All The Way — 71
and then one more. The phone made a crashing noise, as if it
had struck the edge of the table, and I heard him fall.
Oh, you press the middle valve down. . . .
Something else fell. And then there was nothing but the
music, and a rhythmic tapping sound, as if the telephone
receiver was swinging gently back and forth, bumping the leg
of the table.
Bump . . . bump . . .
. . . and the music goes round and round . . . yoo-oo-ohoo. . .
.
* * *
I made it in a little over ten minutes. As soon as I’d got out in
the fresh air I was all right. She’d probably fainted, but she’d
come around. I parked a block away. The front door was
unlocked. I slipped inside and closed it.
One bridge lamp was burning in a corner, and the lights
were on in the kitchen. She wasn’t in here. I sighed with
relief. The phonograph had been shut off, and the phone was
back on its cradle. The apartment was completely silent
except for the humming of the air-conditioner. He was lying
face down beside the table which held the telephone. I
hurried through to the bedroom. She was in the bathroom,
standing with her hands braced on the sides of the wash
basin, looking at her face in the mirror. Apparently she’d
started to brush her teeth, for some reason, for the
toothbrush was lying in the basin where she’d dropped it. She
was very pale. I took her arm. She turned, stared at me
blankly, and then rubbed a hand across her face.
Comprehension returned to her eyes. “I’m all right,” she said.
There was no tremor in her voice.
I led her out and sat her on the bed, and knelt beside her.
“Just hold on for a few minutes, and we’ll be out of here. You
sit right there. Would you like a drink?”
“No,” she said. “I’d rather not.” She spoke precisely without
raising her voice. I had an impression it was nothing but iron
self-control, and that she was walking very carefully along the
edge of screaming. That part of it, however, I couldn’t help
her with.
All The Way — 72
The tarpaulin I’d bought was in a broom closet in the
kitchen. I carried it into the living room, spread it on the rug,
and rolled him on to it. I didn’t like looking at his face, so I
threw a fold of the canvas over it. There was blood on his
shirt, and some on the rug where he’d lain. I went through his
pockets, taking everything out— wallet, traveler checks, car
keys, room key from the Dauphine, small address book, the
letter from Marian, cigarette holder, lighter, cigarettes, and a
small plastic vial of some kind of pills. I tore up the letter and
shoved it back in his coat pocket, along with the pills and the
cigarette holder. His glasses had fallen off. I put them in his
pocket also. All the other items I placed on the coffee table.
He wore no rings. I left his watch on his wrist. The gun, a
small .32, was on the rug near the phonograph. I put it in
another coat pocket.
I rolled him in the tarpaulin and pulled him out into the
kitchen, beside the back door. I cut two strips off the canvas
to use for ropes, doubled him into the fetal position, and
bound him. I was shaking badly now, and my stomach was
acting up again. I leaned against the sink, poured a drink of
whisky from the bottle in a cupboard, and downed it. In a
minute I felt a little better.
I filled a pan with water, located a sponge, and scrubbed at
the blood stain on the living-room rug. It took nearly ten
minutes and four pans of water. I knew a lot of it had gone
through to the pad beneath, and that the rug would show a
water stain when it dried, but I could take care of that later.
I’d have the whole rug shampooed. I washed the pan, and the
sink, and turned out the kitchen light. It was a relief to get
away from him.
She was just getting up from the bed. I took her in my arms.
“I’m all right now,” she said. “I’m sorry I broke up that way.”
“Everything’s under control,” I told her. “He had the room
key. That was the only thing I was worried about. What time is
your flight?”
“I’m wait-listed at five-fifteen, and confirmed at six-thirty.”
I looked at my watch. It was five minutes to two. She’d have
a long wait, alone, at the airport, but it couldn’t be helped.
She couldn’t stay here. She seemed to be in full control of
herself, and rational. She put on some lipstick, and her hat,
and I closed the overnight case and found her coat, gloves,
All The Way — 73
and purse. I dropped the Dauphine room key in my pocket.
There was horror in her eyes just for an instant as we went
out through the living room.
“The car’s about a block away,” I said. “I didn’t want any
more traffic in and out of here than we had to have.”
She made no reply. I turned out the lights and locked the
door. When we got to the car, I lit her a cigarette. She
remained silent all the way up Collins Avenue. I reached over
once and took her hand. It was like ice, even through the
mesh of the glove.
I parked about a block from the Dauphine. Turning to her, I
took her face between my hands, and asked, “I’ll be about ten
minutes; are you sure you’ll be all right?”
“Yes, of course,” she replied, in that same quiet, beautifully
controlled sort of way.
I walked up past the Dauphine and entered the driveway at
the exit end. There was an extensive parking area here, going
back along the side of this wing of the building. About twothirds
of the way back there was a doorway. I entered it, and
was in one of the ground-floor corridors. I took the key from
my pocket. It was No. 226. At the end of the corridor there
was a self-service elevator and a stairway. I took the stairway.
In the corridor above, I began checking the numbers—216—
214—I was going the wrong way. I went back around the
corner. A waiter came past, carrying a tray. I swung the key
absently, and nodded. He smiled, and went on. 222—224—
Here it was. The corridor was empty now. I unlocked the door,
slipped inside, and closed it.
The curtains were drawn over the window at the other end
of the room. A light was burning on the night table beside the
bed, and the bathroom lights were on. One of the three
matching fiberglass suitcases was on the luggage stand,
unopened, and the others were on the floor beside it. I didn’t
like the look of that. He’d been up here approximately ten
minutes without unpacking anything, so maybe he’d been on
the phone. He might have called Coral Blaine to tell her he’d
arrived. We hadn’t believed he would, because of the late
hour. But if he had, had he mentioned the letter from Marian?
Well, there was nothing I could do about it at the moment,
and I had plenty of other armed hand grenades to juggle
without worrying about that one. I rumpled the bed, and
All The Way — 74
reached for the phone. The front office should know he’d been
out; they’d probably called the cab for him. Play it that way.
The operator answered.
“Desk, please,” I said.
“Yes, sir.” Then she added quickly. “Oh, Mr. Chapman,
would you like me to try that Thomaston call again
I breathed softly in relief. “No. Just cancel. I’ll call in the
morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
The night clerk came on. “Desk.”
“Chapman,” I said, “in two-two-six. There haven’t been any
messages for me?”
“Uuuuh—let’s see. No, sir, not a thing.”
“Okay,” I said. “I won’t want to be disturbed until about
noon. Would you notify the switchboard not to put any calls
through?”
“Yes, sir. And just hang the sign on the doorknob. The maids
won’t come in.”
“Thank you,” I said. I got the DO NOT DISTURB sign off the
dresser, switched off the lights, and peered out. The corridor
was clear. I draped the sign on the knob, made sure the door
was locked, and walked along to the stairs. I met no one.
When I was on the sidewalk in front I breathed freely again.
One more hurdle was past.
I swung the car around, went back down Collins Avenue,
and took the North Bay Causeway, headed for the airport. She
sat perfectly erect and composed beside me, but she spoke
only once during the whole trip.
“I took advantage of you,” she said musingly. “God forgive
me for that. I’m sorry, Jerry.”
“What?” I asked. “What do you mean, you took advantage of
me?”
She made no reply.
Just before we reached the terminal, I pulled to the curb
and parked. It was ten minutes to three.
“What day is this?” I asked quickly.
“Thursday, November fourteen. That isn’t necessary; I tell
you I’m perfectly all right.”
All The Way — 75
I had to be sure. She was on her own from here on. “Tell me
your schedule.”
”I leave here at five-fifteen or six-thirty. Either way, I’ll be
back in my room in New York before noon. I check out of the
hotel tomorrow at one p.m. and fly to New Orleans. I’ll be in
Thomaston Saturday morning. From then on, it’s exactly as
we have it written down.”
“Right,” I said.
“You’ll make certain about the tapes, won’t you? And under
no circumstances are you to try to call me.”
“Don’t worry about the tapes. Or about anything. I can
handle it. We’ll say good-bye here. Then I’ll swing in, drop you
at the terminal, and run. Okay?”
“Yes.” She turned, her face lifted to mine.
I kissed her, holding her very tightly for a moment, and
whispered against her cheek. “I’ll just be going through the
motions until I’m with you again. That’s all I’m going to say
now. Break. And let’s go.”
I swung in, stopped in front of the terminal, and helped her
out. She lifted a hand, turned, and went inside.
* * *
It was three-thirty-five when I backed into the driveway
beside the apartment. The house beyond the high and
shadowy wall was dark, and the streets were deserted. I
stopped short of the garage doors, cut the ignition and lights,
and got out. I unlocked the trunk, and eased it open. Letting
myself in at the front, I went through to the bedroom, and
changed into fishing clothes. I went out into the kitchen,
without turning on the lights, and poured another drink. I
dreaded this part of it.
I wasn’t even sure I could do it, except for one thing— I had
to. I weighed a hundred and eighty and he a hundred and
ninety-five. But I was in fairly good condition. I eased the
kitchen door open, pulled him through it to the edge of the
concrete slab, and bent my knees to get my arms round him.
Three minutes later the trunk was closed again and I was
draped across it, trembling and sweaty and sick at my
stomach. They say madmen don’t know their own strength.
Neither do desperate ones.
All The Way — 76
I slipped back into the kitchen, closed and locked the door,
turned out the light in the bedroom, and went out the front. I
opened the garage door, backed out, and coupled on the
trailer. By this time I’d probably wakened the people in the
house beyond the wall, but it was all right. Florida was full of
fishermen waking their neighbors at four in the morning. I
drove out into the street.
I wanted to stop for some coffee, but didn’t dare. I didn’t
know how soon after five it would start growing light. When I
was beyond Homestead and Florida City on the open highway
I opened the car up to seventy. It was five-ten and still dark
when I crossed on to Key Largo. I checked my speedometer at
the junction of the two roads, and swung left. In a few
minutes I came to the first launching site. I swung my
headlights to get a look at it, pulled up, and backed down to
the water’s edge. I had to get out once to judge the distance.
In a moment I had the boat off. I pulled it around and
beached it, and turned off the car’s lights. The east was gray
now, and I noticed for the first time that it was almost calm.
That was good; I could go far out, off soundings. Mosquitoes
buzzed around my face. I steeled myself, unlocked the trunk,
and was just raising the lid, when I tensed up, listening. A car
was coming. I slammed it. Headlights swept over me. The car
came on, slowed almost to a stop, and then went on. It was
towing a boat.
The sound of it died away. I yanked open the trunk, and
pawed blindly at the canvas. Somehow, the hated and brutal
weight was in my arms again, and I staggered to the side of
the boat. I ran back and brought the concrete blocks, two at a
time, and frantically felt round for the wire and the pliers. I
drove the car out until the trailer was clear of the launching
area, and parked it near the road. I was locking it when
headlights burst over me again.
The car stopped. It was towing a boat too. A man got out,
said, “Good morning,” and switched on a flashlight.
My mouth was dry with fear. I forced it open at last, made
some kind of reply, and started in motion towards the boat.
He was directing the driver of the car, throwing the flashlight
beam toward the water. It swept over the boat.
“Nice looking outfit you got there,” he said. “Get in the
stern, and I’ll push you off.”
All The Way — 77
“It’s all right,” I said. “Thanks just the same.”
He was still coming towards me with the flashlight. I caught
the bow of the boat, and heaved. It shot out. I clambered
aboard, getting my feet wet. I stayed in the bow, between him
and Chapman’s body, while I picked up an oar and hurriedly
poled my way out another fifty feet. He had turned away now
and was directing the driver of the car. I sat down in the
stern, shaking all over, and started the motor.
The east was light now, but the visibility was still poor. I
headed seawards, running at idling speed and watching for
obstructions. Off to my left a light flashed. A westbound
tanker went past inside the Stream, still two or three miles
ahead of me. It was full daylight by the time I was past the
line of reefs. The boat pitched lazily on the long ground-swell
rolling up from the south-east. I went on. The tanker was far
to the westward, and I could see nothing of the other two
boats. I was in the Stream now, completely alone, and
probably near the hundred-fathom curve. Key Largo was
down on the horizon, and visible only when I crested a swell. I
cut the motor and reached for the wire and the concrete
blocks.
The boat heaved upward on the greasy swell, and shipped
some water as he went over. The sun was just coming up.
All The Way — 78
Eight
I stopped to turn back the boat and trailer on the way into
town, and it was nine-fifteen when I got back to the
apartment. I had one more drink, made a pot of coffee, and
showered and shaved.
I couldn’t remember when I’d had anything to eat, but I
wasn’t hungry. I was running on nerve now, but I was too
tense and keyed up to be tired. The real test was yet to come.
I had to call Coral Blaine in about two hours, and if I failed to
pass, Marian Forsyth and I were dead. I wondered how she
was feeling at the moment, knowing it all depended on me
and that we couldn’t even communicate any more.
I dressed in a lightweight flannel suit, white shirt, and a
conservative tie on the order of the one Chapman had worn. I
put my horn-rim glasses in a coat pocket, and then stowed
away a packet of the filter cigarettes, the cigarette holder,
and Chapman’s lighter, which was one of the butane jobs.
Then his wallet, the folder of traveler’s checks, the little
address book, his car keys, and the Dauphine room key. But I
had one more act to perform as Jerry Forbes. I had to return
the car. I removed the rental deposit slip from my own wallet
and put it in a pocket.
The straw hat was slightly too large, so I cut a strip of
newspaper and folded it inside the sweat band. I put the
seven rolls of tape and the other information in the briefcase
she’d bought before leaving for Nassau, closed the recorder,
All The Way — 79
turned off the air-conditioner, and took one last look round. I
drove over to Miami, turned in the car, walked up a block,
caught a cab, and gave an address on Collins Avenue near the
Dauphine.
I got out a block away, and walked back, carrying the
recorder and the briefcase. Entering the driveway at the exit
end, I went up through the parking area and entered the side
door as I had last night. There were a few guests in the
corridors now, and I passed one of the maids, and a waiter
pushing a room-service trolley, but no one paid any attention
to me. The corridor before No. 226 was empty except for a
furry fat man in bathing trunks. I unlocked the door and
slipped inside, removing the DO NOT DISTURB sign from the
knob.
It was eleven-ten, and I was now Harris Chapman. I was up
there on the tight rope I had to walk for twelve days—
provided I got past the first step.
I removed my jacket, shirt, and tie, and hung them in the
closet, took off my shoes, and picked up the phone and called
Room Service. I ordered a pot of coffee, orange juice, and a
Miami Herald.
I rumpled the bed some more, went into the bathroom,
washed my face, turned the shower on very hot for a minute
or two until the room began to get steamy, rubbed one of the
fresh bath towels over the wet tiles until it was damp, and
draped it carelessly back on the rack. I got the glasses out of
my jacket and put them on. They were mildly corrective
reading glasses she’d convinced an optometrist she needed
because of headaches, and weren’t too hard to put up with.
They and the mustache changed my appearance amazingly. I
looked some five years older.
I opened the bag that was on the luggage rack. It was the
companion bag to a two-suiter, filled with shirts, underwear,
socks, handkerchiefs, and so on. I pulled out a pair of
pajamas, wadded them, and tossed them across the bed. A full
bottle of Scotch was nestled among the clothes. I thought of
what Marian had called him—an aging adolescent. It seemed
incredible she’d been in love with him, but maybe he’d been
different before he looked up and saw middle age and
panicked.
All The Way — 80
There were some papers in the top flap. I pulled them out,
and one envelope was exactly what I was looking for. It was a
statement from Webster & Adcock, his brokerage firm in New
Orleans, itemizing the status of his account as of November
first. I ran my eye down it, and whistled. She hadn’t been
exaggerating. 1000 shares Columbia Gas . . . 500 shares
DuPont 450 Preferential . . . 100 AT&T bonds . . . 500 shares
PG&E common ... It went on. The last item was $22,376.50 in
cash. There were three more of the same envelopes
containing verifications of later transactions. I shoved them
all back in the bag. Checking it over in detail could wait.
Coral Blaine was the pitfall I had to get past now.
The other envelope was postmarked Marathon, Florida,
over a month ago, and contained a letter from Captain Wilder
of the charter-boat Blue Water III, confirming Chapman’s
reservations on November 15, 16, 17, and again on 21, 22,
and 23.
Remembering I was in character now, I went over and
picked up the phone and asked for Room Service again.
“Hello? Room Service? Chapman, in two-two-six,” I said
irritably. “That boy hasn’t shown up with my order—Oh? Okay.
Thanks.”
He knocked on the door almost by the time I’d hung up. I let
him in with the trolley, carefully added up the bill, added a tip,
and signed it. He departed. I poured a cup of coffee, and went
on with my investigation. The second suitcase held two
lightweight suits, a sports jacket, several pairs of trousers,
and some other miscellaneous items of clothing, a half-dozen
bottles of different kinds of pills, and a small leather kit
containing all his toilet articles. The third was mostly fishing
clothes. It also contained a camera, and a gift of some kind,
still wrapped.
It felt like a book. I tore it open. It was a volume on saltwater
fishing by Kip Farrington, and the flyleaf was inscribed,
“With all my love, Coral.” I started to drop it back in the bag.
Something fell out of it. It was a plain piece of white paper on
which was written the single word, “Isle”. It puzzled me.
Apparently she’d stuck it in there between the pages. I held
the book up and shook it. Two more slips fed out, along with a
four by six photograph of a young blonde girl in a bathing
suit, standing on tiptoes. She was very pretty, but as
All The Way — 81
standardized—pose and all—as an interchangeable part. She
made me think of a composite picture. I looked at the other
two slips of paper. Each had one word written on it. “View”
and “Of.” I frowned. Then they rearranged themselves in my
mind, and I shook my head. “Isle of View.” For this he’d jilted
Marian Forsyth. That forty country must be rough.
His wallet held a little over seven hundred dollars, two
more photographs of Coral Blaine, driver’s license, eight or
ten credit cards of various kinds, and his Chapman
Enterprises business cards, but nothing with a picture of him.
I unsnapped the folder of traveler’s checks. There were fortyeight
of them, all hundreds. He didn’t exactly go around
barefoot, for a two weeks” vacation. Well, he was a
millionaire, it was probably all deductible if he had an
imaginative tax man, and big-game fishing came high. To say
nothing of nineteen-year-old call girls.
I was stalling now, and I knew it. I’d been through all his
things, and if I kept inventing reasons for putting it off I’d
start to lose my nerve, and then I would flub it. I broke the
seal on the bottle of Scotch, had one fair-sized drink, and
reached for the phone. I was tight across the chest.
The operator answered.“Long Distance,” I said.
”Thomaston, Louisiana. The number is six-two-five-two-five.
Personal call to Miss Coral Blaine.”
“Yes, sir. One moment, please.”
I waited. Remember, two pet names. Remember, she has a
very Southern accent. No, that didn’t matter. This was
personal, I didn’t have to worry about “recognizing” the
wrong girl’s voice. Remember, just got up. Groggy. Hard
drive.
Far off, a feminine voice said, “Chapman Enterprises.”
Receptionist. Mrs. English. Widow. 36. Brown hair.
Pleasant. Son in high school. Wendell. . . .
“Miss Coral Blaine,” an operator said. “Miami Beach is
calling.”
“One moment, please.”
Hates Marian. “Adores” things. Chides me for swearing.
Argument about scope and magnitude of wedding, settled
now, her favor. Honeymoon definitely Palm Springs, Acapulco
All The Way — 82
out, loathes fishing. Get her talking about bridal parties.
Gown. Attendants. . . .
“Go ahead, please.”
“Harris, darling—”
“Angel, how are you?” I said.
“Just fine, darling, but I’ve been so worried. You didn’t call
last night, and here I’ve been imaginin’ wrecks and
hurricanes and deadly females carryin’ you off—”
“I tried to call you. When I checked in here at Miami Beach.
At one a.m.—that’d be midnight your time. But there was no
answer.”
“I just knew it! I kept trying to tell that crazy Bonnie Sue
Wentworth that Miami was ahead of us—”
Bonnie Sue clicked in my mind.
“—Henry’s in Chicago, you know, at that engineers”
convention or whatever it is, so after the movie we went out
to the club, and I kept telling her I had to get back because
you’d call, but she said Miami was behind us—”
“Bonnie Sue’s having a good day when she can tell whether
it’s daylight or dark,” I said. “And I wish you wouldn’t ride
with her. Any husband that would let a featherweight like that
drive a Thunderbird has got a grudge against her, or the
human race—”
“Harris, she wasn’t drivin’ the Bird. Heavens, they traded
that in, remember?” So. Don’t get too cocky.
“Well, the hell with Bonnie Sue. I want to know how you—”
“Harris! The very idea!”
“I’m sorry, angel,” I said. “But how are you? And how’s
everything at the office?”
“Just fine. And, remember, I said I wasn’t going to bother
you with old office details on your vacation. The only thing
that’s come up important is a letter from those lawyers in
Washington about the radio station. There’s some more forms
to fill in.”
“Yes. That’s the application for an increase in power,” I said.
“Shoot ’em over to Wingard. If he has any questions, I’ll get in
touch with him later. But, look, angel, suppose I call you
tonight? I just woke up and haven’t even dressed yet. And
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before I drive on down to Marathon there’s a real estate man
I want to see.”
“That’d be wonderful, darling. I’ll be waiting.”
“Say about eight, your time. And thanks a million for the
book. It’s a good one.”
“You fibber. I bet you haven’t even looked at it.”
“I’ll just take that bet.” I winced. “Isle of View, too.”
“Why, you precious. You did open it.”
When I’d hung up, I poured one more small drink of the
Scotch, and sighed. How could I have been worried about
that? Then a very cold hand closed around my insides, and I
cursed myself. Don’t get careless. So she’s an idiot. But don’t
forget, they were engaged; there’s a whole area of shared
experience nobody could brief you on, not even Marian
Forsyth. And just one little slip, one wrong word, can do it.
I looked at my watch. It was still only a few minutes past
twelve. It would be better not to check out until at least one;
that would be exactly twelve hours from the time he’d
checked in, and there’d be no chance at all any of the same
staff would be on duty. The whole switch depended on that.
Now would be a good time to hit Chris.
I poured some more coffee, and dug the Webster & Adcock
envelopes out of the bag. Spreading out the itemized end-ofthe-
month statement, I corrected it and brought it up to date
with the slips verifying subsequent transactions. Since the
first of the month—and that would be about the time Marian
had left him—he had sold five hundred shares of Consolidated
Edison, and in three separate transactions had bought a total
of ten thousand shares of some cheap stock called Warwick
Petroleum. This was listed on the American Exchange, and
had been bought at prices ranging from 3½ to 3 1/8. I just had
a hunch Chris had been unhappy about that. Marian had got
him to switch over to high grade preferential and good solid
utilities before prices had started to sag, and here he was
plunging to the tune of better than thirty thousand dollars on
some cheap speculation before she’d hardly got out of sight.
I crossed off the Consolidated Edison, added the Warwick,
and adjusted the cash. The latter was now $12.741.50.
Opening the Miami Herald to the financial page, I went down
the list, checking it off against yesterday’s closing prices on
All The Way — 84
the Stock Exchange. I added it all up. It came to roughly a
hundred and eighty-seven thousand. I whistled softly. A
hundred and seventy-five thousand of that was ours.
I thought of the places we’d go. Athens, Istanbul, Mallorca.
And the fishing places—New Zealand, and Cabo Blanco.
Passports would be no problem; we wouldn’t be fugitives. But
it really didn’t matter where we went, as long as I was with
her.
I snapped out of it. It would be at least a month before I
could see her again, and I was in no position to be goofing off,
dreaming about her. I reached for the phone.
“Operator, I’d like to make another long-distance call. This
one’s to New Orleans—”
“Yes, sir. And the number?”
I gave it to her, and added, “Personal call to Mr. Chris
Lundgren.”
“Thank you. One moment, please.”
I heard the operator at Webster & Adcock, and then
Lundgren’s voice.
“Chris?” I said. “Chapman. How’s Warwick doing this
morning?”
“Oh, good morning, Mr. Chapman. The girl said you’re in
Miami Beach already—”
“That’s right,” I said shortly. “But has there been any sign of
a rally in Warwick? I see it closed yesterday at two seveneighths.”
“No-o—” He sounded far from enthusiastic. “It’s about the
same, but there’s very little activity in it. To tell you the truth,
Mr. Chapman, I still can’t quite go along with you on it. It
carries a lot of risk—”
So I was right. I cut in brusquely. “But, goddammit, Chris,
there’s risk in anything there’s profit in. I got where I am now
by taking risks. I’m not some old woman using the dividends
from a few shares of AT &T to buy food for her cat. Christ,
with the tax set-up we’ve got, what good is income to me? I
need capital gains.”
“Of course, Mr. Chapman. But I just don’t see Warwick
Petroleum. In a healthy market it might pay off as a
speculation, though I’d prefer to see you in a sounder growth
All The Way — 85
situation with better management. But right now the market’s
going through a period of uncertainty and readjustment, and
we ought to give some thought to safety. You’re in a very
strong defensive position in everything except the Warwick,
and I have to agree with Mrs. Forsyth—”
“Mrs. Forsyth’s not the only person who’s ever heard of the
stock market,” I said irritably. “And since she’s walked out on
me, I don’t see where she enters into it. But I’ll tell you what;
I don’t believe in nursing losses any more than you do. Let’s
get rid of it. Get seven-eighths if you can, and go as low as
three-quarters if you have to.”
“Good.” He was pleased. “I think that’s wise. Mrs. Forsyth
—”
“Goddammit, never mind Mrs. Forsyth!” I barked. Then I
relented. “Sorry, Chris. What was it you started to say?”
“Oh—I was going to ask if you wanted to put the proceeds
from the Warwick in some sound utility, just for the moment?”
“No,” I said. “Leave it in cash. As a matter of fact, while I’m
over here I’m taking a good look at real estate. This place is
booming—But never mind that. Just unload the Warwick.
G’bye.”
I hung up, elated. It was perfect. Neither of them had
suspected a thing, and I was already laying the groundwork.
I nipped through the paper to the classified section. Real
estate. Here we were. Acreage. There were several big
listings, some ocean front, and some highway frontage. I tore
the section out, and looked at my watch. It was a little after
one now. I dressed, closed the bags, put on the straw hat, and
called the desk.
“Would you get my bill ready, please? And send a boy up to
two-two-six for the bags.”
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. I was tired; dead
tired. But the exhaustion merely made me look a little older.
Marian had been right all the time. Chapman and I might not
look anything alike actually, but within the limits of the
average description we were indistinguishable.
Pretty big man. Above average size, anyway. Six feet, like
that. 180, 190. Not old, not young. Thirties, I’d say. Brown
All The Way — 86
hair. Dark, light, reddish? Well, uh, brown, you know. Blue
eyes. Gray eyes. Green eyes.
Add the mustache, horn-rim glasses, cigarette holder. Add
his car, his clothes, his identification. Add the personality
traits. Throw in a week or ten days between observation and
description. And finally throw in the fact that from beginning
to end there was never any reason to doubt that Chapman
was Chapman, and what did you have? Chapman.
But only if nobody had ever seen us both. That was vital.
I followed the boy with the luggage down to the desk. They
were all different—porter, clerk, cashier. I’d noted them
carefully last night while he was checking in.
I scrutinized all the items on the bill, and took out the
traveler’s checks. “Would you cash an extra one for me?” I
asked. “I need some change.”
“Yes, sir. We’d be glad to.”
I signed them, and as they lay on the desk I compared the
signatures with the originals. Good. Very good. I put the
change in the wallet, tossed the car keys to the porter, and
said. “Gray Cadillac, Louisiana plates.” I stuck one of the filter
cigarettes in the holder, lit it, and followed him. Chapman had
come in here, and I had gone out. There was nothing to it.
He stowed the bags and the recorder and briefcase in the
trunk. I gave him a dollar, and got in. The car was almost new,
and was upholstered in pale blue leather. It was unbearably
hot, and I hit the buttons to roll the windows down. I
rummaged in the glove compartment for a Florida highway
map, and found one, and also came up with a pair of clip-on
sun-glasses. Fastening them on my frames, I looked at myself
in the mirror. It was better all the time. I could be Chapman.
Then I shuddered. Except that Chapman was lying on the
bottom in six hundred feet of water, in the gloom and the
everlasting silence, with his chest crushed by pressure. I
shook it off.
I took out the classified real-estate ads I’d torn from the
Herald, and checked some of the listings against the highway
map. Several looked promising. One was a block of highway
frontage on US 1 between Hollywood and North Miami, listed
with the Fitzpatrick Realty Co. of Hollywood at an asking
price of three hundred and seventy-five thousand.
All The Way — 87
I drove up and cruised around the town for about half an
hour, looking it over. It appeared to be just about right. There
were several motels of the type I was looking for, and it
wasn’t too far from Miami. It was overflowing with real-estate
outfits, of course, and I dropped in at three of them,
introduced myself, and explained I was just looking over the
local real-estate picture.
It was a little after two-thirty when I looked in on
Fitzpatrick. He had a rather small place in a good location on
one of the principal streets. Two salesmen and a girl were at
work at desks out front. I bypassed the salesmen, gave the
girl one of Chapman’s business cards, and said I’d like to talk
to Fitzpatrick if he was in. She disappeared into the inner
office. I slipped one of the cigarettes into the holder and was
lighting it when she came back out and nodded.
He was a heavy-set and balding man in his fifties with the
easy manner of a born salesman and a big nose crisscrossed
with tiny purple veins. It was a nose that showed years of
loving care, and I reflected that his liver probably looked like
a hob-nailed boot. We shook hands. I sat down, unclipped the
sun-glasses, and dropped them in my pocket. It wouldn’t do to
have people remembering that I had worn them inside.
He leaned back in his chair, glanced at the card, and asked,
“What line of business are you in, Mr. Chapman?”
“Oh, several,” I said. “Cotton gin, radio station, newspaper
—Actually, I’m down here on vacation, for a little fishing. In
the Keys, and maybe over at Bimini for a few days. It’s been
about three years since I was in the Miami area, and I was
just wondering what was happening in real-estate values.”
“I’d tell you,” he said, “but since you’re a businessman
yourself you’d call me a liar.”
He then proceeded to tell me. He did a convincing job. In
Florida real estate all the women were beautiful and all the
men were brave, he believed it himself, and he possessed the
lyricism of the Irish. Fortunes were made right under his nose
every day. We decried a tax set-up under which is was
impossible to make money and keep any of it except in capital
gains or oil. He suggested we take a ride around and he’d
show me a few of the listings they had. His car was just up the
street in a parking lot. Why didn’t we take mine? I asked. It
was parked out front.
All The Way — 88
“Nice cars, these Caddies,” he remarked, as we got in.
I clipped on the glasses. “I’m not much of a car fan. But,
hell, when you can charge them off at least you got something
out of the deal. What do you think of highway frontage along
US 1 here? Has it priced itself out of the market yet?”
“Turn right,” he said, “and I’ll show you a block of it that’ll
double in price in the next two years. Let me tell you what
motel sites are bringing—per front foot—right now, within two
miles of it—”
We drove out and looked at it. I asked a few questions about
the taxes, total acreage, highway frontage, and how firm he
thought the price was, but remained noncommittal. We
stopped at a bar on the way back and had a drink. He wanted
to know where I’d be staying the next few days, and I gave
him the name of the motel in Marathon. Fitzpatrick was
interested. He’d been in the business long enough to know
when he smelled a sale.
I dropped him at his office, and headed south. On the way
through Miami I stopped at a florist and wired two dozen
yellow roses to Coral Blaine at her home address. They were
her favorite flower.
He sometimes sent all the girls in the office inexpensive
gifts when he was away on vacation, and I had an idea now. I
could accomplish two things at once. On the way out of town,
going south towards the Keys, I began watching for one of
those roadside curio places that sold concrete flamingos. I
finally located one, and pulled off.
It was the usual tourist-stopper seen along the highways all
over south Florida, cluttered with four-foot clam shells from
the Great Barrier Reef, cypress knees, alligator skins, coconut
monkey heads, boxed fruit, and postcards. It was run by a
cold-eyed man with a Georgia accent and a brow-beaten
woman I took to be his wife. I poked disdainfully around in
the junk for a while and finally settled on the gift boxes of
exotic jellies, GUAVA, SEA GRAPE, TANGERINE
MARMALADE—WE PACK AND SHIP.
“How much off for four?” I asked.
His bleak eyes shifted from me to the seven thousand
dollars’ worth of car out front, and back again. “Same price,
mister, one or a hundred.”
All The Way — 89
“I can see you’re a born merchandiser,” I said. I opened the
briefcase, dug out the list Marian had given me, and wrote
down the names and home addresses of the four girls: Bill
McEwen at the paper, and Mrs. English, Jean Sessions, and
Barbara Cullen at the office.
“One box to each address,” I said. I paid him, and added,
“Give me a receipt. I’ve been stung on these deals before.”
He gave me one. I carefully stowed it in my wallet, and went
out. The concrete flamingos were lined up along the fence at
the right of the building. “What the devil are those things?” I
asked. “I’ve been seeing them all along the road.”
“Ornamental flamingos,” he replied.
“What are they made of?” I asked. “And what good are
they?”
“Plaster,” he said. “Concrete. These ones are concrete. You
stick ’em up on lawns, or in the shrubbery. The ones with
bases you set in paddlin’ pools.”
I shook my head. “God, the things you people sell to
tourists.” He watched coldly as I got back in the car and
drove off.
All The Way — 90
Nine
I arrived at Marathon and checked into the motel with almost
an hour to spare before I was supposed to call Coral Blaine. I
was practically out on my feet. After a shower and a harsh
rubdown, I set up the tape recorder, put on the No. 5 roll,
which was devoted almost altogether to her, and listened with
the volume turned down. I found I didn’t need it any more. My
mind ran ahead of the tape. There were tens of thousands of
things I didn’t know about her and about Chapman, but
everything on those five hours of tape was stamped into my
brain.
I called her at exactly nine, and again it was easy. She’d got
the roses; that helped. She was going to somebody’s house to
play bridge. Two of the names she mentioned were familiar,
so I made some appropriate comment. I was excited about
tomorrow’s fishing, and I was getting burned up with Chris
Lundgren. If he didn’t stop throwing Marian Forsyth’s advice
at me I was going to switch my account to Merrill Lynch or
somebody. Any time I needed that woman’s advice about
anything—
She sniffed, and agreed with me. It was just too bad about
poor Marian, but she guessed when women reached that age
they got sort of—well, you know, frustrated and embittered.
“She’s in New York, you know. She called Bill McEwen
today—”
All The Way — 91
“What’d she call her for?” I demanded suspiciously. “Bill, I
mean.”
She gave her an ad to run in the paper. She’s selling her
house. Bill said she told her she’d be back here Saturday.”
”Yeah. And I suppose she’d be talking about me behind my
back to everybody in town. After I offered her six months’ pay,
when she blew up and quit.”
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t worry about her talking about
somebody—”
We exchanged the usual I-love-you’s and the I-miss-you’s,
and hung up. It was beautiful, I thought. And I was becoming
about as fond of the catty little witch as Marian was.
I called Captain Wilder of the Blue Water III, and told him I
was in town and would be on the dock at eight a.m. He told
me how to get there. I left a call for seven, took off my
clothes, and fell into bed. The moment the light was out, I
thought of Marian, and was so lonely for her I ached. I didn’t
even have a photograph. Then twenty-four hours of tension
uncoiled inside me like a breaking spring, and I dropped into
blackness. . . .
She was running ahead of me along a sidewalk supported
by giant cables in catenary curves, with only emptiness and
fog beneath us. She was drawing away, and she ran into the
fog and I lost her, and there was nothing but the sound of her
footsteps dying away. I awoke and was tangled in the sheet
and the phone was ringing.
It all came back, and for a moment I was sick with terror.
Then it was gone. I’d expected it, of course; at the precise
moment of waking you’re defenseless. It was nothing, and
would wear off in a few days. I picked up the phone. It was
seven o’clock.
Captain Wilder was a chubby and jovial man with an
unending supply of chatter and dirty stories, and his mate was
a Cuban boy with limited English. To both I was merely
another faceless possessor of traveler’s checks, to be fished
successfully and made happy. I wore the dark glasses, of
course, and a long-vizored fishing cap. I used Chapman’s few
words of Spanish on the Cuban boy, and talked a little about
fishing at Acapulco.
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