Gramps said, “That’s where you got me. I’m just an amateur. Frank’s the professional.”
Duryea’s eyes narrowed as he contemplated the problem.
“Go ahead, son,” Gramps said. “What is it? Was it this Harpler woman that was over at Catalina Island with him and...”
“No,” Duryea said. “It was Mrs. Right. It had to be. But it could have been Joan Harpler’s bathing suit. Then Mrs. Right must have been aboard the Albatross with Joan Harpler. Let’s see. The Albatross tied up around six o’clock Saturday after-noon. That would make it.”
“Make what?” Milred asked.
“Give Mrs. Right plenty of time to commit the murder, and then get back aboard the Albatross. Joan Harpler can well be an innocent accessory. Mrs. Right could have told her some story which would lull her suspicions — probably that she wanted to be where she could watch her husband and see who came aboard the Gypsy Queen. Miss Harpler probably went uptown to get provisions right after she tied up. Mrs. Right could have rowed over and killed her husband — and it was probably premeditated murder because she must have taken Arthur Right’s gun out of his bureau drawer and then fixed up this story about how he’d gone up to grab the gun.”
“Go ahead,” Milred said. “You’re doing fine.”
“You’re danged tootin’ he’s doin’ fine,” Gramps said proudly. “He’s goin’ places now! He’s just a whizzin’!”
“Well,” Duryea said, “as soon as the murder was discovered, Miss Harpler realized that it would take a lot of explaining to account for Mrs. Right being secretly present on her yacht, so she said absolutely nothing about that when she told me her story. She then went aboard the yacht, knowing that Mrs. Right would keep under cover. Probably in that starboard stateroom with the door locked. But Nita Moline realized someone else was aboard the yacht — perhaps the scent of some perfume, or perhaps she saw and recognized Mrs. Right’s compact on a dressing table, or some other clue.”
Gramps nodded vigorously. “Atta boy! Stay with it.”
“And so,” Duryea went on, “Miss Moline wanted to trap Mrs. Right aboard that yacht. So she asked Miss Harpler what seemed to be an innocent enough request that she be permitted to use the yacht to watch the Gypsy Queen and see who went aboard. And then, having planted Ted Shale aboard the yacht, she calmly went out to check up on Pearl Right.”
“But wait a minute,” Milred said. “Pearl Right was over at Catalina Island Sunday afternoon because Miss Moline talked with her on the telephone.”
“Certainly,” Duryea said. “That’s the point. As soon as Miss Moline went to telephone, Joan Harpler locked Shale in his stateroom, went over to the yacht club and did some telephoning of her own. Miss Harpler got Warren Hilbers over at Catalina, told him to jump in his speedboat, set a course for Santa Delbarra, run wide open, and meet her at sea. Then she went back to her yacht, cut loose her mooring, started the motor, and headed out toward Catalina. Hilbers had calm water, so he could send his speedboat at a fast clip. And Mrs. Right and her brother concocted an alibi after they got together. They did it very nicely — that little touch when Hilbers told me that his sister had been with him all the time, except for a few short intervals; and she conscientiously reminded him that there’d been a time when she was taking a nap in the cottage Saturday afternoon. That was positively artistic.”
“But how about the bathing suit?” Milred asked.
“Don’t you see? When the speedboat caught up to the Albatross, Mrs. Right had made a bundle of all of her clothes. She could toss them aboard, but she couldn’t very well jump aboard the speedboat from the deck of the Albatross — not without having the speedboat stand in so closely that it would bump against the yacht and waken Shale. So she put on Miss Harpler’s bathing suit and jumped overboard. Then Miss Harpler swung the yacht in a wide circle, and Hilbers picked up his sister, turned around and made tracks for Catalina.”
“If the killin’ was at six o’clock,” Gramps said, “then Stearne must actually have mailed that there oil letter.”
Duryea nodded.
The old man said, “By gum, that accounts for it.”
“What?”
“That young oil man marryin’ his secretary.”
Duryea thought for a moment, then smiled. “I think you’ve got something there,” he said to Gramps. “Well, I’m beaded for Los Angeles.”
“Oh, I’m going, too,” Milred said.
“Me, too,” Gramps shouted. “I’ll get some clothes on an’... Oh, my gosh a’mighty!”
“What’s the matter?” Duryea asked.
“The trailer’s plumb locked up,” Gramps said. “The key to the trailer was in my clothes they stole. An’ you can’t bust those locks because I’ve got some contraptions of my own on the thing, burglar alarms that go off, an’...”
“You can wear — no, you can’t,” Milred said, surveying the difference in stature between her husband and Gramps. “It looks as though you’re out of the race.”
“No, I ain’t neither out o’ no race,” he shrilled. “I’ll go in these here clothes...”
“Don’t be silly. You can’t do that. It would ruin Frank’s case, and you can’t wear Frank’s clothes. You’d drop out through a coat sleeve, or slip through a pant leg at the most exciting moment.”
“Well—”
“No,” Duryea said. “I’ve jeopardized the dignity of my official position enough as it is. I can hardly go to Los Angeles to call on a widow and accuse her of murdering her husband, taking along my wife’s grandfather, attired in a woman’s tight-fitting rubber bathing suit.”
“Well, by God,” Gramps sputtered. “Of all the ingrates, of all the...”
“Come on, Milred,” Duryea said, grabbing her arm.
“Listen, Frank, Gramps is entitled to...”
“I tell you, he can’t,” Duryea interrupted. “Seconds are precious. I’ve got to get down there in time to close this case before something happens. I’m starting right now.”
“Sorry, Gramps,” Milred said.
They dashed out of the door and down the steps, jumped in the car, and went tearing away down the boulevard. Gramps Wiggins, attired in his rubber bathing suit, stared after them with speechless indignation, then an idea struck him. “By gum,” he said, “I can’t get the trailer open ’cause I ain’t got no keys, but I can drive the car all right, because it ain’t locked.”
“What’s that?” the maid asked.
Gramps wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, said, “Nothin’,” and sprinted out of the door. A moment later, the motor on his rattletrap car roared and sputtered into life, loose connecting rods and slapping pistons setting up a cacophony of discordant protest.
Without waiting for the car to even warm up, Gramps slammed in the gear, jerked the trailer into a swift start, and went rattling out of the driveway, the homemade trailer bouncing and swaying as the old man urged his car into reckless speed.
Chapter 26
An aura of death surrounded the house, an in-tangible, mystic miasma of violent demise. Other houses in the neighborhood were either brilliantly lighted or completely dark, giving the impression of life and gaiety on the one band, or dignified slumber on the other. But in the house of C. Arthur Right two or three windows glowing with the sickly emanations of subdued light managed to convey an impression of death.
Duryea, who had stopped at police headquarters to pick up a police escort, pulled his car to a stop in front of the house. A few feet behind him, the police car glided in close to the curb. Officers debouched to the pavement, formed with Frank Duryea and his wife into a compact group.