‘Seacombe 556.’
‘Right,’ Terrell said, scribbling the number on his blotter. He hung up and pushed back his chair. ‘All right, boys, you get on with your other jobs. I’ll finish this one off.’
When Hess and Beigler had gone, Terrell called Alec Brewer, the Coroner. He explained the situation to him.
‘Mel Devon?’ Brewer’s voice sounded shocked. ‘He’s an old friend of mine. I never. You’re sure it’s the same man, Frank?’
‘Same name,’ Terrell said. ‘I haven’t talked to him yet. Could be I’m wrong.’
‘You’d better check. I can’t believe it. You check, Frank, and call me back.’
‘Maybe I’d better go down and see him.’
‘You do that, and be careful, Frank. Mel’s an important man in this City.’
The Florida Safe Deposit Bank was founded in 1948 by a syndicate of immensely wealthy men who had either retired to live in Paradise City or who spent three months of the year on vacation there. These men were determined to have a completely safe place in which they could keep their bonds, their cash for gambling, their wives’ jewellery and furs and their gold and silver plate, used from time to time on special occasions. Since the bank had been opened, Paradise City had ceased to have the highest burglary rating of all the rich cities along the Florida coast. It now claimed the distinction of the lowest crime rate with the least number of criminals.
The bank had proved such a success that all the big jewellers, the hotels, the three Casinos and the various private clubs used its modern safes in which to keep their cash and valuables. The Bank had three armoured trucks, each guarded by four ex-Ranger guards, that delivered or collected from its clients, and only once had one of the trucks been attacked. This had been a daring attempt by six vicious gunmen, but the attack had failed. Five of the gunmen and one of the guards had been killed. The reputation of the guards’ shooting from this battle scared off any further attempts.
When the Texas oil billionaires invaded Paradise City during the vacation months, they all used the Bank as their pocket book, and during this period, it was rumoured that there were more money, securities and jewellery under its imposing roof than under any other single roof in the world.
Captain Terrell parked his car in one of a number of parking bays, got out and walked up the wide steps to the Bank’s entrance.
Two guards, wearing smart grey blouses and breeches, knee boots and peak caps worn straight, Colt .45 automatics on their hips, eyed Terrell, then saluted him.
‘Morning, Chief,’ one of them said. ‘Official?’
‘No,’ Terrell said and paused. He knew both men. He had shot against them at the .22 Rifle Club and knew them to be exceptional marksmen. ‘I wanted to see Mr. Devon.’
‘Second desk on the right as you go in,’ the guard said.
Terrell nodded and walked into the vast reception hall with its marble pillars, its Ali Baba vases of flowers and its discreet lighting. The hall was circular in shape and between each pillar stood a desk at which an executive sat either writing, telephoning or discussing business with a client.
A thin, balding man, dressed in a dark grey tropical suit sat at the second desk on the right. A mahogany plaque with the word Information in gold letters stood on the desk.
He glanced up. Recognizing Terrell, he nodded and smiled.
‘I’d like a word with Mr. Devon,’ Terrell said. ‘Urgent private business.’
If the man was surprised, he didn’t show it.
‘Sit down, Captain Terrell,’ he said and reached for the telephone. He had a murmured conversation while Terrell sat and looked around the hall. This was the first time he had been inside the bank and he was impressed.
‘Mr. Devon will see you right away,’ the man said, replacing the receiver. He indicated the elevator at the end of the hall. ‘Third floor.’
Terrell nodded his thanks, crossed the hall and entered the elevator. He was whisked up to the third floor where a pretty girl, her dark hair making a neat frame for her face, was waiting. ‘Come this way, Captain Terrell,’ she said and led him along a wide, long corridor to a door of polished, panelled mahogany. She opened the door and stood aside, murmuring, ‘Captain Terrell, Mr. Devon.’
Terrell entered a large airy room, luxuriously furnished with a handsome desk as the only piece of office equipment. Above the wooden carved fireplace hung an early Van Gogh. Lounging chairs, a Louis XIV cabinet, converted into a cocktail cabinet and rich Persian rugs completed the furnishing. Four large windows overlooked the Yacht Club basin and the sea.
The man behind the desk stood up and offered his hand. As Terrell shook hands, he remembered him now more clearly.
Mel Devon was thirty-nine years of age. He was tall, broad shouldered and powerfully built. His close cut brown hair was flecked with grey. His features were regular. His skin was burned brown by the sun and wind, his eyes blue and steady, his mouth firm and humorous. He gave the impression of ability, shrewdness and kindness.
‘It’s some time since we met, Captain,’ he said, waving Terrell to a chair. ‘I’ve often thought of that game we had. I never see you at the club these days. Don’t tell me you’ve given up golf?’
Terrell sat down.
‘I don’t play as regularly as I would like. I turn out on Saturday mornings but that’s about all the time I can spare.’
‘How’s the game?’
‘Pretty steady. You still playing off six?’
Devon smiled. He seemed pleased Terrell should have remembered his handicap.
‘I’m down to four now.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘Not my idea. I get an awful beating every now and then.’
He leaned back in his chair and rested his big hands on the desk. His look of inquiry told Terrell that although he was pleased to see him, he was busy.
‘Mr. Devon,’ Terrell began slowly, ‘I’m making inquiries about a woman. It is just possible you may be able to help me. Her name is Muriel Marsh Devon.’
Devon stiffened. His mouth tightened and a sharp probing expression came into his eyes.
‘That’s the name of my wife, Captain,’ he said. ‘Is she in some kind of trouble?’
‘You could call it that,’ he said and scratched the side of his jaw. ‘She died last night — suicide.’
Devon became motionless. He stared fixedly at Terrell who felt sorry for him.
‘It must be close on fifteen years since we parted,’ he said finally. ‘We married when we were kids. I was nineteen at the time. It lasted scarcely two years. Suicide? I’m sorry to hear that. You... you’re sure it is Muriel?’
‘There is a daughter, Norena,’ Terrell said.
‘That’s right. Have you news of her?’
‘She’s arriving in Seacombe some time this morning.’
‘I see. This will be a shock to her.’ Devon looked up.
‘Would you know if she was fond of her mother?’
‘I believe she was,’ Terrell said, hesitated, then went on, ‘The case is a painful one, Mr. Devon. I take it you know nothing about what has been happening to your wife after she left you?’
Looking suddenly apprehensive, Devon shook his head.
Briefly, but omitting no important details, Terrell told him all he had learned of Muriel Marsh Devon. He concluded with the murder of Johnnie Williams and Muriel’s suicide at La Coquille restaurant.
Motionless, a frozen expression on his face, Devon listened.
Having said his say, Terrell got to his feet and walked to the big window and stared down at the busy yachts in the basin. Some moments later, Devon said quietly, ‘Thank you, Captain. It’s not a pretty story, is it? You’re sure Norena knows nothing about her mother’s way of life?’