I stood by the open door to greet a sweaty mailman holding out a card. He said, “Special Delivery for Norman Con-nor. You?”
We exchanged a dime tip for the card. It was an air mail from Paris. On one side a picture of an Alsatian restaurant in Pigalle where we'd often gone for their cheese cake. On the other side Michele thanked me for the flowers.
The card was a shot in the arm. I was amazed at the speed of things. I'd only wired the flowers yesterday... or was it the day before?
Okay. The score was: Michele was thinking of me and it was still a hell of a hot Saturday and... I suddenly knew what I was going to do. Mix business with pleasure, as the trite but so true phrase went. By driving out to End Harbor, seeing the maid, have a look-see at Matt Anthony's house.
I could easily kill the weekend and get in some swimming too.
It was a 110-mile drive to End Harbor, the traffic was light, and I made it in less than three hours. The farther out I went the more I saw of beaches and boats and I kept thinking of a lot of things: The house Michele wanted me to buy, a sudden longing to be on the beach at Nice with her now... and what a queer one Prof. Brown was. Suppose he was right about Matt having nothing to do with his wife's death? And we ran ads hinting at that and then the court finds him innocent... I'd be the whitest of white-haired golden boys! That would really be playing a long shot. But all Brown had was a hunch, nothing to back it up.
I watched the fishing boats and thought about whether I could risk trying to get my broken-nosed professor a job at Longson's.... And I didn't think too much about Michele and how she loved driving in the country, swimming.
End Harbor was a fairly neat village, a couple of supermarkets and a summer theater surrounded by some very old houses and a number of expensive summer homes. I stopped a big cop in a snappy blue uniform to ask for Mart's house.
“Take the next turn, that's Bay Road. Follow it for about a mile, then you'll see his roadway on the left Can't miss it. You another reporter?”
“No.”
“Had stacks of reporters snooping out here day after it happened. The Harbor don't go for that sort of publicity.”
“Did you know Mr. Anthony?”
He nodded. “A great guy. Tops. Many a time I been on Matt's boat chumming for blues. Real regular.”
“Think he'll beat the rap?”
Caution raced across his big face. “Hey, thought you said you wasn't a reporter? Now, listen, he may have been a great guy but that don't cut no ice when it comes to doing my duty. Sure Matt was a real sport, for a big shot, but let me tell you he had a hell of a temper too. Maybe his wife was a nag. Okay, my wife has a sharp tongue but I don't go killing her.”
It was odd, and expected, the way he was already talking about Matt in the past tense. I asked, “Do you go along with the D.A. on this first degree murder bit?”
“Convictions are the D.A.'s wagon. What I think or don't think isn't important. Bay Road is the turn at the traffic light, Mac.”
Bay Road passed a yacht club that wasn't as big as the rowboat house in Central Park but there must have been a couple of million dollars in cruisers anchored off the dock. The road turned away from the bay and then there was this well-kept, narrow, oiled dirt lane leading into the pines. An oversized hacksaw hung from a post with Anthony in white metal letters welded to the saw part. It took me a moment to get it—all such pure corn—Matt Anthony, the hack.
The papers had mentioned a 'luxurious estate.' I don't know what I expected. The lane took me into a clearing and there was this squat, hideous green house built of rough cinder block. It was a two story affair with a narrow lawn and beyond that some rough piles of dirt, as though they had forgotten to finish the lawn. The whole scene was one of not belonging, including the big yellow umbrella shading some white iron outdoor furniture. There was a garage behind the house—this too looked unfinished—and a path that went into a line of fairly tall pine trees. Although I could smell the salt in the air; there wasn't any sight of the bay. The walk from the driveway to the house was lined with clam shells. I rang the polished brass ship's bell on the door and waited. When I rang again I heard a dog whine. Finally a woman's voice with a faint English accent announced, “I am not seeing any more newspaper men. So you can take your leave.”
She seemed to be pressed against the other side of the door. I asked, “Are you Miss May Fitzgerald?”
“Indeed I be. But I will not see any—”
“My name is Norman Connor. I'm from Mr. Anthony's publishers, Longson's.”
The door opened and I saw a dark skinned young Negro woman in dungarees and a thin white turtle neck sweater. She was stooped over, holding on to something behind the door. Although her jaw was a bit too heavy, she was very pretty; hair piled high in a braid, her figure tall and slim. A large green jade pin was fastened on her sweater, between the sharp outlines of small breasts, and her full lips were painted a faint pink. She had a mild, spicy perfume that didn't distract from the exotic—yet wholesome—picture. I doubted if she was 21. I said, “I'd appreciate it if you can spare me a few minutes, Miss Fitzgerald. I'd like to talk to you.”
“Talk to me? How do I know you're not a blooming reporter?”
Between her and Brown this was identify-yourself-week. I pulled out the office letters, let her see my name on the envelopes. She nodded as she said, “Excuse me. But I have been bothered with so many darn newsmen. Are you afraid of dogs?”
“I don't think so.”
“Clichy will jump at you, but only in play.” She straightened up. She must have been holding the dog behind the
