"Hey, Mr. Ralston," Al shouted. "You can't do this."
"A lady with a lamp shall stand in the great history of the land," said Mr. Ralston.
"He's drunk as a lord," Al said to me. "I guess this is one of the nights I put him to bed."
"You'll have to tell your friends to get out of there," he said to Mr. Ralston.
"They are my guests," Mr. Ralston shouted severely. "They expressed a wish to go swimming, and naturally I indulged them."
"Get the hell out of there!" Al roared across the water. "I'll give you ten seconds and then I call the Shore Patrol."
The threat worked. The three sailors scrambled out of the pool and began to put on their clothes. Mr. Ralston came toward us, swinging the beam of the flashlight like a long luminous rod.
"You're not being very genial, Mr. Sablacan," he said in a disappointed tone. "Boys will be boys, you know. In fact, boys will be boys will be boys."
"You're no boy, Mr. Ralston. And it's time for you to be in bed."
"He's O.K.," said one of the sailors, a dark boy with a pleasant smile. "He said it was all right for us to come in here. We sort of got the idea that it was his private pool."
Mr. Ralston made a diversion. "Indeed I am O.K.," he said. "I am in superb physical shape." He beat with a thin fist on his withered chest, which was sparsely covered with grey hairs. "What is more, I take it to be one of my perquisites to use this pool whenever I choose. My friends also."
The sailors had slipped away in the darkness. "Goodnight, Mr. Ralston," they called from the gate, and went out through the lobby. I helped Al to persuade Mr. Ralston to retire to his bungalow. We left him at the door and went to bed.
It was very early — scarcely dawn — when we were awakened by a knock at the door. Al rolled over and said sleepily, "Who is it?"
"It's Louie again, sorry Mr. Sablacan. We caught one of those sailors trying to get into the pueblo, and he says he wants to talk to you."
"O.K., O.K." Al rolled out of bed. "Hold him till I get there."
The dark young sailor was sitting in the lobby looking sheepish, with two bellhops standing over him.
"Where did you catch him?" Al said.
"He was trying to sneak through the lobby to the pueblo."
"My God!" Al yapped, his face bright red. "Don't tell me you were trying to go for another swim."
"I lost my I.D. card last night," the sailor said meekly. "I can't get back to the ship without it."
"How do I know that's true? We've had plenty of thieves around here."
"Mr. Ralston will vouch for me. I know his son."
"Mr. Ralston hasn't got a son."
"His stepson, I mean. Johnny Swain. We're on the same ship."
"We're not going to bother Mr. Ralston at this hour of the morning, but I'll give you one chance. We'll go and look for your I.D. card—"
"I think I must have dropped it when I took off my clothes."
It was there all right, lying in the grass beside the pool. James Denton, Seaman First Class, with his picture on it, looking sick.
"I should turn it in to the Shore Patrol and let you explain how you lost it," Al said.
"But you're not going to do that?"
"But I'm not going to do that. Just don't let me catch you taking advantage of Mr. Ralston, see?"
"I wouldn't take advantage of him," James Denton said. "He's a swell guy."
I had wandered to the edge of the pool and stood looking at the water, chlorine-green and smooth in the windless morning as polished agate. In the deepest corner I caught sight of something which shouldn't have been there. It was the pale body of a little old man, curled and still in his quiet corner like a foetus in alcohol.
James Denton had another swim after all. When he brought Mr. Ralston out of the pool, Mr. Ralston's temperature was that of the water.
"I guess this is partly my fault," James Denton said miserably. "We wouldn't let him come in last night, but I guess he came back after we left. He was a swell guy.
"Jeez, that chlorine gets the eyes," he said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. But he was very young, and I suspected that he was crying.
"Could Mr. Ralston swim?" I said to Al.
"I don't know, I never saw him swim. This is a terrible thing, Joe. So far as I know nobody ever drowned in this pool before."
He looked at Mr. Ralston and looked away. Mr. Ralston, with his blue face and red striped trunks, looked very small and weirdly pathetic on the grass. Al covered his face with a handkerchief.
"Well," he said, "I guess I better call Mr. Whittaker and the cops. Mr. Whittaker won't like this."
Mr. Whittaker, who owned the Valeria Pueblo, didn't like it. He was a small, spry, sharp-faced man with grey hair receding from hollow veined temples and hands that were never still. In his left cheek a tic jerked continually with an almost audible click. Whenever his cheek jerked Mr. Whittaker smiled to hide it, thus giving the impression of a rodent who periodically snarled.
He arrived simultaneously with the police and fox-trotted about in the grass, frequently snarling. "A most unfortunate accident," Mr. Whittaker said. "Clearly a most unfortunate accident. I trust the whole thing will be handled with a minimum of adverse publicity."
"It happens to all of us," the police lieutenant said. "I'd just as well bump this way as any other way."
James Denton and Al told the story of the swimming party while Mr. Whittaker rubbed his hands together in neurotic glee.
"Clearly a most unfortunate accident," Mr. Whittaker said.
"Looks as if you're right," the police lieutenant said. "But we'll have to take the body for autopsy."
Mr. Ralston was taken away in a grey blanket.
"Well, I guess that's that," Mr. Whittaker said frantically. "We've done all we can do."
"Who gets his money?" I said to Al.
"Mrs. Ralston does," said Mr. Whittaker. "Mrs. Ralston is practically the sole beneficiary. Poor woman."
"Who else profits by it?" I said.
"His brother Alexander, who is also a resident of Los Angeles, and his stepson John Swain. But only small bequests."
"How much?"
"Ten thousand each. His wife's nurse, Jane Lennon, was to get a very small bequest, five hundred dollars, I believe."
"How do you know?"
The last question had gone too far, and Mr. Whittaker came to. "Just who are you, my man?"
"The name is Rogers. I'm a detective."
"Excuse me, Mr. Rogers," Mr. Whittaker snarled ingratiatingly. "I'm a bit on edge this morning. Mr. Ralston was a very dear friend of mine."
"Don't apologize to me. I'm only a private detective, and I have nothing to do with this case. Unless, of course, the hotel wants to hire me to investigate it."
"I don't see that it requires investigation. It's clearly — "
"How much money did Mr. Ralston leave?"
"A great deal," Mr. Whittaker said reverently. "Well over a million."
"The accidental death of a millionaire always requires investigation," I said. "I work quietly. For twenty dollars a day." I was interested in the case and perfectly willing to make a little money out of my interest if I could.
"He's hot stuff, Mr. Whittaker," Al said. "Joe and I used to work together. He's cheap at the price."
"Naturally money is no object." Mr. Whittaker polished his nails on the front of his Harris tweed jacket, examined them, polished them again. "No object whatever. Very well, Rogers. See what you can find out."
"Twenty dollars a day in advance," I said.