand. “You upset the Colonel. You made him very unhappy. It was very nice to watch. Does that make me a sadist?”

  “I’ll tell you all about that later. Right now I think the Colonel is off to make a phone call. If he makes it from a booth, we’re sunk. But I think he may make it from his room. Are you chummy with the switchboard gals?”

  “They love me,” she said, and got up and hurried off, looking back just long enough for a conspiratorial wink. Her quick mind needed no blueprint. The soft brown hair bounced against honeyed shoulders, and her skirt swung with the quickness of her stride.

  It took her five long minutes. She came back and slipped into the chair opposite me. “From the room like you thought. Here.” She slid a slip of paper over to me, with a number written on it. Redwood 8-7171. It meant nothing to me.

  “Now I sing again.”

  “Thanks for this, Hildy.”

  “Poo. Thank me by keeping me advised. Write it in invisible ink on the back of an old tennis player.”

  “It might not mean anything.”

  “Then come back when you know, Gev.”

  I listened to one good song, then went up to a lobby booth, inserted a dime and dialed the number. The line was busy. I lit a cigarette, waited a minute, and tried again. It rang twice and was answered. “Hello?”

  I replaced the receiver on the hook and stepped out of the booth. The voice had been unmistakable, fruity, unctuous. The resonant, noble voice of Lester Fitch. I checked the book and found that it was the number for his residence.

  It was predictable. It was nothing that would be meaningful to Hildy. To me it meant a possible confirmation of Lester’s larcenous instincts. I realized I should have taken steps to find out if the Colonel made other calls. Too late for that now.

  I had convinced Dolson, and he had passed on the information, and I had the feeling that I had set something in motion. I didn’t know what, or how big it was. But something had started to move.

  I suddenly realized how very tired I was. The day had been full. It was incredible that this was only my third evening back in Arland.

  The situation was becoming too complex. It was like one of those backlashes you sometimes get on a fishing reel. They look as if tugging one strand would free them. But you tug one strand and peel off some line and find another tangle farther down, and that one conceals two more.

  I went to bed. I lay in darkness and watched a merry-go-round. All the gay horses with their noble wooden heads, surging up and down carrying the riders—carrying Mottling and Dolson and Fitch and Granby and Hildy and Perry and Niki and a faceless LeFay—with an empty saddle where Ken had ridden. They went around and around, and the music was a banjo jangle, but I didn’t know the tune.

  On this same evening, at dusk, the tarpon were in the big hole near the channel off Boca Grande, and the charter boats would be drift-fishing the hole. They would hit and the reels would sing. It was simple savagery more easy to comprehend and combat than the civilized variety which hides the teeth behind a smile.

  I fell asleep wondering how Perry would react to a hundred and forty pounds of tarpon glinting high in the moonlight and falling back.

  Chapter 12

  Friday morning was rainy, blustery. Soggy papers whipped around River Street in tight spirals trying to paste themselves against your ankles. I
stopped at a corner store and bought a plastic raincoat.

  The night’s sleep hadn’t done me much good. Too much tension makes too many dreams. Niki, Perry, Hildy, Lita, Alma—all of them had twisted through my dreams in perfumed confusion, saying things I couldn’t understand. At one point Mottling had been carefully explaining to me that a D4D was alive, and if you looked closely enough, you could see it breathe. He forced my head down against it, and under the metal skin I could hear the thud of a great slow heart. It felt oddly warm against my ear, and when I straightened up I saw it was a gigantic breast, and I had been listening to the womanheart. There was a second breast in the shadows off to the right, and beyond them a foreshortened sleeping face. My midget feet sank into the rubbery skin and Mottling was gone and I ran in terror and fell from the sleeping body into darkness.…

  So when I awoke I felt tired and drained and odd, with sour mouth and aching joints.

  River Street paralleled the river, but the warehouses blocked the view of it. Freighters off-loaded at the river docks into the warehouses for trans-shipment by rail and truck. Huge trucks were parked on the west side of the street, tailgates against the loading docks, cabs swiveled at right angles to the trailers to let traffic edge by. Men wheeled hand trucks into the trailers, and forklift trucks were hurrying with insect intentness. Wildcatters dickered for loads with warehouse agents, and assorted hangover victims huddled in doorways, watching the wan morning world, flinching at too much noise. The early bars were open, smelling of stale beer.

  I found number 56 on the east side of the street, a narrow doorway with a flight of stairs leading up. The doorway was between a bar and a marine supply store. Just inside the door, fastened to the wall, was a series of small wooden signs. There was a studio of the dance, a Russian bath, a twine company, a watch repairman, a skin specialist, a Spanish teacher, and Acme Supply. The Acme Supply sign was newest. It indicated the fourth floor of the narrow building.

  The wooden steps of the three flights were dished by fifty years of wear. Dun plaster had crumbled off the wall exposing small areas of naked lath. It was a strange location for a company that could be grossing as much as a quarter of a million a year. On the second floor landing I heard voices chanting, “Yo tengo un lapiz.”