Meyer Paff was a big, slow-moving man. Everything about him was big: his large round head surmounted by a tuft of blondish-gray hair, his fleshy nose, the square, chalky teeth, the big red hands with sausagelike fingers, the feet encased in badly turned shoes, as though the leather was not strong enough to contain them. When he spoke, it was in a deep bass burble, with the large red lips scarcely moving, so that the sound seemed to come not so much from the mouth as from the belly. Nevertheless, he felt ill at ease before the stare of the other man.
“Morehead said he called you—”
“I spoke to him on the phone this morning.”
“So if I can have the key—”
Begg did not answer but leaned forward and from somewhere under the kneehole of the desk brought out a cardboard on which was a crayoned message: BACK IN ONE HOUR.
“Oh, there’s no need for you to leave your store. If you just give me—”
“The house is furnished, and I don’t give the key out to strangers.” he said flatly. When he saw Paff redden, he added. “No business this time of day, anyway. You got a car? Then you follow me.”
Hillson House and the carriage house nearby were built on the promontory known as Tarlow’s Point and were set back about forty feet from the street line, the only two houses on the street for some distance. A high, thick hedge all but concealed the front lawn and then continued along the side of the lot to merge with a stand of straggly pines leading to the beach and the water.
Paff pointed beyond the hedge to a narrow path leading down to the water. “Is that part of the estate?” he asked.
“Well, it is and it isn’t. It’s part of the lot, but it’s a public right-of-way. The Hillsons have been fighting with the town about it off and on for a number of years.”
“Then it’s not a private beach?”
“Well, the Hillsons claim it is. The town says that this vacant lot across the street”—he motioned with his chin—“has access rights to the beach. But then the Hillsons went and bought that lot some years ago, so it would seem that the whole of Tarlow’s Point is theirs. But the town council says no. because they could sell that lot separately and the new owner would have access rights.”
“I see.”
Begg led the way to the front door. “They selling the whole business?” he asked.
“That’s what I understand.”
The door opened into a short vestibule, beyond which was a large living room. There were three windows, two facing the front lawn and the third on the side facing the carriage house, all hung with lace curtains and heavy, old-fashioned red velvet drapes with valances at the top and drawn back halfway down by a loop of the same material. The furniture was covered with large sheets of heavy plastic, but from what could be seen through them, it seemed of a piece with the velvet drapes—heavy, overstuffed sofas, chairs upholstered in damask, and heavy, clumsy mahogany tables.
“This was used as a summer home? The furniture isn’t what you’d expect—”
“I guess they had it originally in their house in Cambridge. Folks didn’t throw out good furniture in those days.”
Begg led Paff down a hall that ran toward the back of the house, opening doors on either side on the way. The first door revealed a small study with a couch, shelves of books, a couple of chairs, and a flat-topped desk. Like the furniture in the living room, the couch and desk were covered with plastic throws. The other rooms were bedrooms, and in each case the bed at least was covered with a plastic sheet. Paff rapped on the wall. “Is this a supporting wall?” he asked.
“I don’t think so.”
There was a large inkblot on one of the walls of the far bedroom. Paff pointed at it. “One of the Hillsons have a bad temper?”
“Vandals.” replied Begg shortly. “A couple of years back the high school kids took to breaking into some of these summer homes, pinching things, raising hell generally. That’s how I happened to get this job. You want to see the upstairs?”
“I don’t think so.”
They were in the kitchen now, and from the windows through the stand of pines they could see the ocean. “The tide is out now,” Begg said, “but when it’s in, the water comes right up to the sea wall and cuts the Point off from the rest of the beach.”
“Comes up pretty high, does it?”
“Oh, at least a couple or three feet.”
From the front of the house the ground sloped away to the beach so that there was a flight of a dozen or more steps leading down from the back door. “Can we look at the place from in back?”
“Look, mister, I got a business back in town.”
“Oh, sure,” said Paff. “Well, you can just go on ahead. I’ll look around by myself.”
“Suit yourself.” He opened the door, and Paff started down the stairs. Begg locked the door behind him and went out the front to his car.
Paff got as far as the trees and then turned around to face the house. I’ll have to come back with a tape and take some measurements, he thought. Maybe bring an architect along. Take out those inside walls. Might have to put beams up, though. I could have a kitchen to one side or upstairs and use a dumbwaiter, and the rest of the place could be tables and booths. I could put up a Quonset hut against the rear for the alleys. It would mean going down a flight of stairs to the alley, but it would make it quieter in the dining area. With windows all around, you could see the ocean, and it would be nice and cool all through the summer. I could blacktop the lot across the street…
He returned to his car and debated whether to go to Lynn or Gloucester. Lynn was nearer, but Gloucester involved a long, pleasant drive along the shore road, and he felt he could use the relaxation. The manager of the Gloucester alley had nothing unusual to report; everything was going along smoothly.
“You sure nothing’s wrong?”
“What’s the matter, Mr. Paff? Don’t you think I can run the place? Let me tell you—”
“No. that’s all right. Jim. It’s just that I’ve had one of those days when everyplace I went—Know what I mean?”
“Oh, sure. You through now?”
“Just Lynn, and then I’ll go on home. I covered some of the places yesterday.”
“Well, have a nice weekend, Mr. Paff. And don’t worry.”
The Lynn alley was empty when he arrived, save for the manager, who was leaning on the counter, puffing on a cigar.
“Slow day, Henry?”
“This time just before supper is always slow, Mr. Paff. You usually get here earlier.”
“I did Gloucester first. Everything all right? Those ashtrays look pretty full—”
“I’m just taking a breather for five or ten minutes. We’ll get a rush in about half an hour.”
“You go off in an hour.”
“Yeah, if Moose gets here on time. So far, he’s been late every night this week.”
He stiffened as a car drove up and a couple of men got out and headed for the door. “Fuzz,” he whispered.
“Here? What do they want? What’s the matter?”
“H’lo boys.” Henry greeted the plainclothesmen. “You want to bowl a couple of strings?”
“Not today, Henry. We just want to look over the joint.” One strode purposefully toward the little ell where the toilets were situated. Henry came from behind the counter to watch him. He stopped in front of the door marked LADIES.
“Anybody in here?” he asked.
“No, but you can’t go in there,” said Henry indignantly.
“Why not?”
“Can’t you read? That’s the ladies’ john.”
“So I’m feeling girlish.” He opened the door and went inside.
The other man had dumped one of the ashtrays onto the floor and squatted down to inspect the contents. Paff came over. “Look here,” he said. “What’s all this about?”