“Professionally or socially?” he asked. “Never mind, the hell with professionally. Socially’s more interesting. Do you remember my telling you about a young lady named Eileen?”

  “Yes, the National Airlines stewardess.”

  “No that was Arlene.”

  “I don’t remember anyone named Eileen.”

  “Anyway, we’ve become very friendly.”

  “Good,” I said.

  “Not so good,” Mark said. “She’s moving back to Ohio. She’s had an offer to teach at Oberlin. She called me last night, said she desperately had to see me. I told her I couldn’t. She said, ‘But I’m leaving for Ohio!’ I said, ‘I know you’re leaving for Ohio, honey, but that’s not till September. This isn’t even March yet.’”

  “So did you go see her?”

  “No, I couldn’t, I had a poker game. Your friend’s game.”

  I looked at him. “My friend’s game?”

  “Jamie Bircher. You introduced me to him once a long time ago. At Marina Blue.”

  “Purchase, do you mean? Jamie Purchase?”

  “Yeah. An internist or something?”

  “You played poker with him last night?”

  “Well, don’t sound so shocked, Matt. It’s perfectly legal, you know.”

  “Yes, I know, I just…”

  “Didn’t remember me from a hole in the wall. Shook hands, how do you do, Mr. Goldman, sat down and started counting his chips.” Mark shrugged. “Hell with him,” he said.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “Are you a regular in the game?”

  “No, no, a friend of mine called yesterday afternoon—ten minutes before Eileen did, as a matter of fact. Art Kramer, do you know him? He sells real estate out on Whisper.”

  “No, I don’t know him.”

  “Two of his players had dropped out, he asked if I’d do him a favor and play. I played in the game once a long time ago. I didn’t much like it, so I never went back. They don’t play any wild games, just five-card draw or seven-card…do you play poker?”

  “Yes.”

  “Art doesn’t. Not really. He loves the game, but he can’t play it to save his ass. You know how much he lost last night?”

  “How much?”

  “Forty dollars. I know that doesn’t sound like much, but these guys play for nickels and dimes. Your friend walked out with a bundle.”

  “My friend?”

  “Tell me, Matt, has your tennis elbow moved up into your ear?”

  “You mean Jamie Purchase?”

  “Yes, your friend. Jamie Purchase your friend. Jamie Purchase the internist. Ask him to take a look at your ear, Matt.”

  “You mean he won?”

  “Yes. Very good, Matt. That’s exactly what I meant when I said he walked out with a bundle. He won. Excellent, Matt, you’re doing very—”

  “No, wait a minute. He won? He won?”

  “Must be an echo in this place,” Mark said. “Yes, he won. Or to put it yet another way, he won, yes. Cashed in his chips, said good night and walked out.”

  “Did he say why he was leaving?”

  “He was tired, poor fellow. Said he had to go home and get some sleep.”

  “He said he was going home?”

  Mark looked at me. “I feel certain I’m speaking English,” he said, “but…”

  “Mark, did he actually say he was going home?”

  “Yes, he actually said he was going home. Not a very nice thing to do, Matt. You don’t walk out of a game when you’re winning. We played till one o’clock, but he’d already taken sixty bucks out of the game by eleven.”

  “Is that when he left? Eleven?”

  “A little before eleven, in fact.” Mark shook his head. “It wasn’t the first time, either. According to Art, your friend makes a habit of it.”

  “Of what? Leaving the game early?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When he’s winning, do you mean?”

  “Even when he’s losing. Art likes to have seven players in the game, keeps it lively. When somebody leaves the game early it changes the dynamics. I’ll bet Art tries to ease him out. He was mad as hell last night, I can tell you that.” Mark paused. “What’ll your friend do then? Without the poker game for his alibi?”

  “Well…I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t you? It’s plain as day, Matt. Your friend’s got a little something going on the side. Listen, more power to him. But can’t he find a better alibi than a poker game? I mean, can’t he at least go perform an appendectomy every Sunday night?”

  5

  * * *

  I SPENT the next ten minutes in a telephone booth outside a gasoline station. The traffic at a quarter to ten had thickened considerably, automobiles and trucks moving bumper to bumper in both directions. For as long as I’d been living here, there’d been talk of financing an interstate superhighway that would divert traffic away from the city and ease the burden on U.S. 41. They were still talking about it. The talk said that even if they started building it this very minute, it wouldn’t be ready for ten years. By that time, the line of traffic on the Trail would be frozen solid from Tampa all the way down to the Everglades.

  I called Aggie first.

  The phone rang three times before she answered it.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “Hi.”

  “Matt, good! I was just getting ready to leave the house.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’ve got a dumb rehearsal. Is there any possibility you can get away this afternoon?”

  “Why?”

  “Julie’s got a guitar lesson, and Gerry’s got basketball practice. They’re both being picked up, I’ll be free till at least five.”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  “Let me tempt you.”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “From the way it looks now, I may not even be able to call you later.”

  “Why not?” she asked at once. “Is something wrong?”

  “Jamie Purchase’s wife and kids were murdered last night.”

  “You’re joking!”

  “No, honey, I wish I—”

  “Oh, Matt, how awful. Do they know who did it?”

  “Not yet.”

  “It wasn’t Jamie, was it?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But you’re not sure.”

  “I just don’t know, Aggie.”

  “What do the police think?”

  “A man named Ehrenberg’s in charge of the investigation. He said Jamie’s not a suspect, but I’m not sure I believe him.”

  “What’d Jamie tell you?”

  “That he didn’t do it. Honey, I’ve got to go. What time will you be through with that rehearsal?”

  “One at the very latest.”

  “I’ll try to call you after that. Aggie…?”

  “Yes, darling?”

  “I almost told her last night. I almost told Susan I wanted a divorce.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “No.”

  “All right, darling.”

  “Aggie, I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “I’ll try to call later.”

  “Yes.”

  “I love you,” I said, and put the phone gently back on the cradle. I fished another dime from my pocket, looked up the number for the Magnolia Garden Motel, and quickly dialed it.

  “Magnolia Garden,” a woman said, “good morning.”

  “Good morning,” I said. “May I please speak to Dr. Purchase, he’s in room number twelve.”

  “Unit number twelve, yes, sir,” she said. “Dr. Purchase, Dr. Purchase…” Her voice trailed. I had the feeling she was running her index finger down a list of guests. “He’s checked out, sir,” she said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When did he leave?”

  “About nine, I guess it was. Calusa Cab picked him up.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and hung up. It was very hot in the phone booth. I opened the door to let in some air. A trailer truck was rumbling past, it filled the booth with noise and diesel exhaust. I knew from experience that taxicab companies, in Calusa or anywhere else, would tell no one but the police where they had driven a passenger. I debated calling Calusa Cab and saying I was Detective Ehrenberg. I didn’t have the nerve. Instead, I tried to figure where Jamie might have gone at nine in the morning, still dressed in what he was wearing the night before—he’d taken nothing with him when we left the house. Not even a shaving kit. I figured the only place he could have gone was back home to shower and shave and change his clothes. I knew the number by heart.

  “Detective Di Luca,” a voice said. Ehrenberg’s partner, the small dark man with the blue eyes. His voice was rather high-pitched. It came as a surprise. I’d have expected from him something closer to a rasp or a whisper.

  “This is Matthew Hope,” I said. “I’m Dr. Purchase’s attorney.”

  “Yes, sir, good morning,” Di Luca said.

  “Good morning. I was wondering if Dr. Purchase might be there.”

  “Yes, sir, he got here just a little while ago. Did you want to speak to him?”

  “If I may.”

  “Well…just a second, okay?”

  He put down the phone. I heard him yelling something to somebody named Harry. I caught the word “doctor,” and then Jamie came on the line.

  “Hello?” he said.

  “Jamie, this is Matt. Listen to me. I want to see you right away, and not at the house with policemen crawling all over the place.”

  “What’s wrong, Matt?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, I have to talk to you. How nearly dressed are you?”

  “I’m dressed.”

  “Had you planned on working today?”

  “No. I’ve already called in and told Louise to cancel my appointments.”

  “Good. Can you get to my office by ten-thirty?”

  “What is it, Matt?”

  “Can you get there?”

  “Yes, sure.”

  “I’ll see you then,” I said. “Good-bye, Jamie.”

  “Good-bye, Matt,” he said. His voice seemed puzzled.

  I put the receiver back onto the hook and went out to where I’d parked the car near the air hose. The garage attendant was standing there with his hands on his hips. He seemed offended about something; I guessed I was blocking his hose. He kept watching me as I climbed into the car. Just as I started to back out, he said, “How much you want for that car?”

  “It’s not for sale,” I said.

  “You ought to get that fender fixed,” he said. “Ruins the look of it.”

  “I’ll get around to it.”

  “They don’t make those cars no more, you know.”

  “I know,” I said. “It’s a classic.”

  “Damn right, it is,” he said.

  The day was beginning to warm up. I turned on the air conditioner. It rattled and clonked and clunked, but it cooled off the automobile. It was almost ten o’clock when I reached the cutoff to Route 74. I switched on the radio and caught the last few bars of a schmaltzy arrangement of “Sunrise, Sunset.” The news came on immediately afterward. The lead story was the murder of Maureen Purchase and her daughters Emily and Eve.

  It was real at last.

  Cynthia Huellen was a native Floridian with long blonde hair and a glorious tan that she worked at almost fanatically; never a weekend went by that did not find Cynthia on a beach or a boat. She was easily the most beautiful person in the law offices of Summerville & Hope, twenty-three years old, and employed by us as a receptionist. We kept telling her to quit the job and go to law school instead. She already had a B.A. from the University of South Florida, and we were ready to take her into the firm the minute she passed her bar exams. Cynthia just grinned and said, “No, I don’t want the hassle of school again.”

  She looked up as I came into the office.

  “Frank would like to see you right away,” she said.

  “Okay. Any calls?”

  “Mr. Galatier.”

  “What’d he want?”

  “Said to remind you of his appointment at twelve.”

  “How could I forget? Anybody else?”

  “Your wife. Said it wasn’t important.”

  “Okay. Buzz Frank and tell him I’m going to shower and change. I’ll be with him in five minutes. Tell him Jamie’s coming in at ten-thirty.”

  “What an awful, awful thing,” Cynthia said.

  “Yes. And Cyn, I think maybe you’d better call Galatier and tell him I can’t see him after all. It’s liable to get hectic around here, and I won’t need a goddamn lunatic underfoot.”

  “Did you win?” Cynthia asked.

  “No,” I answered.

  The one luxury I’d insisted on in our offices was a shower stall. The architect wanted to put it on the wall between my office and Frank’s, next door to the bathroom, where the plumbing was going to be. But he couldn’t do this without cutting down on the interior size of Frank’s office. Frank said he did not mind people taking showers in the office when they should have been taking them at home. He did, however, mind his office being trimmed to the size of a broom closet simply to accommodate a sweaty athlete. Our architect had opted for the other side of the corridor instead, putting the shower stall between the conference room and Karl Jennings’s office—Karl was just out of law school and enjoyed no executive privileges. I went into my own office, picked up my change of clothes, and was starting toward the door again when the telephone rang. I put everything down on the leather couch opposite the desk and picked up the phone.

  “Yes?” I said.

  “Mr. Hope, it’s your wife again,” Cynthia said. “Can you talk to her now?”

  “All right, put her on,” I said. I looked at my watch. It was almost ten past ten; Jamie would be here in twenty minutes and I still hadn’t talked to Frank.

  “Hello?” Susan said.

  “Yes, Susan, what is it?”

  “Are you still angry?” she asked.

  “No, just in a hurry.”

  “I’m sorry about yesterday.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “Susan, I really can’t talk right now. We’ll discuss it when I get home, okay?”

  “You haven’t forgotten tonight, have you?”

  “What’s tonight?”

  “The gallery opening, and then dinner at—”

  “Yes, right. It’s here on my calendar. Susan, I’ve got to say good-bye now.”

  “All right, we’ll talk when you get home.”

  “Fine.”

  “Do you have any idea what time that’ll be?”

  “Susan, I just got here this minute, I haven’t even—”

  “All right, darling, go ahead,” she said.

  “We’ll talk later,” I said.

  “Yes, good-bye.”

  “Good-bye,” I said and put down the receiver and collected my clothes again. I was carrying them across the corridor when Frank stepped out of his office next door.

  There are people who say that Frank and I look alike. I cannot see any resemblance. I’m six feet two inches tall and weigh a hundred and ninety pounds. Frank’s a half-inch under six feet, and he weighs a hundred and seventy, which he watches like a hawk. We both have dark hair and brown eyes, but Frank’s face is rounder than mine. Frank says there are only two types of faces in the world—pig faces and fox faces. He classifies himself as a pig face and me as a fox face. There is nothing derogatory about either label; they are only intended to be descriptive. Frank first told me about his designation system last October. Ever since, I’ve been unable to look at anyone without automatically categorizing him as either pig or fox.

  “Why’s Jamie coming here?” he said at once.

  “I asked him to. He was lying about that poker game, Frank. He was winning when he left.”

  “Who says?”

  “Mark Goldman was in the same game.”

  “Then why’d Jamie say he was losing?”

  “That’s what I want to ask him. That’s why he’s coming here.”

  Jamie came into the office fifteen minutes later. He looked well rested, well scrubbed, and cleanly shaved. He was wearing a white linen leisure suit, dark blue sports shirt open at the throat. Frank took his hand and expressed sincere condolences. I asked Jamie if he wanted a drink, and he looked at his watch, and then shook his head. I looked at Frank. Frank nodded.

  “Jamie,” I said, “we’re your lawyers, and we’ve got to ask you the same questions the police are going to ask. And we need the answers before they get them.”

  “Okay,” Jamie said. There was the same puzzled tone in his voice that had been there earlier on the telephone.

  “I’ll give it to you straight,” I said. “I’m not trying to trick you into anything, I’m asking only for the truth. A man named Mark Goldman was in that poker game with you last night. You’d met him before, I’d introduced you one day when we were having lunch at Marina Blue. I guess you’d forgotten him, you didn’t seem to recognize him last night. Man with a mustache, about your height…”

  “What about him?” Jamie said.

  “I played tennis with him this morning. He told me you were winning when you left the game. Is that true?”

  “No, I was losing,” Jamie said.

  “How much were you losing?” Frank asked.

  “Thirty, forty dollars.”

  “So you decided to go home.”

  “Yes.”

  “But instead you went to The Innside Out for a drink. How come?”

  “I was feeling low. About losing.”

  “About losing,” Frank repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “Jamie,” I said, “Detective Ehrenberg is going to talk to all the players who were in that game last night. That’s why he took their names from you. He’ll eventually get to Mark Goldman, even though he was one of the players whose names you didn’t know. Mark’s going to tell him exactly what he told me. You were winning when you quit. You were tired. You were going home to sleep. Now unless you can prove you were at The Innside Out, Ehrenberg’s going to think you did go home. He’s going to think you got there a lot earlier than a quarter to one, when you called me. He’s going to think you were maybe there in time to murder Maureen and the kids. Now Jamie…”