I came back out on to the secondary road, and had gone less than a half-mile toward the highway when a man and his wife stopped and picked me up. They were from Marathon, and had spinning rods in the back seat. I told them the battery had gone dead in my car and I was going out to the highway to pick up a new one. They dropped me at the filling station and general store. I drank a can of beer and read the Sunday papers until the Key West-Miami bus came through. When I got off at the Greyhound terminal in Miami I ducked into a phone booth and called Justine Laray, a little anxiously because it was already after eight p.m. Call girls didn’t stay home all the time. But luck was with me. She was in.
“Where on earth have you been?” she asked. “I thought you were going to call me Friday.”
“I’ve been out of town,” I said. “But, look, do you want to take a little trip? I’ve got to go up to Palm Beach for a couple of days, and we just might get a chance to look into the gown situation around there.”
“I’d love to go, honey.”
“Pack an overnight bag, and I’ll pick you up as soon as I can get loose here. Where you live?”
She gave me her address.
“I’ll see you,” I said.
I took a cab over to Miami Beach to the apartment, and changed back into Chapman’s clothes. Next I removed all identification and the cards from his wallet, dropped them in the pocket of my jacket, and counted the money in it. Nearly all the checks were cashed now, and even with the way I’d been throwing it around it came to a little over three thousand, four hundred dollars, mostly in twenties and fifties with four or five hundreds scattered through it. It made an impressive-looking roll, and the wallet would scarcely bend any more. I shoved it in my pocket, and then made a bundle of the fishing clothes and the cap, making sure my own wallet was still in the trousers.
I called Justine again.
“Look, sex-pot, I’m still tied up in this deal, over in Miami Beach. But I’d tell you what. I thought we’d stay in Hollywood tonight at that motel where I’ve been, and go on up to Palm Beach tomorrow. So why don’t you run on up to Hollywood? I’d just go on out the beach and cut across.”
“But how am I going to get there? And where do I meet you?”
“Hell, take a cab. I’d pay for it. There’s a bar—the Cameo Lounge. Meet me there at, say, ten-fifteen.”
I locked the apartment and walked over to where I’d left the Cadillac that morning. I put the fishing clothes in the trunk, along with my canvas shoes and a flashlight. Going up to a drugstore in the next block, I got a handful of change, went to the phone booth, and put in a call to Robin Wingard’s home address in Thomaston. He was in.
“Oh, hello, Mr. Chapman,” he replied. “How are you? And did Miss Blaine tell you—”
“You mean the FCC citation?” I interrupted. “Yeah. I told her to authorize you to get anything you needed to take care of it. But I’m calling about something else.”
“Yes, sir?”
I lowered my voice a little. “Listen. This is strictly between the two of us; don’t even mention it to Miss Blaine. I don’t want to worry her. Is Mrs. Forsyth there in town?”
“Why, yes. I saw her on the street just this afternoon.”
”Has she been around the station, or the studio?”
“Why, no-o. She hasn’t been to either one.”
“But you are positive she’s in town?”
“Oh, yes. Unless she left tonight. But why?”
“I can’t go into it now,” I said. “But here’s what I want you to do. Under no circumstances, is she to get into the station, or the studio. If she tries to force her way in, or sneak in, call the police. If necessary, hire Pinkertons.”
“But—I don’t understand.”
“I can’t explain now. But I’ll be there by Tuesday afternoon, and in the meantime don’t let her get past you. G’bye.”
I drove to Hollywood, found a place to park near the Cameo shortly before ten-fifteen, and waited. Justine arrived in a taxi about ten minutes later, and went inside. I lit a cigarette and remained where I was for another forty minutes, watching the doorway to be sure she didn’t leave. She’d have had two or three drinks by now, and she’d be smoldering.
I went in. It was very dimly lighted, a small place with a precious aspect about it and a Hammond organ that fortunately wasn’t being played at the moment. There were six or eight customers. She was at a small table about halfway back, grimly watching the door. She had a new permanent, and was wearing a dark blue dress and white mesh gloves, and the overnight case was on the floor beside her.
“Well! You finally got here,” she said, as I sat down. “I was just about to go back.”
“Sorry I was late, cutie,” I said. “Couldn’t get away.”
The casual manner and the “cutie” didn’t improve her feelings any, but she was trying to get them under control. It would be poor policy to blast the goose just as it was about to produce the golden egg.
”It’s all right,” she said with an effort.
“Well, I wound up the deal.” I stuck a cigarette in the holder and lit it. “I guess our trip’s off, baby.”
“What?”
“Yeah. I can start home in the morning—”
“Well! Of all the stupid—!” The black eyes were venomous. “After I spend a fortune in cab fare, and sit here like a mope for an hour and a half waitin’ for you to decide to show up—”
The bartender and several customers turned and stared.
“Hey,” I said soothingly, “take it easy, Marian.”
She slammed her drink down. “And will you, for Chrissakes, stop calling me Marian! I’m sick of it!”
“All right, all right, I’m sorry, honey—” I looked around uncomfortably. “I didn’t mean it. Let’s have a drink.”
I motioned for the bartender, who hadn’t missed a word of it, and ordered two Martinis. It took several minutes to cool her off. “We had another pair of drinks, and decided to go somewhere else. I could see her eye the car appraisingly, though she said nothing. We drove over to the beach to another bar. I was acting a little drunk now, and tried to paw her in the parking lot. She shoved me away.
“Le’s ginna back,” I said.
“Oh, shut up!”
We went inside and had two more drinks. I noticed she was leaving most of hers now.
“Why don’t we go on to the motel?” she asked. “We can have some drinks there.”
I bought a bottle of Scotch from the bartender. He didn’t want to sell it to me but I persuaded him with an extra five dollars. We drove to the motel. It was after midnight now, and most of the units were dark. I turned the car and backed it into the carport between the units. I was staggering a little, and as I was fumbling the door open I dropped her bag. It clattered on the step.
“Be careful!” she said angrily.
Inside, I switched on a light, put the Scotch and the bag on the dresser, and started to paw her again. “Wait a minute, can’t you?” she snapped. She slipped off the dress and put it on a hanger in the closet, and took off her shoes. They were blue, with very high heels. I broke the seal on the bottle, and poured two water tumblers half-full.
“Live it up, kid,” I said, handing her one.
“I’m goin’ to put a little water in mine,” she said, and went into the bathroom. She closed the door. I quietly unsnapped the overnight case and opened it. She had other shoes, all right. I grabbed out a pair of her nylons, and a pair of pants, shoved them under the mattress on the bed, and closed the bag. When she came out I could tell by the color of her drink she’d poured most of it out before she added the water.