Stan laid the typed sheet back on Blunt’s desk and said: “At least that’s given me an idea. I’ll see you later. I’m taking a walk uptown.”
As he walked up Lemon Street heading for the office of the Carnes Insurance Agency, he thought he saw the Hotel Palatka’s newly arrived guest, Charles Wentworth, leave the Carnes office. Stan was still nearly a block away — too far to be positive whether he left Carnes’ or the drugstore next door. He slowed down and waited until Wentworth climbed into his red sedan and drove away.
A few minutes later Stan stepped inside the Carnes office and was greeted by Lois Gilbert’s friendly smile.
“Ah!” she said gaily. “The master of the third degree.” Her gray eyes were clear, and she looked fresh and untired despite her late hours of the night before.
“I need more time for that,” Stan said lightly, “and a less conspicuous place. Right now I have crate factory insurance on my mind. I’d like to know how much you carried.” He paused, watching her carefully. “I’d also like to know how much life insurance, if any, your firm carried on Wallace Trimmer.”
“The crate factory’s easy.” Lois frowned. “I’ll have to check about Trimmer.” She walked to a file in the corner. While she was searching through one of the drawers, Stan asked casually:
“You investigate applicants for life insurance, don’t you?”
Lois nodded.
“Do you have a report on Wallace Trimmer?”
“I don’t need one,” she said promptly. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything which might help to tell why he was killed.”
“Most of what I know is gossip.” Lois took papers from the file and returned to her desk. “You know how things are in a small town. There was talk about Wallace and a woman in St. Augustine — a divorcée. There’ve been rumors that Wallace caused the divorce.”
“So?”
“I can tell you something which isn’t generally known.” Lois lowered her voice. “Trimmer met her through Phil Cox. Phil and Trimmer both played on the Palatka Baseball team. Phil introduced her to Wallace one day after a game. Apparently Trimmer won out.”
“You mean Cox had run around with her before she met Trimmer?”
“That’s merely talk, Stan.”
“There’s usually enough truth in gossip to make it dangerous. Lois. Jealousy’s an old motive, but it’s still good.”
“Oh!” Lois’ eyes widened. “I hope I didn’t—”
“Throw suspicion on Phil Cox,” Stan supplied. “Well, you didn’t. Forget it, Lois. Those things are bound to be found out. What’s this woman’s name?”
“Helen Daniels,” she said after a short hesitation. She handed him two of the papers before her. “Here are the insurance figures on the crate factory.”
Stan gave them a brief survey and put them down. “And Trimmer?”
“He had twenty-five hundred dollars, twenty pay life, payable to a sister in New York. His application says that’s all he carried.”
“Thanks.” Stan started to go, turned and said, “Did a Charles Wentworth just leave here?”
“Wentworth?” Lois looked puzzled. “No. No one by that name was in here. Why?”
Stan shook his head. “Nothing. I heard there was an insurance investigator in town. I thought it might have been Wentworth.” He picked a pencil from the desk and twirled it in his fingers. “I was just about to risk getting shot myself.”
“What do you mean?” she asked whitening.
“I was about to ask Jupe Carnes’ fiancée to dance with me tonight at the River Inn.”
Color crept back into her face. “Mr. Carnes’ fiancée likes men who take risks, Mr. Rice. She might accept.”
“About nine-thirty?”
“Splendid.” Lois gave him her hand. “You’re headed for St. Augustine now, I suppose?”
“You’re a brilliant young lady,” Stan told her smilingly. “I’ll see you tonight.”
When the Buick rolled out of town half an hour later it was headed in the opposite direction from St. Augustine to a small store which Stan knew on the Peniel road. St. Augustine and Trimmer’s divorcée could wait. Stan wanted more accurate information about the man who had met sudden death the night before.
If anyone knew of any flaws in Trimmer’s past life it was Dad Fletcher, proprietor of Fletcher’s General Store. Dad spent most of his leisure time, which was plentiful, gathering choice tid-bits about customers and salesmen. He was never averse to passing them on, sometimes embellished beyond recognition.
Flat Florida country slipped by on both sides of the road. Tall turpentine-scarred pine trees grew thicker and vanished abruptly, giving way to a monotonous stretch of palmettos. A covey of quail scurried haughtily across the road and Stan sighed. His date with Buck Anders to visit good bird territory seemed dismally far away...
Half an hour later he was heading back to Palatka more puzzled than ever. His talk with Dad Fletcher had been productive, but not in the way Stan expected. It just didn’t make sense. Dad was emphatic in saying that Wallace Trimmer hadn’t an enemy in the world. The old man knew all the talk about Helen Daniels, and vigorously discounted the whole affair.
“Wally Trimmer never caused no divorce to no one,” Dad told Stan. “That woman and Wally was engaged decent as you please and she’s the finest as comes, same as him! You kin hunt your head off’n you, Stan,” he finished. “You ain’t never goin’ to find no one who wanted to shoot that boy!”
The words kept running drearily through Stan’s mind: “You ain’t never goin’ to find no one who wanted to shoot that boy!” By the time he was back in Palatka, he had decided that Dad Fletcher was right.
He stopped for a moment at the hotel. One of his telegrams had been answered. He whistled softly between his teeth as he read the reply. Phil Cox had spent five years in San Quentin. “They never quite lose the effects!” Stan muttered to himself. “I wonder where we go from here?”
He climbed into the Buick again and started over the long bridge to East Palatka to have a look at the River Inn.
The huge square one-story building was deserted, and proved to be an inn in name only. Stan crossed a wide dance floor, passed by a few scattered tables and a nickel-eating phonograph, and found himself in a small well stocked bar.
A tall, pasty-faced man in a white jacket walked down in back of the bar and stood before him. A long dank wisp of black hair was brushed down over one side of his head covering what Stan judged to be a cauliflower ear.
“Scotch,” said Stan, “and a little soda — very little soda!”
The bartender picked a bottle from under the counter and filled the order.
“Join me?” Stan asked.
“Why not?” said the man. His voice was gruff and harsh, alien to the musical drawl of the native Floridian. He downed his free drink in a single gulp, then started to move down the bar. It didn’t fit in at all with Stan’s plans.
Stan ordered another and said, “You have a pretty big place here. You must get plenty of crowds to fill such a hall.”
“Fair,” the bartender grunted.
“Dancing every night?”
“Tuesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. Why?”
Stan grinned. “I’m in Palatka for a week or so, and I thought I’d like to know.”
The bartender put an elbow on the bar and looked at Stan out of deep, opaque eyes, but said nothing.
“How were things last night?” Stan sipped his drink.
“Same as any other night.”
“I suppose there was a pretty big crowd.”
“Do you?” said the bartender. “Well, there wasn’t!”
“A couple of friends of mine were here,” Stan remarked casually. “Maybe you know them — Lois Gilbert and Jupe Carnes.”