Beigler looked into the Detectives’ room and yelled to Lepski who was typing his report. When Lepski came into the office, Terrell told Retnick to go on.
‘The elder of the two men was over six foot in height, powerfully built, blond, blue eyes and a broken nose of a fighter. He was wearing khaki drill trousers and matching shirt.’
‘That’s Harry Mitchell,’ Lepski said. ‘No doubt about it!’
‘Go on, Red,’ Terrell said, relighting his pipe.
‘The other man was younger: slightly built, long black hair down to his shoulders, thin face.’
‘Mean anything to you?’ Terrell asked looking at Lepski.
Lepski shook his head.
‘Doesn’t ring a bell.’ Then he screwed up his eyes and snapped his fingers. Wait a minute! That could be Solo’s barman. He turns up when the season opens. I saw him there last year. The description fits him. Randy... something... Broach? Something like that. Look, Chief, suppose I go to the restaurant tonight? Solo invited my wife and me for a free meal. It would be an excuse to look around.’
Terrell thought for a moment, then nodded.
‘Yes, but understand, Tom, you play it close to your chest. We don’t make any move until I get some facts about Mitchell... understand?’ He looked at Beigler. ‘Anything from Washington yet?’
Beigler shook his head.
‘You’re forgetting the time lag. We can’t hope to hear from Washington for some hours.’
‘So while we wait. I want that caravan found and I want it found fast,’ Terrell said.
Lepski was having an argument with his wife. This was nothing new. They had been married for three years, and on Lepski’s reckoning, they had a major argument twice a day. He had jotted down figures and had come up with the result of 2,190 arguments of which, he had decided bitterly, he might have won 180 of them.
He had returned home unexpectedly at 18.00. Unexpectedly because his usual time for coming home was around 21.00. He found his wife, Carroll, preparing goulash for his dinner.
Carroll Lepski, aged twenty-six, tall, dark and pretty was a young woman with a mind and a will of her own. Before she married, she was a clerk at the American Express Company, dealing with the rich, arranging their travel schedules and advising them. The work had made her confident and somewhat bossy. Having dealt with hundreds of irritable know-alls, she had learned that argument if carried on with logic and if persisted in generally won the day. Although Carroll was well equipped to deal with the problems of modern day life, she was a messy, but determined cook. Whenever she prepared a meal, apart from a sandwich or a heated up hamburger, her kitchen turned into a chaotic battlefield. Invariably, she used four pans when one could do; invariably she let the milk boil over; invariably she dropped some, if not all of the meal she was preparing on the floor and which she scooped up to return to the pan and then not waiting to wipe up the mess slid about on the remains with the agility of an ice skater. But Carroll had a lot of character and determination. Once she had made up her mind that Lepski was to have goulash for his dinner, then come hell or high water, he would have it.
Lepski found her not looking her best and struggling with the contents of a pot of cream that had overturned and had made a big puddle on the floor. It was a hot evening, the kitchen was hot and Carroll was hot and fussed.
So when he broke the news that he was taking her out to dinner and ‘For God’s sake, honey, get cleaned up. We’re going to a swank joint,’ she was in two minds whether to carry on with the goulash or to say to hell with the mess and try to be happy. It was so rare that Lepski had time to take her anywhere that the unexpected invitation turned her sour when it should have made her glad.
‘Why couldn’t you have told me this morning?’ she demanded pushing back a strand of dark hair that was falling over her left eye ‘We’re having goulash for dinner.’
Lepski pranced from one foot to the other in his impatience.
‘Never mind the goulash. We’re going out, and for Pete’s sake, don’t start an argument.’
This was a fatal remark which Lepski realised as soon as he had made it. Carroll stiffened and drew herself up.
‘Are you saying it is me who starts the arguments?’ she demanded.
Realising that he was now out on thin ice, Lepski gave her a false smile.
‘I said nothing of the sort. Start an argument? Now, listen, honey...’
‘You said, Don’t start an argument.’
Lepski tried to look amazed.
‘I said that? Forget it. It was a joke. Now, tonight...’
‘Your idea of a joke and mine are very different.’
Lepski ran his fingers through his hair. He took two quick steps to his left, then two to his right, then feeling relieved, he said, ‘Okay... no joke. Forget it, darling. We’re going to the Dominico restaurant which is the third best restaurant in this City. Marvellous food... sea... beach... soft music... soft lights... the works!’
Carroll’s eyes turned suspicious.
‘Why are we going?’ she demanded. ‘Have you done something you shouldn’t? Is this a softening-up process?’
Lepski inserted his finger in his collar and dragged at it.
‘We’ve been invited,’ he said, his voice rising. ‘The owner of the goddamn restaurant likes me. He said for me to bring my god... my wife... so we’re going. It’s all free.’
‘Do you have to swear like that, Lepski?’
Lepski remained very still. He was a little alarmed at the way his pulse was beating Finally, he said, ‘Forget it, honey. We’re invited... so let’s go.’
Carroll regarded him.
‘This man has invited us?’
Lepski nodded dumbly.
‘What’s he done then?’
Lepski walked around the kitchen. A soft humming sound came from him like a bee that has lost its hive.
‘He’s done nothing. He just happens to like me,’ he said when he could speak.
‘Why?’
‘How the hell do I know? He’s invited us for God’s sake! Do we have to get on a couch together to find out why?’
‘I wish you wouldn’t shout, Lepski,’ Carroll said severely. ‘I’m sure he is a crook and wants something out of you.’
‘Fine... okay... so he’s a crook and wants something out of me! Who cares? We get a free dinner!’ Lepski waved his hand violently. His hand came into contact with the lid of a saucepan, burning him. His language was so lurid Carroll put her hands over her ears.
‘Lepski! Sometimes I’m really ashamed of you!’
Lepski sucked his fingers.
‘So will you get ready?’ he snarled. ‘Have I any clean shirts?’
She stared at him.
‘How many shirts are you going to wear tonight then?’
Lepski closed his eyes for a brief moment.
‘I mean is there one goddamn clean shirt I can put on?’
‘Of course there is. Why don’t you look? What shall I wear?’
This question always drove Lepski crazy. Carroll always asked him and invariably it ended in an argument that went on for hours.
‘Anything... you know just look your lovely self. Shouldn’t you turn off the stove or something?’
An hour later, Lepski was sitting on the small patio, a cigarette burning between his fingers, containing his impatience with an effort that raised his blood pressure alarmingly.
Although married for three years, he still couldn’t get used to his wife’s method of dressing for an evening out. First she would go to her closet and take out her entire collection of clothes which she laid on the bed. Then she held a post mortem on each garment, telling Lepski, who was trapped in the room, that she was ashamed to be seen in any of them and he should be ashamed of being 2nd Grade Detective when he could easily be a Sergeant and draw Sergeant’s pay.