John D McDonald – Travis McGee 07 Darker Than Amber

I bent over the model again and said, “Is this the same layout?”

“Yes. Just like this.” I stared, trying to think of something to ask, demanding that the fates send me a phone call. After a few moments, just when I would have had to turn and go, they relented and sent me a mailman. He trudged in and said, “Registered letter, Bitsy.”

As she went over to sign for it, I straightened up, plucked the Seven B key off the board and hung the Five B key in its place and, as I passed them on my way to the door I said, “Thanks. Be back in a little while.”

I turned into the shell drive. I parked by the fence gate to Seven B. I knew that any slightest furtiveness could be dangerous, and so I walked to the front door, put the key in the lock, opened the door, and decided it would be more natural to leave it a few inches ajar. I knew from the intensity of the heat in the small foyer that it was empty. It was indeed a most attractive place. And hot. Within minutes sweat was trickling into my eyes. It took not more than three or four minutes to make certain it had been picked clean. No furs, no jewelry except costume jewelry. Plenty of underthings and resort wear and some cocktail dresses. Dressing table and bathroom countertop and medicine cabinet stocked with enough stuff to start a drugstore with a cosmetics department. No luggage at all on the high shelf in the closet. But about forty pairs of shoes. No sign of any personal papers or records or photographs. Big high-fidelity combination with a stereo record player and a bin stuffed full of Vangie’s kind of music. It was very neat and clean, the bed made fresh, turned down, clean towels on the towel bars. But there was the beginning of a little film of dust on the wooden surfaces.

From the kitchen window I could see that the carport was empty. I found specific evidence in the living room. I tilted an upholstered chair over and looked at the underside of it. The material covering the springs and webbing had been removed and stapled back on. The staples were shiny. And they rust quickly in the summer humidity.

Two choices: Griff had located the bundle she had squirreled away, or he had satisfied himself it wasn’t in the apartment. Or, a third choice, somebody had made her very very anxious to explain exactly where she had hidden it. A woman named Bellemer had died, quite badly. Another woman named Tami Western had gone on a trip. Car and luggage gone. When the rent ran out, the management would pack the rest of her stuff and store it, and when the storage charges were up to the estimated value, it would be sold off for the storage. No new problem when a girl’s money stops. They pack the good stuff and leave.

Another few minutes and I would look as if I’d been standing in a shower with my clothes on. Just as I reached the foyer the door was pushed open. He was a broad one. Thirty, maybe. Orange swim trunks the size of a jock strap. Legs like a fullback. Flyboy sun glasses. White towel hanging around his neck. Black curly hair on top of a broad hard-looking head, and no evident hair anywhere else except some pale fuzz against deep tan from the knees down. “There was too much belly, but it was such a deep brown he was managing a precarious hold on the beach-boy image. He had a shovel jaw and a curiously prim little mouth.

“What the hell is going on?”

“That’s a good question, friend. You’d think the way this operation looks they’d be smart enough to try to rent one of these until they got the last tenant’s crud out of it. Let me out of this sweat box, please.”

He backed away and I pulled the door shut, tried it to be certain it had locked.

“You lost me someplace on this rental play, buds. There is a chick has it and she’s on a trip.”

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