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 gray 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 Archer. I’m a detective.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Archer,” 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. “Lew 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, Archer. See what you can find out.”
“Twenty dollars a day in advance,” I said.
He gave me twenty dollars. I said, “How do you happen to know the provisions of Mr. Ralston’s will?”
“I witnessed it. He made no secret of it. He loved his wife, and he wanted her to have his money.”
“Did she love him?”
“Of course she loved him. Mrs. Ralston is a very fine and loyal woman. In spite of her grievous affliction, she made the old man an excellent wife.”
“How old is she?”
“In her early forties. I can’t see the point in these questions. I hope you’re not going to stir up any trouble?”
“The trouble’s all over,” I said. “I’m just trying to understand it.”
James Denton, the sailor, reminded us that he had been sitting silently on the grass ever since the police left. “Is it all right if I go?” he said. “I’m supposed to get back to the ship at San Pedro at nine, and I don’t think I’ll make it.”
I said, “You’re a friend of Mr. Ralston’s stepson John Swain?”
He stood up and said, “Yessir.”
“Why didn’t John come along with you last night?”
“He was restricted to the ship, because he was absent over leave at Pearl. I was here before with John, and Mr. Ralston said he’d be glad to see me any time.”
“If you’re restricted to the ship, there’s no way you can get off, is that right?”
“Yessir. There are guards on the gangways, and you have to report to the Master-at-Arms.”
“What ship are you on?”
“APA 237.”
“Is there a phone aboard?”
“Yessir.” He gave me the number.
“If we need you we’ll get in touch with you. Were the other two boys from the same ship?”
“Yessir.” He gave me their names and left.
“Better call John Swain on the APA 237 and tell him to come here,” I said to Al. “If they won’t let him off, Mr. Whittaker will verify it.”
“Yes, of course,” said Mr. Whittaker, who seemed happier when he had no decisions to make.
Al went back to the main building to phone, and I asked Mr. Whittaker which was the Ralstons’ bungalow. He pointed to a long low stucco building, half hidden in flowering shrubbery, about fifty yards from the pool.
“What’s the setup in there?” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“How many rooms? How big a ménage? Sleeping arrangements and so on.”
“Three bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchenette. Two bathrooms, one off Mr. Ralston’s bedroom, the other shared by Mrs. Ralston and her nurse. Mrs. Ralston has a full-time nurse, of course. I don’t know whether you knew she was a cripple.”
“Yes, I know. The rooms are interconnecting, I suppose?”
“All but the bathrooms and kitchenette open on the central hallway. I could draw you a plan–”
“That’s hardly necessary. I thought I’d just go and take a look. And isn’t it about time somebody told Mrs. Ralston what happened to her husband?”
“By Jove, I forgot about that.” He glanced at an octagonal platinum wristwatch which said seven-thirty. After a pause during which his cheek was active, he said, “I think I should consult her physician before breaking the news to Mrs. Ralston. In view of her physical condition. Excuse me.”
He trotted stiffly away. I sauntered down the concrete walk to the Ralston bungalow. With all the Venetian blinds down it looked impassive yet vulnerable, like a face with closed eyes. For some reason I was leery of pressing the bell push, as if it might be a signal for something to jump out at me.
What jumped out at me was a very pretty brunette in her ripe late twenties and a fresh white nurse’s uniform.
“Please don’t make any noise,” she said. “Mrs. Ralston is sleeping.”
You look as if you could do with some sleep, I thought. There were blue-gray rings under her eyes and the flesh of her face drooped.
I said, “Miss Lennon?”
“Yes?” She stepped outside onto the little porch and closed the door behind her. I noticed that the concrete floor of the porch sloped up to the doorstep and down to the walk. Of course, Mrs. Ralston would have a wheelchair.
“My name is Archer. Mr. Whittaker has hired me to investigate the death of Mr. Ralston.”
“What?” The drooping flesh around her eyes and mouth slanted upward in lines of painful astonishment.
“Mr. Ralston was drowned in the swimming pool last night. Can you throw any light on the accident?”
“My God. This will kill Mrs. Ralston.”
“It killed Mr. Ralston.”
She looked at me narrowly. “When?”
“One or two in the morning, I’d say. The police will be able to give a better estimate when they complete the autopsy.”
“I can’t imagine,” she said.
“You didn’t see or hear anything?”
“Not a thing. Mrs. Ralston and I went to bed before midnight and slept right through. I just got up a few minutes ago. This will be a terrible shock to her.”