Only the trunk key didn’t work. I tried the ignition to see if these keys were to another vehicle, but the motor purred to life. I shut it quickly off and returned to the trunk. Its lock yielded to the fourth pair of picks I tried. That trick came in handy-the technique and the picks were given to me by a little shrimp of a second-story man for whom I had gotten a real job and set straight.
A spare tire lay under the sheet of flooring with the handle of a bumper jack sticking out alongside it. Above it was a tool kit and a cardboard box about the size of a portable record player. With a screwdriver from the kit, I pried through the corrugated top and pulled the newspaper wrapping off.
Chips.
A whole damn box swimming with poker chips, white, blue, red. Was this the precious cargo that made changing that lock worth doing?
I slapped the cover back on, wiped any prints off it, and closed the trunk. Let the local cops open it themselves. They’d probably use a fire ax, knowing their finesse.
Back out in the cool, breezy evening, with the rush of tide as a soundtrack, I took the long way around the garage and found a rear door up three cement steps.
This time I didn’t need the picks. It was unlocked, but I pushed it open an inch and felt for wires. There were alarm devices that depended on a door being opened six or eight inches before they went off, a neat trap for doors that could be easily forced, and I didn’t feel like getting caught with my pants down. Beales and Dekkert would just love to have an actual charge to slap against me.
Nothing.
I let it open another inch and ran my fingers inside between the hinges. No wires here, either. Just as I was about to throw the door open all the way, I stopped and felt under the lower hinge. A spring attachment caught under my fingernail.
Using my left hand to shield the beam of the flash, I let a stream of light shoot through the crack of the door and pried the spring away with the largest of the picks. Needed to use a pick after all, but it only took a second. The thing jumped out of place and I killed the flash and shoved the door open.
I stood still as death but heard no sound from anywhere-even the night noises had stayed outside. I quieted my own breathing and felt in front of me. A few minutes more and my eyes became accustomed to the darkness and I could see the outline of things pretty well. The moonlight, coming in the windows, helped.
I was in the kitchen, a big one, white and clean with enough cabinets and counters and stove tops to feed a small army. I played statue for a good, long minute. A house this size could easily have some live-in servants and I didn’t want them breaking up my party.
There was nothing of interest in the kitchen, as far as I could see. Nothing I was looking for, but what was I looking for? I didn’t know. Sharron Wesley was dead, and she had left behind a corpse on a stone horse, and this mansion. But she was murdered and that hadn’t been without purpose. Whatever the reason, there might possibly be a tie-in with something within these walls. Something, anything at all. Just one thing out of the ordinary.
The room off the kitchen was a pantry. I didn’t waste time there either, but stepped through the open door to what should have been a dining room. It probably had been, at one time, but not now.
Now? Now the room was a giant gambling den-taking up more space than just the dining room had once, with walls clearly torn out to make it more expansive. I’ve seen plenty such layouts in my time, but this one took the cake. I let my flash try for the walls, but it had to cover sixty feet before it did. That was the width. The room ran along the whole waterfront section of the house, a full hundred and fifty feet.
Overall, it had any gambling joint in the city shaded. I took my hand off the light and let the unshielded beam play over the tables. Sharron Wesley had sunk a fortune into this operation. The tables had Chicago trademarks, the best money could buy. Craps tables stood along the west wall, flanked by numerous roulette wheels and cages.
There were six faro layouts and assorted poker tables with automatic card-shuffling machines built in. I threaded my way through to where six rows of slot machines were huddled in the corner, all two-bit jobs, the jackpots still full.
On each end, and in the middle, were the banks. They were built like movie cashier booths, with one exception: the glass partitions were an inch thick. Behind the opening where the money and chips changed hands, a piece of heavy steel was inlaid into the counter. Any dough that went out had to be passed around it. The thing was practically foolproof. The Wesley dame had taken no chances on being stuck up. The cashier could stay behind there without a worry-no bullet would get through that glass, and neither could the door be opened. A time lock arrangement took care of that.
The dial of the lock registered “open.” I pulled on the steel door and it swung out. Inside was a telephone, a stool, a huge money drawer, a container for chips and, on the floor, a handkerchief. The drawer was empty. I picked up the tiny frilly hanky and took a close look at it. In one corner was the initial “G,” and the thing still held the faint, musky aroma of expensive perfume.
With the handkerchief, I picked up the phone to see if it was alive. A buzz came from the receiver so I cradled it. I backed out of the booth and stuck the handkerchief in my side pocket. I couldn’t see what good the thing would do me, but you never can tell.
A dusty smell was in the air, not the smell of disuse, but that of a place not recently cleaned. The protective covers of the tables were covered with a fine coating of dust and sand particles. Not much, but just about as much as would settle in a week.
This place was certainly no amateur joint, nor was it the indulgence of a rich man’s whim, or rich woman, either. This nifty little casino had every hallmark of the real thing. Those wild parties in Sidon I had heard rumors about were juicy orgies of gambling.
This house was run for one reason-to make money. But why, I couldn’t figure. Sharron Wesley had supposedly inherited a cool million or more from her late husband.
A hard-living dame like that ex-chorine could go through money fast enough, that was a cinch, but a million is a lot to spend and she hadn’t had that much time yet. Still, I guessed there was no reason why she shouldn’t go into business for herself, to keep afloat among the money set.
Oh, hell, that idea was out the window-that bimbo didn’t have enough brains in her yellow-haired head to put together a sophisticated gambling operation like this one on her own steam.
Somebody had been backing her.
The darkened opening of a foyer led from the casino area. I looked in, then-through the archway on one side-spying the bar, a big horseshoe-shaped affair. Damn! This lodge-type area alone could accommodate a few hundred at a sitting. Sharron Wesley had been no piker when she built this indoor amusement park.
Stools were arranged in orderly fashion around the bar with tables-for-two set against the wall. The whole place had been swept and put in order after the last party, which hadn’t been so long ago, either. You’d think a place like this would be put in for the summer crowd, but that didn’t seem to be the case. This was a year-round operation that must have catered strictly to the city slicks who came out to throw their dough around, and away.
Under the bar, I found a bottle of Scotch, removed the cork and took a short pull. Good stuff. I put the cork and the bottle back. The walls in this place had been finished in knotty pine, giving the room a healthy outdoor odor. I made my way completely around the bar, then took the foyer to the side door.
A cloakroom was built into the wall with enough hangers for the Stork Club and then some. Next to the cloakroom was a second-floor staircase. I shone the light on the steps-they, too, were dust-covered. So much for servants. If anyone was up there, they must be hibernating. No one had used the staircase in a week, at least.
Nevertheless, I took no chances. I judged the approximate number of steps to the top and went up, walking as close to the bannister as I could, to avoid letting any telltale squeaks announce my presence.
The top landing was covered by a Chinese rug thick enough to muffle any sound. The corridor led to one main room that occupied half the entire upper floor-a ballroom. A stage that could have accommodated Glenn Miller’s band took up the far end, and a fully functioning bar ran along one wall, while a sea of little round tables with chairs surrounded a waxed and polished beach of hardwood, a dance floor larger than the usual night club variety.
The other rooms were bedrooms. No one lived in them-they seemed to be designed to provide couples with a comfy trysting option; or maybe high-end prostitution was part of the party fare Sharron Wesley offered. At one end of the hall was a three-room apartment. This was the first place that looked well used. A glamorous, silver-framed portrait of Sharron was displayed on a baby grand. Around it were a dozen smaller framed photos, all of men.
