Sleeping Beauty (14 page)

I thanked her and started back to my car. A gray-haired man climbed out of another car and casually intercepted me. He had sensitive blue eyes which wore, like a transparent shield, the detachment of an observer.

“You’re not a local man, are you?” he said to me.

“No. It’s a free country.”

His face wrinkled in a self-deprecating smile which was almost a look of pain. “I’d be the last to deny that. Are you with Lennox Oil?”

“No. I’m a free lance.”

“Exactly what does that mean?” He was still smiling.

“I’m a private investigator. My name is Archer.”

“Mine is Wilbur Cox. I write for the local paper. What crime are you investigating, Mr. Archer? The crime of pollution?”

“I’d certainly like to know what caused this oil spill.”

He seemed happy to oblige. “The oil people say it was an act of God, and in the long run there’s some truth in that. The undersea formations here are naturally porous, delicate to fool with. You might say the area is blowout-prone. But in the short run the oil people are to blame. They didn’t take the danger of a spill fully into account, and they didn’t use the right preventive measures for drilling at this depth. The result is what you see.” He flung out his arm toward the platform which stood against the horizon.

“Why didn’t they take the right preventive measures?”

“It costs money,” he said. “Oilmen are gamblers, most of them, and they’d rather take a little chance than spend a lot of money.
Or wait for technology to catch up.” He added after a moment, “They’re not the only gamblers. We’re all in the game. We all drive cars, and we’re all hooked on oil. The question is how we can get unhooked before we drown in the stuff.”

I nodded in agreement and started to move away toward my car. He drifted after me:

“Are you the man who pulled a body out of the water this morning?”

I said I was.

“Can you identify the victim?”

“Not yet. I’m working on it.”

“Do you want to give me a quote?”

“I’m afraid I can’t, Mr. Cox. Any publicity would interfere with my investigation.”

“Was the man murdered?” Through his mask of detachment, the newsman’s eyes burned cold.

“I honestly don’t know. I’ll see you later.”

I didn’t get far. The entrance to the wharf was blocked by a line of picketers facing landward. Beyond them was a big semitrailer loaded with tanks of drilling mud. The driver glared down at the picketers from his high seat and inched the truck forward.

One of the young sign carriers sat down in front of the wheels. His face was pale and scared, as if he knew what a poor brake his body was to the heavy movements of the world. But he sat without moving as the double wheels turned almost on top of him.

The driver spat an inaudible word and slammed on his brakes. He climbed down out of the cab, swinging a tire iron in his hand. I got out of my car at the same time and pushed through the line of picketers to face him. He was a flat-nosed young man with angry eyes.

“Get back,” he said to me, “I’m making a delivery.”

“Sorry, we don’t need a tire iron.”

“You look as if you need one, right across the face.”

“It wouldn’t be a good idea,” I said. “Put it down, eh?”

“When you get out of the way. I’m on legitimate business.”

“You don’t look so legitimate with that thing in your hand.”

The driver glanced down at his weapon with some surprise. Perhaps he recognized that he was a threatening figure, and that he was a minority of one. The picketers were beginning to move around me. The driver climbed back into the cab of his truck and sat there glaring. Thirty or forty feet ahead of him, the newsman Wilbur Cox was leaning on the railing and taking notes.

At the outer end of the wharf, beyond Blanche’s Restaurant, a large black car appeared and moved slowly toward us. It stopped just behind my car. Captain Somerville got out, followed by a younger man who moved like the Captain’s shadow. Both men looked rather haggard, as if they had had a rough morning.

It was threatening to get rougher. The picketers surged around the car, forcing the two men back against its side. Somerville looked grim. His companion was pale and frightened.

“Stand back,” he said in an uncertain voice. “This is Captain Somerville. He’s the executive v.p. of Lennox Oil.”

“We know that,” the young fisherman said. “When are you going to cap the oil spill, Cap?”

Somerville answered: “As soon as we possibly can. We made an attempt this morning. I’m sorry to say it didn’t succeed. We have to stockpile more drilling mud, and bring in some experts, and we’ll make another attempt by the end of the week. In the meantime I’m asking you for your patience and cooperation.”

The picketers groaned. One of them called out: “When are you going to take your platform out of here? We don’t need it.”

“The platform is there legally,” Somerville said in an unbending tone, “with the approval of the U.S. Geological Survey. And when you stop our deliveries—which is what you’re doing now—you’re interfering with our attempts to stop the spill.”

The crowd began to get noisier, its groan deteriorating into a growl. The driver sitting up in the cab of the truck had a restless
look in his eye. I decided I had better make a move before he did.

I inched through the crowd to Somerville. “You better get out of here, Captain. Get back in the car and follow my car, eh?”

Somerville and his aide climbed into the front seat, the white-faced younger man behind the wheel. I said to the picketers:

“Let them move out. Nobody wants any trouble.”

“That’s right,” a middle-aged woman said. “We don’t want trouble.”

“We don’t want oil on our beaches, either,” a young man said. I said, “It’s better than blood.”

The crowd made assenting noises. They moved back slowly, away from Somerville’s car. I got into mine, eased it past the semitrailer, and turned toward Seahorse Lane, with Somerville behind me.

I was sweating with relief. Twice in no more than ten minutes, the threat of violence in the air had come very near to being actualized. There were sirens in the distance like the sound of a further threat.

Several cars were already parked under the cypresses in Sylvia Lennox’s courtyard. Captain Somerville’s car pulled up behind mine. He got out and shook my hand, quite heartily, though his eyes were looking past me.

“I have to thank you for your intervention. This is Leroy Ellis, of our public-relations department. Let’s see, your name is Archer, isn’t it?”

The younger man climbed out from behind the wheel and gave me a limp handshake. He wasn’t really young—he was close to my age—but was one of those middle-aging men who have never lost the mannerisms of youth. His eyes were damp and emotional. He smelled as if he had somehow managed to get hold of some whisky.

“Leroy’s an old shipmate of mine.” Somerville spoke with rather forced nostalgia. “He was with me at Okinawa. Today was the most excitement we’ve had since, wasn’t it, Leroy?”

Leroy said that it was. He seemed upset and embarrassed, and I got the impression that the Captain, with a kind of affectionate sadism, was subtly needling him. The two men went inside, Leroy trailing behind. I waited a moment, listening to the pigeons talking in the cypresses.

Tony Lashman appeared beside the garages. His face was pale and intent, and he moved like a man with a grievance. He gestured toward the house.

“What’s going on in there?”

“I was going to ask you. I just arrived.”

“They’re having one of their family conferences. I’m supposed to be Mrs. Lennox’s confidential secretary, but she told me to stay out. Are they letting you in?”

“I hope so.”

I started toward the house, but Lashman stepped in front of me. He was beginning to turn into a nuisance.

“Look,” he said. “I want to know what goes on in there. If you can give me the info, I’ll pay you for it.”

“How much?”

“I don’t know how much. But it could be quite a lot—a lot more than a hundred dollars a day.”

“And where would the money come from?”

He saw that I was trying to pump him, and it made him angry:

“All right. I’ll handle it myself.”

He turned on his heel and walked away from me.

Emerson Little, the lawyer, was waiting for me at the door.
He was a bald-headed man with a funereal taste in clothes and an undertaker’s exaggerated poise.

He gave me a soft hand and a hard look. “You’re a bit late, Mr. Archer.”

“I know that. I’m sorry.”

“I had quite a time holding Jack Lennox in place. He’s a headstrong man.”

“Where is he?”

“Inside with his mother. Sylvia Lennox is my client. She wouldn’t release the hundred thousand until you got here, and I supported her in that. The essential point of this operation is to get her granddaughter back safely. The money is quite secondary. Still, we don’t want it wasted on a wild-goose chase.”

“What form is the money in?”

“Unmarked twenties in a plain cardboard carton, as requested.”

“And where’s the drop?”

“Jack Lennox won’t divulge that.” Little’s bland face was moved by a spasm of irritation. “Well. We have to do our best with what we have.”

He went ahead of me into the front room. Sylvia was there with her family. Captain Somerville sat by Elizabeth, his eyes distracted and remote.

Elizabeth gave me a faint smile. Jack Lennox refused to look at me, and his wife Marian looked at me without appearing to see me.

There were spatterings of oil on the windows. A brown cardboard box on the floor beside Sylvia’s chair drew attention like a ticking bomb.

The old woman lifted her hand. “Come and sit down beside me for a minute, Mr. Archer.”

Lennox said, “We’re wasting time, Mother.”

“Please try to be patient, Jack.” She turned to me. “My husband—my ex-husband wants to see you and Jack in El Rancho after you’ve delivered the money. I’m afraid I needed
some help from him in raising it this morning. It gives William an interest in it, and he isn’t one to let such an interest go unused.”

“It’s a natural interest, Mother,” Elizabeth said. “Laurel’s his only grandchild.”

Somerville turned and looked at Elizabeth as if perhaps she was criticizing his potency.

“I’m not suggesting that William’s interest in Laurel is unnatural,” Sylvia said dryly. “I’m sure he has his hands full with that young woman of his. And I’m afraid this business won’t improve his feelings toward the rest of us. It’s too bad he had to find out about it.”

“It doesn’t really matter,” Marian Lennox said. “What matters is getting my daughter back. Everything else is unimportant.” Her tormented gaze moved around the room as if daring anyone to contradict her.

“I quite agree,” Emerson Little said.

Jack Lennox rose half out of his chair. “Then why don’t we get moving?”

It was a nervous meeting, buzzing with unspoken thoughts. Before it broke up, I asked Sylvia Lennox if she had seen the man in the tweed suit or his companion the night before.

“What time were they here?”

“I’m not sure they were here. But if they were, it was probably around eight last night.”

“I was out for dinner. Perhaps Tony Lashman saw them. You’ll probably find him sulking in his room.”

“Sulking?”

“I had to put him in his place. He’s becoming much too inquisitive about my affairs.” She gave me a bright look. “You’re rather inquisitive yourself, aren’t you?”

I didn’t have to answer her. Jack Lennox stood up and looked at his watch dramatically:

“Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”

He was wearing a brown suede jacket, and the gun in his
side pocket was obvious. He turned and strode out toward the courtyard. I followed him, carrying the box of money. The man in the tweed suit would have to wait.

“We’ll take my car,” Lennox said. “It has a telephone in it, which could turn out to be handy. And I’ll do the driving.”

“All right.”

He said impatiently, “I wasn’t asking your permission, I was stating my intention. I’d prefer to go alone. But for some reason my mother insists that I take you along. Against my wishes. Is that clear?”

Under his impatience I could sense his deep fatigue. I was determined to go along with him. “You make it very clear.”

I put the money on the seat between us. Lennox drove out of the courtyard on whining tires which seemed intended to let his family know that nobody cared as much as he did.

I didn’t speak until we were on the old highway heading south. “Where are we going, Mr. Lennox?”

“Sandhill Lake. It’s between the Point and El Rancho.”

“Isn’t there a hunting club on the lake?”

“There used to be. My father was one of the members in the old days.” He drove for a mile or so before he added, “That’s where I learned to shoot.”

“Who picked Sandhill Lake?”

After another silence, he said, “I don’t understand your question.”

“Did you or the kidnapper pick Sandhill Lake for the money drop?”

“He did, of course.”

“That’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it?”

“Where’s the coincidence?”

He sounded genuinely puzzled. I wondered how much drinking he had done in the course of the night, and how little sleeping. I said:

“That he should pick a place you know. A club your father belonged to.”

He answered after a while. “I see what you mean.”

“It suggests he knows your family.” Or at least knows Laurel, I thought. “I take it you talked to him on the phone yourself.”

“When?”

“Last night.”

“Yes. I did.”

“Did you know him?”

“Of course not. What are you getting at?”

He gave me an angry questioning look, and the black Cadillac swerved onto the shoulder. Lennox pulled it back onto the road without slackening speed. We were going about eighty.

I didn’t quite dare to answer him directly, that I suspected his daughter of conning him and the rest of the family. He had some of Laurel’s wildness in him—or she had some of his—and he was capable of going into a blank rage and wrecking the car.