There’s a Hippie on the Highway

Chapter Seven

With the help of Charley and Mike, Harry finished constructing a pair of foot-sockets with the cement they had ferried over in the dinghy to the coral reef. These sockets were to take the arms of the high dive board.

‘Okay, boys,’ Harry said after surveying the work. ‘We’ll let this lot set. Tomorrow, we’ll get the arms up.’

It was now after 11.00 and the sun was hot. Harry left the two negroes to row back and he swam to the shore, the warm sea washing away the sweat that had been pouring off him while he had been working on the reef.

As there were as yet only five or six sunbathers under the umbrellas he made his way to the bar, his throat aching for an ice cold Coke.

Joe, the barman, had the Coke ready as Harry slid onto the high stool.

‘I see you’ve been working out there, Mr. Harry,’ he said. ‘Plenty hot, huh?’

Harry drank, finished the Coke and pushed the empty glass towards Joe.

‘Sure was. Let’s have another, Joe. Solo back yet?’

‘Not yet.’ A second Coke slid across the counter. ‘Mr. Harry...’

Harry reached for the glass, then looked inquiringly at the tall, powerfully built negro.

‘What is it, Joe?’

Joe shifted uneasily. He looked around the deserted bar, then through the window at the car park, then back to Harry.

‘I once won a silver medal for the long jump at the Olympics, Mr. Harry.’

Surprised, Harry smiled.

‘Is that right? Congratulations, Joe.’

‘So I reckon we have something in common, Mr. Harry.’

‘Cut out the mister, will you? Of course we have a lot in common.’

Joe shook his head.

‘Not a lot, but the Olympics is something special.’

‘It certainly is.’ Harry was puzzled. He looked inquiringly at the big negro. ‘Have you something on your mind, Joe?’

‘You could say that.’ Joe again looked out of the window, then leaning forward, lowering his voice, he said, ‘You’d better get away from here, Mr. Harry. It’s not healthy.’

Harry regarded Joe who stared at him, his big, black eyes troubled.

‘Just what does that mean?’

‘It’s a friendly warning. Pack and go. You have no friends here, Mr. Harry, except me and Randy. No friends... I mean that, and there’s trouble coming for you.’

‘Come on, Joe. If you know something, tell me,’ Harry said, his voice a little impatient.

‘Mr. Solo is my boss. I owe him a living,’ Joe said, paused, then went on, ‘No one has ever knocked him off his feet and Mr. Solo is a dangerous man. That’s all, Mr. Harry. Just get away fast... don’t trust anyone, but me and Randy.’ Joe moved to the far end of the bar and began to busy himself preparing canapés for the noon hour rush.

Harry hesitated, then seeing by the negro’s expression he wasn’t going to tell him anything more, he finished his drink and left the bar. He started towards his cabin as Randy appeared from his. Seeing him, Randy beckoned, then stepped back into his cabin.

Harry joined him.

‘Shut the door.’ There was a quaver in Randy’s voice. ‘Seen this?’ He pointed to a newspaper spread out on the table.

Harry closed the door, crossed to the table and bent over the newspaper.

Staring up at him was a photograph of Baldy Riccard. The caption read:

A jolt shot through Harry. Pulling up a chair, he sat down and read the brief account that stated that late yesterday evening, the police, acting on information, had gone to Hetterling Cove, a well-known picnic spot, and had found the body of a man buried in a sand dune. Apparently the man had died of a heart attack, but there was evidence that he had been brutally tortured before he died.

The account went on:

Harry looked up at Randy who stared at him with sick, scared eyes. There was a long pause, then Harry took out his pack of Camels and offered it.

Randy shook his head.

‘Do you think they can pin it on us, Harry?’

Harry lit a cigarette.

‘Not unless we’re unlucky. They haven’t found the Mustang. If they do, then maybe we can start sweating.’

‘Do you think anyone saw us with the Mustang?’

‘There’s always that chance.’ Harry brooded for a long moment. ‘How could they have found him?’ he said as if talking to himself. He got to his feet. ‘Take it easy, Randy. Right now, we do nothing. We sit tight. Now come on, we’d better get back to work.’

‘I’m getting out of here,’ Randy said. His eyes showed his panic. ‘I’ll make for Los Angeles. I have a cousin there.’

‘What good will that do you?’ Harry said, scarcely controlling his impatience. ‘If the police want you, they will find you. You can’t hide from them forever. Use your head. Can’t you see our best bet is to bluff it out? So okay, someone tells the police they think they saw us with the Mustang: a tall guy with a rucksack and a little guy with long hair who was carrying a guitar. Now think... how many tall guys with rucksacks and little guys with long hair and guitars have you seen on the highway on your way down here? Dozens? Hundreds? So if we are unlucky and the police come here and ask questions, we know nothing about anything. We came down here on the thumb. We know nothing about a Mustang, and we know nothing about Baldy Riccard. They can’t pin anything on us unless one or both of us cracks.’ He stared steadily at Randy. ‘I’m not cracking... so that leaves you.’

Randy licked his dry lips.

‘It’s fine for you. You’re in the clear, but I’m a draft dodger.’

‘So what? So you get picked up for dodging the draft and that’s just your hard luck, but it’s nothing. You get picked up on a murder rap that sticks... that’s something. Right?’

Randy thought about this for a long, uneasy moment, then he nodded.

‘Yes... I guess that’s right.’

‘Come on, then; stop looking as if the end of the world’s arrived. Let’s get back to work.’ Harry paused to fold the newspaper and drop it into the trash basket, then he walked into the hot sunshine.

Reluctantly, Randy followed him. They walked along the path until they reached the bar entrance, then Harry suddenly put his hand on Randy’s arm and pulled him back into the shade as he saw the white Mercedes come into the car park.

A squat, heavily built man was at the wheel: his round, fat face was swarthy and suntanned, his small eyes, black and glittering, his mouth thin. He wore a panama hat pulled down low on his face and a bottle green shabby suit. Mrs. Carlos, her face half hidden behind her sun goggles, was in the passenger seat.

The squat man stopped the car, got out, ran around the car and opened the offside door. Mrs. Carlos got out. She had on a white mother hubbard and sandals. The squat man handed her a beach bag, took off his hat, bowed, got back into the Mercedes and drove away.

Mrs. Carlos made her way down to the beach.

‘Who’s the fat man?’ Harry asked.

‘Fernando, her chauffeur,’ Randy told him.

‘Ever seen him drive a green and white Chevy?’

Randy stared at him.

‘That’s his own car. He drives it sometimes when he has messages for Mrs. Carlos. What’s with the questions?’

Harry was remembering the green and white Chevrolet which had followed him from the airport after he had collected Baldy Riccard’s suitcase. He was pretty sure this man, Fernando, had been the driver.

‘What do you know about him, Randy? It’s important.’

‘Not much. He’s been working for Carlos for a couple of years. He’s a pal of Solo. When he is off duty, he comes here in the evening and Solo and he play cards. What’s it all about?’

‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ Harry said, his mind busy. ‘Okay, Randy, take it easy... see you,’ and leaving him, he headed for the beach.

He passed near Nina who was sitting in the sun checking through the previous night’s restaurant receipts. She glanced up, but Harry didn’t look at her. Out of the corner of his eye, he had seen Manuel on the veranda, watching him. He purposely passed close to Mrs. Carlos who, seeing him, called to him.

‘Hi, Harry.’

Harry approached her. She was lying on a mattress, under the shade of the umbrella and she looked up at him through her sun goggles.

‘What’s going on over there?’ She waved to the coral reef. ‘Foundations of some sort?’

‘That’s right. We’re putting up a high dive board. Solo thought it was time we had one.’ Harry was aware her eyes were going over his powerfully built body.

He, in turn, was looking down at her, imagining her again as she got out of the Mustang, hidden behind the anti-dazzle goggles, the white scarf concealing her hair and tucked into a black cotton shirt. Again he wondered how a woman like her with her money and background could have become involved with a man like Riccard.

She was saying something which he missed.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs. Carlos... what was that?’

‘I said I hear you are a great diver. Solo tells me you won a medal.’

‘Oh, sure.’

Again she studied him.

‘When will the diving board be finished?’

‘Less than a couple of weeks.’

‘Are you staying here long, Harry?’

‘Two months. I have a job waiting for me in New York.’

‘What kind of a job?’

‘A job, Mrs. Carlos.’

She smiled.

‘No business of mine?’

Harry didn’t say anything. He looked from her to where three teenagers were playing with a medicine ball.

‘I asked because I wondered if you would like to stay down here, Harry.’

He looked at her again.

‘What was that, Mrs. Carlos?’

Her smile became a little fixed.

‘I wish you would pay attention. How would you like to be my chauffeur?’

‘You already have a chauffeur, Mrs. Carlos.’

‘He’s not staying... I’m getting rid of him. It’s an easy job. You will have to look after two cars... drive me to the beach and collect me, take me out at night when my husband is busy. There’s a two-room apartment and $150 a week. Would you like it?’

‘I have two months here, Mrs. Carlos. I can’t let Solo down.’

‘I’m not asking you to let him down!’ There was now a waspish note in her voice. ‘I’m asking you if you would like the job. I can wait. I can get rid of Fernando any time. Do you want it?’

‘It sounds fine, Mrs. Carlos. Could I think about it?’

Again he felt her quizzing him from behind her sun goggles.

‘To help you make up your mind, come out tomorrow afternoon.’ She smiled up at him. ‘My husband will be in Miami, but that needn’t stop you. You know where we live?’

‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry, I have a date tomorrow. Perhaps next Sunday?’

He watched the muscles in her throat contract and her mouth turn ugly.

‘I said tomorrow afternoon, Harry!’

‘I said I was sorry. I have a date tomorrow afternoon.’

Her hands turned into fists.

‘Do I have to spell it out, you stupid slob?’ she said in a low, vicious tone. ‘I want you at my place tomorrow afternoon! You will be well paid... $300! Don’t tell me other women haven’t paid you stud fees before!’

Harry regarded her, then looked across the sand to the sea.

‘Seems one of those kids could be getting into difficulties,’ he said. ‘Excuse me, Mrs. Carlos.’

He walked towards the teenagers, one of them was in the sea and enjoying herself.

There was an ominous silence as Lepski walked into Chief of Police Terrell’s office, Terrell sat at his desk. Seated on his right was Sergeant Beigler. Standing by the window, his face wearing a heavy frown was Sergeant Hess.

The three men regarded Lepski with deadpan cop stares as he came in. He paused to close the door as if it were made of eggshells, then he moved to Terrell’s desk and stood waiting.

There was a long pause, then Terrell said, ‘What the hell do you imagine you’re playing at? I’ve had a complaint from Lieutenant Lacey. He’s sending in a report about you. If half what he says is right, you’re in dead trouble.’

Lepski was prepared for this broadside and had already formulated his plan of campaign. Although sweat beads were showing on his forehead, he met Terrell’s wrathful eyes without flinching.

‘Chief, I know I did wrong,’ he said. ‘I know I was off our territory, but when Lacey said we were the worst bunch of cops on the coast, I couldn’t take it. So I wouldn’t cooperate, so he got mad. so he’s reporting me.’

Lepski was relieved to see Terrell, Beigler and Hess stiffen and blood rush into their faces.

‘The worst bunch of cops on the coast!’ Beigler snarled. ‘Did that deadbeat, hunkhead say that?’

‘That’s what he said,’ Lepski returned, his face registering injured outrage.

‘The punk!’ Hess exploded. ‘He calls himself a detective! Him! He couldn’t find himself in a toilet!’

‘All right,’ Terrell said curtly. ‘Anyone is entitled to his own opinion. If Lieutenant Lacey thinks we are the worst cops on the coast, that doesn’t mean he is right.’ He regarded Lepski suspiciously. ‘What made him say that, Tom?’

Lepski relaxed a little. He felt confident now that he had played the right card, but everything depended how he played his next card.

‘I know I was out of turn,’ he said. ‘You told me to find Mai Langley. I had a hunch she might be somewhere at Vero Beach where Baldy pulled this job. I happen to have a contact there. I know it’s off our territory, but if I had checked with Lacey, he would have taken over and then there would have been a foul-up. So I thought the quickest way to find Mai was to contact my contact. If she had come across, I would have reported to you, Chief, and then maybe you would have reported to Lacey and then maybe, after three or four days, he might have contacted Mai. As it worked out, my contact told me Mai was right in the building. I decided there could be no harm walking up a flight of stairs and having a word with her before I reported to you. While I was talking to her, a gunman burst in and knocked her off.’ Lepski made his face sad. ‘It’s my tough luck, Chief, but that’s the way it happened.’

Terrell looked at Beigler who grinned.

‘Wonderful,’ Beigler said with grudging admiration. ‘This guy could talk himself out of a coffin.’

‘All right, Tom,’ Terrell said. ‘Go ahead. So what happened?’

Lepski drew in a long, deep breath. He was sure now he had taken the poison out of Lacey’s report. He told the three men what had happened and of his interview with Goldie White. While they listened Beigler took notes. When Lepski had finished, Terrell said, ‘A good job, but done badly. If ever you stray into Miami’s territory again without permission, I’ll throw you to the wolves. Remember that. This time, I’ll take care of Lacey.’

‘Thanks, Chief.’ Feeling the atmosphere was now on a friendly basis, he went on, ‘Isn’t there any coffee in this headquarters?’

Beigler stiffened.

‘Where’s Charley?’ He grabbed the telephone receiver. ‘Charley! Send one of your hunkheads out for four coffees. What’s going on down there?’ He listened, grunted and hung up. ‘Coffees coming up.’

Lepski pulled up a chair and sat astride it.

‘Chief, there’s another thing,’ he said. ‘I have a hunch I know who the guy is who tortured Baldy.’

‘For Pete’s sake!’ Hess exploded. ‘Why didn’t you say so before?’

‘All right, Fred,’ Terrell said. ‘Let Tom tell it his own way. So you have a hunch?’

‘That’s right.’ Lepski scowled at Hess who glared back at him, then went on, ‘Solo Dominico has hired a lifeguard for a couple of months. I ran into Solo and this new guy when I was at the market checking on those dips you were worried about. So okay, I met this guy: an ex-sergeant, paratrooper, a guy called Harry Mitchell. He’s just back from Vietnam and on a vacation before taking a job in New York. A couple of days ago I was at the airport, trying to get a line on Baldy when I ran into Mitchell, carrying a white plastic suitcase with a red band around it.’

A patrolman came in with four cartons of coffee which he placed on the desk then left.

‘So what’s all the excitement about the suitcase?’ Hess demanded impatiently as he reached for a carton.

Lepski wasn’t to be hurried. He was sure if he handled this right, he must get his promotion.

‘When I talked to Mai Langley,’ he went on, ignoring Hess, ‘just before this gunman bust in, she told me Baldy had taken his suitcase to the airport.’ He paused, then went on, speaking slowly and deliberately. ‘This suitcase was white plastic with a red band around it!’

He sat back, reached for his carton of coffee and sipped, his eyes going first to Terrell, then to Beigler and finally to Hess.

‘You’ve made a point, Tom,’ Terrell said. ‘So... go on.’

Disappointed there had been no greater reaction, Lepski said, ‘I asked Mitchell if it was his suitcase. He said it was: that he had left it at the airport, but now he was working steadily for Dominico, he needed it. So I checked his discharge papers and when I saw he was a Vietnam veteran, a sergeant paratrooper, I let him go with the suitcase.’

‘You mean you didn’t look in the suitcase?’ Hess demanded.

‘Now, Fred, you know Tom had no right to look in the suitcase,’ Terrell said before Lepski could explode. ‘The point is: is a white plastic suitcase with a red band around it unique? What do you think, Joe?’

‘It could well be. I think Tom has something. Solo has been hooked up with Baldy in the past. Baldy owned a white plastic case with a red band and left it at the airport. Mitchell, who is working for Solo, collects a white plastic suitcase with a red sash. Yeah... of course Tom’s onto something.’

Lepski beamed, shifting forward, nearly overturning his chair.

‘I know it! Look, Chief, suppose I go out to Solo’s joint and twist Mitchell’s arm? He could spill the whole setup.’

Terrell re-lit his pipe which had gone out. He thought for some moments, then shook his head.

‘No... I want something to go on first.’ He turned to Hess. ‘Let’s get some dope about Mitchell. Telex Washington.’

Hess poked a fat finger in Lepski’s direction.

‘You read his discharge papers... give me the dope.’

Lepski flexed his brain muscles. He had only taken a brief look at Harry Mitchell’s papers, but he had a good memory. After a moment’s pause, he said, ‘Harry Mitchell. Top Sergeant. Third Paratroop Regiment. First Company.’

Hess regarded him with grudging approval.

‘One of these days... maybe ten years from now, Lepski... you could make a good detective.’

Seeing Lepski’s face turn purple, Terrell said curtly, ‘Cut it out, Fred. Send that Telex!’

When Hess had left the office, Terrell went on, ‘You are doing all right, Tom. Just don’t lean on it too hard. Suppose you see what you can find out about these two queers: Hans Larsen and Jacey Smith. If it goes out of our territory, tell me before you do anything.’

‘Yes, Chief.’ Lepski started towards the door, then paused. ‘You really mean you think I’m doing all right?’

‘You heard what the Chief said,’ Beigler barked. ‘Get moving!’

Lepski left the office, skidded around Max Jacoby as he was about to enter the office and then made for his desk.

Terrell looked at Jacoby as he hovered in the doorway.

‘What is it, Max?’

‘Retnick’s just called in. Chief. He’s been checking Highway 1. He says he has a description of two men driving a Mustang that matches Baldy’s Mustang. He says the car was towing a caravan.’

Terrell and Beigler exchanged glances.

‘A caravan?’

‘That’s what he says.’

‘Tell him to come in pronto.’

‘He’s on his way, Chief.’

When Jacoby had returned to his desk, Terrell said to Beigler, ‘What do you think of it now, Joe?’

‘It’s taking shape. We’ve found Baldy. We’ve found the Mustang. Now a caravan turns up. We were wondering how Baldy’s body got to Hetterling Cove. Could be the body went in the caravan... so I guess we start looking for the caravan.’

‘I go along with that.’ Terrell looked down at the notes Beigler had taken of Lepski’s verbal report. ‘But all this...’ He knocked out his pipe and began to refill it. ‘This still could be a C.I.A. thing, Joe. Maybe I should report it.’

‘Still working on the Castro angle?’

Terrell lit his pipe.

‘Yes. Look at the information we now have. To me, the clue to all this is that Baldy was a Communist with an admiration for Castro. On March 24th, he arrives at Vero Beach and hires a launch, plus two men, from Jack Thomas. His destination is Havana if we can believe what Goldie White told Lepski. It looks as if Baldy was on a smuggling deal and this had to do with Castro. According to his girlfriend his boat was intercepted and sunk. Then two months later, Baldy appears again and tries to hire a boat from Dominico, failing this, he goes to O’Brien to raise money, failing this, he gets his girlfriend to drive him to Vero Beach. When he has settled her with Do-Do Hammerstein, he returns here, puts his suitcase in a left luggage locker at the airport, then returns to Vero Beach where he hires a Hertz Mustang under the name of Joel Blach. Then, suddenly he vanishes and the rumour goes around that he has been knocked off. Two days later we find the Mustang which leads us to Baldy’s grave. A man answering to the description of a lifeguard hired by Dominico is seen by Lepski at the airport with a suitcase resembling Baldy’s case.’ Terrell puffed at his pipe, frowning. ‘We are making progress, but we still don’t know what Baldy was smuggling nor do we know who killed him. We have a lot of digging to do yet, but it becomes more and more obvious to me that Baldy was in some smuggling racket to do with Cuba and this makes me wonder if I shouldn’t turn the whole thing over to the C.I.A. They might do a faster and better job than we are doing.’

‘You said a couple of days, Chief,’ Beigler said. We still have a day and a quarter.’

Terrell hesitated.

‘Yes... well, okay, Joe. Get back to your desk, I’ll do some more thinking.’

Half an hour later, Detective 3rd Grade Red Retnick, a tall, beefy young man with flaming red hair came into the Detectives’ room.

Seeing him, Beigler waved him to Terrell’s office, got up and went to the head of the stairs and bawled down to Charley Tanner to send up coffee, then he joined Retnick in the office. Retnick made a concise report which Beigler took down in fast shorthand.

‘On Thursday night, two men in a Mustang, towing a caravan, stopped at Jackson’s All-Night Café for coffee,’ Retnick said. ‘A trucker who had been in the café and who was there again on his return journey while I was making inquiries, gave me a description of these two men.’

‘Hold it a moment, Red,’ Terrell said. To Beigler, he went on, ‘Get Lepski.’

Beigler looked into the Detectives’ room and yelled to Lepski who was typing his report. When Lepski came into the office, Terrell told Retnick to go on.

‘The elder of the two men was over six foot in height, powerfully built, blond, blue eyes and a broken nose of a fighter. He was wearing khaki drill trousers and matching shirt.’

‘That’s Harry Mitchell,’ Lepski said. ‘No doubt about it!’

‘Go on, Red,’ Terrell said, relighting his pipe.

‘The other man was younger: slightly built, long black hair down to his shoulders, thin face.’

‘Mean anything to you?’ Terrell asked looking at Lepski.

Lepski shook his head.

‘Doesn’t ring a bell.’ Then he screwed up his eyes and snapped his fingers. Wait a minute! That could be Solo’s barman. He turns up when the season opens. I saw him there last year. The description fits him. Randy... something... Broach? Something like that. Look, Chief, suppose I go to the restaurant tonight? Solo invited my wife and me for a free meal. It would be an excuse to look around.’

Terrell thought for a moment, then nodded.

‘Yes, but understand, Tom, you play it close to your chest. We don’t make any move until I get some facts about Mitchell... understand?’ He looked at Beigler. ‘Anything from Washington yet?’

Beigler shook his head.

‘You’re forgetting the time lag. We can’t hope to hear from Washington for some hours.’

‘So while we wait. I want that caravan found and I want it found fast,’ Terrell said.

Lepski was having an argument with his wife. This was nothing new. They had been married for three years, and on Lepski’s reckoning, they had a major argument twice a day. He had jotted down figures and had come up with the result of 2,190 arguments of which, he had decided bitterly, he might have won 180 of them.

He had returned home unexpectedly at 18.00. Unexpectedly because his usual time for coming home was around 21.00. He found his wife, Carroll, preparing goulash for his dinner.

Carroll Lepski, aged twenty-six, tall, dark and pretty was a young woman with a mind and a will of her own. Before she married, she was a clerk at the American Express Company, dealing with the rich, arranging their travel schedules and advising them. The work had made her confident and somewhat bossy. Having dealt with hundreds of irritable know-alls, she had learned that argument if carried on with logic and if persisted in generally won the day. Although Carroll was well equipped to deal with the problems of modern day life, she was a messy, but determined cook. Whenever she prepared a meal, apart from a sandwich or a heated up hamburger, her kitchen turned into a chaotic battlefield. Invariably, she used four pans when one could do; invariably she let the milk boil over; invariably she dropped some, if not all of the meal she was preparing on the floor and which she scooped up to return to the pan and then not waiting to wipe up the mess slid about on the remains with the agility of an ice skater. But Carroll had a lot of character and determination. Once she had made up her mind that Lepski was to have goulash for his dinner, then come hell or high water, he would have it.

Lepski found her not looking her best and struggling with the contents of a pot of cream that had overturned and had made a big puddle on the floor. It was a hot evening, the kitchen was hot and Carroll was hot and fussed.

So when he broke the news that he was taking her out to dinner and ‘For God’s sake, honey, get cleaned up. We’re going to a swank joint,’ she was in two minds whether to carry on with the goulash or to say to hell with the mess and try to be happy. It was so rare that Lepski had time to take her anywhere that the unexpected invitation turned her sour when it should have made her glad.

‘Why couldn’t you have told me this morning?’ she demanded pushing back a strand of dark hair that was falling over her left eye ‘We’re having goulash for dinner.’

Lepski pranced from one foot to the other in his impatience.

‘Never mind the goulash. We’re going out, and for Pete’s sake, don’t start an argument.’

This was a fatal remark which Lepski realised as soon as he had made it. Carroll stiffened and drew herself up.

‘Are you saying it is me who starts the arguments?’ she demanded.

Realising that he was now out on thin ice, Lepski gave her a false smile.

‘I said nothing of the sort. Start an argument? Now, listen, honey...’

‘You said, Don’t start an argument.’

Lepski tried to look amazed.

‘I said that? Forget it. It was a joke. Now, tonight...’

‘Your idea of a joke and mine are very different.’

Lepski ran his fingers through his hair. He took two quick steps to his left, then two to his right, then feeling relieved, he said, ‘Okay... no joke. Forget it, darling. We’re going to the Dominico restaurant which is the third best restaurant in this City. Marvellous food... sea... beach... soft music... soft lights... the works!’

Carroll’s eyes turned suspicious.

‘Why are we going?’ she demanded. ‘Have you done something you shouldn’t? Is this a softening-up process?’

Lepski inserted his finger in his collar and dragged at it.

‘We’ve been invited,’ he said, his voice rising. ‘The owner of the goddamn restaurant likes me. He said for me to bring my god... my wife... so we’re going. It’s all free.’

‘Do you have to swear like that, Lepski?’

Lepski remained very still. He was a little alarmed at the way his pulse was beating Finally, he said, ‘Forget it, honey. We’re invited... so let’s go.’

Carroll regarded him.

‘This man has invited us?’

Lepski nodded dumbly.

‘What’s he done then?’

Lepski walked around the kitchen. A soft humming sound came from him like a bee that has lost its hive.

‘He’s done nothing. He just happens to like me,’ he said when he could speak.

‘Why?’

‘How the hell do I know? He’s invited us for God’s sake! Do we have to get on a couch together to find out why?’

‘I wish you wouldn’t shout, Lepski,’ Carroll said severely. ‘I’m sure he is a crook and wants something out of you.’

‘Fine... okay... so he’s a crook and wants something out of me! Who cares? We get a free dinner!’ Lepski waved his hand violently. His hand came into contact with the lid of a saucepan, burning him. His language was so lurid Carroll put her hands over her ears.

‘Lepski! Sometimes I’m really ashamed of you!’

Lepski sucked his fingers.

‘So will you get ready?’ he snarled. ‘Have I any clean shirts?’

She stared at him.

‘How many shirts are you going to wear tonight then?’

Lepski closed his eyes for a brief moment.

‘I mean is there one goddamn clean shirt I can put on?’

‘Of course there is. Why don’t you look? What shall I wear?’

This question always drove Lepski crazy. Carroll always asked him and invariably it ended in an argument that went on for hours.

‘Anything... you know just look your lovely self. Shouldn’t you turn off the stove or something?’

An hour later, Lepski was sitting on the small patio, a cigarette burning between his fingers, containing his impatience with an effort that raised his blood pressure alarmingly.

Although married for three years, he still couldn’t get used to his wife’s method of dressing for an evening out. First she would go to her closet and take out her entire collection of clothes which she laid on the bed. Then she held a post mortem on each garment, telling Lepski, who was trapped in the room, that she was ashamed to be seen in any of them and he should be ashamed of being 2nd Grade Detective when he could easily be a Sergeant and draw Sergeant’s pay.

Lepski had been inflicted with this routine so often he let it go in one ear and out the other, but although he was dead to the monologue, he was aware that time was passing.

Finally, having cunningly suggested she should wear a smart black dress, saying she would look a knockout in it and being told (as he knew he would be told) that he must be crazy to imagine she would go to a beach restaurant in a black dress, she selected a white and red number which he had wanted her to wear anyway, but knew if he had suggested it, it would cause yet another argument.

He had finally escaped from the bedroom, made himself a double whisky and soda and was now waiting while she completed her dressing.

A little after 19.15 she appeared on the terrace and Lepski regarded her. She looked so nice, so immaculate and so pretty that he started to his feet with that well-known gleam in his eyes that wives quickly recognise.

‘Don’t be disgusting!’ she said sharply. ‘Lepski! Don’t you dare touch me!’

Lepski realised this wasn’t the time so he leered at her.

‘Mrs. Lepski, we have a date when we get home,’ he said. ‘The poet who said something stirred in the forest must have been thinking of you.’

Carroll stifled a giggle, then looked severe.

‘Don’t be so coarse. Well... do I look all right?’

‘Marvellous, gorgeous, scrumptious! Let’s go!’

As he started towards the car, Carroll said, ‘Wait a moment!’

Lepski paused and began humming under his breath. He regarded her, forced a smile, then asked with heavy sarcasm, What is it now? A ladder in your stocking? Have you bust a strap? Forgotten your handbag? No handkerchief? Got your girdle twisted? What is it this time?’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous. I’m looking at you. You’re not going out with me looking like that!’

Lepski gaped at her.

‘Me? What’s the matter with me? Clean shirt... pants pressed... beautifully shaved. Let me tell you, Mrs. Lepski, there’s not a girl in this City who wouldn’t be proud to be seen with me.’

‘If you imagine I’m going out with you when you are carrying a gun, you’re mistaken! Anyone who isn’t blind can see that awful holster through your coat. Do you imagine I want to be mistaken for a cop’s wife?’

Lepski ran his hand over his face. ‘But aren’t you a cop’s wife?’ he asked, his voice a little shrill.

‘There’s no need to advertise the fact. Lepski, park that gun!’

Lepski loosened his tie, made a noise like a bee in a bottle, longed to put his foot through the TV screen, and only with a tremendous effort, restrained himself from tearing at his hair.

‘Listen, honey, it’s regulations,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I have to wear a gun. Pretend to be blind! Even pretend I’m a cop! Let’s go!’

‘I’m not going to a high-class restaurant with you if you are wearing that gun!’

He recognised from the tone of her voice that this was final. He knew the argument could last for the next two hours and still get him nowhere. He was hungry for a good, free meal, so he took off the holster and threw the gun and the holster with some violence on the settee.

‘There’s no need to show off,’ Carroll said quietly. ‘I don’t mind a little temper... that is manly, but please don’t be childish.’

Lepski made a noise like a distracted goat.

‘Do we go or don’t we?’ he snarled.

Carroll regarded him with astonishment.

‘I’m ready and waiting. I’m not holding us up, it’s you.’

With the veins in his neck like steel cables taking a strain, Lepski stamped towards his car.

On Saturday night, a big crowd always descended on the Dominico restaurant, and this night was no exception. The staff was at full stretch. Solo had asked Harry to help in the bar. Nina had dropped her usual role of circulating and charming the businessmen. She too was ferrying drinks and taking orders.

Manuel moved quickly around the restaurant, conducting people, settling them, leaving them with menus, before darting back to the entrance where other people were waiting impatiently to be taken to their tables. As he arrived at the entrance for the fifteenth time, he pulled up short as if he had walked into a brick wall.

The sight of Tom Lepski with a tall, dark girl Manuel recognized as Lepski’s wife came as a shock and an unpleasant surprise.

‘Mr. Lepski!’ He showed his teeth in a wide, false smile. ‘This is indeed my pleasure!’

‘Solo said for us to come... so here we are,’ Lepski said, a little nonplussed to find so many people arriving.

‘Of course.’ Manuel always kept three tables in reserve for just such an emergency. ‘Delighted... this way, please.’ He escorted them to a corner table, settled them, snapped his fingers at his assistant, showed his teeth and raced back to the entrance.

As soon as the crowd began to slacken, Manuel rushed to the kitchen to warn Solo that Lepski had arrived. Working under pressure, Solo grimaced, then waved Manuel away.

‘Let him have everything the best all on the house.’

As Manuel returned to the restaurant he saw Harry coming from the bar, carrying a tray of drinks.

‘Number four table, in the corner,’ Manuel said. ‘Get their drink order... it’s on the house.’

It wasn’t until Harry reached the table that he realised who he was about to serve.

‘Hello, Mitchell,’ Lepski said, giving Harry his cop stare. ‘Remember me?’

‘Mr. Lepski,’ Harry said, his face wooden.

‘That’s right. How are you making out here?’

Harry stared at him for a brief moment, then turned to Carroll.

‘What would you like to drink?’

Carroll felt a slight stirring of her blood. She thought this tall, powerfully built man was just the sexiest looking male she had ever seen.

‘Could I have a Tom Collins, please?’ she asked with a smile Lepski hadn’t seen since they were married.

‘I’ll have a double Scotch on the rocks,’ he snapped, glaring at Carroll.

‘Isn’t that excessive, Tom?’ Carroll asked, aware that she had prodded alive a jealousy she had thought long since dead. ‘After all, you were drinking before we left home.’ She looked up at Harry. ‘Please bring my husband a small Scotch with plenty of Whiterock.’

Harry went away.

‘Look, honey, I know my goddamn capacity,’ Lepski said heatedly. ‘Would you please...’

‘I just don’t want you to get drunk.’

Lepski made a hissing noise that would have frightened a snake.

‘You stay sober if you want to, I’m going to please myself!’

While they were arguing, Harry, in the bar, told Randy that Lepski was in the restaurant. Randy nearly dropped the cocktail shaker he was manipulating.

‘What’s he doing here?’ he asked breathlessly.

‘Getting a free meal and probably taking a look around. Relax, Randy. A Tom Collins: double gin, and a double Scotch on the rocks.’

Randy made the drinks.

‘He saw you with Baldy’s suitcase, Harry,’ he said as he placed the drinks on Harry’s tray. ‘Do you think...?’

‘Take it easy. He can’t prove anything. He has no witnesses.’ Harry picked up the tray. ‘Give yourself a drink.’ He left the bar.

As he reached Lepski’s table, Manuel was taking the order.

Harry placed the drinks. Seeing what he had been given, Lepski looked up at Harry and winked.

Manuel was being expansive.

‘Solo would like you to try his speciality, Mrs. Lepski,’ he said, leaning over Carroll and showing her his teeth. ‘Casserole of duck with green peppers. I suggest fried oysters on shrimp toast to begin. How does that sound?’

Carroll was entranced.

‘Don’t tell me... just bring it to me,’ she said.

Manuel looked at Lepski.

‘Would that be okay for you too, Mr. Lepski?’

‘I’ll have a steak.’

Carroll gave an exasperated sigh.

‘Oh, Tom, for goodness sake! Can’t you eat anything but steaks? This casserole...’

‘I’ll have a steak,’ Lepski said firmly. ‘Can’t a man eat what he wants for God’s sake?’

‘Well, if you want a steak... have a steak!’

An hour and twenty minutes later, the meal finished, Lepski felt a twinge of conscience. While they were waiting for their coffee he decided it was time he went to work, but he knew it would be fatal to tell Carroll they were here on police business.

‘Honey, I’m taking a pee,’ he said, pushing back his chair.

‘Lepski! Must you be so coarse? Can’t you say you are going to the toilet?’ Carroll demanded, outraged.

Lepski looked wonderingly at her.

‘That’s where I said I was going. You sit still. Anything you want, ask the spic.’ He got to his feet, and before Carroll realised there was more to this than a visit to the Men’s Room, he made his way quickly from the restaurant and out onto the cement path that led to the kitchen.

Seeing him go, Manuel pressed a button which started a buzzer in the kitchen, warning Solo there could be trouble. Solo was in the middle of serving four specials and he cursed.

As Lepski moved into the night air and walked past the kitchen, he looked through the window, seeing that Solo was busy at the cooking range. He heard a car arrive and looking towards the car park, saw a white Mercedes pull up under one of the tall standard lights.

The car attracted Lepski’s attention. He paused to watch a woman get out of the car. He recognised her as Mrs. Carlos, the wife of one of the richest men in Paradise City. But he scarcely looked at her. His attention became riveted on the squat, heavily built man who held the car door open for her as she got out.

Lepski worked on hunches. As soon as he saw this man, he became positive from his build that he was the man who had killed Mai Langley. He slid his hand inside his jacket for his gun, then remembered, because of Carroll’s snobbery, his gun was lying on the settee in his living room. Sweat started out under his arms. This man who was now leaning his fat body against the car and lighting a cigarette, could be a killer. Lepski had two choices: either to telephone headquarters and ask for help: in which case he would have to admit he was unarmed and why, or he could take a chance and tackle this possible gunman and hope there would be no gun play.

He shifted from one foot to the other in an agony of indecision. He was sure if he balled up this situation, his promotion would go down the drain. It didn’t occur to him that all he had to do was to return to the restaurant, sit down with Carroll and continue to enjoy his evening. Lepski had come up from a patrolman and during the years, he had absorbed into his system the police code. He hesitated for only a few seconds, then he walked out of the shadows, crossed the car park and arrived by the Mercedes.

The squat man looked at him and stiffened. His right hand went casually to the middle button of his tight fitting coat and released the button so the jacket swung open. That told Lepski the man was carrying a gun.

Lepski regarded the man, imagining how he would look with a handkerchief masking his face, and became even more convinced he was the killer.

‘Police,’ he said in his cop voice. ‘Who are you?’

Under the glaring light, Lepski saw the man’s eyes shift and glitter.

‘I don’t understand,’ the man said. ‘I am Mrs. Carlos’s chauffeur.’

‘What’s your name?’ Lepski asked and he moved forward slightly. If he could slam a punch at this spic, he thought, he could get his gun, but the man edged away.

‘I don’t understand,’ he repeated. ‘I am Fernando Cortez. I work for Mrs. Carlos.’

‘Okay, Cortez,’ Lepski said, aware his heart was thumping. ‘Get your hands up! Come on... up!’

That bluff, he thought sadly, wouldn’t convince a child. It certainly didn’t convince Cortez. He remained still, staring at Lepski.

‘I don’t understand. I am Mrs. Carlos’s chauffeur.’

‘I heard you the first time. I want your gun!’

Cortez hesitated.

‘I carry a gun for Mrs. Carlos’s protection.’

‘I want it.’ Lepski held out his hand which was steady, but he was sweating hard.

Cortez hesitated again, then stepped back.

‘Okay, copper, so you can have it!’ he snarled. The gun jumped into his hand and aimed directly at Lepski.

In the brief second that Lepski stared at the gun, he recognized it as a Walther 7.65: the same type of gun that had killed Mai Langley.

He was bracing himself for gunfire when a vivid white light exploded inside his skull as a vicious blow slammed down on his head.