Read Online Flynn's In by Gregory McDonald - Free Book Online Page B

said slowly, “that The Rod and Gun Club, however secluded and exclusive it is, would be a ripe orchard for any harvester with blackmail on his mind.”
    Wahler did not respond.
    On the north side of the building, a bandy-legged older man was walking toward them. His face was weathered, peculiarly lifeless; his hair thin in patches. His hands were enormous. His boots were muddy and old.
    “Hello, Hewitt,” said Wahler.
    Hewitt’s eyes had examined Flynn as they approached each other. The face, the eyes were now averted from Wahler and Flynn.
    He nodded.
    “This is Flynn,” Wahler said. “Hewitt. He’s been the club’s hunting and fishing guide forever.”
    The man nodded again and continued walking.
    “Hewitt’s a mute,” Wahler said.
    “But he can hear?”
    “Perfectly. It’s sometimes hard to remember. He hears better than most people. Originally, most of the servants here were mutes.”
    “Now they’re Vietnamese. Do any of them speak English?”
    “Some. Not very well.”
    “Ah,” said Flynn. “Peace and quiet.”
    “You’ve got the idea.”
    Flynn said, “Meetings happen here.”
    They had come to the driveway in front of the clubhouse.
    “Yes,” Wahler said slowly. “Meetings happen here.”
    “Decisions are made here.”
    In an overcoat, Cocky stood beside the station wagon. Over his right arm was Flynn’s bulky overcoat.
    “Yes,” Wahler said even more slowly. “Decisions are made here.”
    “Well,” said Flynn, getting into his coat. “Cocky and I are going for a ride. Find a widow and hear about the recently deceased. If the guard at the gate gives us any trouble,” said Flynn, “I’m liable to give him what passes for conversation at a board meeting of The Anarchy Society.”
    Wahler put his hand on Flynn’s forearm. “You are coming back, Flynn.”
    “Sure.” Flynn unlocked his car. “I want to discover who shot holes in Oland’s new waterproofs.”

10
     
    N o one was in the reception area of the lounge when they entered Timberbreak Lodge.
    “I’ve seen broccoli farms that do a bigger business than this place,” Flynn muttered.
    Cocky following him, Flynn went around the reception desk and, without knocking, pushed open the door marked “Manager Private.”
    “There, Cocky,” said Flynn. “There’s your switchboard.”
    The three women sitting at their switchboards looked around at them. They were docilely surprised, as cows are at seeing someone standing in their pasture.
    There were switchboard stations for five operators.
    Carl Morris came through the door from his office like an offended bull.
    “This area’s private,” he said.
    “I should think so,” said Flynn. “All these telephone lines for such a wee lodge would make even Maid Marian think twice.”
    “Oh, it’s you, Flynn. I mean, Inspector Flynn. Who’s this?”
    “Shake hands with Carl Morris, Cocky. The manager of this bustling hostelry.”
    On the drive down from The Rod and Gun Club Flynn had told Cocky all the facts as he knew them, as well as one or two conjectures.
    “You might as well come inside.” Morris went into his small office. “You understand. Some press came by earlier. At first I thought you were more of the same. Mister Wahler has said I can talk to you.”
    “Ah,” said Flynn, looking around the closet-sized office as if it were The Hall of Mirrors. “This is where it all happens. Conventions are planned, pillowcase designs are considered, salad chefs hired and fired. Fascinating it is, to see the nerve center of one of the world’s grand hotels.”
    Morris had closed the door behind them. “Sorry I can’t askyou to sit down…” The only chair was behind the small desk. “Don’t get many guests.”
    “Do you get any guests?” Flynn asked.
    Morris sat on the corner of the desk. “Only those we can’t turn away. The occasional lost hunter, or stuck traveling salesman.”
    “And they don’t stay long.”
    Morris shrugged. “We don’t have any food