After the boy had gone through the routine of lowering and raising the blind and turning the electric switches on and off and seemingly surprised to find anything worked, I got rid of him.
I called room service and asked for some ice and a bottle of Vat 69 at the double. Then I stripped off my clothes and got under the shower. As long as I remained under the shower I felt fine, but when I returned to the bedroom I broke out into a sweat again.
I gave myself a slug of Scotch, then just as I was about to get under the shower again, someone hammered on my door. I wrapped a towel around my middle, unlocked the door and opened it.
A big man with a red weathered face and freckles across his nose that looked as if it had been stamped on at one time, and who had cop written all over him, rode me back into the room and closed the door.
“Your name Brandon?” he asked in a voice as gritty as gravel.
“That’s right. What do you want?”
He took out his wallet and showed me his buzzer.
“Sergeant Candy, Homicide,” he said. “You know Jack Sheppey?”
I felt a prickle of apprehension crawl up my spine. This wouldn’t be the first time Sheppey had been in trouble with the police. Six months ago he had punched a detective in the eye and had drawn a ten-day stretch. Three months before that he had taken a poke at a patrolman and had been fined twenty-five bucks. Jack was a great cop hater.
“Yes, I know him. Is he in trouble?”
“You could call it that,” Candy said. He produced a pack of chewing gum, tore off the wrapping and fed gum into his face. “Can you identify him?”
That really jarred me.
“He hasn’t met with an accident?”
“He’s dead,” Candy said. “Hustle some clothes on, will you? I’ve a car outside. The Lieutenant wants you down there.”
“Dead?” I stared at the big, red face. “What happened?”
Candy lifted his heavy shoulders.
“The Lieutenant will tell you. Let’s get moving. He hates being kept waiting.”
I put on my shirt and trousers, ran a comb through my hair, slid into my coat and sat on the bed to put on my socks and shoes.
My hands were shaking a little.
Jack and I got along fine together. He had always had a fierce enjoyment of life: living every second of it and getting much more out of it than ever I did. It seemed impossible he was dead.
When I had fixed my shoes, I poured myself another slug of whisky. I felt I needed it.
“Join me?” I said to Candy.
He hesitated, licked his thick lips, fought with his conscience and lost.
“Well, I’m not exactly on duty. . .”
I gave him a slug big enough to knock over a horse and cart, and he poured it down his throat as if it were water.
“Let’s go,” he said, putting down the glass. He blew out his cheeks and thumped himself on the chest. “The Lieutenant doesn’t like being kept waiting.”
We travelled down in the elevator. As we crossed the lobby I saw the reception clerk was staring at me, bug-eyed. The bellhop was also staring. They probably thought I was under arrest.
A couple of old gentlemen in white flannels and Harvard blazers were sitting in basket chairs by the door. They too stared, and as Candy and I passed, one of them said, “I’ll be damned if that fellow isn’t a policeman.”
We went down the steps where a car waited. Candy got under the wheel and I sat beside him. We drove fast, using the back streets, and avoiding the traffic on the main roads.
“Where was he found?” I asked suddenly.
“At Bay Beach,” Candy told me, his heavy jaw working as he chewed. “There’s a row of cabins there for hire. The attendant found him.”
I put the question that had been bothering me ever since I had been told he was dead.
“Was it a heart attack or something?”
Candy touched his siren button as a Cadillac tried to edge in front of him. The Cadillac swerved and slowed down at the sound of the siren and Candy went past, glaring at the driver.
“He was murdered,” he said.
I sat still, my hands squeezed between my knees, while I absorbed the shock. I hadn’t anything to say after that. I just sat staring ahead and listening to Candy hum under his breath some tuneless song. In under five minutes we reached the beach.
Candy drove fast along a wide road that ran parallel with the sea. Finally, we came to a row of red and white painted beach cabins and a small parking lot.
The cabins were shaded by palm trees, and there were the usual gaudy beach umbrellas. Four police cars were parked on the road. I could see a crowd of about two hundred people, mostly in swimsuits standing near the cabins. I spotted the Buick convertible Jack and I had bought second hand, and for which we were still paying, in the parking lot.
We pushed through the crowd who stared curiously at me. As we neared the cabins, Candy said, “The little fella’s Lieutenant Rankin.”
