“That’s just a black spot out there— No, wait a minute—”
“Black spot nothing,” he said. “It’s the end of a pier. See it sticking out there? Take a magnifying glass; you’ll see people all bunched up, fishing at the far end of the—”
“Of course,” she said. “I hadn’t noticed it before. It’s the end of a pier, all right.”
“Look at the people. Here’s where a road runs down to the beach. Jammed with cars parked all along it. But people haven’t spread out on the north end of the beach yet. On a Sunday the whole thing would be crowded. The way it is now, just about the number of people are on the beach who would have come in those parked cars. They haven’t had to park their cars way uptown and walk down to the beach. See the shadow of the automobile? Sun’s pretty much overhead. It’s just about noon. Wouldn’t get that big a play on a beach this time of year except Saturday. Sunday noon it’d be even bigger. All right, what more do you want?”
She said, “I’d like to know who owns that automobile.”
“Why don’t you find out?”
“How can I?”
He said, “How many beaches are there around here that have piers sticking out that far? How many motels in that city—”
“What city?”
He tapped the ornamental lighting fixture. “See the peculiar design on that lighting fixture? I could tell you a lot about those fixtures. Pal of mine took over the sale of ornamental lighting fixtures to a city. There’s a great opportunity! That’s real graft. Perfectly legitimate. I guess that’s why I never cared much for it, but I can tell you—”
“You don’t have to tell me,” she said, “I know where it is myself now. Why in the world didn’t I notice the significance of that ornamental street light before?”
“Preoccupied,” he said. “That’s ’cause you’re in love.”
“I am not!”
“Bet you are! Wrapped up in that Beau Brummell guy they took to prison.”
“I am not, but— I would like to impress him once with Peggy Castle the girl, and not just Peggy Castle the logical thinker.”
“How are you going to do it?”
“I’m going to prove he didn’t commit the murder.”
Uncle Benedict chuckled. “Listen to her, Martha. She wants him to notice her as a cute trick and not as an efficient thinking machine, so she goes out and uses her brain! Don’t use your brain when you’re trying to impress a man, Peggy. Don’t let him think you have any brain. Have curves. Be helpless and—”
“You leave Peggy alone,” Aunt Martha said. “She’s doing it her way.”
Uncle Benedict shook his head. “Men can’t see glamor and brains together, Martha. Either one or the other.”
Aunt Martha put down the teapot. “What did you marry me for?”
His eyes were reminiscent. “Glamor, curves,” he said. “Boy, when you walked out on the stage with tights on, you—”
“So,” she blazed indignantly, “now you’re trying to tell me I haven’t any brains!”
Uncle Benedict shook his head. “Arguing with a woman,” he said, “is like trying to order the weather to suit the farmers. Where are you goin’ in such a rush, Peggy?”
Peggy was dashing for the door. “I’m not going, I’m gone. Thanks and good-by!”
Peggy felt a surge of triumph when within less than an hour from the time she reached the beach city she had located the motel. The proprietress was reluctant to discuss registrations. “We’re running a decent, clean, respectable place,” she said. “Of course, we don’t ask people to show us marriage licenses every time they come in, but they don’t do that even in the Waldorf-Astoria. We just try to look ’em over and—”
Peggy patiently interrupted to explain that hers was a private matter; that if necessary she could get official authority; but that she didn’t want to and she didn’t think the woman wanted her to.
That secured instant results. Peggy examined the weekend registrations.
The car was 5N20861, registered to Peter Bushnell. Mr. and Mrs. Bushnell had spent the weekend in a cabin.
Peggy could have cried with disappointment. All her hopes were dashed. If she could have proved that Stella had had a boy friend with whom she had spent the weekend, then Stella’s date with Don Kimberly would have looked like a mere business date. But now that had been swept away. Stella had spent the weekend with the Bushnells.
Fighting back tears, Peggy started back to her apartment. Then a thought struck her with the force of a blow. She felt certain Mrs. Bushnell had said that Pete was “still” married to her. Did that mean—?
Peggy frantically consulted the address she had taken from the registration book at the motel. It was a ten-to-one shot, but she was taking it. Peter Bushnell was going to have an unexpected visitor.
She drove rapidly to the address, an old-fashioned, unpretentious, comfortable-looking apartment house.
A card in the mailbox told her Peter Bushnell’s apartment was on the second floor. Peggy didn’t even stop for the elevator, but raced up the stairs to the apartment. A slender ribbon of illumination showed from the underside of the door.
Her heart hammering with excitement, she rang the bell.
Peggy heard a chair being pushed back, and then the door opened and Peggy found herself looking at the face of the man in the photograph. Now it was a haggard face, drawn with suffering.
“You’re Peter Bushnell,” she said. “I’m Peggy Castle. I want to talk with you.”
She stepped past him into the apartment, turned, smiled reassuringly, and waited for him to close the door.
“Won’t you... won’t you sit down?” he said. “It’s rather late, but—”
“I wanted to talk with you about Stella,” she said.
His face showed consternation. “I... I have nothing to say.”
“Oh, yes, you have. I know some of the facts. In justice to yourself and in justice to Stella’s memory you’ll have to give me the rest of them.”
“What facts?”
“For instance, the weekend at the Seaswept Motel. You registered under your own name. Why did you do that, Pete?”
“Why not? The car’s registered in my name. Why shouldn’t I have used it?”
“Because you registered Stella as your wife.”
“Well — so what?”
“Suppose Frances found out about it?”
“How would she find out?”
“I found out about it.”
“How?”
Peggy merely smiled. She said, “Tell me about Stella, Pete.”
“Who are you anyway?”
“I’m an investigator.”
“With the police?”
“No. I represent the company Stella worked for. You don’t want Stella’s name dragged through the mud, and we don’t want it dragged through the mud. You were in love with her, weren’t you, Pete?”
He nodded. His face showed anguish.
“Now, then, let’s get down to brass tacks,” Peggy Mid. “You married Frances. Stella was going with Bill Everett. You went on weekend parties together, didn’t you?”
He said, “That was before I was married to Frances. Then Fran and I got married and— Well, I found out it was a mistake before we’d been married three months.”
“Why was it a mistake, Pete?”
“Because I had been in love with Stella all the time and hadn’t realized it. You have no idea what it was like to be out with Stella. She was such good company. She never sulked, never got mad, never complained. She took everything just the way it came, and she always had such a good time that you had a good time too. She enjoyed life. She got a kick out of everything.
“Fran was just the opposite. Fran had to have things just so. When she was with a foursome she hid behind Stella’s good nature so you didn’t see her real character. After we were married and it was just the two of us... well, it showed up then.”