16
Mark Taylor consulted his notebook, punched in a number. “Never seen such a big house with so few phones,” he said.
His claim was justified. There were no phones in any of the guests rooms, hallways, or public rooms of the mansion. They were using the one Tracy had used to call him, which was located in a small office alcove on the first floor.
“Hello, it’s me,” Taylor said. “You got anything?” He listened a moment. “When’d you talk to him? … Uh-huh. Give me the number … O.K., good work.” He broke the connection, punched in another number. “Got a lead,” he said.
“Oh?” Steve said.
“Yeah. It’s indirect. Operative who knows a reporter.” Into the phone Taylor said, “Fred, it’s me. What you got?” He listened a moment, said, “Aces, where’s he now? … He gonna call you back? … How soon? … Fine, hang in there, I’ll get back to you.” Taylor hung up the phone, said, “That’s a break.”
“Oh?”
“We got a crime reporter for the
Steve frowned. “What do you mean?”
“The guy already had the tip when Fred called. Guy’s got a source, you see. Inside track.”
Steve grinned. “No shit.”
“None. The guy got the tip, was just fixin’ to leave when my man caught him. Anyway, he promised to call back.”
“Who is this guy?
“Reporter named Harold Coleman.”
“You know him?”
“Never met him, but my man says he’s all right.” Taylor leaned back in the chair and stretched. “So what you wanna do now?”
At that moment the door was flung open by a uniformed officer. The officer was young, aggressive and not taking any chances. He had his gun out. “All right,” he demanded. “Who the hell are you?”
“Unarmed civilians,” Steve said. “At least I think we are.” He turned to Tracy. “You aren’t carrying a gun tonight, are you, dear?”
The officer flushed slightly, but was not about to be put off. “What are you people doing here?”
“Making a phone call,” Steve said. “There’s no phone in the dining room.”
“You’re not supposed to be making phone calls.”
“Is that right?” Steve said. He smiled. “We’re sorry. We didn’t know that.”
“You were told not to leave the dining room. Now come on. Let’s go.”
“Certainly,” Steve said. “Mark. Tracy. Come on. Let’s not argue with the man. After all, he has a gun.”
They went out the door and walked down the long hallway to the dining room. Steve tried to lead Mark and Tracy inside, but the young officer wasn’t falling for it. He stopped them at the door.
“Wait here,” he said. To the officer at the door he said, “Keep an eye on these three.”
He turned and walked off down the hallway in the direction of the gun-examining rooms. A few minutes later he was back with Lieutenant Sanders.
Sanders raised his eyebrows. “So,” he said. “These are the people making the phone calls? What a surprise.”
“You have no reason to hold us,” Steve said.
“Material witnesses to a murder? I beg to differ.” Sanders’s eyes fixed on Mark Taylor. “And who, might I ask, are you?”
“Mark Taylor,” Steve said. “Mark, let me introduce Lieutenant Sanders.”
“This is hardly a social situation,” Sanders said. “I wasn’t asking for an introduction. I want an explanation. I haven’t seen you before. Who are you? Are you one of the guests?”
“Mark Taylor happens to be my detective,” Steve said.
“Of course not.”
“I didn’t think so. You just arrived, didn’t you, Mr. Taylor?”
Taylor frowned. “That depends what you mean by just.”
“Yeah. Right,” Sanders said. “Fulton,” he barked.
The officer at the dining room door looked up. “Sir?”
“I don’t mean to comment on the job you’re doing,” Sanders said sarcastically. “But we’ve got people arriving, people leaving, people making phone calls, people slipping out and having rendezvous-are you keeping track of all this?”
Fulton looked uncomfortable. “Sir,” he said.
“How about the rest of the guests? You having any trouble keeping them in here?”
“As a matter of fact,” Fulton said, “I believe the staff is about to serve dinner.”
“Excellent idea,” Sanders said. “You see these three people? I want you to notice them particularly. Remember their faces. Can you do that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now, these three people-you know what I think? I think they look hungry. Do me a favor and see that they have some dinner.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sanders turned on his heel and stalked off.
Fulton glowered at them.
Steve smiled and shrugged. “Well, gang. Let’s eat.”
17
Mark Taylor threaded his way through the tables across the dining room to the far corner where Steve Winslow and Tracy Garvin stood. Steve had given him the high sign, otherwise Mark would have been perfectly happy to remain at his table and have dessert. Unable to resist, he had scooped up the rich wedge of chocolate layer cake, and was munching on it as he went.
Taylor walked up to them, chewed twice, swallowed and said, “What’s up?”
“I hate to interrupt your dinner,” Steve said, “but we have this murder on our hands.”
“Don’t be a grouse,” Taylor said. “If we’re stuck here, we should eat. Didn’t you eat?”
“We’ve been interviewing witnesses,” Tracy said.
“No excuse for not eating. I bet I interviewed more than both of you combined.”
“Oh, yeah?” Steve said.
Taylor shrugged. “Hey, you said I could tell ’em who I am. I sat down at a crowded table, told ’em I was a private detective, and people fell all over themselves wanting to talk to me. I not only got those people, I had them runnin’ around grabbin’ people and bringin’ ’em over. Didn’t you see me?”
“I saw you stuffing your face.”
“Hey, if you didn’t eat, you got no one to blame but yourself.”
Taylor shoved the last bit of cake in his mouth, licked his fingers, then reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out his notebook. “I got names, addresses, stories, what have you. I had dinner and I still talked to more people than you.”
“So what’d you learn?”
“The prime rib is fabulous. Timberlaine may be a murderer, but the man sets a hell of a table.”
“Mark.”
