They can't have a great deal. The Fablons did have money at one time, but Roy gambled a lot of it away. The rumor was that that was one reason he committed suicide. Fortunately Marietta has her own small private income. They have enough to live comfortably, but as I said, certainly not enough to tempt a fortune-hunter. Let alone a fortune-hunter with a hundred thousand dollars in cash of his own.'
'Is a hundred grand in the bank all that Martel would need to get into the club?'
'The Tennis Club? Certainly not. You have to be sponsored by at least one member and passed on by the membership committee.'
'Who sponsored him?'
'Mrs. Bagshaw, I believe. It's a common enough practice, when members lease their houses in town here. It's nothing against the tenant.'
'And nothing in his favor. Do you accept the idea that Martel is some kind of political refugee?'
'He may very well be. Frankly, I didn't discourage Peter from hiring you because I'd like to satisfy my curiosity. And I'd also like him to get this business of Ginny out of his system. It's hurting him more than you perhaps realize. I'm his father, and I can see it. I may not be much of a father to him, but I do know my son. And I know Ginny, too.'
'You don't want Ginny as a daughter-in-law?'
'On the contrary. She'd brighten any house, even this one. But I'm very much afraid she doesn't love my poor son. I'm afraid she agreed to marry him because she felt sorry for him.'
'Mrs. Fablon said very much the same thing.'
'So you've talked to Marietta?'
'A little.'
'She's a much more serious woman than she pretends. So is Ginny. Ginny has always been a very serious young woman, even when she was a child. She used to sit in my study here whole weekends at a time, reading the books.'
'The Book of the Dead.'
'I wouldn't be at all surprised.'
'You mentioned that her father committed suicide.'
'Yes.' Jamieson stirred uneasily, and reached for his highball, as if the little death it provided was homeopathic medicine against the big one waiting. 'The decimation among my friends these last ten years has been horrendous. Not to mention my enemies.'
'Which was Roy Fablon, friend or enemy?'
'Roy was a friend, a very good friend at one time. Of course I disapproved of what he did to his wife and daughter. Ginny was only sixteen or seventeen at the time, and it hit her hard.'
'What did he do?'
'Walked into the ocean with his clothes on one night. They found his body about ten days later. The sharks had been at it, and he was scarcely identifiable.'
He passed his hand over his gray face, and took a long drink.
'Did you see the body?'
'Yes. They made me look at it. It was a very humiliating experience.'
'Humiliating?'
'It's dreadful to realize how mortal we are, and what time and tide will do to us. I can remember Roy Fablon when he was one of the best-looking men at Princeton, and one of the finest athletes.'
'You knew him at Princeton?'
'Very well. He was my roommate. I was really the one who brought him out here to Montevista.'
I rose to leave, but he held me at the door. 'There's something I should ask you Mr. Archer. How well do you know Montevista? I don't mean topographically. Socially.'
'Not well. It's rich for my blood.'
'There's something I should tell you, then, as an old Montevista hand. Almost anything can happen here. Almost everything has. It's partly the champagne climate and partly, to be frank, the presence of inordinate amounts of money. Montevista's been an international watering resort for nearly a century. Deposed maharajahs rub shoulders with Nobel prize-winners and Chicago meat packer's daughters marry the sons of South American billionaires.
'In this context, Martel isn't so extraordinary. In fact when you compare him with some of our Montevista denizens, he's quite routine. You really should bear that in mind.'
'I'll try to.'
I thanked him and left.
5
THE HEAT OF THE DAY was waning with the sun. Approaching the Tennis Club, I could feel a cool wind from the ocean on my face. The flag on top of the main building was whipping.
The woman at the front desk informed me that Peter was probably in the showers. She'd seen him come up from the beach a few minutes ago. I could go in and wait for him by the pool.
The lifeguard's blue canvas chair was unoccupied, and I sat in it. The afternoon wind had driven away most of the sunbathers. On the far side of the pool, in a sheltered corner behind a plate-glass screen, four white-haired ladies were playing cards with the grim concentration of bridge players. The three fates plus one, I thought, wishing there was someone I could say it to.
A large boy in trunks who didn't look like a possible audience came out of the dressing rooms. He disposed his statuesque limbs on the tile deck near me. His smooth simple face was complicated by a certain wildness of the eye. His blond head had not been able to resist the bleach bottle. I noticed that his hair was wet and striated as if he had just been combing it.
'Is Peter Jamieson inside?'
'Yeah. He's getting dressed. You got my chair, but that's all right. I can sit here.'
He patted the tiles beside him. 'You a guest of his?'
'I'm just meeting him here.'
'He was running on the beach. I told him he better take it easy. You got to work up to it.'
'But you have to start somewhere.'
'I guess so. I don't run much, myself. It wears down the muscles.'
With quiet pride, he glanced down at his bronze pectorals. 'I like to look like a typical California lifeguard.'
'You do.'
'Thank you,' he said. 'I put a lot of time and work into it. Like surfing. I took this job here on account of the surfing opportunities. I go to college, too,' he added.
'What college?'
'Montevista State College. The one here.'
'Who runs the French department?'
'I wouldn't know. I'm studying business ad and real estate. Very interesting.'
He reminded me of the dumb blondes who had cluttered up the California landscape when I was his age. Now a lot of them were boys. 'You planning to study French, mister?'
'I just want to get the answers to a few questions.'
'Maybe Mr. Martel could help you. He's a Frenchman.'
'Is he here?'
'Yeah, I just been talking to him - he talks English, too, just like you and I' He pointed toward the second- floor cabana nearest the sea. Through its open front I could see a man moving in the shadow of the awning. He was carrying a multi-colored armful.
'He's moving his things out,' the lifeguard said. 'I offered to help him but he didn't want me messing with his personal stuff.'
'Is he leaving?'
'He's giving up the cabana anyway. The beauty of it is, he said I could have the furniture he bought for it. It's outdoor furniture but it's practically brand new and it must of cost him a fortune. It'll look swell in my apartment. All
