“I’ve finally located him. He’s been deep-sea fishing. He’s cleaning up and should be here at any moment. There’s another matter we have to consider.”
“What’s that?”
“Stearne had an option on some oil property. Under the terms of the agreement, yesterday was the last day in which he could take up that option.”
“Did he do it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who owns the property?”
“Two men, doing business under the firm name of Elwell & Fielding. They have this property leased, and Stearne had an option to take over the leases. He was to pay one hundred thousand dollars.”
“Cash?”
“No. He’d obligate himself to pay the cash by the acceptance. Then he had thirty days in which to make the actual payment.”
“That expired yesterday?”
“According to the copy in our files, yesterday was absolutely the last day.”
“You don’t know whether he took it up or not?”
“I know he intended to. There’d been some activity on ad-joining property, and Stearne had become convinced they’d struck good showings and were covering up to freeze him out. He thinks another agreement had been reached, subject to Stearne not accepting his option.”
“Then Elwell & Fielding were trying to manipulate things so the option would expire?”
“Yes.”
Tucker knitted his brows. “If Stearne was murdered Saturday, there may be a tough legal proposition on that option.”
Hazlit said, “There must be some legal loophole. Stearne had until midnight to make his acceptance. Sunday is a legal holiday. So is Saturday afternoon, but the option specifically waived any right to delays or extensions because of holidays. Saturday at midnight was the deadline. Perhaps that provision about waiving extensions because of holidays would be void as against public policy.”
“Suppose this Moline woman has a lawyer of her own?”
“There isn’t time for her to consult anyone else. We’re ready to protect her interests.”
Tucker said, “I’ll get the papers ready. How about Ethel Dunn?”
Hazlit said, “She seemed sullen when I talked with her. I think she’s got a date.”
Tucker said, “I’D call her. She’ll come for me.”
Tucker crossed the private office, jerked open the door to the law library, and switched on the lights.
A few moments later, Hazlit heard steps in the corridor, the gentle tapping of knuckles on the door of his private office. He crossed over, opened the door, and said, “Come in, Gibbs.”
Parker Gibbs was a short, stocky man with a bony, deter-mined face. His skin was bronzed from outdoor activities. A casual observer would have said he was a building contractor or farmer.
He walked across to a chair, his short legs moving with quick competency. He sat down and looked at Hazlit, waiting, saying nothing.
Hazlit said, “Addison Stearne, who owns Gypsy Queen II, was murdered in Santa Delbarra sometime yesterday. A younger man by the name of C. Arthur Right was murdered at the same time.”
Gibbs pulled a notebook from his pocket, whipped out a pencil, made a quickly scribbled notation, and looked up, waiting.
Hazlit said, “If Stearne died first, most of the estate went to Arthur Right. When Arthur Right died, that half of the estate would have gone to his heirs, in this case, his wife. She hates me. If Arthur Right died first, all of Stearne’s estate went to a woman named Nita Moline.”
Gibbs nodded.
“Nita Moline resides at six-o-nine Maplehurst Apartments. She’s out, went out this morning early, driving her car. It’s a big, cream-colored sports coupe, license number 8P3036. The assumption is she went to Santa Delbarra to join the Gypsy Queen. She hasn’t been heard from since. At the time of his death, Stearne had some property matters under negotiation. To protect the estate, some action must be taken tomorrow morning. My partner, Mr. Tucker, is going to work all night tonight getting papers ready for Miss Moline to sign. We want you to find her and have her in our office by eight o’clock to-morrow morning.”
Gibbs made another note.
“After that,” Hazlit said, “find some evidence that will show C. Arthur Right died before Addison Stearne.”
“How long before?” Gibbs asked.
“It doesn’t make any difference. An interval of one second would be enough.”
“Suppose there isn’t any evidence?”
Hazlit said, “If you had been listening carefully, you would have noted that I said I wanted you to find some evidence indicating Right died first.”
“Come on out in the open,” Gibbs said. “I want to know how far to go.”
Hazlit frowned irritably. “Let me express it this way. In every business relationship, results are what count. When a person employs me to handle a lawsuit, I know he comes to me because he expects me to win that lawsuit. He doesn’t care what methods I use. He doesn’t care how many hours I work. He doesn’t care what I say to the witnesses. He comes to me because he wants results. Of course,” he added unctuously, “we want you to be entirely ethical.”
Gibbs pushed back his chair. “Okay, I just wanted to know. I’m to see that there’s evidence that Right died first?”
“Our client would be benefited by such proof.”
Chapter 6
Nita Moline parked her car at the, waterfront. The incoming tide had narrowed the sand between wall and ocean until there was no longer any strip of hard beach on which a person could walk comfortably. A cement walk skirting the edge of the sand connected with the float at the yacht club. Ted and Miss Moline walked rapidly along this cement ribbon.
A rope had been stretched across the entrance to the yacht club, and an officer, standing guard, promptly challenged Shale. “Member of the club?”
Shale said, “We’re visiting a friend on one of the yachts. She’s a member.”
“What’s the yacht?”
“The Albatross.”
The officer pulled a typewritten list from his pocket, consulted it, and asked, “What’s the name of your friend?”
“Miss Harpler.” Nita Moline interposed. “Joan Harpler. She’s expecting us.”
The officer checked the name of the owner of the yacht on his list, said, “Okay, go ahead,” and untied one end of the rope. Ted stood to one side, and Miss Moline preceded him through the opening.
They walked out on the landing float. A faint breeze was blowing from the sea now, and the ends of Miss Moline’s hair blew about her neck as they stood waiting.
Nita Moline said confidently, “Her dinghy’s tied up to the stern of the Albatross. She’ll catch our signal in a minute.” Taking a white handkerchief from her purse, Miss Moline waved it up and down. After a few moments, a figure detached itself from the cabin of the Albatross, and waved. She unfastened the painter of the dinghy, brought it up on the lee side, jumped in, and rowed over to the float.
Nita Moline said easily, “Ted Shale’s going to stand watch for me. Okay by you?”
For a moment, Ted thought she hesitated perceptibly, then she said, quite easily and naturally, “Of course, I’ll be glad to have him aboard — if it will help.”
“How about letting me run the ferry?” Ted asked.
She surrendered the oars. “After the way you handled that skiff this morning, I’m much inclined to say yes.”
Ted rowed the dinghy out to the yacht, gave a quick pull on his left oar at just the right moment, and then snapped it inboard through the oarlock so that it was out of the way as the dinghy swung broadside and came to rest a scant three inches from the side of the Albatross.