[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

think she'd have some friend she'd talk to. A neighbor or something."
She couldn't contribute anything more. She wanted me to let her know when I
found out where Mary was, and she wanted me to come to Atlanta and stay with
them and tell them all the news about everybody around the marina.
I couldn't use the Rolls pickup to visit the neighbors along Blue Heron Lane.
There aren't any cover stories to fit that set of wheels. And housewives are
very edgy these days. They have little peep holes set into the doors and
outdoor intercom speakers and little panic buttons to push if they get too
nervous. Respectability is essential. Nothing eccentric please.
So I borrowed Johnny Dow's Plymouth sedan, and I wore pressed slacks, a
sincere jacket, an earnest shirt, and a trustworthy necktie. I carried a black
zipper portfolio and a dozen of my business cards. I am Travis McGee, Vice
President of CDTA, Inc. It is no lie. Meyer incorporated the company a few
years ago, and he keeps it active by paying the tiny annual tax. CDTA means
nothing at all. Meyer picked the letters because they sound as if they have to
mean something. Commercial Data Transmission Authority. Consolidated Division
of Taxes and Audits. Contractors' Departmental Transit Acceptance.
In my sincere, earnest, trustworthy way I was going to hit the neighborhood on
this hot Friday morning with a nice check which I had to deliver to Mrs. Harry
Broll in settlement of her claim and get her to sign a release. I used one of
the checks Meyer had ordered. It was on an actual account. Of course, the
account was inactive and had about twelve dollars in it, but the blue checks
were impressively imprinted with spaces for his signature and mine. He
borrowed a checkwriter from a friend in one of the shops, and we debated the
amount for some time before settling on a figure of $1,093.88.
"Good morning, ma'am. I hate to bother you like this, but I wonder if you can
help me. My name is McGee. Here is my card. I've got, out a check payable to
Mrs. Harry Broll in full payment of her claim of last year, and I have a
release here for her to sign, but the house looks as if they're off on a long
trip or moved or something. Could you tell me how I could find Mrs. Broll?"
It was not a long street. Three short, curving blocks. Large lots, some of
them vacant, so that the total was not over twenty-five homes right on Blue
Heron Lane. The Broll house was in the middle of the middle block on the left.
The canal ran behind the houses on the left hand side, following the curves.
Dig a canal and you have instant waterfront.
I made the logical moves. I parked the Plymouth in the Broll driveway, tried
the doorbell, then tried the neighbors, the nearest ones first.
"I can't help you at all. We moved in here three weeks ago, all the way from
Omaha, and that house has been empty since we moved in, and from any sign of
neighborliness from anybody else around here, all the houses might as well be
empty, if you ask me."
"Go away. I don't open the door to anyone. Go away."
"Mrs. Broll? Someone said they split up. No, we weren't friendly. I wouldn't
have any idea where you could find her."
At the fourth front door-the fifth if you count the place where nobody
answered-there was a slight tweak at the baited end of my line.
"I guess the one to ask would be Mrs. Dressner. Holly Dressner. She and Mrs.
Broll were all the time visiting back and forth, morning coffee and so forth.
That's the next house there, number 29, if she's home. She probably is. I
didn't hear her backing out."
After the second try on the doorbell I was about to give up. I could hear the
Page 27
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
chimes inside. No answer. Then the intercom speaker fastened to the rough-cut
cypress board beside the front door clicked and said, "Who is it? And, for
God's sake, just stand there and talk in a normal tone of voice. If you get
close to the speaker and yell, I won't understand word one."
I gave my spiel, adding that the lady next door told me she would be the one
to ask. She asked me if I had a card, and she had me poke it through the mail
slot. I wondered why she sounded so out of breath.
I heard chains and locks, and she pulled the door open and said, "So come in."
She wore a floorlength terry robe in wide yellow and white stripes, tightly
belted. Her short, blond, water-dark hair was soaked. "I was in the pool.
Daily discipline. Come on out onto the terrace. I'm too wet to sit in the
living room."
She was a stocky woman with good shoulders and a slender waist. She had a tan,
freckled face, broad and good humored, pale lashes and brows, pretty eyes. The
terrace was screened, and the big pool took up most of the space. Sliding
glass doors opened the terrace up into the living room. The yard beyond the
screening and beyond the flowerbeds sloped down to a small concrete dock where
a canopied Whaler was moored.
She invited me to sit across from her at a wrought iron table with a glass
top.
"Try that on me again, Mr. McGee. Slowly. Is this the check?"
She picked it up and put it down and listened as I went through it again. "A
claim for what?" she asked.
"Mrs. Dressner, it's company policy not to discuss casualty claims and
settlements. I'm sure you can understand why."
"Mr. McGee, may I ask you a personal question?"
"Of course."
"How come you are so full of bullshit?"
I stared at her merry face and merry smile. But above the smile the hazel eyes
were expressionless as poker chips.
"I ... I don't quite understand." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]