“Of course, Mr. Chapman. But I just don’t see Warwick Petroleum. In a healthy market it might pay off as a speculation, though I’d prefer to see you in a sounder growth situation with better management. But right now the market’s going through a period of uncertainty and readjustment, and we ought to give some thought to safety. You’re in a very strong defensive position in everything except the Warwick, and I have to agree with Mrs. Forsyth—”
“Mrs. Forsyth’s not the only person who’s ever heard of the stock market,” I said irritably. “And since she’s walked out on me, I don’t see where she enters into it. But I’ll tell you what; I don’t believe in nursing losses any more than you do. Let’s get rid of it. Get seven-eighths if you can, and go as low as three-quarters if you have to.”
“Good.” He was pleased. “I think that’s wise. Mrs. Forsyth—”
“Goddammit, never mind Mrs. Forsyth!” I barked. Then I relented. “Sorry, Chris. What was it you started to say?”
“Oh—I was going to ask if you wanted to put the proceeds from the Warwick in some sound utility, just for the moment?”
“No,” I said. “Leave it in cash. As a matter of fact, while I’m over here I’m taking a good look at real estate. This place is booming—But never mind that. Just unload the Warwick. G’bye.”
I hung up, elated. It was perfect. Neither of them had suspected a thing, and I was already laying the groundwork.
I nipped through the paper to the classified section. Real estate. Here we were. Acreage. There were several big listings, some ocean front, and some highway frontage. I tore the section out, and looked at my watch. It was a little after one now. I dressed, closed the bags, put on the straw hat, and called the desk.
“Would you get my bill ready, please? And send a boy up to two-two-six for the bags.”
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. I was tired; dead tired. But the exhaustion merely made me look a little older. Marian had been right all the time. Chapman and I might not look anything alike actually, but within the limits of the average description we were indistinguishable.
Pretty big man. Above average size, anyway. Six feet, like that. 180, 190. Not old, not young. Thirties, I’d say. Brown hair. Dark, light, reddish? Well, uh, brown, you know. Blue eyes. Gray eyes. Green eyes.
Add the mustache, horn-rim glasses, cigarette holder. Add his car, his clothes, his identification. Add the personality traits. Throw in a week or ten days between observation and description. And finally throw in the fact that from beginning to end there was never any reason to doubt that Chapman was Chapman, and what did you have? Chapman.
But only if nobody had ever seen us both. That was vital.
I followed the boy with the luggage down to the desk. They were all different—porter, clerk, cashier. I’d noted them carefully last night while he was checking in.
I scrutinized all the items on the bill, and took out the traveler’s checks. “Would you cash an extra one for me?” I asked. “I need some change.”
“Yes, sir. We’d be glad to.”
I signed them, and as they lay on the desk I compared the signatures with the originals. Good. Very good. I put the change in the wallet, tossed the car keys to the porter, and said. “Gray Cadillac, Louisiana plates.” I stuck one of the filter cigarettes in the holder, lit it, and followed him. Chapman had come in here, and I had gone out. There was nothing to it.
He stowed the bags and the recorder and briefcase in the trunk. I gave him a dollar, and got in. The car was almost new, and was upholstered in pale blue leather. It was unbearably hot, and I hit the buttons to roll the windows down. I rummaged in the glove compartment for a Florida highway map, and found one, and also came up with a pair of clip-on sun-glasses. Fastening them on my frames, I looked at myself in the mirror. It was better all the time. I could be Chapman. Then I shuddered. Except that Chapman was lying on the bottom in six hundred feet of water, in the gloom and the everlasting silence, with his chest crushed by pressure. I shook it off.
I took out the classified real-estate ads I’d torn from the Herald, and checked some of the listings against the highway map. Several looked promising. One was a block of highway frontage on US 1 between Hollywood and North Miami, listed with the Fitzpatrick Realty Co. of Hollywood at an asking price of three hundred and seventy-five thousand.
I drove up and cruised around the town for about half an hour, looking it over. It appeared to be just about right. There were several motels of the type I was looking for, and it wasn’t too far from Miami. It was overflowing with real-estate outfits, of course, and I dropped in at three of them, introduced myself, and explained I was just looking over the local real-estate picture.
It was a little after two-thirty when I looked in on Fitzpatrick. He had a rather small place in a good location on one of the principal streets. Two salesmen and a girl were at work at desks out front. I bypassed the salesmen, gave the girl one of Chapman’s business cards, and said I’d like to talk to Fitzpatrick if he was in. She disappeared into the inner office. I slipped one of the cigarettes into the holder and was lighting it when she came back out and nodded.
He was a heavy-set and balding man in his fifties with the easy manner of a born salesman and a big nose crisscrossed with tiny purple veins. It was a nose that showed years of loving care, and I reflected that his liver probably looked like a hob-nailed boot. We shook hands. I sat down, unclipped the sun-glasses, and dropped them in my pocket. It wouldn’t do to have people remembering that I had worn them inside.
He leaned back in his chair, glanced at the card, and asked, “What line of business are you in, Mr. Chapman?”
“Oh, several,” I said. “Cotton gin, radio station, newspaper—Actually, I’m down here on vacation, for a little fishing. In the Keys, and maybe over at Bimini for a few days. It’s been about three years since I was in the Miami area, and I was just wondering what was happening in real-estate values.”
“I’d tell you,” he said, “but since you’re a businessman yourself you’d call me a liar.”
He then proceeded to tell me. He did a convincing job. In Florida real estate all the women were beautiful and all the men were brave, he believed it himself, and he possessed the lyricism of the Irish. Fortunes were made right under his nose every day. We decried a tax set-up under which is was impossible to make money and keep any of it except in capital gains or oil. He suggested we take a ride around and he’d show me a few of the listings they had. His car was just up the street in a parking lot. Why didn’t we take mine? I asked. It was parked out front.
“Nice cars, these Caddies,” he remarked, as we got in.
I clipped on the glasses. “I’m not much of a car fan. But, hell, when you can charge them off at least you got something out of the deal. What do you think of highway frontage along US 1 here? Has it priced itself out of the market yet?”
“Turn right,” he said, “and I’ll show you a block of it that’ll double in price in the next two years. Let me tell you what motel sites are bringing—per front foot—right now, within two miles of it—”
We drove out and looked at it. I asked a few questions about the taxes, total acreage, highway frontage, and how firm he thought the price was, but remained noncommittal. We stopped at a bar on the way back and had a drink. He wanted to know where I’d be staying the next few days, and I gave him the name of the motel in Marathon. Fitzpatrick was interested. He’d been in the business long enough to know when he smelled a sale.