'Some actual proof that he isn't what he claims to be. I'm trying to develop something now.'
'And what am I supposed to do?'
Go and take another run on the beach, I almost said. I said: 'You have to wait. And I think you better get used to the idea that this may not turn out the way you want it to.'
'You've found out something?'
'Nothing definite, but I have a feeling. This one didn't start out happily and it may not end happily. I think it goes back at least as far as Roy Fablon's alleged suicide.'
'Alleged?'
'At least one man who knew him doesn't believe he killed himself. Which implies that somebody else did.'
'Whoever told you that is making it up.'
'Perhaps. He's a Roman Catholic, and he admired Roy Fablon, and he wouldn't want to think that he was a suicide. Your father told me an interesting thing though.'
'I didn't know you ever talked to my father.'
Peter's tone was formal and suspicious, as if I had gone over to the enemy.
'I went to your house to find you this afternoon. Your father told me among other things that Roy Fablon's body was so chewed up by sharks it could hardly be identified. Just what was the condition of his face?'
'I didn't see it myself. My father did. All they showed me was his overcoat.'
'He went into the water wearing an overcoat?'
'It was more of a waterproof.'
He heard the word, and grimaced at the irony.
It caught in my own mind like a fishhook. It was hard to imagine a sportsman and athlete walking into the ocean in a waterproof coat, from a beach estate which his ways with money had forced his wife to sell, unless he meant to leave her and her daughter a legacy of malice.
'How do you know exactly where he went into the water?'
'He left his wallet and wristwatch on the beach. There wasn't anything in the wallet, except identification, but his watch was a very good one that Mrs. Fablon had given him. It had their initials on the back, and something engraved in Latin on the case.'
'No suicide note?'
'If there was one, I never heard of it. That doesn't necessarily prove anything. The local police don't always release notes.'
'Do you have a lot of suicides in Montevista?'
'We have our share. You know, when you have money to live on, and a nice house, and good weather most of the time, and still your life goes wrong - well, who can you blame?' Peter seemed to be taking about himself.
'Is that how it was with Roy Fablon?'
'Not exactly. He had his troubles. I was a guest in their house, and I shouldn't talk about them, but I suppose it doesn't matter now.'
He breathed in. 'I heard him tell Mrs. Fablon he would kill himself.'
'That same night?'
'A night or two before. I was there for dinner, and they were arguing about money. She said she couldn't give him any more money because there wasn't any more money.'
'What did he want the money for?'
'Gambling losses. He called it a debt of honor. He said if he couldn't pay it he'd have to kill himself.'
'Was Ginny there?'
'Yes. She heard everything. We both did. Mr. and Mrs. Fablon had reached the point where they weren't trying to hide anything. Each of them was trying to win us over.'
'Who won?'
'Nobody won,' he said. 'Everybody lost.'
The orchestra was playing again, and through the archway I could see people dancing in the adjoining room. Most of the tunes, and most of the dancers, had been new in the twenties and thirties. Together they gave the impression of a party that had been going on too long, till the music- and the dancers were worn as thin as the husks of insects after spiders had eaten them.
11
ELLA STROME crossed the corner of the dance floor and came to our table. 'I've got hold of the photographer for you, Mr. Archer. He's waiting in the office.'
He was a thin man in a rumpled dark business suit. He had a lot of brown hair, a lumpy Slavic jaw, and sensitive-looking eyes protected by horn-rimmed glasses. Ella introduced him as Eric Malkovsky.
'I'm glad to meet you,' he said, but he wasn't. He glanced restlessly past me towards the door of the office. 'I promised my wife to take her to the Film Society tonight. We have season tickets.'
'I'll reimburse you.'
'That's not the point. I hate to disappoint her.'
'This may be more important.'
'Not to me it isn't.' He was speaking to me, but his real complaint was directed towards Ella. I gathered she had used pressure to get him here. 'Anyway, as I told Mrs. Strome, I have no pictures of Mr. Martel. I offered to take some, the way I do with any other guest, but he said no. He was pretty emphatic about it.'
'Unpleasant?'
'I wouldn't say that. But he certainly didn't want his picture taken. What is he, a celebrity or something?'
'Something.'
My reticence irritated him, and he colored slightly. 'The only reason I asked, another person was after me for a picture of him.'
Ella said: 'You didn't tell me that.'
'I didn't have a chance to. The woman came to my studio in the Village just before I went home for dinner. When I told her I didn't have a picture of him, she offered me money to go to his house and take one. I told her I couldn't do that without Mr. Martel's permission. At which she got mad and stomped out.'
'I don't suppose she gave you her name?'
'No, but I can describe her. She's a redhead, tall, with a gorgeous figure. Aged about thirty. As a matter of fact, I had a feeling that I've seen her before.'
'Where?'
'Right here in the club.'
'I don't remember any such woman,' Ella said.
'It was before your time, at least five years ago.'
Malkovsky screwed up one side of his face as he was squinting through a view finder. 'I think I took a picture or two of the woman. In fact I'm pretty sure I did.'
'Would you still have those pictures?' I said.
'Maybe, but it would be a terrible job to find them. I don't keep files except for the current year and the year before.'
He looked at his wristwatch, dramatically. 'I really have to go now. The wife would kill me if she misses the Bunuel. And the club doesn't pay me overtime for this kind of a deal.'
He tossed a sour look in the direction of Ella, who had gone back to the reception desk.
'I'll pay you double time for as long as it takes.'
'That would be seven dollars an hour. It could take all night.'
'I know.'
'And there's no guarantee that I'll come up with anything. It may be an entirely different woman. If it's the same woman, she's changed the color of her hair. The woman I remember was a blonde.'
'Blondes turn into redheads all the time. Tell me about the woman you remember.'
'She was younger then, of course, with the dew still on her. A lovely thing. I remember now. I did take some pictures of her. Her husband wasn't too crazy about the idea but she wanted it done.'
