“Negative.”
“That’s understandable. Rhodes is a queer old duffer, sort of a recluse, been out of circulation for years. Made this pile on Wall Street, selling short before the crash of ’29 and then riding it up during the long bull market of the fifties and sixties. After that he retired. Divides his time now between Florida and a place down in Mexico — wait a minute, I have it on a piece of paper — town called San Miguel Allende.
“Just before the election four years ago he sent Prentice a letter praising the senator’s voting record. We turned it over to Gifford, thinking Rhodes might be good for a contribution. The letter was postmarked Palm City, Florida. Gifford flew down there, got an interview with Rhodes, put the bite on him, and what do you know, the old man coughed up twenty-five grand. That’s a lot of beans, Counselor.
“So now with the senator up for reelection, we thought Rhodes might shell out again. But he failed to answer our letters and Gifford decided to fly down last week and see him personally. You know the score, Jordan. Advertising and TV spots skyrocketing in cost, we need all the financial help we can get.”
“Any luck?”
“So far Gifford hadn’t notified us. But our boy was a bulldog. He didn’t discourage easily and whatever the difficulty he’d be hanging in there making his pitch until the subject came across or dropped dead from a heart attack.”
“Just for the record, did Gifford have any enemies?”
Ryan hesitated. “Not down there certainly, but Sam was a notorious chaser, as you probably know, which could mean husband trouble.”
“How about Rhodes? Does he have a wife?”
Ryan chuckled. “Amos Rhodes is well over eighty, and a bachelor. Look, Jordan, can you soft-pedal this thing where the senator is concerned?”
I was silent. Theodore Hoke Prentice was no favorite of mine. After a moment I said, “This is not my bailiwick. I carry no clout down here. If it doesn’t come up, I won’t mention it.” And on that note we hung up.
In the morgue of the local newspaper I found only one item on Amos Rhodes, written six years ago. Some enterprising lensman had managed a quick shot of him through the window of a limousine. The caption stated that he had arrived on his annual hegira to the isolated estate 14 miles inland. Even then he was a parched and rheumy-eyed antique with patches of flour-white hair clinging to a pale and bony skull.
Anyone who can dash off a check for $25,000 probably had local bank connections. Maury Faber arranged a meeting for me with an official of the First Florida Trust, housed in a small limestone structure, pseudo-Moorish in style. I have found that bankers generally disgorge information with all the abandon of a slot machine, but the Everglades Hotel was First Florida Trust’s largest depositor and Mr. Briscoe anxiously wished to retain Maury Faber’s good will; so he agreed to cooperate so long as he did not have to breach conventional ethics. A thin seamed man with a lidless stare, he conceded that Amos Rhodes did have an account at the bank.
“Have you ever met him personally?” I asked.
“Once. When he opened the account ten years ago.”
“And he’s made regular deposits since that time?”
“Yes, on a monthly basis whenever he’s in Florida — until quite recently, that is.”
“But not in person, I take it.”
“No, sir. Sometimes by mail, and sometimes his housekeeper, Mrs. Alma Hull, would drive into Palm City to shop, make a deposit, and cash one of his checks. But the account has been rather dormant lately and I suspect Mr. Rhodes must have made other arrangements.”
“What is the current source of his income? Dividends, bond interest?”
A look of intense pain crossed Briscoe’s face as he shook his head. “Mr. Jordan, I shouldn’t be saying this, but it’s my impression Mr. Rhodes has become senile. He seems to have liquidated all his holdings and used the cash to buy himself a straight life annuity with an insurance company. I’m sure you know what that means.”
I nodded. “The investor turns his money over to the company in exchange for a guaranteed lifetime income. If he’s old enough he gets the highest possible income, and when he dies that finishes it. No refund, no estate, nothing. The insurance company keeps the rest of the investment.”
It turned Briscoe livid. “Asinine,” he said, resentment shading into outrage. “Utter fiscal imbecility. He must have developed hardening of the brain.”
I knew what ailed the man. How could banks lend money at a profit if depositors placed their funds elsewhere? “Did you make inquiries?”
“Yes. I was curious about it. A man sharp enough to make all that money in the first place had to have some sense. Well, sir, we do some business with the insurance company and my contact there told me that Mr. Rhodes is afflicted with a certain phobia. He dies a little every time he has to pay taxes. That’s a fairly common disorder, except Rhodes, had it to the point of monomania. In his bracket he considered the government bite confiscatory. He was positively paranoic about it. So he turned to an annuity.”
I mulled it over. To an eccentric like Rhodes it probably made sense. At his advanced age he might get fourteen percent on his investment. And since the Internal Revenue Service considered this income a partial return of capital, most of it would be tax deductible. And since Rhodes had no family or relatives, why leave an estate? He’d have a princely income for life all to himself. And he could squander it as he pleased, including making contributions to the campaign of Senator Theodore Hoke Prentice.
At my request Briscoe drew a road map of the area marked with arrows and instructions on how to reach the Rhodes retreat. The local Hertz office provided me with a rental car and I took off.
For seclusion the old man had picked an ideal spot. I had to drive inland along a canal, past pine and palmetto scrub. An occasional oak bearded with Spanish moss lined the neglected blacktop. There was almost no traffic in either direction. In the distance I spied a blue heron stalking the shallows.
I found the Rhodes place guarded by a stone wall with a wrought-iron gate. It was not locked, so I drove through. Hibiscus hedges concealed the lower half of a rambling structure. I pulled up under a porte-cochere alongside a shining new sports car.
As I climbed out of my rental a young man in a white T-shirt emerged from the front door and slouched down the steps to head me off. He was deeply bronzed and heavily muscled, with slate-colored eyes under a dark ridge of brow. “Something I can do for you?” he asked politely.
“I’d like to see Mr. Amos Rhodes.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
I shook my head and offered one of my cards. “I’ve come a long way and it’s important.”
He smiled apologetically. “Well, Mr. Jordan, if my vocal cords were up to it I’d be happy to give him your message.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”
“It’s simple. Mr. Rhodes returned to his villa in Mexico two days ago.”
“I see. Are you the caretaker here?”
“You might say that. My mother works for Mr. Rhodes and he allows me to stay at the place whenever he’s away.”
“Then your name must be Hull.”
“Correct. Burt Hull.”
“Perhaps you can help me. Have you been here during the past week?”
“I have.”
“Would you know if a man named Sam Gifford drove out to see Mr. Rhodes?”
He shook his head. “Not a chance. Mr. Rhodes doesn’t like visitors. He hasn’t permitted a stranger to see him in over a year.”
“How long will he be staying in Mexico?”
“Permanently. That’s a decision he made some time ago. He prefers the climate down there. As a matter of fact, he’s asked me to put this house on the market and I’ll be talking to real estate agents in the next few days.” Burt Hull kept smiling, arms folded across his chest.