And Kill Once More. Al Fray
Kate glanced toward the assorted people sprawled over deck furniture on the far side and said softly, “Anything new, Marty?”
I grinned at her. “It gets worse.”
“You’ve found out something?”
“I’ve found out nothing,” I admitted, “or very little. You sure there’s something wrong?”
Kate slipped her white bathing cap off and let long blonde hair tumble down to the pad. I ran an appreciative eye over her trim brown lines and expensive bathing suit, then came back to catch two blue eyes looking mildly across at me.
“If there isn’t, there’s something wrong about me.”
“That could be.”
A thin smile played along her eyes. “And what have we decided about the rest of the customers, Marty?”
I grinned. “Let’s not be bitter. You can learn a lot about people around the water. Like your friend Pilcher over there. This morning he appeared to be a fat and mouthy gent with nothing to back it up. The picture hasn’t changed. A while ago he dove in beside me and started swimming away with that ‘wanna race’ look in his face. He has to impress people. You can see him on the beach any afternoon, or several like him. They spread their overstuffed skins on the sand and rest for ten minutes. Then some kid comes along and fat boy has to dive into the surf and make like a teen-ager. When he climbs out panting like an overworked steam engine he tries to muffle the sound of his breath. Ninety per cent of the time his belly overflows his trunks, but let some cute chick waltz by and our pudgy friend will suck that tummy up into a chest that would scare a gorilla, flex his muscles, and try to hold it until she’s gone. He will tell you blandly that a man with his large frame can carry a lot of weight without being fat and a mere two hundred and forty pounds is about right for him.”
“That would seem to be Mr. Pilcher,” Kate said.
“The Mrs. Pilcher type comes down to the beach now and then too,” I mused, “though not as much as she used to, I guess, before those hips began to build. And she’ll spend more time under the umbrella than she did last year and eat a few less hamburgers. You’ll see her arrive in a bigger and better car, more than likely, as years go by. And one day she’ll give up the battle entirely and eat a double chocolate marshmallow sundae whenever she wants it and let a fifty dollar corset or a forty-dollar swim suit do all her worrying. Any additions, Kate?”
“None. I’m getting a liberal education in beaches and the people who go there. Please go on.”
“Sure,” I said. “As long as we’re just kidding around I’ll carry the ball one more time. The doctor. Cronk, I think they introduced him. Dr. Cronk.”
“This should be good,” Kate laughed. “He hasn’t been in and he didn’t bring a bathing suit. How do you classify him on the Bowman beach scale?”
“He comes out all right, as long as there isn’t anything specific to nail him on. He doesn’t give a damn about the water and what’s more, he doesn’t care who knows it. From here we see a somewhat nervous gent in his fifties. Rimless glasses, a round face, no tan. He’s a little belligerent, I’d guess—a little too forceful about not letting anyone get him to paddle around in the pool. That Lincoln outside must be his and means he probably takes in a tidy little sum in fees each year. I presume that reasonable intelligence and ability will have to be credited to him, if he’s made it through the rough deal that medical school is said to be. He reads the daily paper with gusto and probably stays away from the people he reads about.” I grinned and added: “As far as the Bowman beach scale goes, we’ll say Dr. Cronk is at least honest. We see him seldom and then only when the family drags him along by the collar. Which brings a question to mind. Have you run into him up here before?”
“Once. Last spring, I think. I can’t be sure. Not with his family, though, if he has any.”
I shifted to a more comfortable position and fixed a steady eye on the girl. “So far I’ve been on safe ground. You don’t know these three any better than I do. Or very little, but you do know George and Sandy, so how about a blonde’s eye view on the lord of the manor? What about George?”
Kate let a twinkle work its way into her eye and then a smile broke over her tan face. “That hardly seems fair—you should take a flyer on George, too, just to show me that Bowman knows his beach people. Where do we put George Engle?”
I looked over toward my smokes and matches across the pool. A stall. Three minutes, maybe, to think of something. “Time out,” I grinned. “I’ll get my cigarettes and be back.”
The blonde watched me go and I didn’t hurry any. I had already had a few ideas about the pool. Now I watched Engle. He stood by the diving board, a trim, well-formed man who had taken the best possible care of his physical being. Fifty, Kate had said, and I thought now that she’d given him the benefit of a good five years. Fifty-five, say, with straight gray hair that hadn’t yet made him a highbrow. He was as tan as walnut stain and it made his teeth flash white when he smiled.
I picked up my pack and matches and started back. Small black tile numbers just below the water level marked the fifteen foot depth under the board and it graded up to three feet, the dark numbers waving slightly as the tiny ripples on the water distorted them. Fifteen feet of water under a low board—and it told me something else about Engle. I walked slowly back to the pad, flopped down, offered smokes, and looked at Kate.
“Here it is,” I said lightly. “We’ll try one for size on George Engle. Apart from age and the rest that’s visible, I’d say George hasn’t always been a swimming enthusiast. In fact he’s only been a water bug for three or four years, Kate. Right?”
Her eyes came up a little and she nodded slowly.
“Uh-huh.” I said, gaining confidence. “He took it up, probably because Sandy liked to swim, but like some of the people who join a church to please a bride, George really got interested. Now he loves the pool. As far as being a husband goes, George would stop at nothing in his efforts to please Sandy. He’s considerate, a good provider, well mannered, and yet has enough determination and force to keep from being a milktoast. Okay so far?”
“I’m trying to remember,” Kate said, “what I might have said that told you George didn’t swim much before he met Sandy. I mean—”
“Elementary, my dear Watson,” I grinned. “No one puts this much cash into a pool without professional advice. Any pool man would have told him that six to eight feet is enough under a low board. It goes up—or down really—to fifteen feet for a tower but there is no tower here. So probably George had the pool built for maximum depth and figured to put the tower in later. In fact the base plates for a tower are already in the concrete. Now, I ask myself, why didn’t he put it in when the pool was made? Surely money was no problem. And that leads us to a very fine point about George Engle. He didn’t want a tower to dive from until he became an expert on the rest of it—the springboard and swimming in general. Because G.E. is a man who makes sure that he always looks good. Unlike Pilcher who wishes he did.”
“All right, Sherlock, I’ll buy that,” Kate laughed. “And I’m sorry to have put you on the spot.”
“You can do penance,” I said lightly. “You can take over the opium pipe for a while and do a little dreaming for me. You were very insistent, Kate, that Gregory provide you with a man who would be at home in the water. But look at what’s here—Pilcher who splashes more than he swims, Dr. Cronk who hasn’t even pulled on a bathing suit, and a host who is an ardent fan but no better than a fair swimmer, and that in an elderly sort of way. True, you’re an expert. I’m not simonizing the apple when I say you’re really good. But what about Sandy Engle? As a kid she was nuts about the water, you tell me. Now I see her as strictly a dry number. She hasn’t gotten wet once, and while I’m a big boy now and don’t go around asking girls why they can’t go swimming, I get the feeling this has nothing to do with the calendar. I’m willing to bet she doesn’t swim any more. Period. What’s the pitch, Kate?