“Interesting, but—”
“I asked her to put me through to Mr. Willow. When he came on the line I introduced myself correctly and told him that I was a personal friend of Mrs. Broll, and she had told me before going away on a trip that he handled her account TA 5391. He said that was correct. He sounded guarded. Properly so. I told him that Mrs. Broll had asked me to give her some advice regarding rephasing her accounts to provide a maximum income, as she anticipated some possible change in her personal status.”
“You are getting very crafty lately, Meyer.”
“Please stop rubbing those damned dials and look at me. Thank you. He sounded huffy then and said they were perfectly competent to give all necessary investment advice. I told him I knew that and that was why I had called him. I certainly didn’t want to usurp their authority and responsibility. I said I seldom make portfolio recommendations any more, only for old friends and at no fee, of course. I said that women often become confused about the way a trust account is set up. I said I understood she had discretion over it, that she could determine what she wanted bought and sold and so direct them. He said that was indeed the case. He sounded wistful, as if he wished it weren’t true. I said that I had been trying to get in touch with her in order to clear my ideas with her before coming in to discuss them with him. I said her husband had been unable to help me. I said her house was closed, and her neighbors did not know where she had gone. I asked if he could help me. He said she had phoned him early in January and had come in and drawn out all the accumulated interest and dividends, a sizable amount, and told him she was going away for a month or six weeks. She did not know where. He said he wished he could help me.”
“A month or six weeks?”
“Yes. Over three months ago.”
“She could have decided to stay longer, you know.”
“That’s what Woodrow Willow said. He said she was quite upset when she came to see him. He said he could guess why she might be thinking in terms of independent income. So I said that, of course, maximizing income would enable her to live comfortably, but with a woman that young, inflation protection was important.”
“Did it work?”
Meyer displayed an uncommonly wolflike smile. “He hesitated and I heard a desk calculator rattling and humming, and then he said that with her equities reinvested in income holdings, she’d have a pretax income of from twenty-five to twenty-seven thousand. So I told him that we should probably think in terms of eighteen to twenty or, in case of substantial alimony, consider tax exempts. He said he’d be delighted to talk to me about it, but of course he would have to have clearance from her to discuss her affairs. I said I realized that. He said he expected to hear from her very shortly, before the end of the month. Travis, I couldn’t push him any further.”
“I can see that. He was all set to snap shut at any moment. You got a hell of a lot out of him. Congratulations.”
“I braced myself and took a risk. I said, ‘Oh, yes, of course. To sign those things for Mr. Broll.’ He hesitated and then said, ‘It’s inconvenient for her to come here in person. So she told me when she came in what Mr. Broll was asking of her. It’s something that they did once before, and it was paid off. I had her sign the note. The loan was later approved by the loan committee and the board. A sizable loan, secured by the assets in her trust, with her signed authorization to me to deposit the loan proceeds in Mr. Broll’s personal checking account. The effective date of the loan was to be April fifteenth, last Thursday. He requires the funds before the end of the month. She requested me to get it all set up but not to go ahead with it until she gets in touch with me and tells me to proceed or to destroy the signed documents and forget it. That’s why I expect her to be in touch with me soon.’ Travis, I remember you telling me to always press the luck when it is running your way. So I told him that I had heard that Broll was getting very agitated about getting the note and the authorization signed, so I imagined that Mr. Broll had been in touch with him. Mr. Willow has a very weary laugh. He said he hears from Mr. Broll almost constantly. He said he saw no reason to tell Mr. Broll everything was signed and ready to go, awaiting only authorization from her. I got the impression Harry tried to bulldoze him, and Mr. Willow got his back up. Then he began to realize he had told me more than he should. I could feel him pulling back. So I jumped in and said that actually the documents aren’t signed until she says they are signed. Until then it is an approved line of credit, and if she doesn’t care to use it, she doesn’t have to. I told him he was quite correct, and I could feel him trying to persuade himself I was not working for Harry Broll. I hope he did.”
I put the cap on the miracle goop and swabbed up the few white places where it had dribbled on the varnish, miraculously removing the gloss. I spun the helmsman’s seat around and looked at Meyer.
I said to him, “You are pretty damned intense about something I don’t understand. We don’t know whether Mary wants him to have that money or not. We know she’s in Grenada, knowing he’s sweating it out, and she’s probably enjoying it every time she thinks about it. We know that Harry is getting so frantic he’s losing control. He isn’t thinking clearly. Are you?”
“She’s been gone over three months now. Harry is living in a way that means he doesn’t expect her to come back. You thought she’d get in touch with you if she was in trouble. She didn’t. Who saw her leave? What travel agency did she use?”
I reached into the back of my mind and swatted something down. It had been buzzing in circles back there. I picked it up off the floor and looked at it. “Meyer, once on that cruise years ago we bought provisions and got a lot of green stamps. I think it was in Boca Grande. They got wet and got stuck together. Mary soaked them apart. It soaked all the glue off. She dried them between paper towels. Then she got a green stamp book and some Elmer’s, and she glued them into the book. Meyer, she didn’t even save green stamps. Another thing. We spent a lot of time anchored out, as far from marinas and boat traffic and shore sounds as we could get. So she kept turning off the generator, the air-conditioning, even the little battery transistor radio. She made great things out of the leftovers from yesterday’s leftovers. She’s not stingy. If you asked for her last dime, she’d borrow two bits somewhere and give you thirty-five cents. But she has a waste-not, want-not twitch. I kidded her about it. She didn’t mind. But it didn’t change a thing. Holly Dressner told me Mary planned to leave her car at the Miami airport. Okay. Would Mary pay two and a half a day indefinitely? Ninety days is two hundred and twenty-five dollars. Not Mary. No matter how upset. She’d find out the rates and turn around, drive a few miles, make a deal with a gas station or parking lot, and take a cab back and catch her flight.”
“If she had time.”
“Unless she changed a lot, she’d get there two hours ahead when the ticket desk says one hour. She’d have time.”
“So we should go look for her car?”
“Holly should be able to tell me what to look for.”
“Travis, I don’t want to seem efficient, but why don’t we phone Mary in Grenada? I would rather go below and drink one of your Tuborgs and listen to you fight with the island operators than drive to Miami.”
I struck myself a heavy blow in the forehead with the heel of my hand, said a few one-, seven- and ten-syllable words, and we went below.
I started at eleven thirty, and by the time I got the desk at the Spice Island Inn, I was in a cold rage. It was a radio link, and nobody seemed to give a damn about completing it. I had mentally hung Alex Bell and Don Ameche in effigy several times.
At last I got the faint voice of a girl, saying, “Spice Island Inn. May I help you?” It was the singsong lilt of the West Indies, where the accented syllables seem to fall at random in strange places.
“Do you have a Mrs. Broll registered? A Mrs. Harry Broll?”
“Who? I am sorry. What last name, sir?”
“Broll. Bee-are-oh-el-el. Broll.”
“Ah. Broll. There is no Mr
s. Harry Broll.”
“Was she there? Did she leave?”
“There is a Mrs. Mary Broll. She is here since many weeks.”
“From Florida?”
“Yes. She is here from Florida.”
“Can you put me through to her, please.”
“I am sorry.”
“Do you mean you can’t?”
“There is the instruction, sir. Mrs. Broll does not take overseas calls. Not from anyone, sir.”
“This is an emergency.”
“I am sorry. I can write down for her your name and the number of your telephone. I cannot say if she returns the call. She does not wish to be disturbed by telephone calls from overseas. If you can give me your name?”
“Never mind. Thank you for your help.”
“I am sorry.” She said something else but it faded away into an odd, humming silence. There were loud clicks. Somebody else said, “Code eighteen, route through Barbados, over.”
I said, “Hey! Somebody.”
The humming stopped and the line went dead as marble. I hung up. I stood up and stretched. “Mrs. Mary Broll has been there for a long time, but she doesn’t take overseas calls.”
“In case one might be from Harry, I suppose.”
“That takes care of it. Right, Meyer?”
“I suppose so.”
“It was your idea. I phoned. She’s there.”
“I know. But …”
“But?”
“The known facts now seem contradictory.”
“Meyer, for God’s sake!”
“Now listen to me. She wants to hide from her husband and think things out. She does not want to take any overseas calls. What would it cost her to get the operator and the desk clerk to deny that she’s even registered? Ten Biwi dollars each, ten U.S. dollars total? No more, certainly. If she was sure her husband couldn’t trace her, then the only call she could get would be from her friend Holly Dressner, and she would want to take a call from her I’d think. If she set it up so that he can find out where she is, then the refusal to take calls would mean she wants him to fly down, and the bait would be the loan he needs.”
“First you simplify things, Meyer, and then you complicate the hell out of them. I don’t know what to think now.”
“Neither do I. That’s my problem.”
“So we drive to Miami anyway?”
Holly was home, and she was very helpful about the car. “It’s one of those Volks with the fancy body. Oh, dear. What in the world are they called?”
“Karmann Ghia.”
“Right! Two years old. Dark red. Hard top. Believe it or not, I can give you the license plate number even. We were shopping, and we went to the place you get the plates together, and mine is about the same weight, so we were in the same series. Hers was one digit more than mine, so hers is 1 D 3108.”
We drove down to Miami in Miss Agnes, and I jammed her through the confusions of the cloverleaves and put her in one of the new airport parking buildings, halfway up the long wide ramp leading to the third level, nosing her against the wall between two squatty Detroit products which made her look like a dowager queen at a rock fest. A mediocre hamburger, gobbled too hastily on the way down, lay like a stone on the floor of my stomach.
I pointed out to Meyer how our task was simplified. Apparently there was some kind of stone-crushing plant in operation not too far from the open parking garages. The longer any car had been parked there, sheltered from the rain, the more white powdered stone dust it had all over it. And Mary’s would be one of the whitest of all.
There were more than enough ramps and levels and separate structures. Finally, on a top level on the side furthest from the entrance and exit ramp, I saw Karmann Ghia lines, powdery white as a sugar doughnut. Even the plate was powder white, but the bas relief of the digits made it readable as I neared it: 3108. Three months of sitting and accumulating stone dust and parking charges.
Meyer drew in the dust atop the trunk. It would have been a childish trick except for what he drew. A single large question mark. I wiped the windshield with the edge of my hand and bent and peered in. Nothing to see except a very empty automobile.
A police sedan drifted up and stopped close behind the Ghia. “Got a problem?” the driver asked. His partner got out.
“No problem, officer.”
“Your car?”
“No. It belongs to a friend.”
The driver got out. “And you can’t quite remember the name of your friend, I suppose?”
I gave him my earnest, affable smile. “Now why’d you think that, officer? This belongs to Mrs. Mary Broll, 21 Blue Heron Lane, Lauderdale, for sure.”
“Girlfriend?”
“Just a friend, officer.”
“Doesn’t your friend have anything to say?”
Meyer said, “I was not aware that you were addressing me with any of the prior questions, officer. I happen to have here—”
“Easy. Bring it out real slow.”
“I happen to have here a page from a scratch pad which, if you will examine it, gives the name of the owner and the license number and description of the vehicle.”
The nearest officer took the note and looked at it and handed it back. “Repo?”
“What?” Meyer asked. “Oh. Repossession. No. We happened to be parked here, and we knew Mrs. Broll has been gone for three months, and we wondered if she’d left her car here.”
The other officer had gotten into their car. I heard his low voice as he used the hand mike. He waited, then got out again. “Isn’t on the list, Al,” he said.
“Parked here, you say. Now both of you, let me see some ID. Slow and easy. Take it out of the wallet. Keep the wallet. Hand me the ID. Okay. Now you. Okay. Now show me your parking ticket. What kind of a car?”
“Officer, it is a very old Rolls Royce pickup truck. Bright blue. It’s over there in that other—”
“I saw that, Al. Remember? That’s the one I had you back up and see if it had the inspection sticker.”
It stopped being confrontation and began to be conversation. “Nobody,” said Al, “but nobody at all is going to arrive here in that freak truck to pull anything cute. Okay. For the hell of it, why were you wondering if this woman left her car here?”
“Not so much if she left it here, but to see if she was back yet. We were just wondering. If we didn’t find it, maybe she left it someplace else, or she came back from her trip. But we found it, so that means she’s still on her trip.”
“She stays away too much longer, she can save money by forgetting the car.” They got in and glided away without saying good-by or looking back. I guessed they cruised the garages from time to time, checking their hot car lists. It would make a good drop after a stolen car had been used for a felony. Leave it, walk across to the upper or lower level, leave the airport by cab or limousine. Or airplane. Or by private car previously stashed in the parking garage.
Meyer was very quiet, and he did not speak until we were approaching Miss Agnes. He stopped and I turned and looked back at him and strolled back to where he was standing.
“Are you going to break into tears?”
“Maybe. If you were as anxious to find your wife as Harry is, if it’s financially important as well as emotionally important, wouldn’t you report her missing and give her description and the description of her car with the tag number to the police?”
“I would think so.”
“Then the number would be on their list, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes. I mean, yes, damn it.”
“And because you are thinking what I am thinking and because we happen to be right here, wouldn’t it be a good time to find out about airline connections, McGee?”
“For two?”
“I have to finish my paper on the Eurocurrency which replaced the dollar. I promised the conference program chairman.”
Nine
I should have boarded my early afternoon BWIA flight to Barbados with stops at Kingston and San Ju
an, thoroughly, if not visibly, bloodied by Jillian. This was Tuesday, and I should have been sailing the sea not the air.
Cowardice is a very curious ailment. The attacks occur when you do not expect them. Instead of saying the rehearsed words, I heard myself say, “Jilly dear, the matter of the old friend has come up again. I wouldn’t want to go cruising down to St. Kitts with that hanging over me. I wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it and wondering. It will take a few days …”
“Darling, I want you to be able to keep your mind on your work. Exclusively. Besides, the five-day forecast is foul. It might work out very nicely.”
“No tantrum?”
“What sort of woman do you think I am, dear? That’s hardly flattering, you know. All evidence to the contrary, I am not a spoiled little bitch who goes about whining and screaming and drumming her heels. I’m grown up, you know. And more patient than you imagine. I have waited quite a while to have you all to myself.”
“This shouldn’t take very long.”
“I’ll be here when you return, dear Travis. Grenada?”
The habit of caution took over. It is an automatic reflex. Never tell anybody anything which they might in turn tell the wrong person. “No. That information is obsolete. San Juan.”
“Of course. By this time, Grenada must be well emptied out. She could have more fun in Puerto Rico. Are you and she going to have a lot of fun, Travis? Just like old times?”
“I’m not planning to. But you never can tell.”
“Really! You are the most—”
“You keep asking the wrong questions. It’s a bad habit.”
“As bad as giving the wrong answers.”
For a moment the tantrum was on the edge of happening, but she forced it back, visibly, forgave me, kissed me a lingering farewell.
A Tan and Sandy Silence Page 9
