The Cool Cottontail (12 page)

Linda had on a smart yellow frock that set off her good looks to perfection. Her hair was neatly arranged and she had used a small amount of lipstick with rewarding effect. Only her sandaled feet were a concession to informality.

He recovered himself and introduced Ellen. “I know,” Linda said simply. “Please come in, we’re expecting you. Virgil phoned.”

As Ellen got out of the car, she reflected that the only shock so far was hearing her quietly dignified escort called by his first name. On the way to the main house, Forrest
Nunn met them in a sport shirt and slacks. In honor of the occasion George had elected to wear a white shirt and a tie so that he looked the part of the rising young man to perfection.

Tibbs watched with interest as the Nunns made Ellen welcome, extended her their sympathy, and within five minutes had her sitting, relaxed and contented, with a tall glass of iced tea and a piece of homemade cake before her. Soon Ellen was telling them about her uncle, the strain had left her face, and she seemed to accept the fact that she was among friends. After about half an hour, George drew Tibbs aside.

“Virgil, what happens when you and Miss Boardman leave here?” he asked.

Allowing himself a moment of quiet amusement but keeping a straight face, Virgil replied, “I’m going to take Miss Boardman home. Then it’s back to Pasadena and whatever is waiting for me there.”

“That’s a lot of driving,” George suggested.

“I’m used to it.”

George said thoughtfully, “Ellen, on short acquaintance, seems like an exceptionally nice girl.”

Virgil nodded slowly. “I agree.”

“Are you interested—personally?”

Tibbs appreciated that. He said, “No, definitely not. For several reasons, one of them being that she is concerned in a case that I am investigating.”

Each man fully understood the other. And each knew that a thread of friendship had been spun between them.

“Then how would it be with you if I offered to take Ellen home? Assuming that it’s all right with her, of course.”

“Why don’t you ask her?” It was a considered decision;
technically Ellen Boardman was his responsibility, and George was not yet cleared of possible connection with the crime, even though he had raised the alarm and used first-aid techniques. He was an able-bodied male known to have been on the scene. However, the risk involved in an assault on Ellen Boardman under the circumstances would have been suicidal, and Tibbs, fully aware of this, allowed George to go ahead.

A few minutes later George asked her, and Ellen showed her own intelligence by glancing quickly at Tibbs for a cue.

Virgil said, “If it’s agreeable with you, Miss Boardman, go ahead. It will give me a chance to get back to my office and attend to some rather pressing matters. But if you’d like to continue our discussion, then I’d be very happy to run you on up.”

“You have been extremely kind to me,” she said. “By all means, go ahead. And thank you very much—for everything.”

As Tibbs rose to go, Linda volunteered to go with him to the parking lot.

“I like Ellen,” the girl said as they walked. “And I think George does, too.”

“I would say that was fairly obvious,” Virgil responded.

“Do you have a girl, Virgil?”

“I have some friends, of course. No one that I’m serious about—at least not yet.”

“After this is all over and you have caught the murderer, will you come back and see us? We’d like you to.”

Tibbs stopped by his car and took his time getting in behind the wheel. “I’d like to very much,” he said finally. “I like your family and this is a very pleasant place. But there are obstacles, as you realize. In the first place, I’m not a nudist, and forgive me if I add that I have no immediate plans to become
one.” He fitted the key into the lock. “Then, too, Linda, we do represent different segments of humanity.”

She rested her hands on the window sill of the car. “You know how we all feel about that,” she said.

“I do and I’m extremely grateful for it. I was in the Deep South a few weeks ago on a case down there. It was quite different.”

“It doesn’t affect your work, does it? I mean, representing a different segment of humanity.”

“There are some annoyances, but not among my colleagues. There has been a lot of progress in the last few years. Have you ever had to take it on the chin from someone because you were a nudist?”

“For a while, yes, when I was in school. Not so much any more. People are learning.”

“I agree, they are.”

“We’re going to have a dance here in a little while,” Linda said. “An evening affair—clothed, of course. We’d all be very pleased if you’d come.”

“Possibly,” Tibbs answered. “On the condition that I could bring my own date. You understand, don’t you?”

“Yes, Virgil, I understand. If you come, will you ask me for a dance?”

“If it’s customary here, Linda, yes, I would be very happy to. In some places I wouldn’t, because that would be—” He was at a loss for the right word.

“Premature?” Linda suggested.

“Thank you. As you wouldn’t appear undressed on the streets of San Bernardino, would you?”

“Certainly not!”

“Yet we might live to see the day when it will be quite
customary on the beaches, the way things are going.”

“I’m sure of it,” Linda agreed. “But I understand what you mean. I’ll make a date with you. Let’s agree to celebrate the twenty-fourth or twenty-fifth anniversary of the date that you catch the murderer. Things ought to be different then.”

“Of course they will be. You’ll undoubtedly be married, for one thing. Perhaps I will be, too.”

“Well, I should hope so. Goodbye, Virgil.”

“Goodbye, Linda.” He backed the car around, and drove out onto the highway.

The telephone of Walter McCormack, the millionaire business manager of Roussel Rights, Inc., was not listed, so Tibbs had to spend a few extra minutes before he had the residence of the millionaire on the line. When he did get through, the person who answered was not cooperative.

“Mr. McCormack is not available to see anyone,” he was informed.

“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear,” Virgil replied patiently. “I’m speaking officially, as a police officer. I have under investigation a very serious matter in which Mr. McCormack is at least indirectly involved. It is essential that I see him as soon as possible.”

If his words had any effect, the results were not apparent. “Mr. McCormack is not available. If there are legal problems involved, I suggest that you call his attorney, Mr. Michael Wolfram.” The line went dead.

His temper rising, Tibbs checked the directory again and called the attorney’s office. Being turned down on a request for an official interview was almost unheard of, particularly by people who might be under suspicion. When the telephone receptionist answered Wolfram’s line, Tibbs was unintentionally short with her. In a few seconds he had the attorney on the other end and explained his problem.

“Mr. Tibbs, the same tiling happens to everyone. Please don’t take personal offense,” Wolfram explained. “Mr. McCormack is an extremely reserved person and usually makes his own rules. He prefers to see no one and that’s the way it is. I spend a good deal of my time placating people who have had the same experience as you had. If you call personally at his residence, he might see you, but I rather seriously doubt it.”

“How would you suggest I arrange to see him?” Tibbs asked. “I must do so as soon as possible.”

“You might write him a letter. He reads his mail and then does whatever he thinks best. I’d allow a week, though. Mr. McCormack doesn’t like to be rushed into anything.”

“As his attorney, could you call him and point out the need to see me now?”

“Mr. Tibbs, please understand that it wouldn’t be of any use. He has given definite instructions on the point. I believe a letter would be your best solution.”

His temper now thoroughly aroused, Tibbs left the office and pointed his car westward toward Malibu. It was a long drive, and he had to watch himself in the hurrying freeway traffic not to let his irritation upset his judgment. To change his outlook, he turned on the radio and listened to a play-byplay of the California Angels, who were having a good one with the Yankees. By the time he reached the Pacific shoreline, he had regained his usual composure.

The residence of Walter McCormack was set well back and heavily screened by shrubbery. At the entrance there was a sign that unnecessarily read “
PRIVATE
”; heavy metal gates made it clear that casual visitors were not wanted. Virgil parked his car, walked up to the small uninviting pedestrian entryway, and let himself in.

Once on the grounds he admitted to himself that the seclusion was pleasant. As the terrain rose, a view of the ocean was unfolded and the cool air off the water had a refreshing saltiness. The huge lawn, which was beautifully kept, surrounded a big half-timbered English manor house that reigned with patrician dignity. It was the kind of home no policeman could ever hope to have.

As Tibbs approached the house up the wide driveway, he saw a sizeable Negro in blue coveralls who was washing a black Cadillac with a garden hose and a large soft sponge. The man looked up as Virgil came closer and stopped his work for a moment to observe him. Tibbs continued up the driveway until he was within speaking range.

“Is Mr. McCormack in?” he asked. The big car suggested he was, but the question served a purpose.

The chauffeur looked at him in surprise. “There’s no work to be had here. McCormack gets anybody he needs through an agency.”

“I’m not after work,” Virgil answered. He took out a small leather case and displayed his shield.

The chauffeur looked at the shield and whistled softly. “Trouble?” he asked.

“Maybe not, but I’ve got to see Mr. McCormack. What’s the best way?”

The big man shook his head slowly. “There just ain’t no best way. Mr. McCormack is a real tough man. Lots of people try to see him, but he doesn’t see nobody.”

“Has he an office?”

“No office—he don’t need one. He’s got all the money he needs. All he wants to do is stay here and enjoy himself.”

Tibbs looked again at the long rolling vista of the ocean. “I
can’t blame him for that,” he said. “But I’ve got to see him just the same.”

Eloquently the chauffeur lifted his shoulders and let them fall. Then he directed the water from the hose back onto the side of the car and began to wipe slowly, dividing his interest between his work and the conversation in progress. “Don’t bother to ring the front doorbell. It won’t do you no good.”

“Somebody should answer,” Tibbs said reasonably.

“Maybe, but you won’t get in—not even with that badge you got. I know. The orders are to let no one in, no matter who. Anybody who lets anyone in gets fired, right then. So if you make ’em let you in, somebody loses his job.”

“What’s your name?” Tibbs asked.

“I’m Brown—Walter Brown. The boss don’t like it I’ve got the same name he has, so he calls me Brown all the time. He wanted me to change it once, and offered to have his lawyer fix it up. I told him I liked it the way it was.”

“Good for you.” Tibbs thought a minute and decided to leave and take a different tack. “I’ll see you later.”

To Virgil’s surprise the chauffeur put down his tools to walk him part way back to the front gate. “If you need any more help,” he offered, “let me know.”

Tibbs thanked him and handed him his card. “I’m going to try to get invited to see Mr. McCormack. If you happen to see him yourself and can do so, I’d appreciate your telling him personally that a police officer has been trying to reach him concerning an important matter.”

Brown accepted the card and tucked it carefully away in an inner pocket. “Now wouldn’t exactly be the time to do that. He’s been pretty upset lately. You read the papers?”

Tibbs nodded.

Brown dropped his voice a shade, although there was no one to overhear him. “One of his good friends got himself killed in a nudist camp and he didn’t like that one bit. Enough so now he won’t even see his lawyer. Mr. Wolfram is different; he can usually get in any time.”

“Any time?” Tibbs inquired.

“That’s right, night or day.”

“Does anyone else have that privilege?”

Brown shook his head. “Nope. Mr. Wolfram’s the only one.”

“Is there a Mrs. McCormack?”

“There was, but she’s been dead a long time. A real nice lady, too.”

Tibbs digested this information during lunch and then drove down the coast highway. In order to relax as much as he could, he stayed in the right-hand lane, where he could take in the sweeping vastness of the water and let it work its unhurried magic on his spirit. When he felt that he had indulged in his reverie long enough, he reminded himself firmly of the job he had in hand and pulled up at a roadside telephone. The number of William Holt-Rymers, one of the four surviving stockholders of the Roussel holding company, was listed in Venice. Virgil dialed.

The phone was answered almost immediately. “Bill Rymers,” said a voice that was brisk but without harshness. It was a statement of fact.

Tibbs introduced himself and asked for an appointment.

“Where are you now?” Holt-Rymers asked.

Tibbs told him.

“Come on down—it’s an easy place to find. Be sure you turn off before Pacific Ocean Park. If you get there, you’ve gone too far.”

Virgil got back into his car and continued southward. He drove through Santa Monica and entered the less impressive Venice area, checking the street numbers as he went along.

A mile short of the amusement park he found the place he wanted; it was close to the ocean, fairly small, and wedged in between two other equally weather-beaten structures typical of close-to-the-beach property rented out on a weekly basis to summer visitors. The ancient wooden clapboards had been painted gray at some time in the past, as had all the other substandard buildings on the short block; now they had resigned themselves to the colorless hue bestowed upon them by sun, wind, and salt water. Virgil checked the number carefully and got out of his car.

The man who opened the door gave an immediate impression of height, leanness, and casual physical discipline. He was somewhere in his mid-thirties, his face partly hidden by a short beard that suggested a jazz musician. Tibbs guessed him as about six feet, although he appeared taller because of his bare torso, which was tightly muscled and deeply browned by the sun. He wore Bermuda shorts and a pair of indifferent leather sandals, and a towel lay across his shoulders as though he had just come from a plunge in a nearby swimming pool.