A man like Creedy would be surrounded by secretaries, bouncers, flunkies and yes-men whose job it would be to keep people like me away from him. It wouldn’t be easy to get near him; it wouldn’t be easy to ask him if he had hired Jack and why.
I drank a little whisky to get me in the right mood, then I lifted the telephone receiver.
“Give me Greaves,” I said to the switchboard girl.
There was a delay, then Greaves came on the line.
“I have a call to make,” I said. “How clear is your switchboard?”
He didn’t need a blueprint to understand what I meant.
“You’ve nothing to worry about. There was a cop hanging around for a while, but he’s gone now.”
I thanked him, then flashed the operator and asked for directory inquiries. When the girl answered I said I wanted to be connected with Lee Creedy.
She told me to hold on and after a while a man’s voice said, “This is Mr. Creedy’s residence.”
He sounded as if he either had a plum in his mouth or should have had his adenoids snipped in the past.
“Put me through to Mr. Creedy,” I said briskly.
“If you will give me your name, sir,” the voice said distantly, “I will put you through to Mr. Creedy’s secretary.”
“My name is Lew Brandon. I don’t want Mr. Creedy’s secretary, I want Mr. Creedy in person.”
I didn’t think it would work and it didn’t.
“If you will hold on, sir, I will connect you with Mr. Creedy’s secretary.”
The boredom in his voice was as insulting as a slap in the face. There were a few clicks, then a curt voice, sharp enough to slice bread on, snapped, “Hammerschult here. Who is talking?”
“This is Lew Brandon. I want Mr. Creedy.”
“Hold it, please.”
By listening carefully I could hear his heavy breathing and could hear him turning the pages of what could have been an address book. This was a careful guy. He wasn’t going to get rude until he knew who he was talking to.
“Mr. Brandon?” he demanded, much more aggressive now. “What is your business? “
“Mr. Creedy will tell you if he wants you to know. Just put me through and stop wasting my time.”
I put some menace in my voice, making it sound tough.
It didn’t work, but it slowed him down a little.
“It isn’t possible for you to speak to Mr. Creedy,” he said, his tone quieter. “If you could give me some idea what you want, I will speak to him and he may call you back.”
I knew this was the dead-end. If I became too tough, he would guess I was trying to trample over him, so I played my last and none-too-strong card.
“Tell him I am the senior partner of the Star Agency of San Francisco. He’s waiting for me to report to him.”
“Is he?” The voice sounded surprised and less confident. “All right, Mr. Brandon, I’ll speak to him and we’ll call you. What is your number?”
I gave him the hotel number and he hung up.
I stubbed out my cigarette, finished my whisky and closed my eyes.
I would have, I thought, an hour’s wait, possibly longer. I might not hear at all. There seemed no point at the moment in doing anything. I relaxed, and after a while, I dozed off.
The sharp and violent ringing of the telephone bell brought me awake with a start that nearly threw me off the bed. I grabbed up the receiver, looking at my wristwatch. I had been asleep for fifteen minutes.
“Mr. Brandon?”
I recognized Hammerschult’s voice.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Creedy will see you at three o’clock this afternoon.”
I couldn’t believe my ears.
“Three o’clock?”
“Yes. Will you please be punctual? Mr. Creedy has several appointments for this afternoon, and he will only be able to spare you a few minutes.”
“That’ll be long enough,” I said, and hung up.
For a long moment I lay staring up at the ceiling, then I swung my legs to the floor. Creedy had to be Jack’s client. That could be the only reason why a man of his position would bother to see me I looked at my watch again.
I had just under the hour to get out to his place.
I went over to my suitcase to unpack my best suit.
Chapter 3
I
Lee Creedy’s estate was built on the far end of a mile-long, narrow peninsula that projected into the exact centre of Thor Bay.
You could get a good view of it from Bay Boulevard. Before I turned off on to the private road that ran the length of the peninsula to the estate, I slowed down and took a look at it.
The house was massive: three stories high with vast windows, terraces, a blue-tiled roof and white walls covered with flowering climbers. The rear of the house appeared to hang over the cliff face. It had a magnificent view of the two arms of the bay.
I was driving the office Buick. The police had left it outside the hotel. There was a bad scratch on one of the door panels and a hubcap was dented. I didn’t know if the police were responsible or if Jack had bumped something on his drive down from Frisco. It was possible that Jack had done the damage. He had never been much of a driver, cutting in too close and taking too many chances. But I was glad to have the car. It would save me the cost of taking taxis, and from what I had been told, the cost of living in St. Raphael City was so high I would need every cent I had.
I turned off Bay Boulevard on to the road to the peninsula. A hundred yards or so further on I came to a big sign that told me that this was a private road and only visitors to the Thor Estate could go beyond this point. A quarter of a mile further on I came on one of those red and white poles you see on the continent blocking the road. Nearby was a small white guardhouse. Two men in white shirts, white cord breeches, black shiny knee-high boots and peak caps watched me come. Both of them looked like ex—cops: both of them were wearing ‘45 Colts at their hips.
“I’ve an appointment with Mr. Creedy,” I said, looking out of the car window.
One of them moved over to me. His cop eyes ran over me, and by his curt nod I knew he didn’t approve of the Buick nor, come to think of it, of me.
“Name?”
I told him.
He checked a list he had in his hand, then he waved to the other guard, who lifted the barrier.
“Straight ahead, turn left at the intersection and park your car in Bay 6.”
I nodded and drove on, aware they were both staring at me as if to make sure they would know me again. A half a mile further on I came to massive gates of oak, fifteen feet high and studded with iron nails, that stood open. I then hit the sanded carriageway and I drove through woodland, and then past the ornate, magnificent gardens with their acres of close-mown lawns, their beds of flowers, their sunken rose gardens and their fountains.
Chinese gardeners were at work on one of the big beds, planting out begonias: taking their time as the Chinese do, but making a good job of it. Each plant was exactly equidistant from the other: each plant planted at the same level: an exactitude that no other gardener in the world can do as well as the Chinese.
At the intersection I turned left as directed. I came to a vast stretch of tarmac divided by white lines into fifty parking places. Some of the places had signs made of oak with glittering gilt letters.
I left the Buick in Bay 6, got out and took a quick look at some of the signs. No. 1 sign said: Mr. Creedy. No. 7, Mrs. Creedy. No. 23, Mr. Hammerschult. There were a lot more names that meant nothing to me.
