‘Win it on the horses.’
Lean smiled and the grooves in his over-trained, gaunt face deepened into ruts. ‘This is it. I can smell it.’
I had to think quickly. The last thing I needed was Lean sneaking around cracking his knuckles and smelling things. I must have looked doubtful because he held up one hand placatingly while he punched keys with the other. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t interfere. I just wanted to be asked. You might give me a favourable citation in your report if it works out.’
If you can’t beat them, join them. ‘You’ve got it,’ I said.
The ‘Private/Staff files revealed nothing of interest about the other suspects and Hayward firmed as favourite. It was a bit like shooting with a telescopic sight; when the lines intersected you were in focus and on target. I went home and caught up on some sleep which was easy to do because I was living alone, apart from a cat, and visitors were rare and getting rarer. I told myself that I was lying fallow socially and sexually, rejuvenating. I told this to the cat too, but the cat didn’t believe it any more than I did.
My first move was to check on Hayward’s golf partners. My lawyer of many years standing and suffering, Cy Sackville, was a member at Royal Eastern. I called him and began by asking what his handicap was.
‘Scruples,’ he said. ‘When did you start playing straight man, Cliff?’
‘I’m working on it. What kind of people do you play golf with at Royal Eastern?’
‘Oh, judges, lawyers, doctors, stockbrokers, embezzlers, all kinds, why?’
‘I’d like to find out who a member by the name of Kent Hayward played with last weekend. Could you get the names?’
‘Nothing easier. From the book. You want the scores?’
‘No, thanks. When?’
Cy supposed he could fit in nine holes the following morning to relax him for his afternoon in court. He proposed a drink in the club bar at noon.
By then I’d had too much sleep and too much of my own company. I was refreshed, showered and shampooed and taking an interest in every woman I saw between seventeen and seventy. The waitress in the Royal Eastern bar was about thirty and moderately good looking. When she served me my
Swan Light my blood raced. Sackville wandered in and ordered Perrier.
‘How’d you do?’ I said.
‘Forty-one, double bogeyed the eighth, bugger it. Here’s what you want.’
He handed me a slip of paper. The bar was almost empty but I kept my voice low. ‘Clyde Teasdale, Reginald Broderick, Montague Porter. That wouldn’t be Monty Porter, would it?’
Sackville sipped Perrier. ‘Believe so. Any help?’
‘Could be. Thanks a lot. What’s the case this afternoon?’
He yawned. ‘One of the doctors claims one of the lawyers was embezzling from him.’
‘Was he?’
‘Probably, but we’ll sort it out.’
Monty Porter, if he wasn’t actually Mr Big, was Mr Big Enough. If he’d been responsible for half the things that were alleged against him he’d never have had time to wash his socks. Gambling, pimping and drugs were his mainstays, but he probably financed some heavier stuff as well. Monty was married to Marjorie Legge who had a high profile in the fashion industry and the right-wing media, so for every allegation against him there was a champagne glass raised as well.
A trip to Surfers would have been welcome but I couldn’t justify it. I phoned Roger Wallace who operates several detective agencies in the eastern states. When he reached fifty, he picked his South-port agency as the one that most needed his personal touch. I asked him to run a check on the guests in the Tropicana over the period of Hayward’s stay. We exchanged pleasantries, agreed on terms and he phoned back towards evening.
‘Subject didn’t get much of the sun,’ Roger said.
‘Seems he spent most of his time in smoky rooms.’
‘Who with?’
‘Hard to say, but it could easily have been Monty Porter.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah. Monty was in the Honeymoon Suite at the Tropicana for some of the time. I’ll send you a list of the other names if you like.’
‘Don’t bother. Thanks, Roger.’
‘Not working for Marjorie Legge, are you?’
‘No, why?’
‘Monty was honeymooning without her.’
That was intriguing, but I was more interested in the clear focus I was getting on Kent Hayward. I enlisted Lean’s help and took a closer look at Hayward professionally and personally. He was manager in the section of the computer operation that despatched and made up accounts and upgraded the data base as required.
‘Box seat,’ Lean said.
‘What about for forging the cards?’
‘That too. He’d know the codes, the cut-outs, everything. Of course, he’d have to know some physics and electronics to make much of it.’
‘He does,’ I said. ‘I’ve followed him to the library and into bookshops. He’d rather read electronics textbooks than Wilbur Smith.’
‘I’m a Ludlum man myself,’ Lean said. ‘So what next? You going to collar him?’
‘There’s no direct proof. If he’s been careful all the way through he could show up clean.’
‘Yeah. I’ve been doing a little quiet snooping myself. Don’t worry, not on the ground. Through the computer-there’s something a bit funny about this fraud.’
‘Struck me they could’ve got away with a hell of a lot more if they’d wanted to,’ I said.
‘There’s that. But it looks as if all kinds of things have been tried out, all parts of the program.’
‘Don’t follow.’
‘Goods sent to addresses, goods returned and exchanged, items queried, lots of checking of the data base. You’d have thought they’d run the phony cards through the easiest channels but it hasn’t been like that at all. They’ve gone the tough route most times.’
‘As if they were checking that it all worked?’
‘That’s what it looks like. What d’you make of it?’
‘All I can think of is that something bigger is on the way. Thanks Kelvin, you’ve been a big help.’
‘As I say, put it in the report.’
They were the last words I ever heard from Kelvin Lean. A little later, after I’d done some more surveillance of Hayward without result, Marr telephoned to tell me that Lean had killed himself.
‘It was a great shock. He was a good man, or so we thought.’
‘Me too. Why?’
‘He left a note to say that he was afraid he had AIDS.’
‘Looked pretty healthy to me.’
‘Well, there it is. I suppose the autopsy will tell the story.’
‘How did he die?’
‘He used his shotgun. I believe. Now, d’you think this could have any bearing on your investigation?’
‘Don’t know. Do you?’
‘No fraudulent card use has been reported in the past week. What have you turned up so far?’
‘A suspect with no proof.’
‘Any connection with Lean?’
‘I’ll look into it.’
‘If there are no further losses… ‘
‘Sure, you’ll consider the case closed. Give me a few more days, Mr Marr.’
