“David is giving me rope. Enough to hang myself, he hopes.”
I backed the Ford out the drive and damn near knocked over the mailbox. As I got straightened away and headed back up the street, a pair of headlights flicked on and followed. I hadn’t lost my tail. If they hoped I would lead them to May and Mr. Kendall, I hoped so, too. The hell of it was, I hadn’t the least idea where Kendall might have gone.
Then I thought of Mabel. She’d been Kendall’s secretary for years. She knew more about him than anyone else in the city. If he had a hideout somewhere, she should know where it was. The question was, would she tell me?
Mabel’s last name was Bliss. She lived with her mother in an old frame house down on the point, not far from the ferry. The subdivision was a relic from the boom days of ’25. Unpaid-for red-brick streets and curbs and even water hydrants wound through a wilderness of saw palmetto and moss-hung live oak, for miles.
I parked in front of the house and walked through a lane of bug-infested oleanders to wide termite-eaten stairs, and up the stairs to a sagging wooden porch.
Mabel’s mother came to the door. She was an old lady with white hair and a pleasant, if somewhat toothless smile.
“Yes?” she asked me.
I said, “Might I please speak to Mabel?”
Somewhere inside the house, Mabel heard my voice. And she’d heard the newscast, too. She screamed:
“Shut the door, Ma. Quick. He’s crazy. That’s Jim Charters. The man who just killed Mr. Kendall.” Mabel sounded hysterical. “He probably wants to kill me, too.”
The old lady slammed the door in my face. So hard the whole house trembled. Through a window opening on the porch I heard the whirr and click of a dial phone. Mabel, undoubtedly, was phoning the police. I looked up the street. She could have saved a nickel by sticking her head out the window and screaming. My tail was parked a quarter of a block away. At the distance, in the moonlight, it could have been Hap Arnold, or David himself, for that matter.
I walked back through the lane of oleanders to my car. There were two things I could do. I could spook. I could let myself go and be as hysterical as Mabel. Or I could hang onto my feelings and reason this thing out.
Mr. Kendall wasn’t a man who would act entirely on impulse. He was smart. He’d known, he must have known, that on the woman angle alone, sooner or later, he was bound to come a cropper. He couldn’t go on studding in other men’s stables forever. In time, some husband was bound to blow the whistle on him.
It seemed almost certain he had left himself an out, if it were only a hideaway, where he could lie low until the scandal had blown over. Now there was the Tony Meares, Pearl Mantinover deal. Now he had more than a wronged husband to worry about. Cade Kiefer was certain to feel bad about losing Tony’s services. Very bad. It seemed plausible to me that if Mr. Kendall had prepared a hideout, now was the time for him to use it. If only as a springboard in his attempt to get out of the state and the country.
So he had a hideout. Where was it? I wasn’t smart. He was. And I knew of places along the coast and on the islands just off-shore where a man could hide for years.
I drove back toward the center of town. It was just possible that one of Kendall’s women might know of some such prepared hideout. The only one of his women I knew personally was Lou. If I remembered correctly, Lou had said something about living at the Flamingo Hotel.
It was an old unpretentious hotel about six blocks out of the business center. I parked on the far side of the street and sat looking at the place. Back in the days of the Old Orange Belt Railway, the Flamingo had been The Hotel. Now it was only a big white frame relic with a lot of useless gingerbread and space wasted on unscreened balconies.
One thing was for sure, Lou paid her own rent. Lou was a funny girl. With her looks and her body and her willingness to use it
I backed the Ford out the drive and damn near knocked over the mailbox. As I got straightened away and headed back up the street, a pair of headlights flicked on and followed. I hadn’t lost my tail. If they hoped I would lead them to May and Mr. Kendall, I hoped so, too. The hell of it was, I hadn’t the least idea where Kendall might have gone.
Then I thought of Mabel. She’d been Kendall’s secretary for years. She knew more about him than anyone else in the city. If he had a hideout somewhere, she should know where it was. The question was, would she tell me?
Mabel’s last name was Bliss. She lived with her mother in an old frame house down on the point, not far from the ferry. The subdivision was a relic from the boom days of ’25. Unpaid-for red-brick streets and curbs and even water hydrants wound through a wilderness of saw palmetto and moss-hung live oak, for miles.
I parked in front of the house and walked through a lane of bug-infested oleanders to wide termite-eaten stairs, and up the stairs to a sagging wooden porch.
Mabel’s mother came to the door. She was an old lady with white hair and a pleasant, if somewhat toothless smile.
“Yes?” she asked me.
I said, “Might I please speak to Mabel?”
Somewhere inside the house, Mabel heard my voice. And she’d heard the newscast, too. She screamed:
“Shut the door, Ma. Quick. He’s crazy. That’s Jim Charters. The man who just killed Mr. Kendall.” Mabel sounded hysterical. “He probably wants to kill me, too.”
The old lady slammed the door in my face. So hard the whole house trembled. Through a window opening on the porch I heard the whirr and click of a dial phone. Mabel, undoubtedly, was phoning the police. I looked up the street. She could have saved a nickel by sticking her head out the window and screaming. My tail was parked a quarter of a block away. At the distance, in the moonlight, it could have been Hap Arnold, or David himself, for that matter.
I walked back through the lane of oleanders to my car. There were two things I could do. I could spook. I could let myself go and be as hysterical as Mabel. Or I could hang onto my feelings and reason this thing out.
Mr. Kendall wasn’t a man who would act entirely on impulse. He was smart. He’d known, he must have known, that on the woman angle alone, sooner or later, he was bound to come a cropper. He couldn’t go on studding in other men’s stables forever. In time, some husband was bound to blow the whistle on him.
It seemed almost certain he had left himself an out, if it were only a hideaway, where he could lie low until the scandal had blown over. Now there was the Tony Meares, Pearl Mantinover deal. Now he had more than a wronged husband to worry about. Cade Kiefer was certain to feel bad about losing Tony’s services. Very bad. It seemed plausible to me that if Mr. Kendall had prepared a hideout, now was the time for him to use it. If only as a springboard in his attempt to get out of the state and the country.
So he had a hideout. Where was it? I wasn’t smart. He was. And I knew of places along the coast and on the islands just off-shore where a man could hide for years.
I drove back toward the center of town. It was just possible that one of Kendall’s women might know of some such prepared hideout. The only one of his women I knew personally was Lou. If I remembered correctly, Lou had said something about living at the Flamingo Hotel.
It was an old unpretentious hotel about six blocks out of the business center. I parked on the far side of the street and sat looking at the place. Back in the days of the Old Orange Belt Railway, the Flamingo had been The Hotel. Now it was only a big white frame relic with a lot of useless gingerbread and space wasted on unscreened balconies.
One thing was for sure, Lou paid her own rent. Lou was a funny girl. With her looks and her body and her willingness to use it
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