I nodded.
“It certainly isn’t going to make the job any easier,” I agreed.
Charlie looked at me with something that could have been respect.
“Say, you’re not so dumb at that. Jake said you was a smart guy. You certainly got plenty done in one day. What do you aim to do now?”
“Keep poking around. This business is one per cent brain only. The rest is split down the middle, luck and getting the feet sore. But I do have one thing I’m waiting for.”
“Yeah? What is it?”
“If Brookman was killed by somebody who knew he was a blackmailer, they might try to pick up where he left off. Most of these guys you know, they keep some kind of papers. Maybe a notebook, or letters, something like that. Sometimes it’s photographs. If the killer got hold of the stuff, and figured to set up in business for himself, then I’ve got him.”
“I get it. Through the dame, huh? She’ll tip you off?”
“Right. Mind, it’s just a chance, but I have hopes.”
Charlie stood up and paced around, thinking. I didn’t interrupt.
“Preston, I gotta hand it to you. So far it’s O.K. But there’s one thing bothers me. If it’s the way you tell it, and I ain’t saying it ain’t, why would such a guy wanta knock off my brother Jake? He ain’t after no blackmailers. He has enough trouble with his own business.”
That was the one question to which I didn’t have a real answer. Instead, I answered one Charlie hadn’t asked.
“That worried me for a while,” I admitted, “Then I decided I was beating my brains out for nothing. If I’m right, the killer has nothing against Jake, probably doesn’t even know him. But he could know about me, could know I’m getting close to him. Maybe I am for all I know. What I’m saying is, the bullet wasn’t meant for Jake at all.”
“Ah-h.”
He let out a deep sigh and nodded.
“Could be. That just could be, couldn’t it? Mind, I don’t say I go for it one hundred per cent, but it just could be. And it would make the rest of your ideas stand up too, huh?”
“It would. The only thing I don’t like about it is, if it really was intended for me, he’ll have to have another try. Because as of now, I’m still walking around asking questions.”
Suddenly, and to my surprise, he stuck out his hand.
“Good luck to you, Preston. I tell ya, since Jake got hit, I been banging my head against walls. All the help I’m getting around here it’s enough to drive a guy nuts. Now, things don’t look so bad. What can I do for you? You want more dough?”
I shook my head.
“No thanks. I have more than enough for now. But if I get in a jam where I could use those muscle men of yours, I’d sure appreciate it.”
“You got ‘em,” he beamed. “Just say the word.”
I left him then. I was glad he was feeling so cheerful. It should happen to me.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE AFTERNOON SUN was really going to work by this time. The inside of the Chev felt like a baking tin on Thanksgiving Day as I rolled unhurriedly along the Beach Road. Only a few of the really hardy characters were out there surfing and splashing around. Most people were supine on the blinding sand, with unheeded newspapers and novels by their sides. The Somerset house gave no sign of life as I pulled up outside. If there were any visitors today, they hadn’t left any cars on view.
I got the same unenthusiastic response from the doorbell, and once again as the door stood invitingly open, I stepped inside. I went on through to where Somerset did his music listening, but he wasn’t there. The verandah door was open, and I peeked through to see him lying full length at the side of a small pool. There was a big striped umbrella doing its best to protect him from the worst of the sun. At the sound of my footsteps he lifted one corner of the gaudy cloth that covered his face, dropped it back in place when he saw who it was.
“Ah,” he greeted. “The ballet expert. Why don’t you sit down?”
I looked around, but there wasn’t another chair on view.
“What on?”
He sighed, and again I was fascinated to watch the last ripples of it dying away as they traversed the successive bulges of fat all down his front. Somerset was very formal today. In place of the usual skin covering, he had gone to the lengths of donning a violet pair of Bermuda shorts.
“The green stuff on the ground all round you,” he explained, “is called grass. People have been known to sit on it before.”
I squatted down close to him.
“Have you got the police off your back yet?” I asked.
“One never knows. They’re terribly persistent aren’t they? I mean one would think they can’t be all that intelligent.”
“One would be wrong,” I assured him. “Why do you say that?”
The bright cloth floated up and down on his face as he spoke, but I had no chance to see his expression.
“They ask questions,” he explained. “You tell them the answer, and then five minutes later they ask the same thing again.”
“It’s a technique. People sometimes forget what they said the first time around. Especially people who are trying to hide something.”
He chuckled.
“Well, that hardly applies in my case.”
“Doesn’t it?”
The cloth moved gently as he breathed. Then he lifted it from his face and turned his head to look at me.
“Is that supposed to have some deep meaning?”
“I don’t know,” I confessed. “You know more about what you have to hide than I do.”
He regarded me carefully from the heavy lidded eyes.
“One has the impression you have something to say.”
“Let’s talk about Flower,” I suggested.
“Ah, that poor child,” he sighed. “What do you think happened to her?”
“You’re forgetting,” I reminded. “It was me
