There was a long silence during which Nita Moline stood looking down at the vague outline of her white tennis shoes.
“I’ve got a lawyer,” she said. “I don’t need another one.”
“There’s only one lawyer who can do you any good now. That’s George V. Hazlit of Hazlit & Tucker. I know.”
“He was Addison’s lawyer.”
“That’s right.”
“He hates me. He thought I was trying to stick Addison for something. Addison wanted me to go to him... Say, why should I tell you all this?”
“I know all about it,” Gibbs said. “You’re not telling me anything. I’m telling you.” He lowered his voice. “If Right died first, you get the property. If he didn’t, you don’t get it. See what that means? If Right’s wife manages to get in the saddle, she’ll take possession of everything, and by the time she gets done, you’ll be on the outside looking in. If we can get you in the saddle, you can keep her out.”
“I’ll talk to my lawyer about it. I know him. I don’t know this man Hazlit.”
“Don’t be silly,” Gibbs said impatiently. “You haven’t time to do any swapping of horses. Hazlit is working all night so he’ll have papers ready to file first thing tomorrow morning. If your lawyer was old man Blackstone himself, he couldn’t do you any good now. The only thing he could do would be to try and keep you away from Hazlit so he’d be the one to hog the fee. Now, do you want that dough, or are you going to throw it into the ocean just so some lawyer can hand you a line?”
She said. “I like you when you get mad. You talk straight then. All right, I’ll go see this man Hazlit in the morning.”
“Now,” Gibbs said.
“Why now?”
“You’ve got to give him some information so he can...”
“Listen. I have an appointment.”
“With that yacht that just came in?”
“How did you know?”
Gibbs said, “Because I know all about how you’ve been trying to find it. You located it from the hydroplane, didn’t you? When you saw it was headed back toward Santa Delbarra, you knew you were too late, didn’t you?”
He saw from the expression on her face that she was surprised, and a little frightened.
Gibbs said, “You’ve been playing things pretty much on your own. It might be a good plan to let Hazlit give you some advice before you stick your neck out any farther.”
“I’m not sticking my neck out.”
“That’s what you think.”
“My clothes are aboard that yacht.”
“Leave them there.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Gibbs said, taking a shot in the dark, “wherever that yacht went, it went for a reason. That reason may have had something to do with the cruise Addison Stearne intended to start on this afternoon, or it may have had something to do with Addison Stearne’s murder. If you connect yourself with the yacht, you may connect yourself with something you won’t like. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll slide over behind the wheel of that automobile, I’ll climb in with you, and we’ll start for Los Angeles right now.”
She studied his face for a moment, surveying the bony, aquiline nose, the high cheekbones, the straight, firm mouth, and the strong jaw. “All right,” she said abruptly, “you’ve won an argument. You’re in a hotel here in town?”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
“The Balboa Hotel.”
“You’re a detective?”
“Yes.”
“Hazlit hired you?”
“I’m not at liberty to talk about my clients.”
“Are you going to try to follow me?”
“I’m going to Los Angeles with you.”
“That’s all you want?”
“Yes.”
She said, “I’ll make you a proposition. Get in your car, go to the Hotel Balboa, and stay in your room. I’ll give you a ring at three o’clock in the morning. That will put us in Los Angeles in time to sign the papers.”
He shook his head.
“It’s that or nothing.”
“You might forget your appointment.”
“I’ll give you my word.”
He hesitated.
She said, “Don’t think you can work a rush act with me. You’ve told me enough now so I’m going to see a lawyer. If you trust me and meet me at the hotel at three o’clock, I’ll go to Los Angeles with you and see Hazlit. Otherwise I’ll call my own lawyer, and Hazlit can go jump in the lake.”
“How do I know you’ll keep your promise?” Gibbs asked.
She looked at him, her eyes steady. “You don’t.”
“It’s a bargain,” he said.
“If you try to follow me,” she warned, “all bets are off.”
Gibbs had played the game too long not to be a good judge of human nature — and a good gambler. He considered the two alternatives, then made one last effort to get what he wanted. “Let me stay with you,” he said. “I may be able to help you. You’ll need a witness in case someone tries to claim you said something or did something that...”
“No,” she interrupted. “When I play the game, I go all the way. I don’t quibble, and I don’t welsh. Go to the hotel, and I’ll meet you there at three o’clock. Stay here and interfere with me, or even ask one more question, and Hazlit will never see me. What’s it going to be?”
Gibbs climbed in his car, turned on the ignition, and drove away without a word. She waved at him when he was half a block down the street, the approving friendly gesture of a graceful, up-flung arm.
Gibbs went directly to the Balboa Hotel, and dragged out the portable typewriter. He was going to make a report which he could submit to his client, a report which would show the diligent persistence with which he had tried to locate Nita Moline, the manner in which the proposition had been put up to him, the choice he had had to make. He felt certain she’d be back at three o’clock, but in the event she wasn’t, he was going to have it all down in black and white, so Hazlit would have to hear all of his side of the story before forming an opinion.
He’d just had the typewriter overhauled. A new platen and a new ribbon had been installed. Gibbs opened his suitcase, took out paper and carbon paper. He tapped the keys gently to make sure the carriage was freed from the locking position it assumed when the cover was placed on the typewriter. He struck the letter J. It tapped lightly against the new platen and left an imprint.
Gibbs fed in the paper, held his hands poised over the key-board, then suddenly he stopped as an idea struck him.
He whipped the paper back out of the machine, regarded the new platen thoughtfully. He tried a tentative experiment, depressing the keys slowly one at a time. He tapped out: “Arthur is dead. They got me and dd I can’t.”
Gibbs looked at what he had done. In some ways it was crude, but it might stand up. That would be up to the lawyers. He wasn’t under any misapprehension as to what shape the yacht would be in when Nita Moline finally was permitted to take possession. Every square inch of it would have been combed in the search for clues — anything which he could do would have to be done before that time — would have to be done immediately.
Gibbs made another of his quick decisions. He put the carriage into its locking position, and snapped the case on the portable typewriter. He pushed back his chair, got to his feet, looked at his watch.
It was twenty minutes past twelve.
Chapter 9
Jack Elwell, moving with the paunchy dignity of a middle-aged man who eats, drinks, and smokes too much, fitted a latchkey to a door on the frosted glass of which appeared the legend ELWELL & FIELDING, OIL INVESTMENTS.
He hung up his hat and coat, and looked at his watch. It was seven-fifteen. The morning sun, streaming in through the eastern windows, glinted in dazzling reflection from the top of a massive mahogany desk. Elwell crossed to the window, lowered the Venetian blinds, and adjusted them so they shut out the glare. He unfolded a newspaper and settled back in his chair. He tried to lose himself in the sporting section, but his mind wasn’t on what he was reading. Whenever there was the faintest noise in the corridor, Elwell raised his head from the paper to listen attentively.