The Case of the Turning Tide

Chapter 8

Parker Gibbs had a passion for doing a neat job in a workmanlike manner. Had he been a manufacturer, he would naturally have gravitated into the field of precision instruments. Had he been an artist, he would have drawn with fine lines, etching in all of the little details. There would have been no trace of the impressionistic in his technique.

Gibbs drove his car to Santa Delbarra, where it took him two hours to find out approximately all that the authorities knew about the murders. A little judicious bribery even secured for him a set of the photographs the sheriff’s office had taken. Those photos showed Stearne lying on his back, Right sprawled at his feet — and Right’s shoulders were lying over Stearne’s legs.

Gibbs studied the photographs with a magnifying glass, memorizing each detail. The position of the bodies indicated that Stearne had been shot first. Right, in falling, had slumped over Stearne’s legs. There was, Gibbs noticed, a typewriter on a little stand near Stearne’s body. He wondered if perhaps Stearne had been trying to type something when the bullet had struck him. Or perhaps Stearne had just finished typing something. Details of the typewriter were obscure. Flashlights had been used for the photographs, and the shadow of a desk had in each instance fallen on the typewriter, but Gibbs was able to see it was a portable of the same make as the one he used in making out his reports.

Having found out all the authorities knew, Gibbs started a search for Nita Moline.

It was no trick at all to learn that Joan Harpler had given Miss Moline dry clothes, and to get a description of those clothes.

Gibbs had a description of the car and its license number. A check-up on the public garages in Santa Delbarra revealed that the car was not stored in any of them. Calls to the hotels disclosed that no woman was registered under the name of Nita Moline. Gibbs retired to an all-night restaurant where he gave the matter considerable thought. He was, he realized, getting precisely nowhere, and, as Mr. Hazlit had pointed out, a man in his profession was paid to secure results. His next step was to ascertain if Miss Moline had registered in one of the hotels under another name.

Realizing that he had at least an all-night job on his hands, and feeling the need of some place where he could establish a headquarters, Gibbs decided to get a room in one of the commercial hotels. Appraising the situation with the eye of a hard-bitten traveler, he picked the Balboa as the hotel most suited to his needs.

He registered, had his baggage taken up to his room, and casually leaned up against the desk.

“Something else I can do for you?” the clerk asked.

“I don’t know,” Gibbs said. “I’m trying to locate a party — an attractive girl with golden blond hair, dressed in a blouse, a red sport coat with wide lapels, white sailor slacks, driving a big cream-colored sport coupe, license number 8P3036. She may be registered here in the hotel, or...”

“No, she isn’t registered,” the clerk interrupted. “I haven’t seen her since around eleven o’clock this morning.”

Gibbs was careful not to show too much anxiety in following up his lead. “You on duty at eleven o’clock this morning?” he asked.

“This is my long shift,” the clerk explained. “I come on at ten and stay until one o’clock the following morning. I get these long shifts twice a month, and then...”

“Then tomorrow you go on day duty?”

The clerk smiled and shook his head. “No, tomorrow I go on at night.”

“I see. So you haven’t seen this party since this morning?”

“That’s right.”

“And she isn’t registered here?”

“No.”

“Just visiting someone in the hotel?”

“No. She stopped to pick up a chap who’s staying here in the hotel, a Theodore Shale, in room three-sixteen. Something queer about Shale — but I guess I shouldn’t talk about that.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, we’re not supposed to talk about guests.”

“Oh, bosh,” Gibbs said. “After all, you’re among friends. Shale, wasn’t he the one who did the rescue act this morning?”

The clerk’s eyes lit with interest. “I hadn’t heard about it. What was it?”

Gibbs was purposely vague. “I don’t know. He jumped overboard after some woman who fell off a yacht.”

“That’s the one all right,” the clerk said. “He came in soaking wet, and he didn’t offer a single word of explanation.”

“So this woman went up to Shale’s room?”

“No, not up to his room. He came down to wait for her. They went away together.”

“Don’t know where they went, do you?”

“No. Shale hasn’t returned.”

“He should be hack by this time, if he’s going to get any good out of his room.”

The clerk grinned. “If that baby had stopped by for me in that buzzbuggy, I wouldn’t be back either.”

“I think I’ve met this man, Shale,” Gibbs said. “He’s blondish, isn’t he, with stooped shoulders and...”

“Not this one. He’s dark, wavy black hair, and a good pair of shoulders, athletic-looking fellow. He evidently only has the one suit of clothes. He put on some slacks and a sport shirt with his business coat, telephoned back about noon to have the trousers sent out to be pressed.”

Gibbs said, “Guess that isn’t the Shale I knew. What’s he doing, do you know?”

“Yes. He got a commercial rate. Wait a minute. I have his card somewhere. Let me take a look. Oh, yes, here it is. Freelander Pasteboard Products Company.”

Gibbs said, “No. This fellow I knew was in the insurance business. Well, guess I’ll go out and take a little stroll. I have trouble sleeping. Some nights I can’t get to sleep before three or four o’clock in the morning.”

“I know just how you feel,” the clerk said. “When I change shifts, I have a lot of trouble sleeping for a day or two.”

Gibbs strolled out through the lobby, stood on the curb, hesitating as though trying to decide whether to turn up the street or down, then turned to the left, and sauntered toward the place where his car was parked.

Gibbs had something definite to work on now. He knew that the district attorney had ordered Ted Shale to remain in Santa Delbarra. It was hardly possible that he would violate the district attorney’s instructions and run the risk of being incarcerated. He was, moreover, evidently with Nita Moline. This meant that Gibbs had a problem which was greatly simplified. In place of looking for a young woman who might be anywhere, Gibbs could now look for a couple, strikingly dressed, and either in Santa Delbarra or at some place reasonably close.

There were three night spots in Santa Delbarra. Gibbs covered them all without result. He learned there were some four or five road houses which, being beyond the city limits, made a practice of staying open until three and four o’clock in the morning. It would, he estimated, take him approximately an hour and a half to cover these road houses.

The methodical part of Gibbs’ mind suggested that this was the proper thing to do, but his instinct as a detective made him feel vaguely uneasy at the prospect. If it should prove to be a blind lead, an hour and a half would have been wasted, and that time was doubly precious.

Gibbs sat back behind the steering wheel of his automobile, closed his eyes, and took inventory of the situation. It was obvious that Nita Moline had not as yet registered at any hotel, at least under her own name; that Ted Shale, who was already registered and who had been ordered by the district attorney to remain available, had not returned to his hotel room.

Gibbs felt certain the two were together, that since their meeting had been fortuitous, the possibilities of a longer and more intimate friendship could be eliminated. They must be in some public place — and yet Miss Moline’s clothes...

Suddenly Gibbs asked himself how he knew that she was still in the same clothes. His investigation earlier in the evening had unearthed the information that the young woman who had owned the Albatross had offered to loan Miss Moline dry clothes. It was well within the bounds of possibility that by this time Miss Moline had her own clothes back. Gibbs hadn’t asked for a description of those clothes, and he bitterly regretted the oversight. It would be rather difficult to get the young woman who owned the Albatross up out of bed at this time, but then, as Hazlit had so aptly told him, he was being paid to get results.

Gibbs started his automobile, drove rapidly to the waterfront, skirted around to the parking space by the yacht club. He left his car and started walking toward the clubhouse and float.

A dark figure detached itself from the shadows. Rays from the distant street lights glinted on brass buttons. “What’s the idea, buddy?” the man asked.

“Looking for a yacht.”

“Member of the club?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s see your membership card.”

Gibbs promptly reached in his pocket, pulled out his wallet, started fumbling with cards. “Got a flashlight?” he asked.

“Oh, I guess it’s okay,” the policeman said. “Just trying to keep out sightseers. What’s your yacht?”

“Right at present I’m with Miss Harpler on the Albatross.”

“The Albatross, eh?”

“That’s right.”

“She ain’t there.”

Gibbs raised his eyebrows.

The officer indicated the stretch of black water where the ghostly forms of yachts loomed gray and indistinct, like the wraiths of incoming fog. “Pulled out,” he said. “Understand she pulled out all of a sudden like. There was a young woman who was supposed to go on that yacht and got left behind. She made quite a commotion about it.”

“Perhaps that was the woman I want. Could you describe her?”

“Girl with blond hair and a red sport jacket. Had on some kind of white pants. I didn’t see her myself. I wasn’t on duty, but the man I relieved told me about her, told me to keep an eye open for her. She seemed awful anxious to catch up with that yacht.”

“Any idea where I could locate her?” Gibbs asked eagerly.

“No, I wouldn’t know.”

“How about the man you relieved? What’s his name?”

“Now, don’t go bothering him,” the officer said. “He’s had a hard day, and he’s entitled to his sleep. That’s the thing that makes it so tough on a cop — having to put in his days working, and then answering questions on his time off. By the time you make a pinch, make out a report, and then have to tell some more stuff to the city attorney or the D.A. and then go to court and get on the witness stand and have questions yelled at you by a bunch of lawyers, you almost feel as though it ain’t worth while makin’ a pinch.”

“I’ll try not to disturb him,” Gibbs said. “What time did you relieve him?”

“Ten o’clock tonight.”

“Did he tell you what time it was when she showed up?”

“Yes, shortly after he went on duty. It was just a little before sundown — oh, maybe an hour.”

“How long had the yacht been gone then?”

“I don’t know. It pulled out this afternoon sometime.” The officer lowered his voice. “But I’ll tell you something. It’s been my experience that guys on yachts are all nutty. I’ve seen ’em do some mighty queer things. They’ll sit up all night, and then hole up all day, just sittin’ out there, tied to those mooring buoys. Why the devil don’t they go out and get some fishing or something?”

“Perhaps they need the sleep more,” Gibbs said, smiling.

“I reckon they do, but I can’t see the idea of keepin’ a yacht to get drunk in when you can do it just as easy ashore.”

“As easily, but not as comfortably,” Gibbs pointed out.

“Guess you mean as completely, don’t you?” The cop grinned.

Gibbs laughed loudly at the sally, said, “Well, so long,” and turned back toward his car, his mind already turning over the problem of what moves a young woman would make who was trying to locate a yacht.

At first, Gibbs thought a speedboat was his clue. Then he realized that there was a lot of ocean to search, and the search would automatically be finished with the coming of darkness. If the young woman had any intelligence, and she certainly had, she’d rent a plane. Were there any hydroplanes for rent in Santa Delbarra?

The answer was surprisingly easy. A caretaker at the municipal airport supplied Gibbs with a telephone number. The person who had that number, when he had recovered from a slight irritation at having been called at that hour of the night over a simple matter of information, disclosed that a young woman who answered the description Gibbs gave had chartered his hydroplane that afternoon. It bad, he explained, been within half an hour of sundown by the time he had the plane up in the air. She hadn’t wanted to go any place in particular, simply cruise around. He thought she was doing it for a thrill. They’d gone out over the ocean, headed down along the coast two or three miles out to sea, then made a circle back up the coast. She’d watched the sunset, seemed to get quite a thrill out of it, didn’t want to come back. He’d insisted on getting back before dark... Yes, they’d gone down low over the ocean once... Yes, there’d been a yacht below them. He hadn’t noticed it much. It was headed toward Santa Delbarra, he’d noticed that... There were usually yachts out off the coast, particularly on a Sunday... She’d asked him to drop down at that particular point... No, he didn’t know where she’d gone after they’d landed. She’d paid him, and driven away... Yes, that was right, a big cream-colored sport coupe... The young man with her?... Why no, there hadn’t been anyone with her... No, no one had waited in the car. He was certain of that.

Gibbs thanked him, made what apologies and explanations he could for the lateness of the call, and drove back to the waterfront. The yacht in which Miss Moline had taken such an interest had been headed back toward Santa Delbarra. That was a clue. Gibbs parked his car and settled himself to a wait, calming his nerves with frequent cigarettes.

He became conscious of the beam of a searchlight playing on the water, then saw red and green running lights, noticed a yacht feeling its way in to a mooring. He saw a white-clad figure run along the deck, lean over the bow with a flashlight. A looped cable and float were located by the beam of the flashlight. A boat hook dragged the loop up to the deck. A moment later, an electric winch sounded briefly, then the running lights were switched out.

Gibbs started toward the place where the officer was standing guard at the entrance to the yacht club, then thought better of it and decided to wait and see if anyone came ashore from the yacht.

Five minutes later, he saw the headlights of an automobile swirl around the corner. The speed of the car elicited a screaming protest from the tires. Gibbs watched the car swing into a parking place beside his own, and when Nita Moline, still garbed in the white slacks, blouse, and red sport coat, placed a rubber-soled tennis shoe on the pavement, Gibbs raised his hat and said, “I’ve been looking for you, Miss Moline.”

He saw her stiffen into the rigid immobility of a surprised dismay. “What— What do you want?”

“A friend of mine wants to see you.”

“Well, isn’t that nice!”

“This friend is a lawyer.”

“Well, what’s the idea?”

Gibbs said, “Addison Stearne was a rich man, or did you know it?”

“Well, what of it?”

“You inherited his property.”

“What makes you think so?”

“I happen to know.”

“How?”

“Because that’s my business.”

She laughed.

“You don’t seem the least surprised,” he said.

She said, “I’m never surprised at a line anyone hands me. — The fact that I never believe them may have something to do with it.”

“Suppose I could prove it?”

“It would be interesting.”

Gibbs said, “Let’s quit beating around the bush. Addison Stearne left a will. Arthur Right was named in that will as executor. He was given the bulk of the estate — but the will provided that if Arthur Right died before Stearne, the bulk of the property was to go to you.”

There was a long silence during which Nita Moline stood looking down at the vague outline of her white tennis shoes.

“I’ve got a lawyer,” she said. “I don’t need another one.”

“There’s only one lawyer who can do you any good now. That’s George V. Hazlit of Hazlit & Tucker. I know.”

“He was Addison’s lawyer.”

“That’s right.”

“He hates me. He thought I was trying to stick Addison for something. Addison wanted me to go to him... Say, why should I tell you all this?”

“I know all about it,” Gibbs said. “You’re not telling me anything. I’m telling you.” He lowered his voice. “If Right died first, you get the property. If he didn’t, you don’t get it. See what that means? If Right’s wife manages to get in the saddle, she’ll take possession of everything, and by the time she gets done, you’ll be on the outside looking in. If we can get you in the saddle, you can keep her out.”

“I’ll talk to my lawyer about it. I know him. I don’t know this man Hazlit.”

“Don’t be silly,” Gibbs said impatiently. “You haven’t time to do any swapping of horses. Hazlit is working all night so he’ll have papers ready to file first thing tomorrow morning. If your lawyer was old man Blackstone himself, he couldn’t do you any good now. The only thing he could do would be to try and keep you away from Hazlit so he’d be the one to hog the fee. Now, do you want that dough, or are you going to throw it into the ocean just so some lawyer can hand you a line?”

She said. “I like you when you get mad. You talk straight then. All right, I’ll go see this man Hazlit in the morning.”

“Now,” Gibbs said.

“Why now?”

“You’ve got to give him some information so he can...”

“Listen. I have an appointment.”

“With that yacht that just came in?”

“How did you know?”

Gibbs said, “Because I know all about how you’ve been trying to find it. You located it from the hydroplane, didn’t you? When you saw it was headed back toward Santa Delbarra, you knew you were too late, didn’t you?”

He saw from the expression on her face that she was surprised, and a little frightened.

Gibbs said, “You’ve been playing things pretty much on your own. It might be a good plan to let Hazlit give you some advice before you stick your neck out any farther.”

“I’m not sticking my neck out.”

“That’s what you think.”

“My clothes are aboard that yacht.”

“Leave them there.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Gibbs said, taking a shot in the dark, “wherever that yacht went, it went for a reason. That reason may have had something to do with the cruise Addison Stearne intended to start on this afternoon, or it may have had something to do with Addison Stearne’s murder. If you connect yourself with the yacht, you may connect yourself with something you won’t like. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll slide over behind the wheel of that automobile, I’ll climb in with you, and we’ll start for Los Angeles right now.”

She studied his face for a moment, surveying the bony, aquiline nose, the high cheekbones, the straight, firm mouth, and the strong jaw. “All right,” she said abruptly, “you’ve won an argument. You’re in a hotel here in town?”

“Yes.”

“Which one?”

“The Balboa Hotel.”

“You’re a detective?”

“Yes.”

“Hazlit hired you?”

“I’m not at liberty to talk about my clients.”

“Are you going to try to follow me?”

“I’m going to Los Angeles with you.”

“That’s all you want?”

“Yes.”

She said, “I’ll make you a proposition. Get in your car, go to the Hotel Balboa, and stay in your room. I’ll give you a ring at three o’clock in the morning. That will put us in Los Angeles in time to sign the papers.”

He shook his head.

“It’s that or nothing.”

“You might forget your appointment.”

“I’ll give you my word.”

He hesitated.

She said, “Don’t think you can work a rush act with me. You’ve told me enough now so I’m going to see a lawyer. If you trust me and meet me at the hotel at three o’clock, I’ll go to Los Angeles with you and see Hazlit. Otherwise I’ll call my own lawyer, and Hazlit can go jump in the lake.”

“How do I know you’ll keep your promise?” Gibbs asked.

She looked at him, her eyes steady. “You don’t.”

“It’s a bargain,” he said.

“If you try to follow me,” she warned, “all bets are off.”

Gibbs had played the game too long not to be a good judge of human nature — and a good gambler. He considered the two alternatives, then made one last effort to get what he wanted. “Let me stay with you,” he said. “I may be able to help you. You’ll need a witness in case someone tries to claim you said something or did something that...”

“No,” she interrupted. “When I play the game, I go all the way. I don’t quibble, and I don’t welsh. Go to the hotel, and I’ll meet you there at three o’clock. Stay here and interfere with me, or even ask one more question, and Hazlit will never see me. What’s it going to be?”

Gibbs climbed in his car, turned on the ignition, and drove away without a word. She waved at him when he was half a block down the street, the approving friendly gesture of a graceful, up-flung arm.

Gibbs went directly to the Balboa Hotel, and dragged out the portable typewriter. He was going to make a report which he could submit to his client, a report which would show the diligent persistence with which he had tried to locate Nita Moline, the manner in which the proposition had been put up to him, the choice he had had to make. He felt certain she’d be back at three o’clock, but in the event she wasn’t, he was going to have it all down in black and white, so Hazlit would have to hear all of his side of the story before forming an opinion.

He’d just had the typewriter overhauled. A new platen and a new ribbon had been installed. Gibbs opened his suitcase, took out paper and carbon paper. He tapped the keys gently to make sure the carriage was freed from the locking position it assumed when the cover was placed on the typewriter. He struck the letter J. It tapped lightly against the new platen and left an imprint.

Gibbs fed in the paper, held his hands poised over the key-board, then suddenly he stopped as an idea struck him.

He whipped the paper back out of the machine, regarded the new platen thoughtfully. He tried a tentative experiment, depressing the keys slowly one at a time. He tapped out: “Arthur is dead. They got me and dd I can’t.”

Gibbs looked at what he had done. In some ways it was crude, but it might stand up. That would be up to the lawyers. He wasn’t under any misapprehension as to what shape the yacht would be in when Nita Moline finally was permitted to take possession. Every square inch of it would have been combed in the search for clues — anything which he could do would have to be done before that time — would have to be done immediately.

Gibbs made another of his quick decisions. He put the carriage into its locking position, and snapped the case on the portable typewriter. He pushed back his chair, got to his feet, looked at his watch.

It was twenty minutes past twelve.