“I saw him at a distance, I believe. In the surf. I’m forbidden the surf myself. Phoebe and he were cavorting with some other young people.” There was a trace of envious sadness in his voice.
“But you never met him?”
“Phoebe didn’t choose to introduce him to us. I think that was one of the sources of friction with Helen. Phoebe was seeing quite a lot of the young man while she was with us.”
“Do you know anything about him?”
“No. He seemed like a healthy young animal. And Phoebe was pleased and flattered by his attentions. But as I said, I never had the privilege of meeting him. Do you know anything about him?”
“I talked to him this morning in Boulder Beach. He’s a student there.”
“Are– is he still interested in Phoebe?”
“He was, until she disappeared.”
“Do you suspect him of having something to do with it?”
“No.”
His eyes were penetrating. “You do, though.”
“I suspect everybody. It’s my occupational neurosis. But he has no motive, and an alibi.”
“You’re thorough. What’s the boy’s name? Bobby something, isn’t it?”
“Bobby Doncaster.” I changed the subject. “Which of these pictures is the closest likeness?”
He shuffled them with a poker-player’s deftness, and picked out the one in the white dress. The one in tennis clothes was almost as good, he said. I asked for it, and got it.
“Now, is there anything else I can do, for you or Phoebe?”
“You might have some copies of her picture made. Fifty, or a hundred, just in case Wycherly decides to make a major effort.”
“What form would a major effort take?”
“Use of a national detective agency, mass media publicity, all-out police dragnet, with FBI co-operation if possible. Wycherly’s a wealthy man, he could swing a lot of weight.”
Trevor clapped his hands together. “I can swing it for him if necessary. Do you recommend it, Archer?”
“Wait till tomorrow. If I can put a finger on Catherine Wycherly, she may give me some answers. Do you know a real-estate man named Ben Merriman, by the way?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.” His eyebrows came together in concentration. “I may have seen his sign on Camino Real. Why?”
“He’s selling Mrs. Wycherly’s house. Maybe he can give me her new address. I’ll get in touch with you tomorrow. In the meantime, you’ll talk to the local police tonight?”
“As soon as you leave,” he said, rising. It was an invitation to go. On my way out through the library, I stepped on a pearl.
Chapter 8
Ben Merriman’s name was written in red neon across the cornice of a narrow pink stucco building. It was in a gap-toothed section of rundown houses and vacant lots and struggling businesses. A dog hospital stood next to Merriman’s office. Diagonally across the street, a drive-in swarmed with cutdown cars and their owners.
I locked the door of my car: I had a seventy-five-dollar microphone in the dash compartment. Dogs barked. I could smell pesticide.
A light outlined a closed door in a partition at the back of Merriman’s place. The glass front door was locked. I tapped on the glass with my car keys, and the door in the partition opened. Spilled light made a faceless silhouette of the woman who came uncertainly towards me. She fumbled at the self-lock and got it open.
“Is Mr. Merriman here?”
“No, he isn’t,” she said in a monotone.
“Can you tell me where to find him?”
“I wish I knew. I’ve been waiting for him for the last hour-and-a-half.” Resentment cracked her voice. She swallowed it. “Are you a client of Mr. Merriman’s?”
“A prospective one, maybe. I’m interested in some property he’s got listed.”
“Oh. Fine.”
She opened the door wide and turned on all the lights and urged me in. She was a thirtyish blonde in an imitation mink coat which had seen better days. So had she. One of those blondes who ripened early like California fruit, hung in full teen-age maturity for a few sweet months or years, then fall into the first high reaching hand. The memory of the sweet days stayed in them and fermented.
Closing the door she brushed against my back in a movement which was either erotic or alcoholic. The odor of gin which she wore instead of perfume suggested the latter possibility. But she opened up her minkless mink and gave me a dazzling smile across her figure. Touch me if you dare, the smile said: I dare you, but don’t you dare. They never got over their grudging need of the reaching hands that violated their first fine careless narcissism.
“I don’t really work for my husband any more, but I’m sure that I can help you with your needs, since he isn’t here at the moment. We have many fine properties listed.”
Coat and figure swinging in an interesting cross-rhythm, she pulled a straight chair out from a desk and offered it to me. I sat. A layer of dust powdered the formica desk-top. The daily calendar hadn’t been changed for the new year.
In front of the calendar was a little pile of three-by-five business blotters decorated with a photographic cut. The cut showed the clown-nosed man wearing a polka-dot bow tie and a carnivorous grin. It was captioned: “Ben Merriman the Realtor – firstest with the mostest. An honest deal every time.”
“Many fine,” his wife said. She sat down in a businesslike way which her unbusinesslike body parodied.
“How large a property are you interested in, Mr.–?”
I got out my wallet and produced a card which a Santa Monica life insurance salesman had presented to me before he found out what I did for a living. The name on the card was William C. Wheeling, Jr. I gave it to her.
“Wheeling,” I said. “I like a big house – something big and traditional-looking like that white Colonial I saw in Atherton today. It has your husband’s sign on it.”
“You must be thinking of the Mandeville house on Whiteoaks. Big stone wall around it?”
“That’s the one.”
“I’m sorry.” She was really sorry. “It’s sold. Too bad. You could have gotten a terrific buy. The owner knocked off thousands from the price.”
“Who was the owner?”
“A Mrs. Wycherly, a very fine woman, well-heeled. She told Ben she intends to travel.”
“Where to?”
“I wouldn’t know, I’m sure.” She opened her eyes wide in dubious innocence: they were dull purple like Santa Clara plums. “If you’re thinking of trying to contact her and make an offer, it’s no use. I think it’s even out of escrow already. The new owners are moving down from Oakland Heights any day now. Wonderful people. Ben said they paid cash out. But we have many other splendid buys.”
“I’m interested in this one. The for-sale sign is still up.”
“That doesn’t mean a thing. Ben should have taken it down long ago. If he’d keep his mind on the business–”
The front door opened, blowing cold air on the back of my neck. I thought it was Merriman and rose turning to meet him. It was a younger man in a turtle-neck cashmere sweater, robin’s-egg blue, the color of his eyes. His blonde good looks were spoiled by a small goatee which wagged on his chin like an unfinished piece of face.
“Where’s Ben?” he said to the woman. “I mean it, doll.”
“I don’t know where he is. He stood me up here two hours ago, said he had an appointment.”
“With Jessie?”
The woman’s hand went to her mouth. Through the fair skin on the back of it, I could see the branching veins climb like fine blue ivy. The tip of her middle finger slipped in between her teeth. She bit it hard, unwincing.
“Jessie?” she said around it. “What’s Jessie got to do with it?”
“He made a heavy pass at her today while I was at the store. I don’t like it.”