Three days ago I had checked into the Everglades Hotel on Florida’s west coast for a week of rest and recreation, which meant sleeping until noon. Ordinarily I am not a slugabed, but I had just finished a long and complicated trial, working around the clock, in court during the day and studying transcripts at night.
So I bitterly resented the intrusion. Prying open a grainy eye, I gave the man a hard look. Almost any sight on God’s green footstool would be more pleasing than Faber’s kisser first thing in the morning. It was pale and meaty, dominated by a heavy nose, and well matched to the short barrel-shaped body he invariably kept garbed in the latest most fashionable resort style. Acquiring a passkey had been no problem for Maury Faber. He was president and managing director of the joint.
“What the hell, Maury!” I said.
“Up.” His voice was harshly urgent. “Get dressed, Jordan. I need you.”
“It’s unilateral. I don’t need you, not at this hour.”
“It’s an emergency. A crisis. Please.”
“I’m a lawyer, not a doctor.”
“It’s too late for doctors.”
“Then call an undertaker. Damn it, Maury, I’m on vacation. Go away.” I closed my eyes and rolled over.
He yanked the blanket away and dropped it on the floor. “You’re a lawyer and right now that’s what I need, Jordan — a lawyer. It’s your job to help people in trouble, isn’t it?”
“Why me?” I asked, my voice muffled against the pillow. “I’m not even admitted to the bar in this state. You’ve got a whole battery of lawyers down here.”
“They know real estate, period. Conveyances, leases, mortgages. What do they know about homicide? Besides, the dead man is a friend of yours.”
“Who?”
“Gifford — Sam Gifford.”
I sat up, suddenly wide-awake. “What? What did you say?”
“I said Sam Gifford is dead.”
“Oh, my God! How?”
“Shot.”
“Where?”
“Through the heart.”
“I mean where did it happen?”
The question wrung an agonized groan from Faber. “In my wife’s cabana,” he said, and added hastily, “but that’s not where he got it. He was shelved elsewhere and brought there.”
I looked at him narrowly. “How do you know?”
“No blood in the cabana. Not a drop.” Despite the air conditioning Faber’s pores were exuding moisture. It glistened on his forehead and ran down his cheeks.
“How come you don’t move him the hell out of there?”
“It’s too late.” He groaned again. “The chambermaid who found him started yelling and before we could do anything somebody called the law.”
“All right, Maury. You don’t miss much around here. I want the truth. Was your wife fooling around with Gifford?”
“Don’t say that.” His voice was up a full octave. “Don’t even think it. Carmen doesn’t fool around with the guests. Or anybody,” he added hopefully. “She hardly knew the man.” He pressed his palms together in a gesture of supplication. “Jordan, please. A favor. Name your own fee. Anything. I don’t care how much. The corporation will pay.”
One vacation shot to hell. I sighed and slid out of bed. “Okay. Let’s see what’s cooking.”
He scuttled to the door and blocked my path. “Put some clothes on, for God’s sake.”
Which indicates the state of mind I was in.
Lieutenant George Ritchie was a leathery character, a native Floridian, a spare, tight-lipped man with a flinty face hermetically sealed against any show of emotion. He had commandeered the manager’s office and he showed himself briefly at the door, ordering one of his troopers to keep us outside until he finished interrogating Maury’s wife.
It must have been a painful ordeal. Ultimately she emerged, pale and shaken. She threw us a helpless look and was quickly hustled away. Carmen Faber was a decorative item, with clothes by Givenchy and face by Max Factor. Exactly what you’d expect Maury to latch onto after his first wife yielded the ghost.
Ritchie glanced indifferently at my card. “New York lawyer,” he said, sizing me up, then transferring his gaze to Faber. “You think you need a mouthpiece, Maury?”
“For advice, yes. I’m worried about the hotel. This is not exactly my idea of good publicity. Mr. Jordan happens to be here on vacation. He once did some work for me up north, so I asked him to sit in. Besides, he knew the victim.”
“Ah. Well, we’ll come to that in a moment. So you’re worried about the hotel. Not your wife?”
“What’s to worry, Lieutenant? She’s clean.”
“The body was found in her cabana.”
“Found maybe, but not killed there.”
Ritchie had obviously reached the same conclusion. “How well did she know this Gifford?”
“Hardly at all. He’d only been here a few days.”
“I understand she had a few drinks with him.”
“She enjoys mingling with the guests, makes them feel at home.”
Ritchie shifted to me. “All right, Counselor. Would you care to brief me on the victim?”
I was going to do it whether I cared to or not. I said, “Samuel P. Gifford. Professional money raiser. He coaxes contributions out of prospective donors for political campaigns. He could charm the wallet away from the most confirmed miser.”
“Was he down here on vacation or business?”
“I don’t know, Lieutenant. He asked to sit at my table and we exchanged only small talk.”
“Any family you know of?”
“No.”
“So who do we notify?”
“Try the Republican State Committee in New York,” I said.
“How well did you know him?”
“I handled his divorce two years ago.”
Ritchie nodded. “Wait here for me, Counselor.” He headed for the door, beckoning to Faber. “Get me the key to Gifford’s room. We’ll have a look at that right now.”
They marched out, leaving me alone. I sat behind the manager’s desk and reached for the phone. I dialed the operator and got through to Mike Ryan at campaign headquarters for the reelection of Theodore Hoke Prentice to the United States Senate. Ryan was the senator’s campaign manager. We exchanged amenities to background noises of ringing telephones and the busy chatter of many voices.
“You sound far away, Counselor,” Ryan said. “Where are you calling from?”
“Florida.”
“I guess I’m in the wrong business. Anything special on your mind?”
“Sam Gifford. Is he working for you at the moment?”
“He sure is. Matter of fact, he’s in Florida right now.”
“You can scratch him off the payroll.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“He’s dead.”
Silence. Static on the line for a few moments. I could picture Ryan’s shocked face. When he finally got wired for sound he asked for details. I gave him what I had, admittedly not much. He thought about it, then reached a decision, sounding subdued. “Would you look into it for us, Jordan?”
“I may not have enough time,” I said. “I’m due back in New York at the end of the week.”
“Then give it a few days. Please. We owe Gifford that much at least. And send your bill to the committee. I’m sure the senator will concur and he’d be most grateful.”
I didn’t mind having a U.S. senator in my debt, although in this instance I differed in almost every conceivable respect from any position Theodore Hoke Prentice had ever taken. He was a flag-waving reactionary, espousing tough law enforcement and weak labor unions. I already had a client, but there didn’t seem to be any conflict of interest, so I agreed.
“I’ll need some information, Mike.”
“Shoot.”
“Was Gifford down here on business?”
“Yes. He was trying to contact old Amos Rhodes. Does the name ring a bell?”