“You think your husband may have contributed?”
“No. He might be imposed upon now, but when the relationship started, it was on a business basis. It didn’t stay that way long. Trust Roxy for that.”
Mason studied her angry profile.
She turned the car off the highway, drove over half a mile of pavement which had been sadly neglected and was full of broken irregularities, then negotiated a sharp turn and climbed a steep grade up a hill.
“Here we are,” she said, indicating a three-story house which had at one time evidently been quite a mansion but which was now standing in solitary isolation. “That’s the house which is to be torn down. Those piles of lumber represent salvage from some of the shacks that were pulled down. Most of that lumber isn’t good for anything except to be sawed up as kindling. The company’s been selling it for what it can get. It’s been running ads in the classified section, offering second-hand lumber for sale — as is.”
Sybil Harlan stopped the car. Mason got out.
“Want to go in the house?” she asked.
Mason nodded. “Let’s take a look.”
She opened the glove compartment of the car, took out a leather key-container and a leather binocular case.
“What’s that in the back?” Mason asked sharply.
She snapped the door of the glove compartment closed. “A gun,” she said casually.
“What’s it for?”
“For protection.”
“Whose protection?”
“Mine. It’s one of Enny’s.”
“One of Enny’s?”
“Yes, he has quite a collection. He’s quite an outdoor man... used to do a lot of hunting.”
“And why the need for protection?” Mason asked.
“Because,” she said, avoiding his eyes, “I come up here every once in a while, and it’s lonely. I always put this gun in my handbag when I go inside the house. You read too many stories of women being attacked for me to take chances up here.”
They left the car and walked to the door. Mrs. Harlan opened the leather container, fitted a key to the lock, and slid the bolt back.
“Works smoothly,” Mason said.
“I oiled it.”
“May I see the keys?”
She hesitated. Mason held out his hand with steady insistence.
“Oh, all right,” she said, and gave him the leather key-container.
Mason looked through the keys. “These are all skeleton keys.”
“Yes.”
“How did you get them?”
“My goodness, Mr. Mason, don’t be naïve. Every good real estate man has a collection of skeleton keys. I filched these from Enny’s car.”
“Didn’t he miss them?”
“Yes, but he didn’t know who had taken them. He has others.”
“Exactly what’s the idea?” Mason asked.
“I was going to show you,” she said, “but now I’ll tell you. From up here on the third floor you can look directly down on the house which is on Roxy’s property — you can look into the patio and right into the swimming pool. Now, does that answer your question, Mr. Mason?”
“You’ve been keeping tabs on your husband?”
“Exactly.”
“Have you seen anything?” Mason asked.
“Lots.”
Mason said, “If you wanted to get evidence, why didn’t you employ a detective?”
“I told you, Mr. Mason, I don’t want to get evidence. I don’t want a divorce. I don’t want a separation. I want my husband.”
“How many times have you been up here?”
“Enough to find out what’s going on.”
“All right,” Mason said, “let’s go.”
She opened the door. “I’ll lead the way,” she said. The interior of the house was musty; the air was stale and had a faint smell of mildew.
Partitions had been ripped out and rearranged on the lower floor to provide places for small businesses. These businesses had, in turn, moved out and left a helter-skelter of junk — old newspapers, broken chairs, a few pieces of old clothing, wrecked counters, and partitions. Over all, was a coating of dark, heavy dust.
“Dispiriting, isn’t it,” she said.
Mason nodded.
“I’ll lead the way,” she said. “You’ll pardon me, Mr. Mason. This is dirty and my skirt is white.”
She raised her skirt, drew it tightly around the upper part of her legs, holding it with one hand while she climbed a steep flight of stairs.
Mason regarded the white shoes, the long length of nylon stockings. “You’re hardly dressed for a tour of inspection here,” he said.
“I know. I have an appointment at the beauty shop right after we leave here, and I dressed for that appointment instead of for this. I hope you don’t mind my making a spectacle of myself, but I don’t want to get dirty.”
“Lead on,” Mason told her.
The second floor had been given over to bedrooms. Here, again, there was a litter of rubbish where people had moved out, leaving behind old mattresses, broken bed sets, cheap furniture which in the course of years had become unglued at the joints and was not worth repairing.
Mrs. Harlan, still holding her skirt high and tight so that it would not brush against anything, climbed to the third floor, led the way to a room with a northern exposure. Here it was cleaner and less cluttered. The room’s only chair was covered with a newspaper and placed in such a position that one could sit in it and look out through the thin lace curtains of a window.
Mrs. Harlan’s white skirt dropped back into place; she looked down at her shoes to see if she was carrying any dirt on them, stamped them on the floor in order to get rid of the dust. “Here we are, Mr. Mason,” she said.
Mason looked down the steep excavated slope to a red-tiled, white stucco house. “Gives you a feeling of insecurity,” Mason said. “I can’t get over the feeling that this house may start sliding down the hill any minute.”
“I know how you feel,” she said. “The rains have washed gullies. Within thirty days this will all be torn down and the hill will be leveled. Look down there now, Mr. Mason. Do you see what I mean? Those two figures.”
She stepped to the window, released the catch and raised the sash. The lace curtains billowed in a faint breeze. She slipped a cord over the curtains, holding them back.
Then, stepping away from the window, she opened the leather binocular case and brought out a pair of expensive binoculars. “Just sit in that chair. You can look right out through the window.”
She handed Mason the binoculars, and Mason, curious, moved the newspaper, seated himself in the chair, adjusted the binoculars and looked down on the red-tiled roof of the patio and the swimming pool.
A man and a woman were at the pool. The man wore a business suit, the woman wore virtually nothing. She was lying on a foam rubber mattress.
“Sun-bathing,” Sybil Harlan explained. “She does that a lot, particularly when Enny is calling on business.”
“I take it that’s your husband.”
“That will be Enny,” she said. “Probably talking about the directors’ meeting, getting last minute instructions.”
As Mason watched, the man leaned forward and extended his hand; the woman took it, and with a light, swift motion bounded to her feet. For a moment she stood facing the man and then grabbed up a robe and hung it around her.
Mrs. Harlan, who had been watching over Mason’s shoulders without the aid of binoculars, said, “That gives you a good idea of what’s going on, Mr. Mason.”
“Want the binoculars?” Mason asked.
“I wouldn’t think of depriving you of the treat,” she said. “Now, she’ll get the robe and be very modest, very demure — after having given Enny a complete eyeful. A neat figure, don’t you think, Mr. Mason?”