“And be sure to get paid before he starts eating.”
“You know it.”
Allan Peebles finished his drink, poured another, then went to his bedroom and stripped off his clothes, donning a terrycloth robe. He was looking at himself in the mirror, playing with his hair and sipping his drink, when the doorbell rang.
When he opened the door, a muscular young man in shorts and t-shirt was leaning against the jamb, holding a pizza box. He smiled broadly, revealing good dental work. “Delivery,” he said.
“Why don’t we dine out by the pool?” Peebles said, waving the young man to follow.
The young man entered the house, kicking the door behind him. It did not quite close.
Peebles led the way through the house and out to the pool, switching on the underwater lights as he went. The garden was suffused with the soft glow of the pool lighting. Peebles let his robe drop to the ground. “I never dine clothed,” he said. “Do you?”
“I never complete a delivery until the check’s been paid,” the young man responded. “Nothing personal.”
Peebles picked up the robe, extracted two one-hundred-dollar bills from the pocket, and handed them to the young man.
“There’s a nice tip in it for you, if the service is good.”
The young man dropped the pizza and got out of his clothes in a trice. “The tip’s about to be in it for
Out on the street, another young man got out of a car and opened the trunk. Inside was a large aluminum case, which he opened to reveal a selection of photographic equipment. He selected a machine-operated 35mm single lens reflex camera and a small video camera, fixing them both to a bar containing two floodlights. Getting into a battery belt, the young man plugged in the lights, closed the car trunk, and started toward the front door of the house, where he could see a crack of light.
He opened the door an inch and peered inside. Nothing. Emboldened, he stepped into the house and listened. A strange sound reached his ears; it seemed to be coming from the rear of the house. On tiptoe, he crossed the living room and approached the sliding doors to the garden. Outside, in the soft light from the pool, he could make out what he had come for. “Oh, Jesus,” he said. “This is absolutely fab.”
As he stepped through the doors he was able to see clearly, without the reflected glare from the sliding panes. Perched on the diving board were two figures, one on his hands and knees, the other in more of a riding position. The one on top was slapping the naked ass of the one on the bottom with his open hand.
“Giddyap!!!” the rider cried.
The one on the bottom made loud, horsey noises.
The intruder made sure the microphone on the video camera was operating, then pointed his equipment and switched on the floodlights.
“Ride ’em cowboy!!!” he crowed as he began to photograph and tape. “Give him the crop!!!”
Confusion ensued. The equestrian took one look at the floodlights, disengaged, swept up his shorts, and fled across the garden, plowing straight through a privet hedge.
The figure playing the equine role looked wide-eyed over his shoulder and rolled off the divine, board into the water. A moment later he surfaced, peering shyly over the rim of the pool and shouting, “Get out! Get out! Get out!!!”
“Glad to oblige, Old Paint! Got all I need!” He turned and vanished into the house, then onto the street.
Chapter 12
Stone arrived at Amanda’s building at 10:00 A.M. for his appointment. He had phoned her earlier that morning and asked to see her in her office.
The doorman looked at him appraisingly before allowing him into the lobby, and the man inside at the desk called upstairs and announced him before allowing him into the elevator. They both looked like retired cops. He was impressed with the building’s security.
He was met at the elevator by a plump woman with pale red hair who appeared to be in her late thirties or early forties.
“Mr. Barrington? I’m Martha, Amanda’s secretary. Will you follow me, please?” She led the way down a hall and through a heavy door.
Stone had noticed another, double door; that must be her apartment, he thought. He followed the woman into an open office area containing three desks; one was empty – obviously Martha’s, the other two were occupied, respectively, by a young woman and a young man, both of whom were on the phone. He followed Martha into a comfortably decorated office where Amanda, seated behind her desk, was on the phone. She waved him to a seat and dismissed Martha with a shooing motion.
“Yes, darling, I understand,” Amanda was saying. “Not a word to anyone until you’re ready, and I
“I did, and it’s a very cozy working arrangement, even nicer than I’d imagined.”
“You know the joys of working at home, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Well, then, what would you like to see here?”
“Your diary page for yesterday,” Stone replied.
She laughed, then handed it over.
Opposite four o’clock was written, “Stone Barrington, investigator,” and his address. He handed back the diary. “To whom did you speak between the time you left my house and, say, eight-thirty last night?”
“Everybody?”
“Let’s start with those you saw face to face.”
“Well, there’s Paul, my driver, of course, then I returned here and saw the doorman and the lobby man, then came upstairs in time to see Martha and my two other people before they left for the day.”
“Did you say to any of them that you’d seen me?”
“No, but Martha knew I had, of course. Martha knows all.”
“Anybody else before eight-thirty?”
“No, I was home alone until nine, when I left for a dinner party.”
“Do your employees commonly come into your office when you’re out?”
“Yes, I suppose; they leave me notes or copy to read.”
“Do you ordinarily leave your diary open on your desk?”
“Ahhhh,” she said. “Yes, I do.” She produced the scandal sheet with the mention of his assignment. “Have you seen this?”
“I saw it at eight-thirty last night. When did you write my name in your diary?”
“When I made the appointment with you, earlier yesterday.”
“Do any outside people come into your offices?”
“Messengers, visitors.”
“Did you have any visitors yesterday?”
“No.”
“Messengers?”
“There’s a constant stream of them, but there’s no way Martha would have let one of them into my office.”
“Does Martha keep a duplicate diary of your day?”
“Yes, in her middle desk drawer.”
“Does she ever leave it on her desk?”
“Possibly. I could ask her. You think, then, that someone saw your name in my diary?”
