All the way

items of clothing, a half-dozen bottles of different kinds of pills, and a small leather kit containing all his toilet articles. The third was mostly fishing clothes. It also contained a camera, and a gift of some kind, still wrapped.

It felt like a book. I tore it open. It was a volume on salt-water fishing by Kip Farrington, and the flyleaf was inscribed, “With all my love, Coral.” I started to drop it back in the bag. Something fell out of it. It was a plain piece of white paper on which was written the single word, “Isle”. It puzzled me. Apparently she’d stuck it in there between the pages. I held the book up and shook it. Two more slips fed out, along with a four by six photograph of a young blonde girl in a bathing suit, standing on tiptoes. She was very pretty, but as standardized—pose and all— as an interchangeable part. She made me think of a composite picture. I looked at the other two slips of paper. Each had one word written on it. “View” and “Of.” I frowned. Then they rearranged themselves in my mind, and I shook my head. “Isle of View.” For this he’d jilted Marian Forsyth. That forty country must be rough.

His wallet held a little over seven hundred dollars, two more photographs of Coral Blaine, driver’s license, eight or ten credit cards of various kinds, and his Chapman Enterprises business cards, but nothing with a picture of him. I unsnapped the folder of traveler’s checks. There were forty-eight of them, all hundreds. He didn’t exactly go around barefoot, for a two weeks” vacation. Well, he was a millionaire, it was probably all deductible if he had an imaginative tax man, and big-game fishing came high. To say nothing of nineteen-year-old call girls.

I was stalling now, and I knew it. I’d been through all his things, and if I kept inventing reasons for putting it off I’d start to lose my nerve, and then I would flub it. I broke the seal on the bottle of Scotch, had one fair-sized drink, and reached for the phone. I was tight across the chest.

The operator answered.“Long Distance,” I said. ”Thomaston, Louisiana. The number is six-two-five-two-five. Personal call to Miss Coral Blaine.”

“Yes, sir. One moment, please.”

I waited. Remember, two pet names. Remember, she has a very Southern accent. No, that didn’t matter. This was personal, I didn’t have to worry about “recognizing” the wrong girl’s voice. Remember, just got up. Groggy. Hard drive.

Far off, a feminine voice said, “Chapman Enterprises.”

Receptionist. Mrs. English. Widow. 36. Brown hair. Pleasant. Son in high school. Wendell. . . .

“Miss Coral Blaine,” an operator said. “Miami Beach is calling.”

“One moment, please.”

Hates Marian. “Adores” things. Chides me for swearing. Argument about scope and magnitude of wedding, settled now, her favor. Honeymoon definitely Palm Springs, Acapulco out, loathes fishing. Get her talking about bridal parties. Gown. Attendants. . . .

“Go ahead, please.”

“Harris, darling—”

“Angel, how are you?” I said.

“Just fine, darling, but I’ve been so worried. You didn’t call last night, and here I’ve been imaginin’ wrecks and hurricanes and deadly females carryin’ you off—”

“I tried to call you. When I checked in here at Miami Beach. At one a.m.—that’d be midnight your time. But there was no answer.”

“I just knew it! I kept trying to tell that crazy Bonnie Sue Wentworth that Miami was ahead of us—”

Bonnie Sue clicked in my mind.

“—Henry’s in Chicago, you know, at that engineers” convention or whatever it is, so after the movie we went out to the club, and I kept telling her I had to get back because you’d call, but she said Miami was behind us—”

“Bonnie Sue’s having a good day when she can tell whether it’s daylight or dark,” I said. “And I wish you wouldn’t ride with her. Any husband that would let a featherweight like that drive a Thunderbird has got a grudge against her, or the human race—”

“Harris, she wasn’t drivin’ the Bird. Heavens, they traded that in, remember?” So. Don’t get too cocky.

“Well, the hell with Bonnie Sue. I want to know how you—”

“Harris! The very idea!”

“I’m sorry, angel,” I said. “But how are you? And how’s everything at the office?”

“Just fine. And, remember, I said I wasn’t going to bother you with old office details on your vacation. The only thing that’s come up important is a letter from those lawyers in Washington about the radio station. There’s some more forms to fill in.”

“Yes. That’s the application for an increase in power,” I said. “Shoot ’em over to Wingard. If he has any questions, I’ll get in touch with him later. But, look, angel, suppose I call you tonight? I just woke up and haven’t even dressed yet. And before I drive on down to Marathon there’s a real estate man I want to see.”

“That’d be wonderful, darling. I’ll be waiting.”

“Say about eight, your time. And thanks a million for the book. It’s a good one.”

“You fibber. I bet you haven’t even looked at it.”

“I’ll just take that bet.” I winced. “Isle of View, too.”

“Why, you precious. You did open it.”

When I’d hung up, I poured one more small drink of the Scotch, and sighed. How could I have been worried about that? Then a very cold hand closed around my insides, and I cursed myself. Don’t get careless. So she’s an idiot. But don’t forget, they were engaged; there’s a whole area of shared experience nobody could brief you on, not even Marian Forsyth. And just one little slip, one wrong word, can do it.

I looked at my watch. It was still only a few minutes past twelve. It would be better not to check out until at least one; that would be exactly twelve hours from the time he’d checked in, and there’d be no chance at all any of the same staff would be on duty. The whole switch depended on that. Now would be a good time to hit Chris.

I poured some more coffee, and dug the Webster & Adcock envelopes out of the bag. Spreading out the itemized end-of-the-month statement, I corrected it and brought it up to date with the slips verifying subsequent transactions. Since the first of the month—and that would be about the time Marian had left him—he had sold five hundred shares of Consolidated Edison, and in three separate transactions had bought a total of ten thousand shares of some cheap stock called Warwick Petroleum. This was listed on the American Exchange, and had been bought at prices ranging from 3? to 3 1/8. I just had a hunch Chris had been unhappy about that. Marian had got him to switch over to high grade preferential and good solid utilities before prices had started to sag, and here he was plunging to the tune of better than thirty thousand dollars on some cheap speculation before she’d hardly got out of sight.

I crossed off the Consolidated Edison, added the Warwick, and adjusted the cash. The latter was now $12.741.50. Opening the Miami Herald to the financial page, I went down the list, checking it off against yesterday’s closing prices on the Stock Exchange. I added it all up. It came to roughly a hundred and eighty-seven thousand. I whistled softly. A hundred and seventy-five thousand of that was ours.

I thought of the places we’d go. Athens, Istanbul, Mallorca. And the fishing places—New Zealand, and Cabo Blanco. Passports would be no problem; we wouldn’t be fugitives. But it really didn’t matter where we went, as long as I was with her.

I snapped out of it. It would be at least a month before I could see her again, and I was in no position to be goofing off, dreaming about her. I reached for the phone.

“Operator, I’d like to make another long-distance call. This one’s to New Orleans—”

“Yes, sir. And the number?”

I gave it to her, and added, “Personal call to Mr. Chris Lundgren.”

“Thank you. One moment, please.”

I heard the operator at Webster & Adcock, and then Lundgren’s voice.

“Chris?” I said. “Chapman. How’s Warwick doing this morning?”

“Oh, good morning, Mr. Chapman. The girl said you’re in Miami Beach already—”

“That’s right,” I said shortly. “But has there been any sign of a rally in Warwick? I see it closed yesterday at