I wiped my face with the back of my hand. I had to find out who the girl was and why she had a gun. I had to find out why I had lost control of the car.
Riskin had said I had an apartment on Franklin Boulevard, Lincoln Beach. I remembered Della had said she and her husband were going to Lincoln Beach, and did I want to go with them. It seemed in those forty-five missing days I had not only lived in Lincoln Beach, but I had even set up a home there.
To judge by the suit I was wearing, and the fact I had owned a Buick, I must have got hold of a lot of money. How had I done that in so short a time?
I switched my mind to the fat man, Ricca. He had given me a lot of obscure information. According to him I was engaged to a girl called Ginny. Where had I met her and where was she now?
I recalled what he had said. Y
ou're the guy who killed Wertham and Reisner. W
ho were they? Where
have you hidden the money? he had asked. What m
oney? Y
ou can walk out of
here and do what you damn well like. Why should I care? She was the one who cared. W
ho was she? Why did she care?
I stretched out on the bed and smoked, staring up at the ceiling. There seemed no end to the questions, but how was I to find the answers? I realized I wasn't going to get far unless I had money to help me. At the moment I had only a little over a hundred dollars. I couldn't hope to make a thorough investigation without a substantial sum of money. I was suddenly up against a blank wall. Without money I was sunk. There could be no investigation. All I could do was to sneak out of Miami as soon as my hundred dollars ran out and get somewhere where I could lose myself.
I was still battering my brains out, trying to find a solution, when I heard Maddux coming pounding down the passage. I just had time to slap on my hat to cover my shaven head when he came in and dumped a big black pigskin suitcase on the bed.
"There you are, mister," he said. "Jeepers! That weighs a ton."
I was looking at the suitcase. As far as I knew I had never seen it before. There was a tie-on label hanging from the handle. It had my name on it, and it was written in my handwriting.
I tried the locks, but they didn't budge. They were good, strong locks, and they'd need a lot of breaking open.
"That's a nice-looking case," Maddux said, watching me closely.
"Yeah, but I've lost the key. Got a screw-driver handy?"
I saw his look of suspicion, but I ignored it.
"You don't want to bust the locks," he said. "I've got a hicky that'll open it."
"Get it," I said.
He went off as if he were jet-propelled.
I stood looking at the suitcase, fighting down a feeling of fear and excitement. Would this case contain the key to the missing forty-five days? Had I bought it or had I stolen it?
Maddux returned in six minutes. They seemed like six hours to me.
He bent over the case, screwed a bit of metal into the lock, twisted it and the lock flew up. He did the same to the other lock, then stood back.
"Easy, once you know how," he said.
I gave him the twenty I'd promised him.
"See you tomorrow," I said, anxious to get rid of him.
He looked longingly at the case, backed to the door, then hesitated.
"Well, if that's all, I guess I'll get downstairs."
"That's all."
The moment he closed the door I shot the bolt. Then I turned to the bed. I took hold of the lid of the case and threw it open.
I don't know what I expected to see, but certainly not what I did see. The case was crammed with money: thousands and thousands of dollars; more money than I had ever seen in my life.
For a long moment of time I stood staring. Then very carefully and with shaking hands I lifted the fat, neat packages on to the bed until the case was empty. There was nothing else in the case - just the money. A quarter of a million in hundred-dollar bills!
I understood then why Ricca had been so anxious to find the money. A quarter of a million! How did it get into the case? Where had it come from?
I suddenly felt horribly faint, and I put my hand on the bed-rail to steady myself. My knees sagged, and I flopped down on the floor. But not for one moment did I take my eyes off that money.
A quarter of a million dollars!
A motive for murder! Had I really murdered two men and a woman for this? Was that what I had done?
VI
If I hadn't been suspected of murder I wouldn't have touched that money. I would have taken the suitcase to Riskin and let him handle it, but what had I to lose? If I did hand over the suitcase to Riskin I might be handing him the motive he was hunting for to pin the murder rap on me. If I were caught with it, it wouldn't make much difference, if any. I was wanted for murder, nothing else mattered.
I wanted money to make an investigation. Well, I had a quarter of a million dollars and I was going to use it.
Once I had made up my mind to use it, everything became simple. I bought Maddux, and I bought the bald-headed reception clerk. Maddux cost me a hundred bucks. The clerk became co-operative for a mere fifty. Both of them found out who I was when they read the morning papers. The papers gave my name and an accurate description of me.
"This man is wanted for questioning concerning the murder of an unknown woman," said the account. "Anyone recognizing him from the description given above should communicate immediately with Lieutenant Bill Riskin of the Homicide Bureau."
But they didn't offer a reward, so the clerk and Maddux weren't interested. They were only interested in my welfare and my dollars.
I remained in the hotel bedroom for two weeks: time for my hair to grow over the scar and for me to raise a moustache. A moustache and a pair of horn spectacles changed my appearance considerably. Only a trained observer like Riskin could have spotted me. I was sure I had nothing to fear from the man in the street who might have read the police description.
I told Maddux I wanted a car and a gun. He got me a secondhand black Plymouth: just the car for the job I had on hand. He produced also a .38 automatic and a .22 in case I wanted something smaller, and a box of slugs to go with both guns. He made a big profit out of the purchases, but I didn't care. I had all the money in the world, and I was buying secrecy.
After sixteen days in the bedroom, I decided the heat had cooled off enough for me to leave. I drove away from the hotel on a moonless night a little after ten o'clock. On the bench seat beside me was the .38. I had the .22 in my hip pocket. I was ready for trouble. If anyone shot at me, I was going to shoot at them. I was in that kind of mood.
I drove along Bay Shore Drive, up the long, crowded Biscayne Boulevard towards the State Highway. I drove carefully, stopping at every red light, taking care no speed-cop could find an excuse to bawl me out. I saw a number of prowl cars and a number of speed-cops, but none of them took any notice of me.
After a six-hour drive I spotted the bright lights of Lincoln Beach. The town was laid out in a semi-circle, facing the sea and sheltered by rising ground. It seemed to be a blaze of lights even at three o'clock in the morning. I had no intention of driving through the town. My first call was to be the scene of the accident where the Bentley had crashed. I'd be coming back to Lincoln Beach later on.
I remembered where the car had hit us. There was a hill and palmetto thickets on either side. Fifty miles past Lincoln Beach I reduced speed. Somewhere here, I told myself. There was a hill ahead of me, and I could see the shadowy outlines of the palmetto thickets. I slowed to a crawl. By now it was close on five o'clock, and the sun was coming up reluctantly above the skyline. In another ten minutes it would be daylight.
I switched off the headlights and cruised to a standstill, drawing to the side of the road. I lit a cigarette, aware of the feeling of rising excitement, but I waited. I wanted plenty of light to do what I had come to do.
After a while I decided it was light enough, and I drove on. A mile farther up the road I came to the place. I knew it was the place by the uprooted tree, the torn grass and the skid marks that even sixty days hadn't yet blotted out.
I kept on driving until I was a quarter of a mile past the scene of the smash, then I ran the car off the road and into the shrubbery. I wasn't taking any risks. A parked car at the actual place of the smash might arouse the curiosity of any passing cop. I walked back, my gun shoved down the waistband of my trousers, my eyes and ears alert for trouble. I saw no one and heard nothing.
After examining the ground for half an hour, I gave up. Apart from the skid marks, the churned»up grass and the uprooted tree, I found nothing. I knew the police had been here. If there had been anything to find they would have found it. I didn't expect to find anything. I hoped if I returned to the scene of the smash something there might jog my memory to life, but it didn't.
During those sixteen days at the hotel I had groped into the past, trying to push aside the blanket of fog that hid the happenings of those forty-five days. Every now and then I felt I was getting somewhere. I remembered a few things, but they were so disjointed they didn't make sense.
An enormous fat woman with blonde hair floated into my mind, and then before I could concentrate on her she turned into a sleek, ferocious lion that came rushing towards me with a coughing, snarling roar. That mind picture brought me out of an uneasy doze, sweating and scared. Had I been dreaming or had this fat woman and the lion actually played a part in those missing days?
Then later I had a very clear mind picture of myself on the verandah of a beach cabin. I was sitting in an armchair listening to the radio. I could hear the music distinctly, and although I never listened to classical music, I somehow knew this was a symphony concert, and it was by Beethoven. There was a blonde girl in a yellow swim-suit in the room. She kept coming on to the verandah, wanting me to turn off the radio, but I wouldn't let her. She said if the music stopped she would take off her swim-suit. Wouldn't I like that better than the music, and I said no. She got angry and slapped my face. This picture appeared again and again in my mind, but it didn't mean anything to me.
I sat down on the uprooted tree and lit a cigarette. I tried to concentrate while I absorbed the atmosphere of the thicket- I remembered the other car coming at us like a bat out of hell. I remembered Della's scream and the smash. I remembered grabbing hold of the dashboard as the Bentley began to turn over. I closed my eyes. There had been a blinding white light, and then darkness.
After a while I remembered a small wooden cabin, facing the sea. I could see it clearly in my mind. It had a tin roof, and the front window was cracked. There was a split panel in the front door. This was new. This had happened after the smash II was sure of that. Excited by this discovery, I jumped to my feet and looked around. There was a path through the palmettos, leading to the beach. I set off, walking quickly, aware that the path seemed vaguely familiar. I was pretty sure I had been this way before.
I came out of the thicket on to the sand dunes. The sea was in front of me. I stood looking to right and left. There was no sign of any cabin. I was turning to walk to the right when I changed my mind and walked instead to the left. I was like a blind man in a familiar room. All I had to do was to obey my instincts, and I knew I should arrive at the cabin.
I walked for ten minutes along the beach before I saw it. It was exactly as I had pictured it in my mind, with its tin roof and cracked window-pane.
There was an elderly man in the doorway, smoking. He had on a pair of dirty dungarees and he was looking in my direction. There was a stiff alertness about him that told me I had startled him.
"Morning," I said as I drew near. "A lonely spot you've got here."
He stared at me, his lined, weather-beaten face uneasy.
"Where did you spring from, mister?"
"I've been driving all night. I wanted to stretch my legs. Could I buy a cup of coffee off
you?"
"You can have a cup of coffee. I've just made some. I'll bring it to you." I sat down on a wooden box and waited, I had an idea I had seen him before. He came out with two pint mugs of steaming coffee. He kept staring at me while I drank.
"It's a funny thing," he said slowly, "but I've seen you somewhere before."
"You've seen my brother," I said, deciding this might be the best way to get the information out of him. "He had a car smash not far from here on July 29th. Remember?"
He hurriedly shifted his eyes.
"I don't know anything about a car smash."
I knew at once he was lying.
"My brother was hurt," I said, watching him. "He lost his memory. We don't know what happened. I'm trying to find out."
"I tell you I don't know anything about it," he said curtly. "If you've finished your coffee, I gotta get on."
I took out a roll of bills; peeled off a hundred in twenties and spread them out on my knee.
"I don't want to waste your time. I pay for information," I said.
"She said I wasn't to talk about it," he said, his eyes lighting up, "but as you're his brother . . ."
I gave him the money. My heart was beginning to pound, and my hand was unsteady.
"What happened?"
"She and your brother came here. She said he had been hit on the head and the car stolen, but I found out later she was lying. There had been a smash and the car caught fire. They found a body in it."
"That's right. What was this woman like?"
"Dark and pretty, but as hard as nails. She wore a green dress. From the look of her she had plenty of money."
Della!
"Go on," I said.
"Your brother made out he was pretty bad, but he wasn't. He was trying to fool me. She wanted me to call some fella, and she gave me a phone number. The phone's about half a mile down the road. I called this guy. He said he'd come over. When I got back to the cabin I looked through the window. Your brother was talking to the girl, but when I went in he made out he was still unconscious."