In actual fact, I was no nearer to getting Perelli out of jail, but I had a feeling that if I kept on digging, sooner or later I’d get the necessary proof. At least, I had something to work on: which was more than Mifflin had.
Gracie had been murdered because she knew who had framed Perelli. That meant Perelli was innocent, and up to now I hadn’t been 100 per cent convinced. It made a difference.
If I was to believe Mrs. Ferris, Dedrick had been smuggling reefers into Paris before he met Serena. Was this the clue to his kidnapping? Had he decided to give up working for Barratt now he had married Serena, and had Barrett killed him: stag-ing a fake kidnapping to get money out of Serena? That was possible.
My mind shifted to Marshland. Had he anything to do with the kidnapping? Suppose Souki had found out that Dedrick was hooked up with Barratt and had told Marshland? That would have been a nice item of news: the fourth richest woman in the world married to a reefersmuggler. Marshland might have gone to any lengths to save his daughter from such publicity. He might have hired someone to get rid of Dedrick. It might have been his idea, and not Barratt’s, to fake the kidnapping. For all I knew, Dedrick might have been buried somewhere in the grounds of Ocean End. No one had thought of looking for him under four feet of earth.
Where did Mary Jerome come in on all this? Who was she? Brandon had made a feeble attempt to find her, but appar-ently Marshland had had no difficulty in tracking her down. How had he found out where she was? Why had he gone to her? Why had she bolted after they had talked?
I ran my hand over my hot, tired face, and said, ‘Aw, nuts!’ I knew I was within touching distance of the key to this business, but my arm wasn’t quite long enough. I had to get more information.
How was I going to tackle Marshland? He wasn’t going to be easy. After thinking about it, I decided the only way was to be tough. He could either talk to me or to Brandon. The reception clerk would identify him. He couldn’t deny he had gone to the Beach Hotel. Either me or Brandon.
I drove down the private road to Ocean End with the even-ing sun reflecting on the windshield.
The big black Cadillac was parked on the tarmac as it had been parked on my first visit to the house. The two Chinese gardeners were weeding a rose bed as enthusiastically as a man sitting down in a dentist’s chair. They poked about in the rich, dark soil with their handforks, lifting the odd weed and sneering at it, dropping it into a basket and poking again.
The flamingoes were moving about, stiff-jointed, on the lawn below the terraces. Like the Chinese gardeners, they paid no attention to me.