“I’m barbecuing some steaks. They always take longer than you think. What can I do for you, Mister–?”
“Archer,” I said. “I came at a bad time and I’ll try to make it fast. I’m a private detective, and I’ve been talking to the Master-at-Arms of your ship. McEachern tells me you looked after Homer Wycherly’s stateroom this last voyage.”
“I did, yessir.” His smile faded, and only the defensiveness remained. It was like watching a human face turn to smooth black stone. “Is there some trouble?”
“I only want a little information, Mr. Green. Wycherly came aboard on the afternoon of November the second. The ship was due to sail at four o’clock, but it didn’t actually sail until the following morning. Right?”
“Yessir. We went out at dawn.”
“Did Wycherly leave the ship on the night of November second?”
“Not to my knowledge. No, sir. ’Course, I wasn’t sitting there watching him all evening. I had plenty of things to do.”
“Did you see him at all in the course of the evening?’
“Yessir, I did. I was in and out of the stateroom several times. Mr. Wycherly is a man who likes things the way he likes them. I’m not complaining,” he added with a professional grin. “He gave me a good tip the other day. A hundred dollars buys a lot of steaks.”
“You say you were in and out of the stateroom. How frequently?”
“Every hour, anyway. Oftener than that. He kept asking for things and I kept bringing them.”
“What sort of things?”
“Drinks. Food. Speaking of food, my steaks are going to be incinerated.”
“I took them off the fire,” his wife said from the kitchen doorway. “The children are eating theirs, and I put ours in the oven to keep warm.” She retreated out of sight.
“I’m sorry to be a nuisance.”
“It’s perfectly all right,” he said with formal politeness. “Is there anything else you wanted to know?”
“Just this. Could Wycherly possibly have left the ship that evening long enough to get to Atherton and back?”
“I don’t see how. He couldn’t make the round trip to Atherton in less than an hour-and-a-half. And that would be cutting it real fine.”
I thanked him and left, with more unanswered questions in my mind. I took them across the city to Merriman’s house. My headlights caught the reflector sign that spelled out the dead man’s name in three-inch letters. There was a light in the cottage among the trees. I made my way up the dark walk and knocked on the door. Sally Merriman answered through it:
“Who is it?”
I reached back for the name I had given her. It was a long reach. “Bill Wheeling. We talked about houses the other night.”
She said in a tired voice: “I’ll put something on.”
Her footsteps went away and after a time returned on clicking heels. She switched on the outside light and opened the door. What she’d put on was a scarlet muumuu worn over tight black Capri pants.
“Come in, Mr. Wheeling.”
I stepped directly into her living room. It was poorly lit by a fussy silk-shaded lamp which stood on top of the blank-eyed television set. A battered-looking tape recorder stood on a coffee table. Newspapers cascaded from the chesterfield and chairs onto the floor.
The room was mirrored and repeated by the glass doors on the far side. I could see myself and the woman in the glass, like actors playing out a television drama which went on and on without any station breaks.
She gathered a sheaf of newspapers from one of the chairs and stood holding them. “I’m sorry, the place is a mess. My husband died, I guess you know that. I haven’t been doing much around the house.”
“You’ve had a rough time.”
“Yeah, a rough time.”
Its marks were on her face. She still had her beauty, though, in spite of death and gin, and the money problem that nags like a chronic disease under the heart. I was ashamed of using it against her.
She pulled herself together with a visible effort. From some incredible reserve she dredged up a smile and fixed it on her face and talked through it:
“I don’t have the listings here at the house, but I can tell you in general about our offerings. We have some very nice offerings.”
The words were a little out of synchronization with the movements of her mouth. She flapped her blue eyelids at me as if it was herself she was trying to sell. Thirtyish blonde, available at a bargain, abandoned by previous owner, needs some work. More work than I felt up to.
I remained standing with my back to the door, watching my mirror-image using my face in the glass. The man who knocked on any door at any time with any kind of a story.
“I have to admit something, Mrs. Merriman.”
Her body went rigid.
“I’m not actually here to buy a house. I’d like some help from you.”
“Help.” Her red lips curled over the word. “I need it. I don’t give it.”
“We may be able to help each other. I’m a detective looking into your husband’s death, and certain other matters.”
The rigidity rose to her face. “You can go back and tell your cohorts that I’ve done all the talking I’m going to. There’s no use me talking. I’ve told you people over and over my brother Stanley didn’t knock off Ben. It’s a dirty libel on a dead man who isn’t here–”
“I agree with you.”
The blue stuff on her eyelids exaggerated her look of surprise. “You mean you boys at the Hall of Justice have come to your senses?”
“I’m not from the Hall of Justice.”
I told her my real name and occupation. The information did nothing for our relationship:
“So you’re just a lousy gumshoe!”
“A pretty good one,” I said. “I’ve come to the conclusion that the answer to who killed your husband is in his office safe.”
Her lips parted and shaped the word, “How–?” before she clamped them shut. She was a lousy actress.
“I think the answer is on a tape recording which your brother made for your husband some time last spring. Your brother tried to get it from you yesterday.”
“Did Jessie Drake hire you and put you onto me?”
“No, but I would like to ease her out of this bum rap.”
“You expect me to help you with that? I wouldn’t cross the street to save her neck.”
“Aren’t you interested in who killed your husband?”
“Of course I’m interested.”
“Then come down to his office and let me into the safe.”
“I don’t know the combination.”
“That’s kind of hard to believe. You were pretty close to your husband’s business.”
“His legitimate business. I wanted no part of the other.” She narrowed her eyes at me and tried to look shrewd. “What about this tape? Is it really worth money?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t try to collect the money it’s worth if I were you. Your husband and your brother tried. Look what it got them.”
She looked, and shuddered. “They were killed on account of that tape?”
“That, and other things.”
“How do you know about it?”
“I told you I was a pretty good gumshoe.”
The woman didn’t smile. “You’re trying to take me for something.”
“What have you got besides trouble?”
“God knows I’ve got plenty of that – more than I can use.” Her expression softened a little. “You think it was one of the people on that tape who knocked off Ben?”
“You’ve heard the tape, Mrs. Merriman?”
She froze, still and flat-eyed. Finally she said:
“All right, so I heard it. Don’t go jumping to conclusions. I wasn’t in on the deal with Ben and Stanley. I wasn’t in on any of Ben’s deals. I watched the money come and I watched the money go and damn little of it ever rubbed off on me. He threw away thousands on the tables and he didn’t even leave me a house I can call my own. Then the cops had the gall to impound the money they found in Stanley’s shop. I say it rightfully belongs to me.”