Free The Surfside Caper by Louis Trimble Page A

said, “Not everybody knew him.”
    Tibbetts stopped wiping her forehead. She wasn’t showing much change, just an occasional flutter of the eyelids. He straightened up and faced me.
    He said, “You can ask all the questions you want later, Flynn. Leave us alone for now.” He was pleading with me. It was tearing him apart but he was making himself do it. And he wasn’t even hating me. I wasn’t that important to him at the moment.
    I said, “All right. Bring her around and rehearse your stories so they’ll tally. Because I’m going to ask you both a lot of questions.”
    “I don’t give a damn what you do,” he said. “Just do it someplace else now.”
    I started for the door. I stopped. I said, “One more thing. What gives between Annette and Milo Craybaugh.”
    He turned his back to me again. His voice was so low I almost missed the words. He said, “They’re going to be married soon.”
    • • •
    I walked down the service alley to the main road. I stopped under the colonnaded drive-in lobby and had a cigaret.
    I thought about what Tibbetts had told me. And what he had revealed without words. And I thought what a beautiful motive he had for getting rid of Milo Craybaugh.
    I began to see a pattern forming out of chaos. But I didn’t have time right now to work it over. I had a more urgent job.
    I had to get Milo home.
    I rejected the idea of using my Porsche. It wasn’t built for hauling corpses. And I needed something less conspicuous.
    I thought of renting a car from the Surfside desk. But that would only get me remembered. I thought of clouting a car. Only I had never tried that. I wasn’t sure I knew how.
    Then the obvious solution struck me. Unless Milo had walked here from Rio Pollo, his own car must be in the parking area. And it should be easy to spot. I was fairly certain his business sign would be painted on the door.
    I walked back to the cottage, exploring as I went. I found Milo still resting quietly on my
lanai.
I didn’t like what I had to do next, but I made myself do it. I prowled his pockets until I found his car keys.
    I liked the next job even less. I set my teeth and picked Milo up. I carried him along the edge of the woods that held the twelve cottages. Near Cottage One the timber blended with the trees hiding the parking area. I laid Milo down behind a big-boled redwood that stood less than twenty feet from the end of the driveway.
    I hiked to the entrance of the parking area. Just inside, splitting the wide driveway into entrance and exit lanes was a small lighted hut. An old man in a green-and-gold Surfside uniform occupied the hut. He was reading a paperbound book. I walked his way. He didn’t even glance up. He had a finger on a line of print and he was following it like a hungry GI in a redlight district.
    I walked past the hut. The old man paid no attention. I kept walking, swinging to my left, toward a line of cars in the area reserved for casual visitors. The guest cars were kept under a long, roofed shed. I ignored those.
    I found Milo’s car as easily as I had hoped. It was a new gray stationwagon with his sign in red on the door panels.
    I climbed in and tried the keys I had taken from Milo. The second one fit. I started the motor. It sounded like a threshing machine in the quiet. I waited until the temperature gauge started to move. Then I put the lever in reverse and backed around. I moved to drive and started forward. I eased up to the hut. I could feel sweat beginning to start under my arms. It was cold as it trickled down over my rib cage. I split my vision, trying to watch the road and the hut at the same time. I went by very slowly.
    The old man’s finger was almost to the bottom of the page he was reading. He wasn’t about to look up. His mouth was hanging open with excitement as he followed his story.
    I thought I had it made when the tail end of the wagon drew even with the hut. The guard fooled me. He still didn’t look up. But he shouted, “Night, Mr.