All The Way (8 page)

She made no reply. I turned out the lights and locked the door. When we got to the car, I lit her a cigarette. She remained silent all the way up Collins Avenue. I reached over once and took her hand. It was like ice, even through the mesh of the glove.

I parked about a block from the Dauphine. Turning to her, I took her face between my hands, and asked, “I’ll be about ten minutes; are you sure you’ll be all right?”

“Yes, of course,” she replied, in that same quiet, beautifully controlled sort of way.

I walked up past the Dauphine and entered the driveway at the exit end. There was an extensive parking area here, going back along the side of this wing of the building. About two-thirds of the way back there was a doorway. I entered it, and was in one of the ground-floor corridors. I took the key from my pocket. It was No. 226. At the end of the corridor there was a self-service elevator and a stairway. I took the stairway. In the corridor above, I began checking the numbers—216—214—I was going the wrong way. I went back around the corner. A waiter came past, carrying a tray. I swung the key absently, and nodded. He smiled, and went on. 222—224—Here it was. The corridor was empty now. I unlocked the door, slipped inside, and closed it.

The curtains were drawn over the window at the other end of the room. A light was burning on the night table beside the bed, and the bathroom lights were on. One of the three matching fiberglass suitcases was on the luggage stand, unopened, and the others were on the floor beside it. I didn’t like the look of that. He’d been up here approximately ten minutes without unpacking anything, so maybe he’d been on the phone. He might have called Coral Blaine to tell her he’d arrived. We hadn’t believed he would, because of the late hour. But if he had,
had he mentioned the letter from Marian?

Well, there was nothing I could do about it at the moment, and I had plenty of other armed hand grenades to juggle without worrying about that one. I rumpled the bed, and reached for the phone. The front office should know he’d been out; they’d probably called the cab for him. Play it that way.

The operator answered.

“Desk, please,” I said.

“Yes, sir.” Then she added quickly. “Oh, Mr. Chapman, would you like me to try that Thomaston call again

I breathed softly in relief. “No. Just cancel. I’ll call in the morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

The night clerk came on. “Desk.”

“Chapman,” I said, “in two-two-six. There haven’t been any messages for me?”

“Uuuuh—let’s see. No, sir, not a thing.”

“Okay,” I said. “I won’t want to be disturbed until about noon. Would you notify the switchboard not to put any calls through?”

“Yes, sir. And just hang the sign on the doorknob. The maids won’t come in.”

“Thank you,” I said. I got the DO NOT DISTURB sign off the dresser, switched off the lights, and peered out. The corridor was clear. I draped the sign on the knob, made sure the door was locked, and walked along to the stairs. I met no one. When I was on the sidewalk in front I breathed freely again. One more hurdle was past.

I swung the car around, went back down Collins Avenue, and took the North Bay Causeway, headed for the airport. She sat perfectly erect and composed beside me, but she spoke only once during the whole trip.

“I took advantage of you,” she said musingly. “God forgive me for that. I’m sorry, Jerry.”

“What?” I asked. “What do you mean, you took advantage of me?”

She made no reply.

Just before we reached the terminal, I pulled to the curb and parked. It was ten minutes to three.

“What day is this?” I asked quickly.

“Thursday, November fourteen. That isn’t necessary; I tell you I’m perfectly all right.”

I had to be sure. She was on her own from here on. “Tell me your schedule.”

”I leave here at five-fifteen or six-thirty. Either way, I’ll be back in my room in New York before noon. I check out of the hotel tomorrow at one p.m. and fly to New Orleans. I’ll be in Thomaston Saturday morning. From then on, it’s exactly as we have it written down.”

“Right,” I said.

“You’ll make certain about the tapes, won’t you? And under no circumstances are you to try to call me.”

“Don’t worry about the tapes. Or about anything. I can handle it. We’ll say good-bye here. Then I’ll swing in, drop you at the terminal, and run. Okay?”

“Yes.” She turned, her face lifted to mine.

I kissed her, holding her very tightly for a moment, and whispered against her cheek. “I’ll just be going through the motions until I’m with you again. That’s all I’m going to say now. Break. And let’s go.”

I swung in, stopped in front of the terminal, and helped her out. She lifted a hand, turned, and went inside.

It was three-thirty-five when I backed into the driveway beside the apartment. The house beyond the high and shadowy wall was dark, and the streets were deserted. I stopped short of the garage doors, cut the ignition and lights, and got out. I unlocked the trunk, and eased it open. Letting myself in at the front, I went through to the bedroom, and changed into fishing clothes. I went out into the kitchen, without turning on the lights, and poured another drink. I dreaded this part of it.

I wasn’t even sure I could do it, except for one thing— I had to. I weighed a hundred and eighty and he a hundred and ninety-five. But I was in fairly good condition. I eased the kitchen door open, pulled him through it to the edge of the concrete slab, and bent my knees to get my arms round him. Three minutes later the trunk was closed again and I was draped across it, trembling and sweaty and sick at my stomach. They say madmen don’t know their own strength. Neither do desperate ones.

I slipped back into the kitchen, closed and locked the door, turned out the light in the bedroom, and went out the front. I opened the garage door, backed out, and coupled on the trailer. By this time I’d probably wakened the people in the house beyond the wall, but it was all right. Florida was full of fishermen waking their neighbors at four in the morning. I drove out into the street.

I wanted to stop for some coffee, but didn’t dare. I didn’t know how soon after five it would start growing light. When I was beyond Homestead and Florida City on the open highway I opened the car up to seventy. It was five-ten and still dark when I crossed on to Key Largo. I checked my speedometer at the junction of the two roads, and swung left. In a few minutes I came to the first launching site. I swung my headlights to get a look at it, pulled up, and backed down to the water’s edge. I had to get out once to judge the distance.

In a moment I had the boat off. I pulled it around and beached it, and turned off the car’s lights. The east was gray now, and I noticed for the first time that it was almost calm. That was good; I could go far out, off soundings. Mosquitoes buzzed around my face. I steeled myself, unlocked the trunk, and was just raising the lid, when I tensed up, listening. A car was coming. I slammed it. Headlights swept over me. The car came on, slowed almost to a stop, and then went on. It was towing a boat.

The sound of it died away. I yanked open the trunk, and pawed blindly at the canvas. Somehow, the hated and brutal weight was in my arms again, and I staggered to the side of the boat. I ran back and brought the concrete blocks, two at a time, and frantically felt round for the wire and the pliers. I drove the car out until the trailer was clear of the launching area, and parked it near the road. I was locking it when headlights burst over me again.

The car stopped. It was towing a boat too. A man got out, said, “Good morning,” and switched on a flashlight.

My mouth was dry with fear. I forced it open at last, made some kind of reply, and started in motion towards the boat. He was directing the driver of the car, throwing the flashlight beam toward the water. It swept over the boat.

“Nice looking outfit you got there,” he said. “Get in the stern, and I’ll push you off.”

“It’s all right,” I said. “Thanks just the same.”

He was still coming towards me with the flashlight. I caught the bow of the boat, and heaved. It shot out. I clambered aboard, getting my feet wet. I stayed in the bow, between him and Chapman’s body, while I picked up an oar and hurriedly poled my way out another fifty feet. He had turned away now and was directing the driver of the car. I sat down in the stern, shaking all over, and started the motor.

The east was light now, but the visibility was still poor. I headed seawards, running at idling speed and watching for obstructions. Off to my left a light flashed. A westbound tanker went past inside the Stream, still two or three miles ahead of me. It was full daylight by the time I was past the line of reefs. The boat pitched lazily on the long ground-swell rolling up from the south-east. I went on. The tanker was far to the westward, and I could see nothing of the other two boats. I was in the Stream now, completely alone, and probably near the hundred-fathom curve. Key Largo was down on the horizon, and visible only when I crested a swell. I cut the motor and reached for the wire and the concrete blocks.

The boat heaved upward on the greasy swell, and shipped some water as he went over. The sun was just coming up.

I stopped to turn back the boat and trailer on the way into town, and it was nine-fifteen when I got back to the apartment. I had one more drink, made a pot of coffee, and showered and shaved.

I couldn’t remember when I’d had anything to eat, but I wasn’t hungry. I was running on nerve now, but I was too tense and keyed up to be tired. The real test was yet to come. I had to call Coral Blaine in about two hours, and if I failed to pass, Marian Forsyth and I were dead. I wondered how she was feeling at the moment, knowing it all depended on me and that we couldn’t even communicate any more.

I dressed in a lightweight flannel suit, white shirt, and a conservative tie on the order of the one Chapman had worn. I put my horn-rim glasses in a coat pocket, and then stowed away a packet of the filter cigarettes, the cigarette holder, and Chapman’s lighter, which was one of the butane jobs. Then his wallet, the folder of traveler’s checks, the little address book, his car keys, and the Dauphine room key. But I had one more act to perform as Jerry Forbes. I had to return the car. I removed the rental deposit slip from my own wallet and put it in a pocket.

The straw hat was slightly too large, so I cut a strip of newspaper and folded it inside the sweat band. I put the seven rolls of tape and the other information in the briefcase she’d bought before leaving for Nassau, closed the recorder, turned off the air-conditioner, and took one last look round. I drove over to Miami, turned in the car, walked up a block, caught a cab, and gave an address on Collins Avenue near the Dauphine.

I got out a block away, and walked back, carrying the recorder and the briefcase. Entering the driveway at the exit end, I went up through the parking area and entered the side door as I had last night. There were a few guests in the corridors now, and I passed one of the maids, and a waiter pushing a room-service trolley, but no one paid any attention to me. The corridor before No. 226 was empty except for a furry fat man in bathing trunks. I unlocked the door and slipped inside, removing the DO NOT DISTURB sign from the knob.

It was eleven-ten, and I was now Harris Chapman. I was up there on the tight rope I had to walk for twelve days—provided I got past the first step.

I removed my jacket, shirt, and tie, and hung them in the closet, took off my shoes, and picked up the phone and called Room Service. I ordered a pot of coffee, orange juice, and a
Miami Herald.

I rumpled the bed some more, went into the bathroom, washed my face, turned the shower on very hot for a minute or two until the room began to get steamy, rubbed one of the fresh bath towels over the wet tiles until it was damp, and draped it carelessly back on the rack. I got the glasses out of my jacket and put them on. They were mildly corrective reading glasses she’d convinced an optometrist she needed because of headaches, and weren’t too hard to put up with. They and the mustache changed my appearance amazingly. I looked some five years older.

I opened the bag that was on the luggage rack. It was the companion bag to a two-suiter, filled with shirts, underwear, socks, handkerchiefs, and so on. I pulled out a pair of pajamas, wadded them, and tossed them across the bed. A full bottle of Scotch was nestled among the clothes. I thought of what Marian had called him—an aging adolescent. It seemed incredible she’d been in love with him, but maybe he’d been different before he looked up and saw middle age and panicked.

There were some papers in the top flap. I pulled them out, and one envelope was exactly what I was looking for. It was a statement from Webster & Adcock, his brokerage firm in New Orleans, itemizing the status of his account as of November first. I ran my eye down it, and whistled. She hadn’t been exaggerating.
1000 shares Columbia Gas . . . 500 shares DuPont 450 Preferential . . . 100 AT&T bonds . . . 500 shares PG&E common . . .
It went on. The last item was $22,376.50 in cash. There were three more of the same envelopes containing verifications of later transactions. I shoved them all back in the bag. Checking it over in detail could wait. Coral Blaine was the pitfall I had to get past now.

The other envelope was postmarked Marathon, Florida, over a month ago, and contained a letter from Captain Wilder of the charter-boat
Blue Water III,
confirming Chapman’s reservations on November 15, 16, 17, and again on 21, 22, and 23.

Remembering I was in character now, I went over and picked up the phone and asked for Room Service again.

“Hello? Room Service? Chapman, in two-two-six,” I said irritably. “That boy hasn’t shown up with my order—Oh? Okay. Thanks.”

He knocked on the door almost by the time I’d hung up. I let him in with the trolley, carefully added up the bill, added a tip, and signed it. He departed. I poured a cup of coffee, and went on with my investigation. The second suitcase held two lightweight suits, a sports jacket, several pairs of trousers, and some other miscellaneous items of clothing, a half-dozen bottles of different kinds of pills, and a small leather kit containing all his toilet articles. The third was mostly fishing clothes. It also contained a camera, and a gift of some kind, still wrapped.

It felt like a book. I tore it open. It was a volume on salt-water fishing by Kip Farrington, and the flyleaf was inscribed, “With all my love, Coral.” I started to drop it back in the bag. Something fell out of it. It was a plain piece of white paper on which was written the single word, “Isle”. It puzzled me. Apparently she’d stuck it in there between the pages. I held the book up and shook it. Two more slips fed out, along with a four by six photograph of a young blonde girl in a bathing suit, standing on tiptoes. She was very pretty, but as standardized—pose and all—as an interchangeable part. She made me think of a composite picture. I looked at the other two slips of paper. Each had one word written on it. “View” and “Of.” I frowned. Then they rearranged themselves in my mind, and I shook my head. “Isle of View.” For this he’d jilted Marian Forsyth. That forty country must be rough.

His wallet held a little over seven hundred dollars, two more photographs of Coral Blaine, driver’s license, eight or ten credit cards of various kinds, and his Chapman Enterprises business cards, but nothing with a picture of him. I unsnapped the folder of traveler’s checks. There were forty-eight of them, all hundreds. He didn’t exactly go around barefoot, for a two weeks” vacation. Well, he was a millionaire, it was probably all deductible if he had an imaginative tax man, and big-game fishing came high. To say nothing of nineteen-year-old call girls.

I was stalling now, and I knew it. I’d been through all his things, and if I kept inventing reasons for putting it off I’d start to lose my nerve, and then I
would
flub it. I broke the seal on the bottle of Scotch, had one fair-sized drink, and reached for the phone. I was tight across the chest.

The operator answered.“Long Distance,” I said. ”Thomaston, Louisiana. The number is six-two-five-two-five. Personal call to Miss Coral Blaine.”

“Yes, sir. One moment, please.”

I waited.
Remember, two pet names. Remember, she has a very Southern accent
. No, that didn’t matter. This was personal, I didn’t have to worry about “recognizing” the wrong girl’s voice.
Remember, just got up. Groggy. Hard drive.

Far off, a feminine voice said, “Chapman Enterprises.”

Receptionist. Mrs. English. Widow. 36. Brown hair. Pleasant. Son in high school. Wendell. . . .

“Miss Coral Blaine,” an operator said. “Miami Beach is calling.”

“One moment, please.”

Hates Marian. “Adores” things. Chides me for swearing. Argument about scope and magnitude of wedding, settled now, her favor. Honeymoon definitely Palm Springs, Acapulco out, loathes fishing. Get her talking about bridal parties. Gown. Attendants. . . .

“Go ahead, please.”

“Harris, darling—”

“Angel, how are you?” I said.

“Just fine, darling, but I’ve been so
worried
. You didn’t call last night, and here I’ve been imaginin’ wrecks and hurricanes and deadly females carryin’ you off—”

“I tried to call you. When I checked in here at Miami Beach. At one a.m.—that’d be midnight your time. But there was no answer.”

“I just
knew
it! I kept trying to tell that crazy Bonnie Sue Wentworth that Miami was ahead of us—”

Bonnie Sue clicked in my mind.

“—Henry’s in Chicago, you know, at that engineers” convention or whatever it is, so after the movie we went out to the club, and I kept telling her I had to get back because you’d call, but she said Miami was
behind
us—”

“Bonnie Sue’s having a good day when she can tell whether it’s daylight or dark,” I said. “And I wish you wouldn’t ride with her. Any husband that would let a featherweight like that drive a Thunderbird has got a grudge against her, or the human race—”

“Harris, she wasn’t drivin’ the Bird. Heavens, they traded that in, remember?”
So. Don’t get too cocky.

“Well, the hell with Bonnie Sue. I want to know how you—”

“Harris! The very idea!”

“I’m sorry, angel,” I said. “But how are you? And how’s everything at the office?”

“Just fine. And, remember, I said I wasn’t going to bother you with old office details on your vacation. The only thing that’s come up important is a letter from those lawyers in Washington about the radio station. There’s some more forms to fill in.”

“Yes. That’s the application for an increase in power,” I said. “Shoot ’em over to Wingard. If he has any questions, I’ll get in touch with him later. But, look, angel, suppose I call you tonight? I just woke up and haven’t even dressed yet. And before I drive on down to Marathon there’s a real estate man I want to see.”

“That’d be wonderful, darling. I’ll be waiting.”

“Say about eight, your time. And thanks a million for the book. It’s a good one.”

“You fibber. I bet you haven’t even looked at it.”

“I’ll just take that bet.” I winced. “Isle of View, too.”

“Why, you precious. You did open it.”

When I’d hung up, I poured one more small drink of the Scotch, and sighed. How could I have been worried about that? Then a very cold hand closed around my insides, and I cursed myself.
Don’t get careless
. So she’s an idiot. But don’t forget, they were engaged; there’s a whole area of shared experience nobody could brief you on, not even Marian Forsyth. And just one little slip, one wrong word, can do it.

I looked at my watch. It was still only a few minutes past twelve. It would be better not to check out until at least one; that would be exactly twelve hours from the time he’d checked in, and there’d be no chance at all any of the same staff would be on duty. The whole switch depended on that. Now would be a good time to hit Chris.

I poured some more coffee, and dug the Webster & Adcock envelopes out of the bag. Spreading out the itemized end-of-the-month statement, I corrected it and brought it up to date with the slips verifying subsequent transactions. Since the first of the month—and that would be about the time Marian had left him—he had sold five hundred shares of Consolidated Edison, and in three separate transactions had bought a total of ten thousand shares of some cheap stock called Warwick Petroleum. This was listed on the American Exchange, and had been bought at prices ranging from 3½ to 3 1/8. I just had a hunch Chris had been unhappy about that. Marian had got him to switch over to high grade preferential and good solid utilities before prices had started to sag, and here he was plunging to the tune of better than thirty thousand dollars on some cheap speculation before she’d hardly got out of sight.

I crossed off the Consolidated Edison, added the Warwick, and adjusted the cash. The latter was now $12.741.50. Opening the
Miami Herald
to the financial page, I went down the list, checking it off against yesterday’s closing prices on the Stock Exchange. I added it all up. It came to roughly a hundred and eighty-seven thousand. I whistled softly. A hundred and seventy-five thousand of that was ours.

I thought of the places we’d go. Athens, Istanbul, Mallorca. And the fishing places—New Zealand, and Cabo Blanco. Passports would be no problem; we wouldn’t be fugitives. But it really didn’t matter where we went, as long as I was with her.

I snapped out of it. It would be at least a month before I could see her again, and I was in no position to be goofing off, dreaming about her. I reached for the phone.

“Operator, I’d like to make another long-distance call. This one’s to New Orleans—”

“Yes, sir. And the number?”

I gave it to her, and added, “Personal call to Mr. Chris Lundgren.”

“Thank you. One moment, please.”

I heard the operator at Webster & Adcock, and then Lundgren’s voice.

“Chris?” I said. “Chapman. How’s Warwick doing this morning?”

“Oh, good morning, Mr. Chapman. The girl said you’re in Miami Beach already—”

“That’s right,” I said shortly. “But has there been any sign of a rally in Warwick? I see it closed yesterday at two seven-eighths.”

“No-o—” He sounded far from enthusiastic. “It’s about the same, but there’s very little activity in it. To tell you the truth, Mr. Chapman, I still can’t quite go along with you on it. It carries a lot of risk—”

So I was right. I cut in brusquely. “But, goddammit, Chris, there’s risk in anything there’s profit in. I got where I am now by taking risks. I’m not some old woman using the dividends from a few shares of AT &T to buy food for her cat. Christ, with the tax set-up we’ve got, what good is income to me? I need capital gains.”

“Of course, Mr. Chapman. But I just don’t see Warwick Petroleum. In a healthy market it might pay off as a speculation, though I’d prefer to see you in a sounder growth situation with better management. But right now the market’s going through a period of uncertainty and readjustment, and we ought to give some thought to safety. You’re in a very strong defensive position in everything except the Warwick, and I have to agree with Mrs. Forsyth—”

“Mrs. Forsyth’s not the only person who’s ever heard of the stock market,” I said irritably. “And since she’s walked out on me, I don’t see where she enters into it. But I’ll tell you what; I don’t believe in nursing losses any more than you do. Let’s get rid of it. Get seven-eighths if you can, and go as low as three-quarters if you have to.”