had been cut out of the upper canyon wall, beyond the port, and that they led down toward the terrace. I parked to one side, in front of a second unobtrusive sign reiterating the fact that Keith Tarrant was a realtor, and walked over to the cut-out steps and looked down and around at the terrace. A man was standing at the front railing—a plump, light-haired guy with something that looked like a highball glass in his hand.
I went down the steps to where a narrow cut-out path, railed in redwood like the balconies and the terrace, led over to the second-tier platform. "Hello!" I called out to him. "Is it all right if I come down?"
He turned to look up at me, and then came away from the railing and took several steps across the brick flooring. He was smiling loosely. "Business or pleasure?" he asked, and his voice had a mild whiskey edge to it. It was that kind of day, too.
"Business, Mr. Tarrant," I told him, "but nothing to do with real estate, I'm afraid."
"Well, come ahead anyway."
I made my way down to the terrace and stepped through a kind of gate in the side railing and onto the smooth bricks. Tarrant came up to me, and I saw then that he only gave the impression of being plump, that he was not overweight at all. He had a round, convivial face and pale-brown hair thinning across the crown and a nice, easy, precise way of using his hands. He wore a pair of chino slacks and a dark-brown sports shirt and brown loafers, and there was just enough shine in his eyes to confirm the whiskey lilt in his voice. I thought that he was probably coming up on forty.
He said, "What can I do for you, Mr.—?"
I told him my name, but there was no immediate reaction. I said then, "I'm here about a man named Walter Paige, Mr. Tarrant; he was killed in Cypress Bay last night."
Tarrant blinked at me, and frowned, and then the furrows smoothed on his brow and he said, "Oh, you're the private detective, the one that found Paige at the motel."
"Yes."
"We heard about it on the radio this morning. Are you working with Chief Quartermain on the investigation?"
"Not exactly. This is an unofficial visit, more or less."
"I see. Well—what brings you to me?"
"I understand you knew Paige at one time."
"Unfortunately, yes. How did you discover that?"
"From Russ Dancer."
"Oh? And what led you to him?"
"Paige had one of Dancer's books at the motel," I said. "A paperback, published in 1954, called The Dead and the Dying . Do you know it, Mr. Tarrant?"
He shook his head. "I don't have much time to read, and I don't usually go in for the kind of things Russ Dancer writes, anyway. Why would Paige have a copy of one of Russ's old books?"
"That's a question that has no answer just yet"
"Doesn't Dancer have any idea?"
"No, he doesn't."
"That's rather odd about the book," Tarrant said. "I can't imagine Paige being interested in anything of Dancer's; the two of them never got along."
"You mean there was hostility between them?"
"I suppose you could say that."
"What was the cause of it?"
"I don't remember exactly."
"A woman?"
"It might have been."
"Was it an open hostility?"
"How do you mean?"
"Did they have words, something more maybe?"
"Words, I guess. It's pretty hazy in my mind. Why don't you ask Russ about it?"
"I'll do that—or the police will."
Tarrant gave me his loose smile. "How about a drink? I could stand another one."
"I don't think so, thanks."
He shrugged and drained what was left in the highball glass. "I'll fill up again, if you don't mind. Sunday is the only day I get to relax, and I always manage to relax a little better with a few drinks inside me."
"Sure," I said.
He turned and crossed to the overhang of the second-tier balcony and under it and through an open sliding-glass panel, into a lounge or game room. I had a glimpse of a long bleached-mahogany bar and a couple of ivory-leather stools and what appeared to be a felt-topped card table. I walked over to the terrace railing, in front of an arrangement of
I went down the steps to where a narrow cut-out path, railed in redwood like the balconies and the terrace, led over to the second-tier platform. "Hello!" I called out to him. "Is it all right if I come down?"
He turned to look up at me, and then came away from the railing and took several steps across the brick flooring. He was smiling loosely. "Business or pleasure?" he asked, and his voice had a mild whiskey edge to it. It was that kind of day, too.
"Business, Mr. Tarrant," I told him, "but nothing to do with real estate, I'm afraid."
"Well, come ahead anyway."
I made my way down to the terrace and stepped through a kind of gate in the side railing and onto the smooth bricks. Tarrant came up to me, and I saw then that he only gave the impression of being plump, that he was not overweight at all. He had a round, convivial face and pale-brown hair thinning across the crown and a nice, easy, precise way of using his hands. He wore a pair of chino slacks and a dark-brown sports shirt and brown loafers, and there was just enough shine in his eyes to confirm the whiskey lilt in his voice. I thought that he was probably coming up on forty.
He said, "What can I do for you, Mr.—?"
I told him my name, but there was no immediate reaction. I said then, "I'm here about a man named Walter Paige, Mr. Tarrant; he was killed in Cypress Bay last night."
Tarrant blinked at me, and frowned, and then the furrows smoothed on his brow and he said, "Oh, you're the private detective, the one that found Paige at the motel."
"Yes."
"We heard about it on the radio this morning. Are you working with Chief Quartermain on the investigation?"
"Not exactly. This is an unofficial visit, more or less."
"I see. Well—what brings you to me?"
"I understand you knew Paige at one time."
"Unfortunately, yes. How did you discover that?"
"From Russ Dancer."
"Oh? And what led you to him?"
"Paige had one of Dancer's books at the motel," I said. "A paperback, published in 1954, called The Dead and the Dying . Do you know it, Mr. Tarrant?"
He shook his head. "I don't have much time to read, and I don't usually go in for the kind of things Russ Dancer writes, anyway. Why would Paige have a copy of one of Russ's old books?"
"That's a question that has no answer just yet"
"Doesn't Dancer have any idea?"
"No, he doesn't."
"That's rather odd about the book," Tarrant said. "I can't imagine Paige being interested in anything of Dancer's; the two of them never got along."
"You mean there was hostility between them?"
"I suppose you could say that."
"What was the cause of it?"
"I don't remember exactly."
"A woman?"
"It might have been."
"Was it an open hostility?"
"How do you mean?"
"Did they have words, something more maybe?"
"Words, I guess. It's pretty hazy in my mind. Why don't you ask Russ about it?"
"I'll do that—or the police will."
Tarrant gave me his loose smile. "How about a drink? I could stand another one."
"I don't think so, thanks."
He shrugged and drained what was left in the highball glass. "I'll fill up again, if you don't mind. Sunday is the only day I get to relax, and I always manage to relax a little better with a few drinks inside me."
"Sure," I said.
He turned and crossed to the overhang of the second-tier balcony and under it and through an open sliding-glass panel, into a lounge or game room. I had a glimpse of a long bleached-mahogany bar and a couple of ivory-leather stools and what appeared to be a felt-topped card table. I walked over to the terrace railing, in front of an arrangement of
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