The Excluded Exile (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 12)

by Frank W. Butterfield

The officer walked up to Carter and asked, "Did you assault this man earlier today?"

  Carter nodded. "And I'd do it again."

  "For what reason, may I ask?"

  "He was rude to our friend." He hooked his thumb at Tony.

  The police officer turned to the short man and asked, "Stavros, what's a darkie doing in here, anyway?"

  Carter rubbed his chin. I pulled his arm down and shook my head.

  "And they're poofters," added Artie, pointing at me.

  The police officer frowned. "Well, that's neither here nor there, sir."

  Artie said, "He assaulted me, too," meaning me.

  "Is that so?" asked the officer.

  I shook my head. "No, it isn't. I tucked fifty pounds in his upper coat pocket to pay him for his services."

  The officer's face darkened. "And what services might that be?"

  "Driving us from the Australia Hotel to Bondi Beach."

  "Driving?—"

  Christine said, "Officer, this man was hired by the hotel to drive us all to the beach for the day. He made a pass at me and used a rude word to refer to our friend, who is Hawaiian, by the way."

  Something about that last bit had a meaning for the police officer. He relaxed and turned to Artie. "How much do you usually make in a day?"

  Artie shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe five quid. Depends."

  The police officer looked him over. "Nothing's broken. You just got a swollen jaw. If you get fifty quid outta the deal, I'd say you came out the winner."

  Artie looked down at the floor. "Guess you're right."

  "Go on with you, then."

  Artie shuffled out of the room.

  The police officer tipped his hat to Christine. "Sorry to have disturbed your meal, Miss."

  She smiled but didn't reply.

  He looked at the rest of us. Focusing in on me, he asked, "Where to next, then?"

  I replied, "The beach."

  He shook his head. Pointing to Tony, he said, "You're going to run into the same kinda mess down there. I wouldn't go, if I were you." Apologetically, he said to Tony, "Sorry, mate."

  Tony was finally beginning to look angry. He turned to me and said, "Let's go back to the hotel, Nick."

  The officer looked surprised. "You're staying at the Australia, too?" Turning to me, he said, "I'm surprised they didn't warn you."

  I stood up. "Thank you, Officer."

  He looked from me to Christine and then to Tony. "Well, then. I'll be off. Good day to you all."

  With that, he turned, walked past the man he'd called Stavros, and made his way to the front of the establishment.

  Looking at Stavros, I asked, "Is there a car dealer nearby?"

  Chapter 4

  2 George Road

  Dover Heights

  Tuesday, February 22, 1955

  Half past 3 in the afternoon

  We pulled into the driveway of the house at 2 George Road in Dover Heights at about half past 3 that afternoon.

  Stavros had directed us to a Holden dealership nearby. After some astonishment on the part of the manager, I finally persuaded him to sell me a '54 Holden FJ. It was an odd shade of green and had a long nose. He tried to convince me that it was just like a Pontiac. Holden, he'd said, was a General Motors company. Apart from the subdued chrome grill, I didn't see the resemblance. It looked more like a Plymouth with a trunk in the back that could have been on a British car.

  The manager had ridden with Carter on his very first drive with the steering wheel on the right side of the car. He took to it pretty quickly and we managed to make it out to the ocean, where the house sat on the side of a cliff, without hitting other cars.

  As we piled out of the Holden, I took a look at the house. The exterior was red brick. The design was a kind of Art Deco that I'd seen on a number of buildings already. A semi-circular sunroom sat in front, facing north, above the garage. I saw someone pull back from the bank of windows as I looked up.

  Carter said, "This is something."

  I turned and followed Tony and Christine to where he was standing. A big green lawn led to a cliff that was two or three hundred feet above the broad, blue expanse of the Pacific Ocean below.

  Carter shook his head. "All that water. Reminds me of your father's house in Carmel."

  I looked out and laughed. "It reminds me of your house on Kauai."

  Tony said, "You two and all your houses and your cars and planes. Sometimes it makes my head spin."

  I turned and smiled at him. Carter did the same and put his hand on my shoulder. "You might not believe it, Tony, but I had to threaten to buy my own house, with a mortgage and everything, to get him to finally buy a house with all his loot."

  I added, "And the day we decided—"

  "We?" asked Carter with a smile.

  I nodded. "Damn straight. You'd already picked out the house from the paper, if you remember."

  "I picked out three houses."

  "Yes. But, the one we bought was the one you'd circled three times. I remember. I was there."

  Tony tilted his head to the side. "Where'd you get all your loot, anyway?"

  Christine groaned. "You're kidding, right?"

  "What?" he asked with a grin.

  She rolled her eyes. "Nick was in the Navy in 1944. He got a telegram from a lawyer in Boston saying he'd just inherited a big trust from his Great-Uncle Paul. Nick's Commander put him in touch with a young lawyer in San Francisco by the name of Jeffery Klein, who helped him manage things until he got home from the war. Then Nick's whole family sued him to overturn the will. When it was all settled, that's when Nick and Carter bought a car, a house, and went on some trip to New York."

  Carter and I both laughed. "How'd you know that?" I asked.

  She shrugged. "I read the papers and the magazines. Every time the Examiner does one of their hits on you, they repeat that story. Except for the bit at the end about you buying the car and the house. I pieced that together myself."

  I smiled. "How'd you like to come work for us as a private investigator?"

  "Ask me again in ten years when I get tired of standing on my feet for a living. Meanwhile, there's someone very well-dressed who's waiting for you." She pointed her chin at the house.

  I turned around and saw an older woman in what looked like a Chanel dress standing at the top of the stairs that led up to the front door of the house. Her arms were crossed and she looked very put-out. She nodded at me and then turned and walked back into the house, leaving the door open behind her as she did.

  . . .

  "Mrs. Tutwiler is my name. You must be Mr. Williams and Mr. Jones." She looked at Tony and Christine briefly and then back at me. "I was told it was just the two of you."

  I nodded and extended my hand. She didn't take it, keeping her arms folded. I said, "There's just the two of us renting the house. Our friends are flying back to San Francisco tomorrow."

  She raised one eyebrow. "I don't see how, unless you brought your own plane. The next flight to America doesn't leave until Thursday."

  "As a matter of fact, I did bring my own plane. Mrs. Morris here"—I nodded at Christine—"is the wife of our pilot. And Mr. Kalama is an employee. They're all flying back to the U.S. in the morning."

  "I see. I suppose you'll be wanting a tour."

  Without waiting for a reply, she turned and walked through the living room, which was furnished in Danish Modern, and into the front room that looked out over the ocean. "This is the sunroom." It had a single sofa, bookended by two small tables, facing the windows. A veritable jungle of potted plants of various sizes stood in front of the window but didn't obscure the stunning view of the cliffs and the water in the distance.

  Moving back into the living room, she said, "Lounge."

  I looked at Carter, who shrugged. We followed her back into a room with a dining table and six chairs, china cabinet, and kitchen pass-through.

  "Dining room."

  Turning right, she led us into a hallway and made another right that le
d to a largish bedroom. "Your bedroom." More Danish Modern. The large bed had a headboard that was comprised of a bookshelf with sliding doors. Matching nightstands on either side had matching elongated lamps. A bureau and a wardrobe, both made of a light teak, faced the bed. There was no bathroom.

  Silently moving through us, she led us back down the hall to a second bedroom, smaller than the first, but decorated just the same. "Guest bedroom."

  Further down from that was the bathroom, which was smallish but not too small. Without entering, she said, "Bathroom."

  She then led us back into the dining room and stood in front of a swinging door. "Behind here is the kitchen and my own quarters. I'll thank you not to disturb my private area."

  I nodded. "Of course, not."

  "Any questions?"

  I looked at Carter who appeared to be stunned. Turning back to Mrs. Tutwiler, I said, "I don't think so. There's a real estate—"

  "Yes. Mr. Willoughby. I phoned him when I saw you drive up. He should be here momentarily."

  We all stood there for a long moment in an uncomfortable silence.

  To fill the void, Christine asked, "Have you worked here long?"

  Mrs. Tutwiler offered a sour grin. Before she could reply, there was a knock at the door.

  Pushing through us, Mrs. Tutwiler said, "Excuse me," and made her way to the door.

  Tony whispered, "Scary."

  Christine said, "I keep waiting for her to say, 'These are Mrs. DeWinter's things,'."

  Tony laughed. "Like Mrs. Danvers in Rebecca."

  Christine looked at me. "You'll have to call this place Manderley."

  I frowned. "What are you two talking about?"

  Tony grinned. "You never saw the movie Rebecca?"

  I shook my head.

  Tony looked at Carter who said, "Me, neither."

  Tony shrugged. "You two are too young. You'll have to watch it some time. You'll see what we mean."

  Right then, Mrs. Tutwiler announced, "Mr. Willoughby." With that, she walked through us and into the kitchen.

  I turned. The real estate agent was cheerful. That was the best word for it. Cheerful and mildly handsome. He had slicked-back dark brown hair, brown eyes, stood about 6'4", had a medium build with a bit of a beer belly, and wore a light-weight tan suit with suspenders. He put his briefcase on the floor and extended his hand to me. "Mr. Williams?"

  I nodded and shook. "Nice to meet you."

  "Lowell Willoughby. And, it's a pleasure." Looking at everyone else, he frowned slightly, and then looked at Carter, who offered his hand first. "Mr. Jones, I presume?"

  "Yes," replied Carter. "And this is our friend, Mrs. Morris."

  Christine offered her hand which he shook.

  "How'd ya do, Mrs. Morris?" His Australian accent was just under a clipped British tone. Mrs. Tutwiler had spoken in the same curious way.

  Carter continued, "This is our friend, Mr. Kalama. He lives in Honolulu."

  Just as happened with the police officer at the milk bar, Mr. Willoughby relaxed as soon as he heard the Hawaii reference. He offered his hand. "How'd ya do, Mr. Kalama?"

  Tony shook and replied, "Just fine, thanks. Nick? I'm gonna go take a walk outside."

  Christine grabbed his arm. "I'll go with you."

  I nodded and smiled. "We'll come find you when we're done."

  They beat a hasty retreat out the front door, whispering to each other. I heard Tony start laughing as soon as they were at the top of the stairs.

  "Well, gentlemen, I understand you're interested in taking this house for a few weeks. Is that correct?" As he said that, he picked up his briefcase and laid it down flat on the table. He opened the top and pulled out a bunch of papers.

  I said, "Yes. Two, at least. Maybe four."

  Mr. Willoughby nodded. "That's fine. Mr. Jenkins will be in San Francisco until at least April, so you can stay as long as you like." He looked at me. "The rate is forty pounds per week plus the cost of housekeeping. You have full use of the facilities, of course. We'd prefer no parties, but if you're entertaining guests, please let Mrs. Tutwiler know and I'm sure she'll be able to accommodate you." He unscrewed his pen and handed it to me. "I just need your signature on the lease contract and you'll be set. You can move in anytime."

  I leaned over the table and glanced through the contract without reading it. I signed where a red "X" had been marked.

  As I stood up straight, Mr. Willoughby said, "First week is due today."

  I reached into my wallet and pulled out a check that I'd torn out of the book given to me at the bank. "Have a pen?" I asked.

  He pulled one out of his coat pocket, unscrewed the lid, and handed it over.

  "Who do I make it out to?" I asked.

  "Bondi Dover Properties Proprietary Limited. You write the last two words abbreviated. Proprietary is P,t,y."

  I wrote out a check for two hundred pounds and then signed it. "Here's for five weeks. That should cover things."

  He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a receipt book. After writing on the first available page, he tore that page out and handed it to me. "Your receipt, Mr. Williams."

  I said, "Thanks."

  He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a card. Handing it to me, he said, "This is my phone number, both home and office, the house phone number here, and the street address."

  "Thanks."

  "My pleasure. I've already sent Mr. Jenkins a telegram informing him that you'll be taking the house. I'm sure he'll be pleased to have someone such as yourselves staying here."

  I looked at Mr. Willoughby for a moment.

  He coughed and said, "What I mean by that, Mr. Williams, is that I think you'll find that you and Mr. Jenkins have a lot in common."

  Carter asked, "Is he a private investigator?"

  Mr. Willoughby looked at Carter with a confused expression on his face. "Beg pardon?"

  I laughed and said, "That's fine, Mr. Willoughby. We know what you mean."

  He coughed again. "His young man, that's to say, Mr. Jenkins's friend. His name is Robert Stanhope and he may come by. If he does, just refer him to Mrs. Tutwiler. She'll know what to do."

  "What to do?" I asked.

  Mr. Willoughby pulled at his collar. He was blushing. "I'm afraid Mr. Jenkins left the country in a hurry and, well, things weren't quite settled between the two of them, if you take my meaning."

  I laughed. "I do. Thanks for letting us know."

  Pulling out his handkerchief, Mr. Willoughby wiped his forehead. "It's a real scorcher out there today."

  Carter said, "Yep. We're not quite accustomed to this weather. It never usually gets this hot at home."

  Mr. Willoughby nodded and began to pack up his briefcase. "That's what I've heard. Always a bit chilly with all that fog."

  . . .

  As we were driving back to the hotel, I turned in my seat and asked Christine, "Now what about this movie?"

  She leaned forward. "It's based on the Daphne du Maurier novel."

  Tony added, "It came out in 1940. How old were you?"

  I laughed. "18."

  He smiled with a slight leer. "Just a baby."

  Christine said, "Joan Fontaine meets Mr. de Winter in Monte Carlo. They fall in love and get married. He takes her home back to England—"

  "Cornwall." That was Tony.

  She nodded. "Yes. To his family estate, called Manderley. That's when she finds out about Rebecca, the first Mrs. de Winter. There's an old housekeeper named Mrs. Danvers who's been taking care of Rebecca's things as if she'd never died. It's creepy."

  Tony added, "Manderley is right on the coast and Joan Fontaine almost drowns but then—"

  Christine waved him away. "Don't give it away!"

  Tony laughed. "They'll never see it."

  I said, "I don't know about the movie, but I'm definitely going to read the book."

  . . .

  Once we walked back into the hotel, I made a beeline for the front desk. Everyone followed me
. Mr. Wilkerson smiled as we walked up. "How was your trip to Bondi, Mr. Williams?"

  "Eventful."

  He raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

  I nodded. "I guess you haven't heard."

  He looked at me over his spectacles, which had slid down his nose. "Heard what?"

  "That my husband slugged Arthur after he called our friend a name."

  Mr. Wilkerson leaned back in surprise. I wasn't sure which thing had surprised him.

  Carter leaned in aggressively. "We don't appreciate ourselves, our friends, or anyone, being treated like second-class citizens."

  Mr. Wilkerson looked down for a moment. We he looked up, his eyes were blazing. "Perhaps I should call the police and inform them of what the housekeeper discovered in your room this morning?"

  "What's that?" I asked.

  "That only the one bed had been slept in."

  I looked at him for a long moment and then I asked, "Could you have the cashier prepare our bill since we're checking out right now?"

  He sneered slightly. "It will be my pleasure." He walked over to the other end of the long desk and spoke to an earnest woman who looked up at me and smirked.

  I remembered something else so I walked over to where a thin man was standing, going through some envelopes. He looked up, smiled, and asked, "May I help you?"

  I nodded. "I need to get my passport, please. Room 707. Williams. And Jones."

  A mild look of distaste passed over the man's face. "Yes, Mr. Williams." He turned and walked to a locked drawer. Using a key hanging from a hook, he unlocked it, pulled it open, and grabbed two blue passports. Closing the drawer with a bang, he walked over and handed them to me. "Here you are."

  I nodded. "Thank you," and turned back to the main part of the lobby. Carter was talking to Tony about something. Christine was nowhere to be seen.

  I walked over and handed Carter his passport. As he tucked it into his pocket, I said, "Well, looks like we'll be moving tonight."

  Carter said, "I've convinced Tony to come with us. He can sleep in the guest bedroom."

  I nodded. "Where's Christine?"

  Carter replied, "Captain Morris walked in while you were at the front desk. They're waiting for us in the bar."

  . . .

  "So, we'll bring Tony to the airport in the morning." That was Carter.