The Way the Cookie Crumbles

Chapter Three

‘This isn’t the road to Paradise City!’

They had been driving in silence for some thirty minutes. Now, Algir had suddenly slowed down and swung the Buick off the highway and along a narrow dirt road bordered on either side by citrus shrubs.

‘This is all right,’ he said curtly, and slightly increased the speed of the car.

‘But it isn’t!’ There was a shrill note of alarm in Norena’s voice. ‘I know this road it leads to the sea! You’ve made a mistake, Mr. Tebbel.’

‘What’s the matter with the sea?’ Algir asked, staring in front of him. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the girl. ‘Don’t you like the sea?’

The previous week he had driven along highway 4A, searching for an isolated place where he could kill this girl and get rid of her body. This road they were on now led to the place he had found. He had come down this road every day for five days, always at this time and he had never seen anyone either on the road or the beach. It was a strictly Saturday and Sunday bathing and picnic spot: on weekdays, no one seemed to have the time nor the inclination to bathe there.

‘I want to see Mummy as quickly as possible,’ the girl said nervously. ‘We’re wasting time, Mr. Tebbel, coming this way. We must stop and turn back.’

‘What makes you think you won’t see her this way?’ Algir said. ‘I didn’t say she was in Paradise City, did I?’

‘Isn’t she? Then where is she?’

‘She’s in Culver Hospital,’ Algir lied. ‘This is a short cut to Culver.’

‘But it isn’t! I know this road. It leads only to the dunes and to the sea.’

‘You must leave this to me, Norena,’ Algir said, a sudden harsh note in his voice. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

She looked at him. He didn’t seem to be the same man who had met her in Dr. Graham’s study. That man had been charming, kind and sympathetic. But this man... Norena experienced a chill of terror. How could a man change so utterly and so quickly? It was like a face that changed in a nightmare.

A heron, startled by the approaching car, flew out of a tree and flapped heavily away. Ahead of them, Norena saw the sea.

‘There’s the sea,’ she said in despair. ‘This road leads nowhere except to the sea.’

The citrus shrubs had given way to tall pampas grass that swayed like sinister beckoning fingers in the warm gentle breeze.

‘Please stop,’ she pleaded. ‘Please.’

A hundred yards ahead of them the road came to an end in a big circular turnaround.

As Algir slowed the car, she again looked at him. His face was drawn and glistened with sweat. His eyes were staring. His lips were set in a hard vicious line. The sight of him horrified her. She had an instinctive feeling that he was going to attack her. She had often read the rape and murder cases that from time to time appeared in the newspapers. She had read them without much interest, sure that that sort of thing could never happen to her. In her opinion most of the murdered girls had only themselves to blame for their end. By the way they dressed and generally behaved themselves, they really did ask for trouble. But why should this man attack her? What had she done?

Unless, of course, he was one of those awful maniacs you read about. But he couldn’t be. He was Mummy’s lawyer. But did Mummy have a lawyer? She had never mentioned him. Again Norena looked at Algir who had stopped the car and was removing the ignition key.

He didn’t look at her. She hated that. If he had looked at her she might have seen what he was planning to do by the expression in his eyes. His movements were slow and deliberate. She noticed his hand was shaking as he withdrew the ignition key.

The beach with its lines of dunes, its yellowing clumps of dried grass and its broad wet ribbon of sand, marking the receding sea, stretched for lonely, empty miles. The breeze had stiffened, blowing the loose dry sand in little swirls that week after week, month after month, year after year formed the high sloping dunes that broke up the flatness of the beach.

She found herself slipping back the door catch. The car door swung open and she was out.

Algir’s reaching fingers were too late. She felt his grip, but she tore loose and she began to run across the soft sand faster than she had ever run before.

And she could run. She hadn’t played hockey and basketball for nothing. She hadn’t won the hundred yards at the College sports against stiff opposition for nothing either. Nor had she ever had to race for her life, and as she flashed across the beach that thought that she was racing for her life urged her forward at a speed that made her winning hundred yard sprint look slow.

Taken by surprise, Algir glared after her. He was shaken by the way this girl could run.

If she escaped and talked!

He scrambled out of the car and tore after her. The distance between them must be at least a hundred yards, he thought, and it was increasing. Who would have thought the little bitch could run like this? Her long legs seemed to fly over the sand. Already he was panting. His only exercise was an occasional game of golf. Running like this quickly made him breathless. He kept on, aware that she was drawing further and further away from him. Finally, she disappeared from his sight behind a high dune.

He ran on until he reached the dune. His breathing laboured, his heart hammering, he scrambled up the dune and stopped, his eyes smarting with sweat. He could see her, but now a distant figure silhouetted against the azure blue of the sky. She was still running with long, effortless strides, but she had changed her direction. She was no longer running blindly along the beach that stretched for several miles before it petered out into a vast, swampy cypress forest. She was heading inland now, her back to the sea. Ahead of her was a screen of oak and willow hummocks with the occasional maple tree forcing its way through the dense undergrowth.

Algir had explored these hummocks a few days previously. Through their tangled undergrowth there was a cleared track that ran in a crescent shaped curve and finally came out onto the dirt road they had driven up from highway 4A.

Did she know the track led to the highway? He saw at once his chance of catching her. It was his only chance. He slid back down the sand dune and raced across the sand towards the Buick. Reaching the car, he slid under the steering wheel, put the key into the ignition lock with a shaking hand, started the engine and set the car shooting back down the dirt road.

It took him only a few minutes to reach the T-joint of the dirt road and the track from the hummocks. He drove the Buick under the shade of a willow tree, then taking off his jacket and leaving it in the car, he half ran, half walked down the track until he reached the fringe of the hummocks. He paused to look back in the direction of the Buick, but the high growing pampas grass hid it from view. Nodding, satisfied, he walked into the undergrowth for a few yards. Then selecting a thick shrub, he sat down behind it. From there, he could see some twenty yards up the track.

There was nothing he could do now, but to wait.

While waiting, he thought of Ticky Edris and this girl, Ira Marsh, that Ticky seemed so pleased with. The whole success of the plan revolved around the girl. If he made a mistake then Johnnie Williams, Muriel Marsh and her daughter would have been murdered for nothing. Maybe he had been crazy to have agreed to go in with Ticky on such a plan, but Ticky had convinced him.

‘I’ve seen her, you haven’t,’ Ticky had said. ‘She’s made for the job. You don’t have to worry about her, Phil. That doll will do anything for money.’

He thought Ticky had been nuts to have promised a teenager fifty thousand dollars. Why give so much of the profit away? Surely, she would have come in on the job for as little as ten thousand?

Ticky smiled his evil smile.

‘What does it matter? Who said she would get any of the money? Relax, Philly-boy, what’s one more body, now we have three?’

Algir wiped the sweat from his forehead. He didn’t trust Ticky. He would have to watch out that Ticky hadn’t ideas about him. Ticky might be thinking, What’s one more body, now I have four?

Algir suspected that Ticky was unbalanced. He had a revenge complex. Ever since he had begun working at La Coquille restaurant, so he had told Algir, he had dreamed of getting even with the rich.

‘You know something?’ he said, one evening when the two men were in Ticky’s apartment. It had been a Thursday, Algir remembered, Ticky’s night off. They had been drinking pretty steadily and by now, Ticky was very drunk. His face was flushed, his eyes glassy and sweat beads sparkled on his forehead. ‘I couldn’t imagine how I could hit back at these rich sons of bitches. To get even with them, I had to have as much money as they had... more money. I couldn’t see how I could ever get the money until I went to Mrs. Forrester’s place. What chance had I? I am a misshapen dwarf against a grinning, sneering community of rich bastards who treat me like a jester with their contempt and their stinking jokes. Then one night I went to this old cow’s place and it happened! Now, I’m no longer on my own. I can talk things over with this guy and he’s a lot smarter than I am. You’ve no idea how smart he is.’

Algir, slightly drunk, had stared at the dwarf.

‘What do you mean? Who’s this guy then?’

Edris looked sly. He puffed out his cheeks and fanned his heated face with his stumpy hand.

‘I don’t know who he is. I’ve never seen him, but I hear him. He’s right here,’ and Edris tapped his massive forehead. ‘He talks to me, Phil. It was he who dreamed up this plan. He told me what to do. He, not me.’

Algir didn’t like any of this. He thought Ticky was either crazy or else he was kidding. Either way, Algir didn’t like it.

‘Who’s this Mrs. Forrester?’

‘She’s a table-rapper. Every Thursday evening she holds a séance. Ten people turn up. They each give her a dollar. That’s all she has to live on. I went along one Thursday for the kicks. I hadn’t anything better to do. So I went along and paid my dollar.’ His face now had a dreamy expression. ‘The best and most profitable dollar I’ve ever spent.’

‘What happened then?’ Algir asked, helping himself to Ticky’s whisky.

‘We all sat around an enormous table with a dim red light in the centre. There was some hymn playing on a beat-up record player. We had our hands on the table, our fingers touching. The old girl went off into a trance and then people began asking questions. It was all pretty crummy. They wanted to know about their goddamn relations who were dead. The table moved once for ‘yes’ and twice for ‘no’. Strictly for the kids. If I hadn’t paid my dollar, I would have cleared off. Anyway, my turn came around, and I asked if I was going to make big money pretty soon. Everyone around the table seemed shocked. According to them, you didn’t ask questions like that. Even the goddamn table went into a sulk. It didn’t move. The old girl had some kind of a fit. She fell off her chair. People got up and crowded around her. I was fed up with the whole crummy thing. I went out into the hall to collect my hat. I was putting it on when I heard a man’s voice, as distinctly as I hear your voice, saying, ‘Ticky, you’re going to make big money, but you’ll have to be patient. It may take years, but you’ll get it.’ I was surprised because I couldn’t see anyone in the hall. There was no one in the hall. I thought I had imagined the voice, but when I got home, it started talking to me again, and this time I knew it was real.’ Ticky broke off and squinted at Algir. ‘You think I’m nuts, don’t you?’

‘I think you’re drunk,’ Algir said.

Since then, Ticky had never mentioned the voice again, but Algir was sure the dwarf imagined he still heard it. It worried Algir, but there was nothing he could do about it. A mosquito buzzing suddenly in Algir’s ear disturbed his thoughts. He was lifting his hand to swat the insect when he saw Norena. She was coming silently down the track, like a ghost, her big frightened eyes moving from right to left, from left to right.

Tense, Algir remained motionless, watching her, his suntanned hands turning into fists.

She must have felt she was no longer alone because she stopped abruptly, her hands going to her face. She stared down the track towards the pampas grass, catching her breath in a frightened sob.

Algir could see the panic rising in her face. She was about to turn and run back to the sea as he lifted himself up on his haunches and sprang out of the bush towards her. At the sight of him, she gave a wailing scream of terror. She tried to run, but he grabbed her arm, jerking her against him. He had imagined she would have been easy to handle. He had tremendous confidence in his immense strength, but he found he could scarcely hold her.

Desperate with terror, she kicked, clawed and bit. She didn’t scream anymore. They fought silently and horribly. He kept hitting her across her nose and mouth. Her face now was a mask of blood. She was weakening. Grinning savagely, his breath coming in laboured gasps, he shifted his right hand to her throat, his fingers sinking into her windpipe. As if she realized this was her end, she seemed to go mad. Jerking and twisting in violent convulsions, she nearly broke his hold, but he managed to hang on. He fell forward, bringing her down with him and now he was on top of her, flattening her and his left hand joined his right.

She was still struggling, but life was draining out of her. He increased the pressure on her throat. Her long legs began to thrash, then her heels drummed in the sand. It was her final, feeble effort. Then abruptly she went limp. Her eyes rolled back in the sightless stare of death.

Shuddering, Algir got to his feet. A trickle of blood ran down the side of his neck where she had clawed him. His heart was thumping so violently, he felt suffocated. Unsteadily, he moved away and sat down abruptly, his back against a tree. He remained still, his head in his hands for some minutes.

Well, it was done, he thought, fear like a cold coil inside him. If he had known it was going to be like that, he wouldn’t have done it. He wouldn’t have repeated those last awful moments for all the money in the world. He looked at his strap watch. The time was 08.40 hours. He was behind schedule. With an effort, he got to his feet and walked to where he had left the Buick. He stopped by the car, listening and looking down the dirt road. Only the sound of the sea and the plaintive cries of the gulls came to him. He reached into the glove compartment, took out half a bottle of whisky and gulped down a stiff drink. Then he unlocked the trunk of the car and leaving it half-open, he returned to where he had left the dead girl.

Without looking at her tortured face, he caught hold of her and slung her over his shoulder. She was heavy, and he staggered a little as he walked back to the car. He bundled her into the trunk and closed it. Then getting into the car, he reversed it up the dirt road until he came to the turnaround.

He pulled up, set the brake, got out of the car and opened the trunk. He took out an old Army trenching tool he had picked up in a Miami store. Then he got the girl over his shoulder and carrying the tool in his hand, he walked across the sand to the nearest high sand dune. He dropped her at the foot of the dune, then straightened to look along the miles of deserted beach. Satisfied he was alone, he knelt beside the girl’s body and began to undress her. This task sickened him, but it had to be done.

Ticky had said, ‘Get all her clothes. They’ll have the College laundry marks on them. We can’t take a chance.’

He had trouble getting her girdle off. He cursed softly, sweat blinding him, as he wrestled with it. Finally, he got it off. Now she was naked. Around her bruised, swollen throat she wore a gold cross on a thin gold chain. He couldn’t leave that on her. He hated touching it. He had been brought up as a Catholic and although nothing of his religion had stuck, the cross reminded him of the church he had gone to as a kid with its blaze of candles, the smell of incense and the throb of the organ.

He dropped the cross into his pocket and made a bundle of her clothes. Then picking up the trenching tool, he climbed up the dune and began shovelling the sand down on the naked, murdered body.

A buzzard circled overhead, its wide wings making a shadow on the sand. It was still circling in ascending spirals long after Algir had finished his gruesome task and had driven away.

At 09.45 hours, Fred Hess walked down the passage that led to Captain Terrell’s office. He rapped on the door, pushed it open and walked into the room.

Terrell was sitting at his desk. Beigler was sitting on the window ledge. Both men were drinking coffee.

‘Well, Fred, what have you got?’ Terrell asked, pushing a carafe of coffee across the desk and waving to a chair.

Hess sat down and helped himself to a cup of coffee before saying, ‘It all points one way, Chief. She killed him and then herself. Lepski has been checking, and here’s what we’ve come up with. Williams went to bed at eight o’clock with a heavy cold. At 10:10 the people across the way thought they heard shots, but weren’t sure. They had their TV set on and it was blaring. The husband, Dixon, looked out of the window to see if there was anything to see. Muriel Devon’s car was parked outside her bungalow. He went back to the programme. As it finished, he heard

Muriel’s car drive away. The doorman at La Coquille saw Muriel arrive in her car. He thought she was pretty drunk, but she was steady enough to walk so he let her in. She arrived at around eleven so she must have driven straight to the restaurant from her place. It would take that time.

The barman says he saw her come in and Edris put her in the end banquette. The barman says he remained behind the bar the whole time and he is certain no one went near the banquette except Edris who served her with a whisky sour. The hypo that killed her carries some blurred fingerprints, one of them, probably all of them, Muriel’s. We haven’t found a thing to make us think she didn’t kill him and then herself.’

Terrell nodded.

‘What did Charmers say about the handwriting on the suicide note?’

‘I gave him the specimens we found in her apartment. The handwriting matches. She also owned the gun. She took out a licence three years ago in New York. It’s a fact Williams was cheating her. He was planning to go off with a Mrs. Van Wilden, a rich old bitch, living at the Palace Hotel. I’ve seen and talked to her.’ Hess made a grimace. ‘When she heard Williams was dead, she had hysterics. She was taking him to the West Indies to manage her estate out there.’ Hess sneered. ‘She had a lucky break, but I didn’t tell her so. Lepski talked around and the neighbours say Williams and Muriel were always fighting. Well, I guess they’ve had their last fight, no loss.’

Terrell finished his coffee.

‘Doc says she died of heroin poisoning. No doubt about that.’ He thought for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Well, I guess we can close the file. This is one of the easy ones.’

‘How about her husband?’ Beigler said. ‘Do you want me to find him?’

‘We’ll want him for the inquest,’ Terrell said. ‘Then there’s the daughter.’ He scratched the side of his jaw. ‘Funny Hamilton hasn’t been around this morning.’

Hess grinned.

‘Browning’s talked to him. He gets so many free meals out of Browning, he’s playing this one down. There’s barely a mention of the shooting and that’s on the back page.’

‘I’m glad for the daughter’s sake,’ Terrell said. ‘See if you can find Devon in the book, Joe.’

Beigler crossed to the shelf of reference books and picked up the telephone book. He flicked through the pages.

‘Here he is. Melville Devon, 1455, Hillside Crescent. Shall I call the house?’

‘Go ahead.’

Beigler put the call through. After a brief delay, a woman’s voice said, ‘This is Mr. Devon’s residence.’

‘City Police,’ Beigler said. ‘Can I talk to Mr. Devon?’

‘He’s not here. You can get him at the bank.’

‘What bank’s that?’

‘The Florida Safe Deposit,’ the woman told him. ‘I can give you the number if you’ll hold on.’

‘That’s okay,’ Beigler said. ‘I can find it, thanks,’ and he hung up. ‘He works at the Florida Safe Deposit Bank,’ he told Terrell.

Terrell frowned, then snapped his fingers.

‘I know the fellow. I didn’t know his first name. I once played golf with him in the Country Club competition. Nice guy. He’s the Vice President of the bank. Important man. Well, what do you know? If Hamilton finds out, even Browning can’t stop him publishing a story. Wife of V.P. of Florida Safe Deposit Bank in murder and suicide tangle! Can you imagine? I’ll handle this, Joe. I’ll call him.’

The telephone bell rang. Beigler picked up the receiver.

‘Ticky Edris asking for the Chief,’ the Desk Sergeant said.

‘Hold it.’ Beigler looked at Terrell. ‘Edris on the line. You want to talk to him?’

Terrell frowned.

‘What does he want?’ He held out his hand for the receiver. When Beigler passed it to him, he said into the mouthpiece, ‘Put him on, Charley.’

Edris came on the line.

‘Captain Terrell?’

‘Yeah. What is it, Edris?’

‘It’s about Norena Devon,’ Edris said in his piping voice. ‘I shouldn’t be bothering you with this, Captain, but I want to trace her father. As a friend of the family, I called the school and Dr. Graham has broken the news to her. She’s on her way home now. She’s very upset. Here’s my problem. There’s no money in the apartment. Of course I can provide for her and I will, but before sticking my neck out, I thought her father should be consulted. He may want to take charge. You see the position I’m in, Captain. I don’t want to put my foot wrong, but I want to be helpful.’

Terrell scratched the side of his jaw as he listened.

‘I’ve located her father, Edris,’ he said finally. ‘I’m going to speak with him right now. For his and his daughter’s sake, the less publicity about all this the better. If you’re such a friend of the family and want to help, you can help. I’m going to talk to the Coroner. It could be fixed that you identify the woman as Muriel Marsh and you give evidence of the relationship between her and Williams. I think the Coroner would agree to leave Norena and her father out of it. It depends on you.’

‘You can count on me, Captain,’ Edris said. ‘I’ll do anything to help. I’m as anxious as you to spare the kid any publicity.’

‘Okay. I’ll talk to Devon and the Coroner. As soon as I know how they feel about it, I’ll telephone you. What’s your number?’

‘Seacombe 556.’

‘Right,’ Terrell said, scribbling the number on his blotter. He hung up and pushed back his chair. ‘All right, boys, you get on with your other jobs. I’ll finish this one off.’

When Hess and Beigler had gone, Terrell called Alec Brewer, the Coroner. He explained the situation to him.

‘Mel Devon?’ Brewer’s voice sounded shocked. ‘He’s an old friend of mine. I never. You’re sure it’s the same man, Frank?’

‘Same name,’ Terrell said. ‘I haven’t talked to him yet. Could be I’m wrong.’

‘You’d better check. I can’t believe it. You check, Frank, and call me back.’

‘Maybe I’d better go down and see him.’

‘You do that, and be careful, Frank. Mel’s an important man in this City.’

The Florida Safe Deposit Bank was founded in 1948 by a syndicate of immensely wealthy men who had either retired to live in Paradise City or who spent three months of the year on vacation there. These men were determined to have a completely safe place in which they could keep their bonds, their cash for gambling, their wives’ jewellery and furs and their gold and silver plate, used from time to time on special occasions. Since the bank had been opened, Paradise City had ceased to have the highest burglary rating of all the rich cities along the Florida coast. It now claimed the distinction of the lowest crime rate with the least number of criminals.

The bank had proved such a success that all the big jewellers, the hotels, the three Casinos and the various private clubs used its modern safes in which to keep their cash and valuables. The Bank had three armoured trucks, each guarded by four ex-Ranger guards, that delivered or collected from its clients, and only once had one of the trucks been attacked. This had been a daring attempt by six vicious gunmen, but the attack had failed. Five of the gunmen and one of the guards had been killed. The reputation of the guards’ shooting from this battle scared off any further attempts.

When the Texas oil billionaires invaded Paradise City during the vacation months, they all used the Bank as their pocket book, and during this period, it was rumoured that there were more money, securities and jewellery under its imposing roof than under any other single roof in the world.

Captain Terrell parked his car in one of a number of parking bays, got out and walked up the wide steps to the Bank’s entrance.

Two guards, wearing smart grey blouses and breeches, knee boots and peak caps worn straight, Colt .45 automatics on their hips, eyed Terrell, then saluted him.

‘Morning, Chief,’ one of them said. ‘Official?’

‘No,’ Terrell said and paused. He knew both men. He had shot against them at the .22 Rifle Club and knew them to be exceptional marksmen. ‘I wanted to see Mr. Devon.’

‘Second desk on the right as you go in,’ the guard said.

Terrell nodded and walked into the vast reception hall with its marble pillars, its Ali Baba vases of flowers and its discreet lighting. The hall was circular in shape and between each pillar stood a desk at which an executive sat either writing, telephoning or discussing business with a client.

A thin, balding man, dressed in a dark grey tropical suit sat at the second desk on the right. A mahogany plaque with the word Information in gold letters stood on the desk.

He glanced up. Recognizing Terrell, he nodded and smiled.

‘I’d like a word with Mr. Devon,’ Terrell said. ‘Urgent private business.’

If the man was surprised, he didn’t show it.

‘Sit down, Captain Terrell,’ he said and reached for the telephone. He had a murmured conversation while Terrell sat and looked around the hall. This was the first time he had been inside the bank and he was impressed.

‘Mr. Devon will see you right away,’ the man said, replacing the receiver. He indicated the elevator at the end of the hall. ‘Third floor.’

Terrell nodded his thanks, crossed the hall and entered the elevator. He was whisked up to the third floor where a pretty girl, her dark hair making a neat frame for her face, was waiting. ‘Come this way, Captain Terrell,’ she said and led him along a wide, long corridor to a door of polished, panelled mahogany. She opened the door and stood aside, murmuring, ‘Captain Terrell, Mr. Devon.’

Terrell entered a large airy room, luxuriously furnished with a handsome desk as the only piece of office equipment. Above the wooden carved fireplace hung an early Van Gogh. Lounging chairs, a Louis XIV cabinet, converted into a cocktail cabinet and rich Persian rugs completed the furnishing. Four large windows overlooked the Yacht Club basin and the sea.

The man behind the desk stood up and offered his hand. As Terrell shook hands, he remembered him now more clearly.

Mel Devon was thirty-nine years of age. He was tall, broad shouldered and powerfully built. His close cut brown hair was flecked with grey. His features were regular. His skin was burned brown by the sun and wind, his eyes blue and steady, his mouth firm and humorous. He gave the impression of ability, shrewdness and kindness.

‘It’s some time since we met, Captain,’ he said, waving Terrell to a chair. ‘I’ve often thought of that game we had. I never see you at the club these days. Don’t tell me you’ve given up golf?’

Terrell sat down.

‘I don’t play as regularly as I would like. I turn out on Saturday mornings but that’s about all the time I can spare.’

‘How’s the game?’

‘Pretty steady. You still playing off six?’

Devon smiled. He seemed pleased Terrell should have remembered his handicap.

‘I’m down to four now.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘Not my idea. I get an awful beating every now and then.’

He leaned back in his chair and rested his big hands on the desk. His look of inquiry told Terrell that although he was pleased to see him, he was busy.

‘Mr. Devon,’ Terrell began slowly, ‘I’m making inquiries about a woman. It is just possible you may be able to help me. Her name is Muriel Marsh Devon.’

Devon stiffened. His mouth tightened and a sharp probing expression came into his eyes.

‘That’s the name of my wife, Captain,’ he said. ‘Is she in some kind of trouble?’

‘You could call it that,’ he said and scratched the side of his jaw. ‘She died last night — suicide.’

Devon became motionless. He stared fixedly at Terrell who felt sorry for him.

‘It must be close on fifteen years since we parted,’ he said finally. ‘We married when we were kids. I was nineteen at the time. It lasted scarcely two years. Suicide? I’m sorry to hear that. You... you’re sure it is Muriel?’

‘There is a daughter, Norena,’ Terrell said.

‘That’s right. Have you news of her?’

‘She’s arriving in Seacombe some time this morning.’

‘I see. This will be a shock to her.’ Devon looked up.

‘Would you know if she was fond of her mother?’

‘I believe she was,’ Terrell said, hesitated, then went on, ‘The case is a painful one, Mr. Devon. I take it you know nothing about what has been happening to your wife after she left you?’

Looking suddenly apprehensive, Devon shook his head.

Briefly, but omitting no important details, Terrell told him all he had learned of Muriel Marsh Devon. He concluded with the murder of Johnnie Williams and Muriel’s suicide at La Coquille restaurant.

Motionless, a frozen expression on his face, Devon listened.

Having said his say, Terrell got to his feet and walked to the big window and stared down at the busy yachts in the basin. Some moments later, Devon said quietly, ‘Thank you, Captain. It’s not a pretty story, is it? You’re sure Norena knows nothing about her mother’s way of life?’

Terrell returned to his chair and sat down.

‘Edris says not. I can imagine what you are thinking, Mr. Devon, but you mustn’t worry. If handled right, this story can be smothered. I have already talked to Brewer who is, I understand, a friend of yours. I’m pretty sure he will agree to keep both you and your daughter out of this. Besides, Browning is determined to have it hushed up and he has a lot of influence with the press.’

Devon appeared to relax a little.

‘But is it possible to hush it up? This man Edris is a bit of a character, isn’t he? He has often waited on me at the restaurant. There’s something about him I don’t exactly like. Is he to be trusted?’

‘He seems genuinely fond of your daughter. He said he would do whatever he could to keep her name out of this mess. I’m pretty sure you can rely on him.’

‘Do you know anything about him, Captain? I’m sure you realize that if we do manage to hush this up, I could be a perfect target for blackmail. If the story breaks, I would have to resign from the bank. I couldn’t continue to hold my present position here even though I haven’t associated with Muriel for seventeen years. The story is just too sordid.’

‘You don’t have to worry about that,’ Terrell said. ‘We have nothing against Edris. In fact, from what we learn, he has an excellent character.’

‘Then I’ll leave it all to you, Captain, most gratefully. You say Norena is coming back this morning?’

‘So Edris says. He thought you would want to see her as soon as possible.’

‘Of course.’ Devon turned and stared out of the window. ‘It’s hard to believe I now have a seventeen-year old daughter. I always wanted Norena. Taking her from me as Muriel did was the unkindest thing she ever did to me. It’s something I have never been able to forgive her for. I did everything I could to find Norena, but I had no luck. The search went on for over five years, then I gave up. I put her out of my mind.’ He frowned down at his hands. ‘It would have been fun watching her grow up. Now, it seems I have a grown-up daughter with her own ideas, her own way of life about which I know nothing.’ He looked up at Terrell who was now standing. ‘You don’t know anything about her, do you, Captain?’

‘Only what I’ve told you,’ Terrell said and took from his wallet the photograph of Ira Marsh that Edris had planted in Muriel’s bedroom. He put the photograph on the desk in front of Devon. ‘That’s your daughter. My congratulations. I’d say she’s worth the long wait.’

Devon stared at the photograph.

‘Yes, how like her mother she is! What’s Edris’ address?’

Terrell told him and gave him Edris’ telephone number.

‘Maybe you’d better telephone Edris first, Mr. Devon and let him know what you plan to do.’

Devon stared at the photograph again.

‘What I plan to do? It’s obvious, isn’t it? I want Norena to come home.’

Algir recognized her at once from the photograph Edris had shown him. She was sitting on a wooden bench at the Seacombe bus terminal, her hands between her knees. She was motionless, staring at a patch of oil left by a departing bus.

Although he was badly behind schedule, he stopped the car some yards from her and sitting back, he examined her. He knew from the photograph that she was attractive, but he hadn’t expected her to be so sensually exciting. As he continued to study her he saw by the hard set of her mouth and by the way she slouched on the bench that this was a teenager far in advance of her years who would look on a man his age as old and square whose good looks, charm and experience were as nothing compared with the brash vital energy of some young slob her own age.

Algir was afraid of youth. He was jealous of their vitality and dismayed by their arrogance. His shield that covered his shallowness was his looks and his charm and these, he knew, cut no ice with the young. With an impatient shrug, he got out of the car and walked over to where the girl was sitting.

‘Hello, Ira,’ he said, pausing before her. ‘Have you been waiting long?’

She stood up, her eyes travelling slowly from his shoes to his face, taking in every detail of his dress with a jeering contempt that angered him.

‘Too long. You’re late,’ she said, looking away from him.

Any kind of criticism invariably sent Algir into a rage. His face flushing, he resisted the urge to slap her. Instead, he grunted, turned and walked to where the Buick was parked. He slid under the steering wheel. When she was seated beside him, he started the engine and drove away from the bus terminal, heading for Edris’ apartment block.

She lit a cigarette, let smoke drift down her nostrils as she said, ‘I thought we were on a tight schedule. What happened to you then? Overslept?’

‘Relax with the mouth,’ Algir snapped. ‘When you’re with me, I do the talking, you listen. Right?’

She cocked her head on one side and studied him.

‘I wouldn’t have thought you had much worth saying. Still, if it’ll oil your ego, I’ll give it a try.’

The muscles in his face tightened.

‘Shut up! I don’t take that kind of talk from a brat like you!’

‘Is that right? Then who do you take it from?’

‘I said shut up, you bitch, unless you want me to shut you up!’

‘I thought that corny dialogue went out with Paul Muni. You go to the movies often?’

His face dark with rage, he called her an obscene name. He had hoped to shock her into silence, but instead, she laughed with genuine amusement.

‘Oh, that’s fab!’ she said. ‘You’re right out of a museum!’

Slightly increasing speed, he drove on, ignoring her and seething with rage. She studied his flushed face and the viciousness of his mouth and shrugged indifferently. She had never been afraid of men. She knew how to look after herself. She had often thought about fear, and after some heart searching, she had finally decided the only two things that could really frighten her were poverty and old age. To remain poor and become old were concrete three dimensional nightmares that truly frightened her. Nothing else, certainly not this big, flash looking dummy at her side.

Finally, when they reached Edris’ apartment block, Algir said, without looking at her, ‘Take the bag on the back seat and get out.’

She got out of the car, lifted the bag from the back seat and then paused to look at him.

‘You watch yourself, Jack,’ she said. ‘At your time of life it’s bad for your arteries to boil over the way you do, not that I care.’

With her ducktail walk, she moved into the lobby of the apartment block, her head held high, arrogant and very sure of herself.

Ticky Edris had been waiting her coming with feverish anxiety. As she rang on the front doorbell, he had been watching the clock on the overmantel with increasing impatience. It was 11.15 hours. Algir had telephoned at 10.30 hours. He had sounded nervy and that was understandable, but, at least, he had assured Ticky that so far, all had gone without a hitch.

‘You remembered to bring her clothes?’ Edris had demanded.

‘Yes. I tell you there’s nothing to worry about. I’m picking up Ira right now.’

‘Nothing to worry about?’ Edris’ voice was shrill. ‘That’s what you think! You’re more than half an hour late! I had to telephone Terrell. I was scared he would call the school. What made you so late?’

‘Never mind,’ Algir said curtly. ‘I’ll have her with you in half an hour.’

Now here she was, ringing on the front door bell. Edris bounced across the room, into the lobby and snatched open the front door.

‘Come in, come in,’ he urged. ‘Where’s Phil?’

‘We didn’t seem to like each other,’ the girl said, moving into the room. She looked around. ‘He went off as if he had swallowed a bee.’

‘You got her clothes?’

‘Her clothes?’ Ira stared at him.

‘Phil collected her things from the school.’

‘Maybe they are in here,’ she waved to the bag.

‘Open it and see!’

She put the bag on the settee and snapped back the locks. She lifted the lid.

‘Yes: they’re here.’

‘There’s the bedroom. Take them in there and change. Hurry!’

‘What’s all the excitement about?’

‘Devon’s on his way over,’ Edris said, hopping from one foot to the other. ‘And listen, remember, he’s your father. You’re hostile. He wasn’t good to your mother. You were fond of your mother. Play it cool and watch your mouth. You remember all the things I told you?’

‘All right, all right,’ the girl said. ‘I can handle it. Just relax. You’re paying for a performance, and you’ll get it.’

Picking up the bag, she walked briskly into the bedroom and closed the door.