the fuss they’ve been making about a few dead birds.”
She bent over, her hands on her knees, and looked down at the ruined man as if he was a harbinger of her own fate. She glanced up with the image of death in her eyes.
“Look. He’s got oil in his nostrils, oil in his mouth. That’s all they’ll need to ruin us.”
“We can’t just leave him lying here,” I said.
“No. We’ll take him inside, into the guesthouse.”
“Then you’ll really have trouble. It isn’t a good idea, Mrs. Lennox.”
She gave me a sharp look. “I didn’t ask you for your opinion.”
“But you’re getting it. Call the police.”
“I think we’d better, Mother. I’ll do it if you like.”
They went toward the main house, the older woman’s feet dragging in the sand. There was a fresh morning wind blowing across the beach, and I was shivering so hard that I couldn’t see straight. The wet towel hung like a cold lead apron around my loins. I was lobster red in the trunk, fish blue in the extremities, and not thinking too clearly.
I searched the dead man’s clothes. The pockets of his tweed suit were empty. But inside the right breast pocket of the jacket, a label had been sewn by the tailor who made it:
TAILORED FOR RALPH P. MUNGAN
JOSEPH SPERLING
SANTA MONICA, CALIF. DEC. 1955
Tony Lashman came out of the house and crossed the slanting beach. He was fully dressed but his hair was uncombed and he was blinking in the morning light.
He stopped blinking when he saw the dead man. Approaching with a kind of unwilling fascination, he leaned above him and studied his damaged face.
“Do you know him?” I said.
Lashman seemed to be startled by my question. He straightened up as if I’d caught him in a compromising position:
“No, I never saw him before. Who is he, anyway?”
“I don’t know. I just pulled him out of the water.”
“What happened to his face?” Lashman touched his own face, as if he suspected that it could happen to him.
“He may have been struck with a blunt instrument. Or he may have gotten banged up on the rocks.”
“You think he was murdered?”
“It’s a strong possibility. Are you sure you’ve never seen him before?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
He backed away from the body as if death was a contagion. But he lingered not far away, and after a little time he spoke again.
“You’re a private detective, isn’t that right?”
“I work at it.”
“What kind of money do you make?”
“A hundred a day and expenses. Why? Does Mrs. Lennox want to know?”
“I was asking on my own account. I’ve sometimes thought of going into the detective business myself. But I understood there was more money in it.”
“There is for a few. But it’s not a way to get rich quick, if that’s what you’re looking for. Besides, you need some background.”
“What kind of background?”
“Most private detectives come out of police work. I used to be on the Long Beach force myself.”
“I see.” He gave me a discouraged look, and went back into the house.
I stayed with the man’s body until the Sheriff’s deputies arrived. I told them I had seen him alive in Blanche’s Restaurant, but I didn’t mention the tailor’s label sewn into the pocket of his suit. They could find it themselves if they looked.
I went back into the guesthouse and took a hot shower. It failed to free me of the smell of oil or the chill that the dead man had left on me.
I had more than one reason to take his death personally. I had pulled him out of the water; and he was connected with the young man in the turtleneck who had frightened Laurel off the beach.
chapter
15
Before I got on the freeway to Santa Monica, I stopped at the harbor. The plastic boom across the harbor mouth had broken during the night. The floating oil had surged in with the morning tide and covered the surface of the enclosed water, coating the hulls of the boats lying at anchor and splashing the rocks and walls that lined the inner
She bent over, her hands on her knees, and looked down at the ruined man as if he was a harbinger of her own fate. She glanced up with the image of death in her eyes.
“Look. He’s got oil in his nostrils, oil in his mouth. That’s all they’ll need to ruin us.”
“We can’t just leave him lying here,” I said.
“No. We’ll take him inside, into the guesthouse.”
“Then you’ll really have trouble. It isn’t a good idea, Mrs. Lennox.”
She gave me a sharp look. “I didn’t ask you for your opinion.”
“But you’re getting it. Call the police.”
“I think we’d better, Mother. I’ll do it if you like.”
They went toward the main house, the older woman’s feet dragging in the sand. There was a fresh morning wind blowing across the beach, and I was shivering so hard that I couldn’t see straight. The wet towel hung like a cold lead apron around my loins. I was lobster red in the trunk, fish blue in the extremities, and not thinking too clearly.
I searched the dead man’s clothes. The pockets of his tweed suit were empty. But inside the right breast pocket of the jacket, a label had been sewn by the tailor who made it:
TAILORED FOR RALPH P. MUNGAN
JOSEPH SPERLING
SANTA MONICA, CALIF. DEC. 1955
Tony Lashman came out of the house and crossed the slanting beach. He was fully dressed but his hair was uncombed and he was blinking in the morning light.
He stopped blinking when he saw the dead man. Approaching with a kind of unwilling fascination, he leaned above him and studied his damaged face.
“Do you know him?” I said.
Lashman seemed to be startled by my question. He straightened up as if I’d caught him in a compromising position:
“No, I never saw him before. Who is he, anyway?”
“I don’t know. I just pulled him out of the water.”
“What happened to his face?” Lashman touched his own face, as if he suspected that it could happen to him.
“He may have been struck with a blunt instrument. Or he may have gotten banged up on the rocks.”
“You think he was murdered?”
“It’s a strong possibility. Are you sure you’ve never seen him before?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
He backed away from the body as if death was a contagion. But he lingered not far away, and after a little time he spoke again.
“You’re a private detective, isn’t that right?”
“I work at it.”
“What kind of money do you make?”
“A hundred a day and expenses. Why? Does Mrs. Lennox want to know?”
“I was asking on my own account. I’ve sometimes thought of going into the detective business myself. But I understood there was more money in it.”
“There is for a few. But it’s not a way to get rich quick, if that’s what you’re looking for. Besides, you need some background.”
“What kind of background?”
“Most private detectives come out of police work. I used to be on the Long Beach force myself.”
“I see.” He gave me a discouraged look, and went back into the house.
I stayed with the man’s body until the Sheriff’s deputies arrived. I told them I had seen him alive in Blanche’s Restaurant, but I didn’t mention the tailor’s label sewn into the pocket of his suit. They could find it themselves if they looked.
I went back into the guesthouse and took a hot shower. It failed to free me of the smell of oil or the chill that the dead man had left on me.
I had more than one reason to take his death personally. I had pulled him out of the water; and he was connected with the young man in the turtleneck who had frightened Laurel off the beach.
chapter
15
Before I got on the freeway to Santa Monica, I stopped at the harbor. The plastic boom across the harbor mouth had broken during the night. The floating oil had surged in with the morning tide and covered the surface of the enclosed water, coating the hulls of the boats lying at anchor and splashing the rocks and walls that lined the inner
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