When the fire had died down, I stirred the debris, poured on more gasoline, and again threw in a lighted match.
Finally, I was satisfied that nothing now remained of the blackmail pictures nor the tapes and my statement.
Still no telephone call from Lois!
I began searching the closets in the living-room. I came across the trenching tool, wrapped in plastic, that I had handled while they had buried Marsh. I went into the kitchen, found a rag dipped it in water and stripping off the plastic, I wiped the wooden handle free of my fingerprints. Then using the rag, I wiped over the surface of the desk, the arms of the chair and wrapped the rag around the telephone receiver. This was the best I could do.
I looked at my watch. The time now was 08.50. I thought only for a moment of Klaus, Harry, Joe and Benny trapped in the vault, then my mind shifted to Glenda.
I was sitting at the desk, grieving for her, when the telephone bell broke up my thoughts.
I snatched up the receiver. It was Lois.
‘Larry, I’m sorry, but I can get no reply,’ she said. ‘I’ve called three times. He’s either not answering the telephone or he isn’t there.’
‘Keep trying,’ I said feverishly. ‘This is a real emergency, Lois. I’ll wait.’
‘I can’t! My mother is sick, and I have to go to her. I have only a few minutes before I get my train!’
‘Then give me the number! I’ll keep trying!’
‘I can’t do that!’ A pause, then she went on, ‘Larry! He’s not playing golf! Every so often he goes off for a long weekend, but he doesn’t play golf. I don’t have to spell it out, do I?’
This shook me. I had always imagined Farrell Brannigan was above the way so many men lived.
‘I don’t give a damn! I must talk to him, Lois! A situation has come up that could cause a hell of a stink at the bank! I can’t tell you more than that, but I have to talk to him, and immediately!’
‘But he’s not answering!’ There was a wail in her voice, ‘It would be a breach of confidence if I gave you the number.’
‘He’ll thank you. I swear he will!’ I was shouting now.
‘You know he trusts me! This is an emergency! Now, come on, Lois! Give me the number!’
There was a long pause, then she said, ‘It’s 333-447-7880. I must go or I’ll miss my train,’ and she hung up.
I scribbled the number down on a memo pad, lying on the desk. 333 was the code number of Pennon Bay, a small beach resort some ten miles from Sharnville. Bill Dixon and I had once considered renting one of the many beach cabins there with the idea we could work together Sundays, and sunbathe at the same time. I had gone down there, but had decided there were too many screaming children around to allow us to work in peace. I remembered the Bay: sand, sea, palm trees, well-appointed bungalows, and a couple of decent restaurants. When I had inspected a few of the bungalows with the estate agent, I had thought many of them could be love nests, although most of them were weekend family accommodations. The more isolated bungalows, which I was sure were love nests, the agent told me regretfully weren’t for rent.
My hands unsteady, I picked up the telephone book and flicked through the pages until I came to Pennon Bay. There were not more than two hundred entries. Carefully, I went down the list of numbers until I came to 447-7880.
Miss Sheila Vance, 14, Sea Road.
Brannigan’s mistress?
Picking up the telephone receiver, I dialled the number. I listened to the ringing tone for over a minute, then I hung up. I looked at my watch. The time now was 09.25.
I had to see Brannigan! I had to throw this whole mess into his lap! I was beyond caring what would happen to me. I couldn’t care less if he took the occasional weekend away from his wife, and found consolation with another woman. He had done so much for me in the past, and I felt that if I told him the whole sick story, he would help me... no one else could!
Leaving the house, I ran to my car, climbed in and started the engine. As I reversed to drive down the dirt road, I thought of the four men, trapped in the vault, then I thought of Glenda. Well, they were trapped. At least, her murder would be avenged!
At the end of the dirt road, I had a long, impatient wait before I could drive on to the highway. Already families were driving to the beaches. The usual Saturday morning exodus from Sharnville was on.
Finally, I was on the highway, but my progress was slow. Cars, with inflated rubber boats strapped to their roofs, were almost bumper to bumper. Kids, leaning out of car windows, screamed and yelled, anticipating the excitement of the sea. Bored-looking husbands, sitting behind the driving wheels, turned, from time to time, to swear at their children, while harassed-looking mothers, dragged the kids back on to their seats. It was a typical Sharnville Saturday morning.
Ahead, were Hampton Bay, Bay Greek, Little Cove, Happy Bay, and then Pennon Bay,
The most popular Bay was Little Gove. Once past the turn-off to Little Cove, the traffic thinned and I could increase speed. Only one car signalled to turn left at Pennon Bay. I followed it down the sandy road that led to the beach.
The car, ahead of me, pulled up outside a de luxe bungalow, facing the sea, and four kids tumbled out, and ran yelling across the sand while the driver got out to open the gate leading to the garage.
I kept on until I reached a parking bay, then got out of my car. I had no idea where to find Sea Road. I looked to right and left, then seeing a youngish man in swim shorts coming my way, I stopped him and asked.
‘Sea Road?’ He was overweight, and had a mat of black hair on his chest. He looked as intelligent as an amputated leg. ‘Sea Road?’ He scratched his hairy chest. ‘Yeah... Sea Road.’ He frowned. ‘Yeah... you go straight ahead, turn left, and you’re on it.’
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘You’re welcome. Have a nice day,’ and he plodded away towards the sea.
I started off down the road, then as I was about to turn left, I heard a voice calling. I stopped and turned.
The hairy-chested man was running after me.
‘Bud, I’m sorry. You want Sea Road... right?’
The sun was now up, and in my city clothes, I was sweating.
‘Yes.’
‘My error, bud. You turn right.’
I could have strangled him.
‘You mean I go back to the intersection, and take the right-hand road?’
He scratched his chest, frowned, then nodded.
‘Yep. You’ve got it, bud.’ As I started back, he said, ‘you got kids, bud?’
Without pausing, I said no.
‘If you knew how lucky you are...’ His voice faded away as I kept on.
The bungalows along this beach road were more de luxe than the others I had passed. They stood in fair-sized gardens which were screened either by laurel hedges or stone walls. None of the bungalows had numbers: just names like The Nest, Happy Home, You & Me: crazy names people dream up for their houses.
I had walked some hundred yards when I came upon a teenage girl, swinging on the gate leading to a big bungalow. She was pencil thin, fair and wore jeans and a sweat shirt. She regarded me with worldly eyes and an impish grin.
‘Hello,’ she said.
I paused.
‘I’m looking for 14 Sea Road.’
Her grin turned to a sly little smile.
‘Are you looking for Sheila?’
‘That’s right. Do you know her?’
She pouted.
‘My mum won’t let me talk to her. I say hello to her when my mum’s not around.’
Fishing for information, I asked, ‘what’s your mum got against her?’
The girl wrinkled her nose.
‘My mum’s square. Just because Sheila has a boyfriend or two, my mum says she’s a whore.’