At the foot of Grove was a wide thoroughfare called Ocean Boulevard, which ran in a parallel curve to the harbor. Across it was a large, thickly shaded park, a municipal pier where you could hire a charter boat for salmon trolling or deep-sea fishing, and a public beach that curved in a white-powder crescent around the inlet. Cypress Bay had a little something for everyone; I wondered sourly what it had for Walter Paige.
Paige made a left turn on Ocean and drove a fifth of a mile; there, beachfront, was a motel that you might have mistaken for a series of private beach cottages if you had glanced at them in a cursory way. The only sign was a small, neat, bucolic one with letters fashioned out of strips of bark; it said: The Beachwood.
Paige took the Cutlass onto a white-gravel drive and stopped in front of a log-cabin-style building in the middle of the grounds; the drive formed a small inner square, servicing each of the cottages in their squared-off, extended U arrangement. I stopped on Ocean Boulevard and watched Paige get out and enter the motel office.
This looked like the end of the line-for now, anyway. But I was not going in until I made certain. So I sat there, waiting, and looked at the cottages. They were as neat and rustic as the sign, as the rest of Cypress Bay. Pines filled the grounds-and roses and lilac bushesand each cottage was separated from its neighbor by a high Monterey cypress hedge. Those cottages at the rear of the grounds had their backsides to the sea and to what looked like a private beach; the others, which formed the shortened arms of the U, seemed to have lush rear gardens bounded by more of the cypress hedges. A little something for everyone here, too-in keeping with the community image. But the Beachwood was not a place for the flotsam and jetsam that washed into Cypress Bay in the spring and summer months-and that made me wonder a little. It seemed well out of Paige's range, judging from his San Francisco address, but then, it could be that he was not paying for the accommodations.
Paige reappeared after a couple of minutes and got into the Cutlass again and drove it over to one of the cottages offering a rear view of the sea, parking under a kind of shake-roofed porte-cochere attached to the side wall. Then he got out with his overnight bag and used a key on the front door.
I sat there for ten minutes, but he did not come out again. I started my car and entered the white-gravel drive and parked in approximately the same spot as Paige had originally. When I stepped out, I could see that the number of his cottage was 9. I went into the office, and it was a dark, well-appointed room with a counter at one end and unvarnished redwood walls. A bell over the door announced my entrance, and a guy dressed in a gray business suit appeared through a doorway behind the counter and smiled at me in a professional way. He was a couple of years younger than my forty-seven, with a round, pink, complacent face and a mouth that was red enough to have been made up with lip rouge. A small rectangular card pinned to the breast pocket of his suit coat said that he was Mr. Orchard.
"Yes, sir?" He had a rich, masculine voice that belied the fruity appearance of his lips. "May I help you?"
I told him I wanted a sea-view cottage-8, 9, or 10, if any of those were available. Apologetically: they were not; in fact, all of the rear cottages were occupied at the moment. I asked him what he had with southern exposure, and he said that both 6 and 7 were free.
"May I see one before I register?"
"Certainly, sir." He took a couple of keys off a slotted wallboard to one side and led me out and across the grounds to Number 6. One room, with bath; good-sized, containing a double bed and Naugahyde chairs and a desk and redwood walls and a beamed ceiling-and a television set in one corner that spoiled the entire effect. The rear wall, behind tasteful gold monk's-cloth drapes, was of glass, with a sliding glass door; it looked out onto the private rear garden, but I was more interested in the view from the front window. I pulled bamboo blinds aside and looked over at Number 9. The angle was pretty good, if a little further away than I would have liked; I could see the front door clearly.
"It looks okay," I said to Orchard. "How much per day?"
"Twenty-five dollars, sir."
"Well, that's fine," I told him, even though it wasn't. "I'll only be here tonight, I think."
We went back to the office and I filled in the registration form and paid Orchard in advance and took my car over to the porte-cochere for Number 6. Inside, I drew one of the Naugahyde chairs up to the window; then I pulled the blinds halfway up and sat down in the chair with my cigarettes and my thoughts to wait for something to happen.
Three
Nothing happened until a quarter to one, and then it was not much.
The boredom of waiting had led to too many cigarettes, and the cigarettes had led to a thin pulsing headache and a deepening of the tightness in my chest. I began to cough a little-dry, sharp sounds like the barking of a very old hound. I stood up and paced back and forth in front of the window to ease cramped muscles, holding a handkerchief over my mouth to catch the phlegm, not looking at the handkerchief, not thinking about the phlegm. I wished to Christ this other woman would come, so I could call Judith Paige and confirm her fears and listen to her cry; they always cry when you tell them, even though they expect the worst. Then I could go home and drink a couple of bottles of beer and try to forget the entire damned thing. Or I wished that Paige would do something to alleviate suspicion completely, to restore some of my tenuous faith in the basic goodness of man; my telephone call, and Judith Paige's tears, would have different meanings then, and those beers would taste better and my apartment would be a little less lonely tonight.
My throat felt dry, and I went into the bathroom and drank a glass of water. When I returned to the window, Paige was several steps from the front door of his cottage, walking without haste along the white-gravel drive toward Ocean Boulevard.
I watched him from the window until he had passed the motel office, and then I opened my door and stepped out into the warm, salt-fragrant afternoon. I came around a couple of conifers in time to see Paige turn left on the boulevard and begin to make his way toward the village proper. He could not be going far, I thought, if he was walking and not driving. Maybe this was it-something, anyway, to give me an idea of which way this thing was going to go.
I gave him a good fifty yards, and followed him on the same side of the boulevard. The sidewalks were filled with humanity, and their bright faces reflected the joy of problem-free moments and a day abundant in the sweet breath of early spring; I felt a little like an alien among them.
Paige went along the edge of the white beach and entered the verdurous park I had seen earlier. Picnickers and chess players, relaxers and readers and watchers sat on the rolling greensward or on curving wooden benches; and beyond, the long municipal pier was crowded with a smooth ebb and flow like the surf itself. There were more sunbathers, more strollers on the shining white sand of the beach. Signs told you the surfs were unsafe, that there were riptides and undertows, but there were still a few waders; there would always be a few waders, a few swimmers, a few challengers.
At one of the benches near the beach, Paige sat down next to an old lady wearing a loose-brimmed straw sun hat. She did not look at him and he did not look at her; he sat with his legs crossed, very relaxed, staring out to sea. I stepped off the wide cinder path and sat down on the lawn under one of the pine trees. I was wearing an old suit, the oldest of the three I owned, and it was of a dark enough color so that grass stains would not show. The walk and the sea air had helped my headache a little, and my chest felt less constricted.