ask questions. I felt she must be in a receptive mood, and there was one question that I really wanted answered.
So I said casually, “Can you think of any reason why your father would want to hire a private detective?”
She was sitting low down, her head resting against the top of the bench seat. She stiffened a little, turned to look at me.
“Now you have had your way with me,” she said, “you are hoping I will be compliant.”
“No. You don’t have to answer the question. I won’t hold it against you if you don’t.”
She was silent for a long moment, then she said, “I don’t know, but I could make a guess. If he did hire your partner, then it was because he wanted him to watch his wife.”
“Has he any reason to have her watched? “
“I should imagine he has every reason. It surprises me he hasn’t done it long ago. She has some gigolo always hanging around her. She has this horrible man Thrisby at the moment. Perhaps Daddy is getting tired of it. I wish he would divorce her. Then I could go home.”
“Would you like to do that?”
“No one likes to be turned out of their home. Bridgette and I just can’t live together.”
“What’s the matter with Thrisby?”
“Everything. He’s the complete home wrecker: a horrible man.”
I let the subject hang for a few moments then, as I drove off the beach road on to the promenade, I said, “Your father wouldn’t have hired Sheppey to check on you, would he?”
She flicked her cigarette out of the window.
“He doesn’t have to pay a detective to do that. My maid does all the necessary spying. It was a condition he let me have the apartment that I should have her with me. No, unless it’s something I know nothing about, I think you can be fairly sure he hired him to watch Bridgette.”
“Yes, that’s what I think.”
We drove in silence for a mile or so, then she said, “Do you plan to watch Bridgette?”
“No: there’s not much point in that. I don’t imagine she had anything to do with Sheppey’s death. What I think happened was that while he was watching her, he came across something that had nothing to do with her. It was something important, and he was smart enough to realize it, so he got killed. This is a gangster town. Take the Musketeer Club. Sheppey could have found out something going on there. Although it is only used by the blue-blood trade, it is run by a gangster.”
“Oh, you really think that? “
“I’m guessing. I may be wrong, but until I’ve found out more I’m going to stay with the idea.”
“If Sheppey got evidence that would give Daddy a divorce, Bridgette would be without a dime. She hasn’t any money of her own, or practically none. If Daddy divorced her, she would be out in the cold and she wouldn’t like that.”
“You’re not suggesting that she killed Sheppey?”
“Of course not, but Thrisby could have. I’ve seen him; you haven’t. He’s utterly ruthless and if he thought he wasn’t going to get any money out of Bridgette because of something Sheppey had found out, he might have killed him.”
That was a line I hadn’t thought of.
“I think I’ll take a look at him. Where do I find him?”
“He has a little place up on the Crest. It lies at the back of the town. He calls it the White Chateau. It isn’t a chateau, of course. It’s just a flashy, nasty little love nest.”
The bitterness in her voice made me look quickly at her.
“Bridgette isn’t the only woman he entertains up there,” she went on. “Any woman with money is welcomed.”
“Well, at least, he isn’t the only one,” I said. “This coast line is full of them.”
“Yes.” She pointed. “You take the first on the right now. It’ll bring you straight to the Franklyn Arms.”
I turned off the promenade and saw ahead of me the lighted sign of her apartment block. I drove to the entrance and pulled up before the revolving doors.
“Well, good night,” she said, and her hand touched mine. “I’ll call you. Be careful of that man Thrisby.”
“You don’t have to worry about me,” I said. “I’ll handle him. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”
As I made to get out, she said, “No, don’t. My maid is probably watching from the window. Good night, Lew.”
She leaned against me and I felt her lips touch my cheek, then she opened the car door, slid out and walked quickly under the lighted canopy and disappeared through the revolving doors.
I drove away.
When I reached the promenade, I pulled up by the kerb to light a cigarette then, setting the car moving, I drove slowly back to the bungalow.
On the way, I did some thinking. I switched my mind from Margot and concentrated on Cordez. For some reason or other the folder of matches that I had found in Sheppey’s suitcase appeared to be worth five hundred dollars. Cordez had parted with three of these folders to three different people and in each case they had paid him that sum. It was safe to assume that Sheppey had either found the folder or had taken it from someone. That someone had ransacked both Sheppey’s and my room at the hotel. He had failed to find it in Sheppey’s room, but had found it in mine, and had substituted another folder, probably in the hope I hadn’t noticed the ciphers at the back of the matches. Therefore it was safe to assume that the ciphers meant something. It could also mean that this mysterious folder of matches was the cause of Sheppey’s death.
I felt I was moving in the right direction, but I had still a lot more information to collect before I could get further than guesswork.
I arrived back at the bungalow at a quarter to three. I was pretty tired by then. I unlocked the front door and, turning on the light, I entered the lounge.
I had in mind to give myself a small whisky and soda before turning in, and I was crossing the lounge towards the bar when I saw something lying on one of the small occasional tables that made me pause.
It was Margot’s evening bag: a pretty thing in black suede in the form of a scallop shell. I picked it up, idly pushed open the gold clasp and opened the bag. In it was a built-in powder compact in gold. A silk pocket contained a handkerchief. I pushed the handkerchief aside and saw beneath it a match-folder in red water silk.
For a long moment I stared at it, then I picked it out, set down the bag and turned the fold over between my fingers.
I opened it. There were only thirteen matches: the others had been torn out of the folder. Bending the matches back I saw a row of numerals printed on the back of them. The numerals ran from C451148 to C451160.
I knew then this was the match-folder I had found in Sheppey’s suitcase; the one I had hidden under the carpet in my hotel bedroom; the one that had been stolen. As I stared at it, the telephone bell began to ring, making a loud, strident sound in the silent bungalow.
I slid the folder into my pocket and walked over to the telephone and picked up the receiver.
“Hello, yes?” I said, fairly certain who was calling.
“Is that you, Lew?”
Margot’s voice. She sounded a little out of breath.
“Hello again: don’t tell me: I know. You’ve lost something?”
“My bag. Did you find it?”
“It’s right here on one of the tables.”
“Oh, good. I didn’t know if I had left it at the club or in your car. I’m always leaving things in places. I’ll pick it up tomorrow morning unless you are passing and can leave it for me. Could you?”
“That’s all right. I’ll leave it sometime during the morning.”
“Thank you, darling.” There was a pause, then she said, “Lew . . .”
“I ‘m still with you.”
“I’m thinking of you.”
I put my hand in my pocket and fingered the folder.
“I’m thinking of you too.”
