Read Online Black money by Ross MacDonald - Free Book Online Page B

of Switzerland, in Silvaplana."

    His tongue caressed the name.

    "Where was Martel born, Mr. Stoll?"

    "I have asked myself that question. He claims to be Parisian, Mrs. Bagshaw tells me. But from what little I heard of it, his French is not Paris French. It is too provincial, too formal. Perhaps it is Canadian, or South American. I don't know. I am not a linguistic scientist."

    "You're the next thing to it," I said encouragingly. "So you think he might be Canadian or South American?"

    "That's just a guess. I'm not really familiar with Canadian or South American French. But I'm quite sure Martel is not Parisian."

    I thanked Stoll. He bowed me out.

    I had noticed a bulletin board on the wall outside his office. Pinned to its cord surface were some blownup candid pictures of people dancing at a party. Below them, like a reminder of purgatory at the gates of paradise, was a typed list of seven members who were behind with their dues. Mrs. Roy Fablon was one of them.

    I mentioned this to Ella.

    "Yes, Mrs. Fablon's been having a hard time recently. She told me some of her investments went sour. I hated to post her name, but those are the rules."

    "It raises an interesting question. Do you think Virginia Fablon is after Martel's money."

    She shook her head. "It wouldn't make sense. She was going to marry Peter Jamieson. The Jamiesons have ten times as much money as Mr. Martel ever dreamed of."

    "Do you know that?"

    "I can tell people with money from people without, and people who have had it for a while from people who haven't. If you want my opinion, Mr. Martel is nouveau riche, and more nouveau than riche. He's felt out of place here, and he's been spending his money like a drunken sailor, and it hasn't helped much."

    "Except that it's got him Ginny. They were married over the weekend."

    "Poor girl."

    "Why do you say that?"

    "On general principles. Mr. Jamieson is having a long wait. Is he the one you're working for?"

    "Yes."

    "And you're a private detective, aren't you?"

    "I am. What do you think of my client?"

    "He reminds me of something I read once, that inside every fat man is a thin man crying to get out. Only Peter's just a boy, and that makes it worse." She added meditatively: "I suppose he has the makings of a man."

    "We'll see."

    I jerked a thumb toward the bulletin board. "You have some pictures on the board. Does this club have a regular photographer?"

    "A part time one. Why?"

    "I was wondering if he took a picture of Martel."

    "I doubt it. I could check with the photographer. Eric isn't on tonight though."

    "Get him on. Tell him I'll pay him for his time."

    "I'll try."

"You can do better than try," I said. "There's a question about Martel's identity, and we need a picture if there is one."

    "I said I'd try."

    She directed me to the dining room. It was actually two adjoining rooms, one of which had a polished dance floor. A small orchestra was on the stand, momentarily silent. The other room contained about thirty tables, brilliant with flowers and silver. Peter was sitting at a table by the windows, staring out gloomily at the dark beach.

    He got up eagerly when he saw me, but his eagerness had more to do with dinner than with me. It was served buffet style by men in white hats. At the sight of food Peter underwent a transformation, as if his melancholy passion for Ginny had been switched to another channel. He loaded two plates for himself, one with five kinds of salad, cold ham, shrimp, crabmeat: the other with roast beef and potatoes and gravy and small green peas.

    He gobbled the food with such eager straining gluttony that he made me feel like a voyeur. His eyes were fixed and mindless as he chewed. Sweat stood out on his forehead.

    He wiped his plate with a piece of bread, which he ate. Then he went into contemplation, leaning his chin on his hand. "I can't decide what to have for dessert."

    "You don't need dessert."

    He looked at me as if I'd threatened to put him on bread and