“Hello,” he said, almost cheerfully.
David didn’t answer. Williston pulled back his hand, the smile still on his face. “We were looking for you,” he said.
“What do you want, Williston?”
“Put it this way,” Williston said. “We ain’t stopping till we get it, so there’s no use playing cute.”
“How’s your pool parlor coming along?” David asked.
The smile dropped from Williston’s mouth. “How do you know about that?”
“I get around,” David said.
Williston scowled. “Where’s Leslie Grew?”
“Leslie Grew is dead.”
“Since when?”
“You don’t know anything about it, huh?” David said.
“Nothing at all.”
“You’re as innocent as—”
“Cut it!” Williston whispered sharply. “I know Grew’s alive, so just cut it! Just tell me where.”
“Try looking on my boat,” David said.
“We already tried, pal. Don’t worry, we’ll get what we want.”
“What is it you—?”
He stopped suddenly.
Wanda had just entered the lobby through a door to the left of the desk.
Williston hadn’t seen her because his back was to her, but she had seen him and she had seen David, and she hesitated now, watching them. She had managed to pick up a pair of flats somewhere, but she was still coatless. She carried the heavy valise.
“If you told me what you’re looking for,” David went on softly, “I might be able to help you.”
“You’re a card,” Williston said. “Put it this way. You’re such a card I’d like to break your nose.”
Wanda turned and moved toward the writing desk along one of the glass walls.
“I’ll tell you what, Williston,” David said, stalling. “You’ve been talking about ‘it’ and about how badly you want ‘it,’ but talk is talk, and talk is cheap.” He saw Wanda pick up a pen and hastily scribble something on a sheet of motel stationery.
“Who’s got it?” Williston asked. “You?”
“Maybe,” David said.
Williston scratched the side of his jaw. Behind him, Wanda held up the folded piece of stationery so that David could see it. Then she tucked the folded page into one of the cubbyholes at the rear of the writing desk and crossed the lobby.
“What would you say it’s worth?” Williston asked.
“Plenty,” David said. She was walking out into the rain now, a slim figure in sweater and skirt, crossing the gravel parking lot, her skirt whipping around her bare legs, the ponytail sweeping back over her shoulders. She stood near the concrete oval surrounding a young palm tree. The rain was lashing down in sheets.
“How much is that?” Williston asked.
Wanda raised her arm and a taxi pulled to a stop beside the palm. The rear door opened. She climbed in, and the door closed. The cab sped off.
David sighed. “Not for sale,” he said. “And there’s nothing more to say.”
“There’s a lot to say. We’re willing to be sensible, so long as your price is right. Why spill any more blood?”
David pulled away from Williston and went across the lobby. Williston stared after him, puzzled, considering. David reached in and removed the note from the cubbyhole. She had a clear, firm hand. The note read:
Get my typewriter. Meet me Passe-A-Grille on beach at 26th Street, eight o’clock tonight. Please be careful. I didn’t do it.
The note was unsigned.
David glanced at his watch. Three thirty. That left a lot of hours to kill. He smiled at Williston, waved, walked past the bellhop at the cigar counter, and stepped through the glass door and out into the rain. He saw the Sun City squad car too late. The policemen had already seen him, and there was no place to run.
Maurow was in an ugly mood.
“All right, Coe,” he said. “I’m listening.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want it all. Every bit of it. Right from the beginning. And you’d better give it to me straight.”
“If I knew anything, I’d tell it to you,” David said. “All I know is that a couple of people wanted to charter my boat. I called Sam Friedman, and he told me they didn’t have any law trouble. So I took them aboard. The next thing I know, Sam is dead.”
“These people,” Maurow interrupted. “Grew and Meadows?”
“Yes,” David said.
“What about them?”
“That’s all I know. Except that a rough character named Harry Williston is throwing his weight around. He runs a pool parlor someplace.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. There’s somebody named George in this, too, but he’s dead. Williston is after something, I don’t know what it is, but he wants it badly enough to pay for it — or possibly to kill for it.”
“George who?”
“I don’t know. I saw his name in a typewriter.” Maurow went to his desk and opened a drawer. He took out a sheet of paper that had once been crumpled, but which had been pressed smooth. He handed the sheet to David.
“What do you make of this?” he asked.
“What am I supposed to make of it? It’s shorthand, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But it’s not Gregg and it’s not Pitman, and it’s not Speedwriting. Our experts don’t know what the hell it is.”
David stared at the jumble of letters on the sheet. There was something familiar about the handwriting, and it took him several seconds to realize it was Wanda’s. He said nothing.
“We figure it’s some kind of personal shorthand,” Maurow said.
“Where’d you find it?”
“In the trash basket aboard your boat. We also got a sheet of paper from the typewriter, probably transcribed from some other notes. We tried cracking this with what we had in English, but it doesn’t match up. Is that where you got the George stuff?”
“Yes,” David said.
“Where did Grew and Meadows want you to take them?”
“They didn’t care.”
“Why’d they contact you?”
“Sam recommended me.”
“How’d they know him?”
“I don’t know. He was a newspaperman. I guess he got to meet a lot of people.”
“And he suggested they try you, huh?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s your stake in this, that right? That’s why you’ve been sticking your neck out right from when this started, huh? You know something, Coe? I think you’re full of shit.”
“I’ve told you all I know,” David said.
“You haven’t told me where Leslie Grew is.”
David blinked.
“What?”
“You heard me. For all I know, you’re in this, too. Until you prove otherwise to me, you’re in it. Right up to your navel. What were you doing with a .45, Coe?”
“It’s an Army souvenir.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. Do you own a Luger, too?”
“No,” David mumbled.
“Does Grew?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do know because the teletype we got said Grew was carrying a Luger. Now how about that?”
“If you say so.”
“Where’s Grew now?”
“Where do you think? Who the hell are you trying to kid?”
“You’d better get out of here before I do something we’ll both regret, Coe. I’m still itching to tie you in to this. I’m itching so much, I can’t stand still. So you’d better get out. Now! While you can still walk.”