Edelman’s eyes narrowed, showing he was thinking. “Is Mrs. Willis with you?”
“Unfortunately, no. We had a tense time there for a while, and she didn’t like having to play-act, tell everybody I was dead and so forth. It got on her nerves, and we quarreled a lot, and—” He shrugged. “—we parted.”
“There’s some similarity,” Edelman said, studying Parker’s face, “but I don’t like it. First Mrs. Willis tells me her husband is dead, and then you come in and say you’re Mr. Willis and your wife has left you. I don’t like it.”
“You must have my signature around on something,” Parker reached out and took the gold pen out of the ornate pen holder. There was a memo pad on the desk, and he wrote the name “Charles Willis” on it five times. “Go ahead and check it.”
“You could have practiced the signature.”
Parker shrugged. “Ask me something. Let me make like that Princess Anastasia for a while. Ask me something only Willis would know.”
Edelman closed his eyes. “The voice sounds right.” He opened his eyes again. “You understand, it’s a surprise. I’m not sure what to believe.”
“People get into trouble,” Parker shrugged. “I was in trouble for a while, that’s all. If someone had come around looking for me, you could have told them you’d heard from my wife that I was dead. If someone comes around now and wants to know am I the same Charles Willis who used to come here, you can say no — that Charles Willis is dead, this is another one.”
Edelman at last sat down behind the desk. “All right. What problem did you help me solve seven years ago?”
“Cantore, the bookie that wanted to open an office in the hotel. He had somebody working in the kitchen, lousing up the food with Tabasco sauce, and you asked me to talk to Cantore. I did, and the problem went away.”
Edelman nodded. “You could have heard that from Willis.”
It was time to show impatience. Parker said, “Damn it, man, I am Willis. I know you can’t stand your middle name, which is Moisha. I know you like to be called Sam and hate to be called Ed or Eddy. I know you drink nothing but wine, but you’ll drink any kind of wine that can be poured. I know you’ve got a boat called the Paradise and I was on it when you caught a marlin one time, and I was on it when you let marlins get away half a dozen times. All right now?”
Edelman slowly smiled. “Like Mark Twain, the reports of your death are greatly exaggerated. But at least Twain came back with his own face.”
Parker shrugged. It was time for a light remark, but he had trouble thinking of light remarks. “You satisfied now?”
“Yes, I suppose I am.”
“Fine.”
Now that the matter was settled, Edelman could be the hotel manager again. “You’ll be staying with us for a while?”
“A couple of months at least. But I’m going to have to be away for a few days. I’m just settling in for now.” He kicked the suitcase. “I want to leave this in your safe.”
“Of course. Wait, I’ll give you the receipt for it.”
They talked a while longer, so Edelman could get used to the fact that Parker was still alive, and then Parker went up to his room. He had a view of the beach, with the bright umbrellas and the bright beach mattresses and the people in their bright bathing suits. He unpacked the suitcase and loafed around the room a while, unbending, and then went downstairs to the hotel men’s shop.
He bought a bathing suit, and some clothing, and had them sent up to his room. Then he went around to the garage and got the Ford. He drove out south on route 1 to Home-stead, and then took 27 in toward the Everglades. At a deserted spot he turned right onto a dirt road and followed that deep into the swampy area, and then stopped the car.
He searched it carefully, under the seats, on the floor, for anything that might lead to him, then did the same in the trunk. When he was satisfied it was clean, he took the license plates off. Jersey plates could lead to trouble. He carried them away into the swamp and buried them.
He left the key in the ignition. Now someone else could have the Ford, and if the law ever got interested in it Parker would be too far back in the chain of events to be traced.
And Charles Willis didn’t own a car.
He walked back to 27 and hitched a ride to Homestead. From there he took a cab back to the hotel.
3
The car rental agency was as good as its advertising. Parker got off the plane in Lincoln at three-thirty on Saturday morning and the Chevrolet was there waiting for him. He signed the papers, showed the driver’s license he’d bought in New Jersey, and drove off.
He was in a hurry, but it was too late at night. He was in a hurry because it was now nearly a week since Stubbs had escaped from the farmhouse, but it was too late at night because he was tired and he wasn’t sure what sort of reception he’d get at the sanitarium. Stubbs had said something about the cook having her common-law husband with her. So Parker drove the rented Chevy into town where he got a hotel room and slept till ten o’clock. He had a hurried breakfast and then drove out to the sanitarium.
It had only been three weeks since the death of Dr. Adler, but already the place looked as though it had been abandoned for years. Parker drove up past the neglected lawns to the front door and stopped the Chevy where the sign marked “Visitor’s Parking.”
This was going to be a delicate situation, and the best thing would be to come in openly, as though there was nothing to hide.
He got out of the car and walked up to the front door, which opened just before he got to it. A broad-shouldered heavy-browed man in corduroy pants and a flannel shirt stood in the doorway glowering at him. “What you want?”
“I want to talk to—” He couldn’t remember the cook’s name. “—I want to talk to the cook.”
“You mean May?”
“That’s it.”
“Hold it a second.” But he didn’t go anywhere, just stood in the doorway staring distrustfully at Parker. “What you want to talk to her about?”
“About Stubbs,” Parker said, “and why I didn’t kill him.”
He frowned massively at that, and took a step back from the doorway, but held onto the door. “Who are you supposed to be?”
Parker said, “Let me talk to May.”
From deeper inside the building, a woman’s voice called, “Who is it, Lennie?”
Lennie turned to shout, “Hold on a goddamn minute!” Then he looked at Parker again. “What’s the name?”
“Let me talk to May. She’ll recognize me.”
But then May was at the door, staring out at him. “That’s one of them!” she shouted. “That’s Anson, the last one!”
“He said something about Stubbs.”
“Don’t let him get away!” May shouted.
“Yuh.” Lennie came out across the threshold, his arms reaching out, and Parker hit him under the ribs. He made a dull sound and bent forward, and Parker said over his shoulder. “Tell him to back up.”
But May was ignoring him. She was turned away from the door, screaming, “Hey, Blue! Hey, Blue!”
Lennie was getting his wind back. In a minute, he’d try again, and maybe by then he’d have Blue to help him. Parker didn’t like the way it was starting out, but the thing to do now was to simplify the situation as much as possible, and the first way to simplify it would be to remove Lennie. So Parker chopped him in the Adam’s apple and clipped him on the temple, and then kneed his face as he was going down. And then Blue came through the door.
Blue was a yapping terrier of a man, short and wiry and ferocious, with a sandy moustache to match his sandy hair. He came in holding his arms like a man who’d taken a correspondence course in judo, so Parker stuck out his right hand for Blue to play games with. And while Blue was grabbing the arm and getting set for an over-the-shoulder toss Parker hit him with a left to the kidney and a left to the ear and a knee to the groin. Blue folded, letting go of Parker’s arm, and Parker used the right on his jaw.