Erle Stanley Gardner - Gramp Wiggens 01 - The Case of the Turning Tide

  CAST OF CHARACTERS Page

  TED SHALE—A traveling paper salesman who rescued a waterlogged blond maiden and found himself involved in a double murder 1

  JOAN HARPLER—Another good Samaritan, the well-built owner and captain of the yacht Albatross—definitely not the type one would expect to find sailing alone 1

  NITA MOLINE—An invited guest on the Gypsy Queen. Easy on the eyes, she had ample resources—both physical and financial . 2

  FRANK DURYEA—He'd been district attorney of Santa Delbarra County for three years but couldn't stomach scenes of violence 7

  MILRED DURYEA—Frank's good-looking wife, who had the knack of keeping her youth, her figure and her husband 7

  ADDISON STEARNE—Wealthy owner of the Gypsy Queen, who shrewdly reduced everything to dollars and cents . 8

  C. ARTHUR RIGHT—Former secretary to Stearne, he still had illusions about his ex-employer 8

  GRAMPS WIGGINS—Milred's globe-trotting grandfather. This family skeleton was a mystery addict with unconventional ideas on sleuthing 15

  GEORGE V. HAZLIT—Addison Stearne's attorney. He cultivated an aura of professional respectability that enabled him to do things in an extraordinary fashion 27

  Cast of Characters

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  PARKER GIBBS—A private detective employed by Hazlit, who knew full well that a man in his occupation is paid to secure results 31

  PEARL RIGHT—C. Arthur Right's attractive but unloved wife, who resented Stearne's hypnotic spell over her husband 41

  WARREN HILBERS—Mrs. Right's playboy brother, whose first love was speedboats. No one ever forgot his pipe-organ voice 41

  JACK ELWELL—An oil-lease speculator who was most anxious not to receive a letter that would cost him a pretty penny 55

  NED FIELDING—Elwell's young partner. His magnetic personality and regular profile tempted many female investors 55

  MRS. PARKER GIBBS—Jealous and suspicious wife of the detective, she asked as many questions as a D.A 69

  MARTHA GAYMAN—Secretary to Elwell & Fielding. Her employers thought her too dumb to lie 72

  CHAPTER 1

  TED SHALE walked along the hardpacked sand which had been left by the outgoing tide. He walked with the leisurely manner of one who has no definite destination in mind. To the south, the ocean was a sheet of deep blue. Above it arched the cloudless vault of the sky. The sunlight reflected from the water as from a burnished mirror. Behind him and to the north, the city of Santa Delbarra cuddled against the hazy blue slopes of the mountains. The sides of its stucco buildings were white in the sunlight. Green palm fronds splashed color contrast against red tile roofs.

  It was Sunday. The sound of church bells, mellowed by distance, drifted through the balmy air. Out in the bay, some two dozen yachts swung to their moorings. On one of them stood a girl in a tight-fitting white bathing suit decorated with green and brown figures. The morning sun touched her smooth, bronzed skin. Her body was smooth, supple, and desirable, and she was fully conscious of that fact.

  There was no other sign of life on any of the yachts.

  A hundred feet or more beyond the yacht on which the girl was standing, the Gypsy Queen floated in regal splendor. The exhaust from its Diesel motor, disguised as a funnel, gave it the appearance of a miniature liner. Glistening with mahogany, brass, and white enamel, it dwarfed the other yachts in the harbor. Shale's interest centered on this yacht. From time to time, he shifted his eyes to it. Aboard it was Addison Stearne, who controlled, among other things, a string of Pacific Coast hotels. The sales manager of the Freelander Pasteboard Products Company had sent Shale to Santa Delbarra with instructions to get an order from Stearne.

  So far Shale hadn't even been able to see the man, let alone, talk with him.

  Shale was only too well aware that Sunday might be an unpropitious time to make an approach, but, talking with

  some of the crew of the Gypsy Queen who had been on shore leave, Shale had learned that Stearne had left orders the yacht was to be ready to put to sea at three o'clock Sunday afternoon.

  Shale's investigations had further disclosed that every man on the crew had been given overnight shore leave, had, in fact, been warned to stay ashore and not come back to the yacht. That had included even the cook. Obviously, Stearne would require some breakfast, and Shale intended to approach the man the minute he set foot on the landing float at the yacht club. Whether the time was propitious or not, Shale determined he was going to have a try at it.

  It was as yet too early for many people to be at the beach, but a few family parties were gathered near the wall which served as a windbreak. Three or four children ran along the hardpacked sand. As they played, they shouted shrill little cries which spread out over the water and were lost. Farther down the beach, a flock of shore birds, moving in unison as though following carefully rehearsed maneuvers, ran up and down the sand, eagerly searching for food at every receding wavelet, turning in leg-twinkling retreat as another wave splashed up the beach.

  Ted Shale regarded the girl in the bathing suit with surreptitious appreciation. She had chestnut-colored hair. Her waist was small. Her hips had a long slope which was pleasing to the eye. She had been swimming, and water glistened in sun-reflecting drops from her arms and legs.

  There was no faintest breath of wind. Dead calm made the ocean flat as a floor. The pennant atop the clubhouse clung to the short pole. Along the landing float a cluster of small boats were tied in a confused tangle.

  Abruptly a figure debouched from the cabin of the Gypsy Queen. A young woman ran to the rail. She wore a white sailor shirt and blue dungarees. As she bent over the rail, her hair, a shock of spun gold, fell down about her face. She made a feeble motion with her left hand as though to brush the hair back from her forehead, then her arm fell forward, dangling toward the water. Her head dropped limply. For a moment she hung precariously, then slumped over the rail and splashed into the water.

  Ted Shale shouted to the girl in the bathing suit. She turned, regarding him with the cold indifference of one who rebuffs an advance. Ted shouted again, and pointed. She lifted her chin and turned away.

  Ted Shale sprinted across the soft stretch of sand which lay between the low tide line and the entrance to the yacht club. For a dozen steps, the powdery sand tugged at his ankles, then his feet were pounding down the yacht club float. He made a quick survey of the small boats, found one that had both oars and oarlocks, jumped in and jerked the painter loose.

  Shale gave the skiff a quick push, and kept a precarious balance while getting out the oars. A few seconds later, he was rowing with quick, sure strokes. From the corner of his eye, he saw the girl in the bathing suit arch cleanly from the deck of the yacht, knife the water in a graceful, effortless dive, and start swimming. She stroked a well-timed crawl which sent her cleaving through the water.

  Ted Shale gave the oars everything he had. The blades bit cleanly into the water as he flung his weight against them, pulling first with the muscles of the back, then snapping himself erect with a quick motion of the arms, twisting his wrists and feathering the blades as he sent them skimming back into position for another stroke.

  He beat the girl to the site of the splash by a matter of seconds.

  At first he could see nothing save the bluish green water, with reflections from the sun glancing from the wavelets to dazzle his eyes. The momentum of his small craft carried him past the spot where the girl had gone down. He grasped at the yacht's mooring chain to check his progress. The cold slime of the metal slipped through his fingers. Water trickled along his wrist and up his sleeve. He saw a commotion in the water near the side of the yacht. A drifting blob of golden hair floated up near the surface. He heard the glug of sinister air bubbles, then, as the head started down once more, the hair floated up toward the surface, like golden fingers reaching for the sunlight.

  Ted whipped off his coat and went overboard.

  He braced himself for a struggle, but she was limp in his arms. Only once did he feel her stir, and then she gave a quick convulsive half-turn which helped him more than it hindered him, He rolled over on his back, slid her head up on to his abdomen, and swam with a powerful backstroke, holding her body clamped between his knees.

  The girl in the bathing suit came splashing up to overtake Ted and his burden with quick businesslike strokes. She flung her head back, shook hair from her eyes, said very calmly in a voice so well-modulated that it might have been trained for the stage, "Making it all right?"

  Ted met the clear hazel of her eyes, turned to get his bearings. "I'll need some help when I get to the skiff."

  The girl in the bathing suit said nothing, but swam quietly along, using a breast stroke now which enabled her to keep her eyes well above the water.

  "Don't try the sides," she warned. "Get around to the stern or the bow."

  Ted Shale's voice held a trace of sarcasm. "Thanks for telling me." He worked around toward the stern of the skiff, where it was lower in the water than at the bow.

  "Can you hold her until I get in?" he asked.

  "Certainly."

  "Be careful she doesn't come to and start struggling. If she does, she'll try to grab you and . . ."

  She echoed the tone he had used with her as she repeated his words. "Thanks for telling me."

  Ted passed the limp body over to her by a deft leg motion, turned in the water, raised
a right arm, his wet shirt hampering the motion, and caught the stern of the boat. He swung lip his left, pulled himself up, then dropped back so that he pulled the boat down in the water, at the same time getting all the body buoyancy possible from his immersion. He heaved himself up, and managed to get that essential upward crook in the left elbow. Two seconds later, he was sliding smoothly over the stern, conscious of the water which was pouring from his trousers legs, of the wet garments which clung to him with hampering insistence.

  "All right," he said, "let's get her up."

  He reached over the stern, anchored his hands under the armpits of the limp figure, raised her until her hips were level with the water.

  The girl in the bathing suit matter-of-factly swung up a glistening arm to the edge of the boat, placed her shoulder

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  under the girl's hips, said, "Here we go," and Ted saw lean, sinewy muscles ripple under the bronzed skin of her arm as the dead weight of his burden was lightened. A moment later, he had the unconscious young woman dragged into the boat, where she lay, a soggy inert mass. Her blouse had been pulled loose from the yachting slacks, and had wrinkled up under her arms. Her wet hair plastered golden strings against her forehead.

  Ted felt the boat sway, and saw that the girl in the bathing suit was pulling at the stern, trying to lift herself in. She couldn't get quite high enough out of the water to throw her left elbow into that bend which would give her enough purchase to come up over the edge.

  "Just a minute," he said. "I'll give you a hand."

  "You don't need to." She tried again.

  Ted saw that she was getting weaker. He waited for her third ineffectual attempt, then bent over. She made no objection when he clasped fingers around her wet wrist, placed his other hand beneath her armpit, and lifted her high enough so she could slide in over the stern.

  Once she was inside the skiff, Ted looked around toward the other yachts and toward the shore. Apparently the rescue had attracted no attention. The children still ran up and down the packed sand. The family parties that were grouped around lunch hampers lounged in the balmy morning sunshine. The float at the yacht club seemed deserted.

  "Well?" the girl in the bathing suit asked.

  Ted indicated the yacht, which was only a few feet away. "She evidently belongs on board," he said. "There's a landing ladder over on the starboard beam. If you'll keep an eye on her, I'll go aboard and make inquiries."

  She nodded, and Ted, picking up one bar, sculled the skiff over toward the landing ladder. The girl, who had shifted her position to the bow, caught the deck of the yacht, and held the skiff ready. Ted stepped aboard, conscious of his grotesque appearance, of the little puddles of water which marked each squishing step.

  "Hello," he called tentatively.

  There was no answer.

  "Ahoy!" Ted shouted, and, as he was greeted only with silence, walked over to an open companionway, and looked down into a sumptuous cabin.

  It took a moment for his eyes to accustom themselves to the dim illumination of the interior. At first, he could see only splotches of sunlight where the sun poured through portholes, to splash vivid ovals on the carpeted floor.

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  One of those splotches of sunlight turned suddenly crimson, and Ted frowned as he watched it move slowly across the floor with the slight roll of the yacht. Then he saw it turn crimson again. His eyes slowly adjusted themselves to the relative gloom of the cabin. He saw something huddled on the floor, a grotesque something which sprouted out an awkward leg. Then he saw an arm, another leg, and still another leg. Two bodies lay sprawled on the cabin floor. A face stared upward with glassy, filmed eyes, and the slow swing of the yacht sent one of the oval splashes of sunlight across the death-distorted features.

  Ted abruptly whirled and sought the open air.

  He was hardly aware that his groping progress took him toward the landing ladder.

  "Well?" the calm voice of the girl in the bathing suit asked.

  Ted looked down at her. "We're going ashore."

  "No one there?"

  Ted didn't trust himself to answer this question until he had descended the steps of the landing ladder, and thumped his weight into the stern of the skiff. His stomach felt cold and heavy.

  "Well, don't be that way," the girl in the bathing suit said. "What is it?"

  Ted said, "Two bodies."

  At that moment the golden-haired girl stirred uneasily, moaned, opened her eyes, and sat up. She stared vacantly at Ted, then with a purely mechanical reflex, clutched at her blouse and pulled it down over her body. "What . . . what . . ." Abruptly her eyes widened with panic. Her lips stretched until Ted could see the pink interior of her throat. Her scream knife-edged across the water.

  "Shut up," Ted said. "Take it easy. It's all right."

  She looked at him again with unseeing eyes, and screamed once more.

  Ted said, "Do that again, and you'll pull my nerves out by the roots. Shut up."

  He saw by her eyes that his words had failed to reach through to her consciousness. She opened her mouth again. Ted leaned forward, and slapped her hard across the side of the jaw.

  He heard the girl in the bathing suit give a quick exclamation. She stood up in the boat. "This is where I came in," she said.

  "Sit down," Ted said. "You've got an appointment."

  "Oh, yes? With whom, may I ask?"

  "The police."

  CHAPTER 2

  FRANK DURYEA rolled over in bed, stretched, yawned, and turned so that he could see the face of the alarm clock.

  From the pillow beside him, Milred said sleepily, "Go on back to sleep. It's too early to wake up."

  Duryea looked at the clock, knuckled his eyes, said, "It's nine o'clock."

  "Well, it's Sunday."

  "Take a look outside, hon. See the sunlight around the edge of the window shade."

  His wife kept her back toward the window, refused to turn her head. She said, "That's always the way. You start me arguing, and that wakes me up. Go back to sleep."

  Duryea got up, crossed over to the windows, and raised the shades, letting in a flood of sunlight. "Look, sweet, it's the dawn of a new day. It's Hollywood!"

  "No, it isn't. It's the same day it was at two o'clock this morning when I wanted you to come home and you wouldn't."

  "Come on, uppy-up! We'll take a walk in the fresh air. How about a glass of tomato juice?"

  Milred sat up in bed. "All right, we'll argue about it."

  "About what? The tomato juice?"

  "No, your marital manners. They're very, very bad. Just because you wake up is no sign you should waken a bed mate."

  "Have you been reading books on bedroom etiquette, or are you drawing on your past experience?" he asked.

  She stretched and yawned. The silk nightdress matched the skin of her supple body. She was good looking, brunette, twenty-seven, a tall girl with the knack of keeping her youth, her figure, and her husband.

  Frank Duryea, taller and five years older, was beginning to put on weight. For three years now he had been district attorney of Santa Delbarra. He stood looking out of the window at the sun-swept vista. "How about that tomato juice?"

  "You've made a sale, but don't put too much Worcestershire in it."

  Duryea went into the kitchen, filled two large tumblers with tomato juice, and poured in a generous helping of Worcestershire.

  "Some lemon in mine," Milred called from the bedroom.

  Duryea was adding the lemon when the phone rang.

  "Want to get that, Millie? My hands are sticky."

  "Get them washed then because it's some woman whose husband has left her, and she wants to invoke the law."

  Duryea washed his bands at the kitchen sink. "Don't make my career sound so stodgy. Last Sunday it was the woman who had a stray horse on her front lawn. Remember?"

  "At seven-fifteen," Milred amended, and said into the telephone, "Hello. . . . Yes. . . . Oh, yes. Just a moment."

  She pushed the palm of her hand over the mouthpiece and said, "It's Sheriff Lassen, Frank. He's excited. Bring my tomato juice when you come."

  Duryea brought in a tray with the glasses of tomato juice. She sipped her drink while Duryea, standing with the telephone in his left hand, his tomato juice in his right, said, "Hello, Pete. This is Frank. What is it?"