“It’s about choices, pal,” he said as he got in. “Every time you make one, you close a door and narrow your odds.”
CHAPTER 25
The Chevy was parked by the docks where we had left it. I drove around to the diner but Ski was nowhere to be seen, so I cruised down to the Pacific National.
Marsha Whittaker was a pleasant woman in her early thirties, her blond hair cut in a short bob that emphasized a round face and wide hazel eyes. She was dressed in a pale green sleeveless pinafore. I showed her my badge and mentioned that Mr. Gorman had probably told her about me.
“Oh yes,” she said. “You’re the gentleman interested in the cashier’s checks.”
“Yes, the ones made out to Verna Hicks.”
“Well,” she said, “I really can’t tell you much. My predecessor, Miss Hamilton, died two years ago. I only remember three of them. One was March of this year and the other two were last year.”
“Do you remember who purchased them?”
“I remember two of them. They were both purchased by young women. Very nicely dressed for San Pietro, that’s how come I remember them. The first one, that would have been March 1940, was very pretty. She was wearing a two-piece suit. Light-colored, I think. Maybe beige. She came in, handed me an envelope, and said ‘Will you please take care of this.’ There were five one-hundred-dollar bills and a note to make the check out to Verna Hicks. After I made it out, she put it in a business envelope that was already stamped and addressed, said ‘Thanks,’ and left.”
“Anything else you can remember?”
She hesitated for a minute, fell into deep thought again, then said, “No, I’m sorry.”
“That’s very good,” I said.
“Well, you know, she was… different.”
“How about the other one?”
“I remember her a little better, that was only a couple of months ago. She was small like the other girl but very… uh…”
“Voluptuous?” I tried.
“Thank you,” she said, blushing again. “I think she was probably staying at the Breakers.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She just looked like a tourist, the way she dressed and all, had a very heavy tan so I figured she’d probably been down on the beach. She was very friendly, you know, she smiled the whole time, but she didn’t say anything but ‘Please’ when she handed me the envelope and ‘Thanks’ when I was finished. Oh, and she was wearing sunglasses… and she did have a kind of accent, a foreign accent it sounded like. But she didn’t say enough to really tell. And the sunglasses she was wearing had white frames with little red hearts where the earpieces connect to the glasses. And she was wearing mascara. She really didn’t need mascara, she was quite striking. She did the same thing as the other girl. Gave me the envelope and after I made out the check she put it in an addressed envelope. She walked very straight, like a model.”
“Did you ever see either of them again?”
She shook her head. “Sorry I can’t be more helpful.”
“You’ve been a great deal of help. Thank you very much, Miss Whittaker.”
“Welcome,” she said, and I got up and left.
A Mrs. Higarty at the little Scotsman’s bank added a new dimension. She remembered that one of the checks had been purchased by an Oriental gentleman in workman’s clothes, who had presented her with five hundred dollars and a note to make the check out to Verna Hicks. He had simply nodded when she gave it to him. He, too, had a self-addressed envelope into which he deposited the check as he left. Her office was near the front of the bank and he walked away toward the post office.
I decided it was time to head up the Hill.
I drove around North End Park and past the guard at the entrance to the Hill, hoping he would be on a break, but no such luck. I could see his silhouette through the guardhouse window. There was no way I was going to get by him so I drove to the end of the street, took a left down a tree-lined avenue, and did a double-back to see if I was being followed. The street was empty. I drove around the curvy road until I reached the bottom of Cliffside Road. I sat there for a full five minutes trying to erase that trip down the steep, crumbling road from my mind. Then I got out, moved the sawhorse out of the way, pulled into the road, and put the sawhorse back.
I stayed in first gear and crept up the narrow strip. Rocks and dirt spat from under my rear wheels. I didn’t look sideways at the beautiful view or left to the sheer wall a foot away; my gaze was frozen on the piddling excuse for a road. As I swung slowly around a curve, I saw, maybe ten feet ahead of me, a washout. An eroded arc in the road the size of half a hubcap faced me. I stopped and stared at it, hoping for a miracle. Hoping it would go away. I decided to chance it. There was no way I was going to back down to the bottom of the cliff.
I was two feet from the bite out of the road when I stopped the second time. I set the hand brake and leaned out, judging that the road at that point was a foot narrower. If I hugged the cliff it gave me a one-foot clearance. I released the brake and crawled up to the hole. As I started past it, I felt the car tremble. As the back wheels passed the defective spot, the car began to lurch. My mouth went dry. My throat closed. I turned the wheel inward and stepped on the gas.
The Chevy jumped ahead. Another chunk of the road fell away and dropped down to the ocean. The car sideswiped the cliff with a grinding squeal. I fought it under control and slowed down until I was barely moving. Sweat streaked down my cheeks. I gentled the gas pedal and went on. The car kept spitting debris, occasionally fishtailing slightly. I got to the top without further incident.
I moved the sawhorse, drove through, and put it back. I needed a cigarette. I drove up the road until I could see the gate to Grand View, stopped, and rolled one. My heart was still doing triple time. I counted to twenty as slowly as I could and brought my pulse closer to normal. I finished one butt, rolled another, and as I finished it a grocery truck pulled up to the gate. The driver got out and swung one half of the gate open and drove through. He left it open, so I cranked up and followed him, drove down the long driveway, and pulled around into the parking lot south of the big house.
I checked the car. The side of Louie’s cream puff was going to need some work and the car would need a new paint job.
The wind coming up from the sea rattled the high hedge that bordered the side facing the cliffs. I walked down to the house. On the south side was another hedge, which hid a side door.
Nobody took a shot at me so I went to the front door and rang the bell. Somewhere inside I heard chimes playing the opening bars of “Anything Goes.” I waited and rang again. Nothing.
I stepped back from the door and checked the house. There were no sounds of life. The place was like a sleeping cat. Then the silence was broken by a girl giggling on the north side of the place. I followed the laughter around the corner. A row of rose bushes flanked the north side of the house, the grass was manicured, several palm trees provided pools of shade. On the back side of the house, at the bottom of a low terrace, was an Olympic-size pool with several cabanas on the far side. Tables with gaily colored umbrellas were scattered here and there, and striped canvas beach chairs were lined up facing the sun.
Two of them were occupied.
I strolled down toward them. Two women were sunning themselves on the beach chairs by the pool, whispering to each other and snickering like high-school girls. One was tallish, with a pouty mouth, deep-set eyes, and auburn hair that matched her tan. She was wearing a pair of dark blue cotton shorts. Nothing else. The other one, shorter, slimmer, with perfect breasts, a mischievous grin, and jet-black hair, was wearing a nice tan, period.
The naked girl, who looked to be around nineteen or twenty, spotted me first. She sat up, crossed her legs Indian-style, and flashed a genuine smile. The other one’s grin seemed more mechanical. Neither of them bothered to cover up.
“Aren’t you cute,” Naked One said without losing the smile. “Are you my five o’clock? If you are, you’re
