The Case of the Turning Tide

Chapter 2

Frank Duryea rolled over in bed, stretched, yawned, and turned so that he could see the face of the alarm clock.

From the pillow beside him, Milred said sleepily, “Go on back to sleep. It’s too early to wake up.”

Duryea looked at the clock, knuckled his eyes, said, “It’s nine o’clock.”

“Well, it’s Sunday.”

“Take a look outside, hon. See the sunlight around the edge of the window shade.”

His wife kept her back toward the window, refused to turn her head. She said, “That’s always the way. You start me arguing, and that wakes me up. Go back to sleep.”

Duryea got up, crossed over to the windows, and raised the shades, letting in a flood of sunlight. “Look, sweet, it’s the dawn of a new day. It’s Hollywood!”

“No, it isn’t. It’s the same day it was at two o’clock this morning when I wanted you to come home and you wouldn’t.”

“Come on, uppy-up! We’ll take a walk in the fresh air. How about a glass of tomato juice?”

Milred sat up in bed. “All right, we’ll argue about it.”

“About what? The tomato juice?”

“No, your marital manners. They’re very, very bad. Just because you wake up is no sign you should waken a bed mate.”

“Have you been reading books on bedroom etiquette, or are you drawing on your past experience?” he asked.

She stretched and yawned. The silk nightdress matched the skin of her supple body. She was good looking, brunette, twenty-seven, a tall girl with the knack of keeping her youth, her figure, and her husband.

Frank Duryea, taller and five years older, was beginning to put on weight. For three years now he had been district attorney of Santa Delbarra. He stood looking out of the window at the sun-swept vista. “How about that tomato juice?”

“You’ve made a sale, but don’t put too much Worcestershire in it.”

Duryea went into the kitchen, filled two large tumblers with tomato juice, and poured in a generous helping of Worcestershire.

“Some lemon in mine,” Milred called from the bedroom.

Duryea was adding the lemon when the phone rang.

“Want to get that, Millie? My hands are sticky.”

“Get them washed then because it’s some woman whose husband has left her, and she wants to invoke the law.”

Duryea washed his hands at the kitchen sink. “Don’t make my career sound so stodgy. Last Sunday it was the woman who had a stray horse on her front lawn. Remember?”

“At seven-fifteen,” Milred amended, and said into the telephone, “Hello... Yes... Oh, yes. Just a moment.”

She pushed the palm of her hand over the mouthpiece and said, “It’s Sheriff Lassen, Frank. He’s excited. Bring my tomato juice when you come.”

Duryea brought in a tray with the glasses of tomato juice. She sipped her drink while Duryea, standing with the telephone in his left hand, his tomato juice in his right, said, “Hello, Pete. This is Frank. What is it?”

Lassen said, “Been a double murder on a Los Angeles yacht, Frank. Man by the name of Stearne who owns the yacht, and a friend of his named Right. I’ve notified the coroner and the chief of police. Better get down here right away.”

“Where are you now?”

“At the yacht club.”

“What’s the yacht?”

“The Gypsy Queen II.”

Duryea said, “Okay, I’ll be down directly,” started to hang up, then said, “Oh, hello, Pete.”

“Yeah.”

“Where are the bodies, aboard the yacht?”

“Yes.”

“Who’s there? Anyone?”

“Yeah. Art Perrin, and... and here’s Sam Krause coming.”

Duryea said, “Don’t let them move anything until I get there. Any witnesses?”

“We’ve got three people who know something about it. They’ve all been in the drink.”

“All right, hold them,” Duryea said.

He hung up the telephone, and finished the last of his tomato juice.

“As important as all that?” Milred asked.

“Uh huh. A double murder.”

“All right, go ahead. I’ll be a dutiful wife, and give you first crack at the bathroom.”

“No shave, no shower,” Duryea said, peeling off the coat of his pajamas, and pulling his undershirt on over his head. “Pete Lassen has pulled his usual stunt of notifying me last. The coroner was just driving up as he telephoned, and Art Perrin, the chief of police, is already on the yacht. That means he called them about half an hour ago.”

Milred pulled Frank’s pillow over behind her head so that she could prop herself up in bed, and said, “Hasn’t he been doing a lot of that lately?”

“Uh huh,” Duryea said.

“Put some powder on your face if you’re not going to shave, Frank. You look ragged.”

“Can’t help it,” he said. “Three witnesses, and all of them have been in the water.”

“How did that happen?”

“I don’t know. Pete didn’t say.”

“Frank, is it true that Oscar Romley is going to run against you?”

“Darned if I know,” Duryea said, knotting his necktie. “There’s been some talk of it. There are half a dozen potential candidates who’d like the job.”

“Frank, that shirt’s been worn and looks it. Can’t you...”

“Haven’t time to break out a clean one,” he said, opening the closet door and jerking his coat off a hanger. “What about Romley?”

“Oh, nothing. Only I saw Romley and Jerry Bellinger holding a low-voiced conversation on the street. They gave the impression of having their heads together. They started when they saw me — a guilty start like small boys in the jam when mamma opens the pantry door. Better watch your step.”

“Okay. If I’m not back in a couple of hours, take the car if you want it.”

“I don’t want the car. I want to go back to sleep. You take the car.”

Duryea said, “Be seeing you.”

“You left your hat on top of the radio when we came in last night,” she told him, snuggling back down into the bed. “Are you going to pull down those shades, or do I have to?”

“You have to,” Duryea said. “If I’m gone all day, it’ll be the only exercise you’ll get.” He went out through the dining room, grabbing his hat off the radio, and slamming the front door.

Quite a crowd of people were gathered at the yacht club float, staring out at the yacht. One of the city police officers was on guard, saying occasionally, “Keep moving, folks. Keep moving. Don’t block the road here. Keep moving.”

No one paid him the slightest attention.

The officer saw Duryea, nodded, and said, “The chief’s out there with the sheriff. Guess you can take any one of these boats.”

Duryea felt unusually conspicuous as he cast loose the line of a small dinghy. He wasn’t particularly accomplished as an oarsman, and realized keenly the loss in political prestige which would come from catching a crab in front of this silently curious crowd.

Duryea’s progress to the yacht was awkward but safe. He worked the oars entirely with an arm motion. The horizon seemed suddenly possessed of a desire to spin around in crazy circles, but eventually he reached the yacht, tied up the dinghy, and climbed aboard.

Sam Krause, the coroner, A. J. Perrin, the chief of police, and Bill Wiegart, a deputy sheriff who handled fingerprints and photography, were all on the yacht.

Duryea said, “Hello,” and, although he had seen all of these men within the past forty-eight hours, went through the formality of shaking hands, as though a murder had in some way interrupted their relationship and made this meeting something in the nature of a reunion.

He went down into the cabin and regarded the two sprawled figures. His stomach, never very strong in the morning, became decidedly squeamish. He knew that presently he was going to be sick.

“Where are the witnesses?” he asked Lassen.

“In the pilot house up forward.”

“I’ll go talk with them,” he said, and it sounded to him as though the words came through his clenched teeth. He turned and hurriedly sought the air; but even the freshness of the ocean breeze and the warm sunlight couldn’t erase what he had seen from his mind. He didn’t want to talk with the witnesses. He didn’t want to talk with anyone.

“Kinda tough,” the sheriff said, joining him.

Duryea nodded, said, “I hadn’t had breakfast. It’s too much for an empty stomach. How many witnesses are there?”

“Three: man by the name of Shale, a salesman; girl by the name of Harpler from another yacht — she’s the one in the bathing suit. Girl by the name of Nita Moline, easy on the eyes, came up from Los Angeles on invitation to join Stearne on a yachting party. Knows both of them, has an alibi, if what she says is true. They’ve all been in the drink. Guess I’d better go in with you and introduce you. Addison Stearne was the man lying on his back with his eyes open. The younger fellow was C. Arthur Right. Okay, let’s go.”

The sheriff performed the introductions.

Duryea said wearily, “Tell me what you know. Hit the high spots. I’ll ask questions about details. Which one of you is Miss Moline?”

The golden-haired girl nodded.

“You first,” Duryea said.

“I’m acquainted with both Mr. Right and Mr. Stearne. I’m — we were all good friends. They came up here yesterday. Addison told me he was going to give the crew twenty-four hours’ leave after he tied up... Listen, I’ve got to go get some dry clothes on. I’m cold.”

“In just a minute. What time did you get here?”

“An hour or so ago. I don’t know the exact time. The skiff for the yacht was tied up at the float. I got in and rowed to the yacht. I rather expected someone would take the painter and help me aboard. No one showed up. I got aboard by myself, and tied up the skiff. I thought at first they were all asleep, then I looked down in the cabin and — I came up. I... I remember leaning over the rail. The next I remember 1 was sitting up in a boat. These two people were with me.”

Duryea asked, “When did you last see them alive?”

“I hadn’t seen Arthur for a couple of days. I saw Addison yesterday morning just before he left. I drove him down to the yacht harbor... I simply can’t stand these clothes any longer!”

“Why didn’t you come up on the yacht?”

“I had an appointment at the hairdresser’s and some other things to do. I’ve told the sheriff all this.”

“What time did you leave Los Angeles?”

“It was real early, right around six o’clock.”

Duryea turned to the other young woman. “You’re Miss Harpler?” he asked.

“Joan Harpler.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Nothing.”

Shale met Duryea’s eyes. He said, “I think this is a damned outrage, keeping us here while we’re all sopping wet. I can tell you my story in a few words. I got up early this morning, went down to the beach to take a walk, saw Miss Moline come out of the cabin and fall overboard. I grabbed the first boat I came to that had oars and oarlocks in it, and rowed out to rescue her. Miss Harpler got there just about the same time I did. Together, we got her in the skiff. I knew she be-longed on this yacht, and thought there was probably someone here who’d be interested in what had happened. I went aboard to find out, and saw the two bodies down in a cabin. I didn’t go down. That’s all I know.”

“You don’t live here?” Duryea asked.

“No.”

“Where do you live?”

Shale hesitated, said, “I travel.”

“A salesman?”

“Yes.”

“Whom are you with now?”

“The Freelander Pasteboard Products Company.”

“What brought you here?”

“Business.”

“Now when you came to the yacht, was there any small skiff or boat...”

“Yes, that one tied up to the rail.”

“That was the one in which I came aboard,” Miss Moline said. “And if you don’t realize it, it’s dreadfully cold here.”

“Just one or two more questions,” Duryea said. “The yacht came up here yesterday?”

“That’s right.”

“Was Mr. Right aboard when you drove Mr. Stearne down to the yacht club at Los Angeles?”

“No. He hadn’t showed up then, and I didn’t wait. I had a beauty-shop appointment.”

“I suppose you can prove all of this.”

Her eyes were scornful. “Naturally.”

“Where can I reach you, Miss Harpler?”

“I’ll be aboard my yacht, the Albatross.”

“You, Miss Moline?”

“As soon as I can leave here, I want to go back to Los Angeles.”

“What’s your residence there?”

“Six-o-nine Maplehurst Apartments.”

“And you?” Duryea asked of Shale.

“I’m at the Balboa Hotel.”

“How long do you intend to remain there?”

“Not very long.”

“You’ll be there all day today?”

“No. I’m leaving.”

“I’m going to have to ask you to stay over at least one more day.”

Shale said, “It costs money to stay here. I can’t afford to...”

Duryea said, “I can probably make arrangements with the hotel. The county isn’t very generous with me on such matters. The supervisors adopt the position that we maintain a proper boarding house.”

“The jail?”

“Yes.”

“Surely, you’re not going to...”

“That’s just it,” Duryea said. “We have a wing on the jail we call a detention ward, but it’s part of the jail just the same. You’re a material witness. I don’t want you to leave here until after I’ve checked into this a little more fully.”

“There’s not much chance I could walk along the beach and kill...”

“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m simply telling you I want you to stay as a material witness.”

“For heaven’s sake,” Miss Moline said, “quit arguing with him. I’ll pay your expenses at the hotel. Listen, there’s some whiskey in the liquor closet, and...”

“I don’t think it’s wise to touch anything,” Duryea said.

She flared at him, said, “You wouldn’t!” stamped a soggy foot, and raised fingers to the fastening of her slacks. “I’m going to get out of these clothes right now.”

Duryea said hastily, “That’s all. You may all go.”

Joan Harpler said to Nita Moline, “Suppose you come over to my yacht. I can fix you up with some clothes.”

“Thanks. They’ll be more than welcome,” Miss Moline said.

There was a moment’s silence. Joan Harpler looked at Ted Shale. “I suppose there’s no way I could — I’m sorry.”

Ted laughed. “Forget it. I’m on my way to the hotel.”