Figure it Out For Yourself

Gracie had been murdered because she knew who had framed Perelli. That meant Perelli was innocent, and up to now I hadn't been 100 per cent convinced. It made a difference.

If I was to believe Mrs. Ferris, Dedrick had been smuggling reefers into Paris before he met Serena. Was this the clue to his kidnapping? Had he decided to give up working for Barratt now he had married Serena, and had Barrett killed him: stag-ing a fake kidnapping to get money out of Serena? That was possible.

My mind shifted to Marshland. Had he anything to do with the kidnapping? Suppose Souki had found out that Dedrick was hooked up with Barratt and had told Marshland? That would have been a nice item of news: the fourth richest woman in the world married to a reefersmuggler. Marshland might have gone to any lengths to save his daughter from such publicity. He might have hired someone to get rid of Dedrick. It might have been his idea, and not Barratt's, to fake the kidnapping. For all I knew, Dedrick might have been buried somewhere in the grounds of Ocean End. No one had thought of looking for him under four feet of earth.

Where did Mary Jerome come in on all this? Who was she? Brandon had made a feeble attempt to find her, but appar-ently Marshland had had no difficulty in tracking her down. How had he found out where she was? Why had he gone to her? Why had she bolted after they had talked?

I ran my hand over my hot, tired face, and said, 'Aw, nuts!' I knew I was within touching distance of the key to this business, but my arm wasn't quite long enough. I had to get more information.

How was I going to tackle Marshland? He wasn't going to be easy. After thinking about it, I decided the only way was to be tough. He could either talk to me or to Brandon. The reception clerk would identify him. He couldn't deny he had gone to the Beach Hotel. Either me or Brandon.

I drove down the private road to Ocean End with the even-ing sun reflecting on the windshield.

The big black Cadillac was parked on the tarmac as it had been parked on my first visit to the house. The two Chinese gardeners were weeding a rose bed as enthusiastically as a man sitting down in a dentist's chair. They poked about in the rich, dark soil with their handforks, lifting the odd weed and sneering at it, dropping it into a basket and poking again.

The flamingoes were moving about, stiff-jointed, on the lawn below the terraces. Like the Chinese gardeners, they paid no attention to me.

I walked along the terrace, thumbed the bell-push and waited, feeling the sun hot on my back.

Wadlock opened the door. His bushy eyebrows contracted and the eyes under them registered disapproval when he saw me.

'Hello,' I said. 'I'd like to talk to Mr. Marshland. Would you tell him?'

'Will you come in, Mr. Malloy?' He stood aside. I am not sure if Mr. Marshland is in.'

I walked into the hall. It was cool and dim after the hot ter- race. I took off my hat, looked inside it for no reason at all, said, without looking at the old man, 'The password is Beach Hotel. Will you tell him?'

'Beach Hotel?'

'That's right. You'll be surprised how he'll react. Do I go in lounge?'

'If you will, sir.'

'How is Mrs. Dedrick?' I asked. 'I heard she hasn't been well.'

'Considering the circumstances, sir, she is as well as can be expected.'

I looked at him thoughtfully, but the old face gave nothing away, so I went into the lounge. It seemed a long, long time ago since I had last been here. I moved on to the terrace again, and looked expectantly up at the veranda where Serena had sat mourning for her loved one. No one was up there. I returned to the lounge, picked a comfortable chair and sat down. The day had been an exciting one. I felt very tired: probably nervous excitement, I told myself. I lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the Mexican saddle hanging on the wall. An enormous bowl of sweet peas filled the room with an overpowering scent that made me feel a little drowsy.

After a while, probably ten minutes, I heard footsteps coming down the stairs.

Serena Dedrick came into the lounge. She was wearing a simple white-linen dress and a rose in her hair. There were dark smudges under her eyes and a drawn, hard look about her mouth. She looked steadily at me as I got to my feet, smiled without warmth, waved me back to the chair.

'Don't get up. Would you like a whisky and soda?'

'Well, not just now, thank you. I wanted to see your father. Didn't Wadlock tell you?'

She went over to a big cocktail cabinet and poured two whiskies. She gave me one, motioned to a box of cigarettes on the occasional table by my side and sat down opposite me.

'My father went back to New York yesterday,' she said, looking anywhere but at me. 'What did you want to see him about?'

I sipped the whisky. It was Four Roses, and very good. I wondered why Wadlock hadn't broken the news and saved her the trouble of seeing me. It occurred to me that perhaps she wanted to see me.