The Good Old Stuff by John D. MacDonald Read Free Book Online

had not taken their first opportunity. So they had sought a second choice, had made the most of it.
    He parked in the center of town, had a cup of coffee. At such times he felt far away from his immediate environment. Life moved brightly around him and left him in a dark place where he sat and thought. Thought at such a time was not the application of logic but an endless stirring at the edge of the mind, a restless groping for the fleeting impression.
    Davisson had been a man whose self-esteem had taken an inadvertent blow at the hands of his young wife. To mend his self-esteem, he had been casting a speculative eye at the random female. And he had been spending the day trying to engineer a deal that would mean a most pleasant profit.
    Darrigan and Kathy Marrick had been unable to find the place where Davisson had taken a few drinks before stopping at the Aqua Azul. Darrigan paid for his coffee and went out to the car, spread the road map on the wheel, and studied it. Granted that Davisson was on his way home when he stoppedat the Aqua Azul, it limited the area where he could have been. Had he been more than three miles south of the Aqua Azul, he would not logically have headed home on the road that would take him through Indian Rocks and along Belleaire Beach. He would have cut over to Route 19. With a pencil Darrigan made a circle. Temple Davisson had taken his drinks somewhere in that area.
    He frowned. He detested leg work, that dullest stepsister of investigation. Sharing it with Mrs. Marrick made it a bit more pleasant, at least. It took him forty-five minutes to drive out to the Aqua Azul. Her raspberry convertible was under shelter in the long carport. He parked in the sun and went in, found her in the lobby chattering with the girl at the desk.
    She smiled at him. “It can’t be Nero Wolfe. Not enough waistline.”
    “Buy you a drink?”
    “Clever boy. The bar isn’t open yet. Come down to the cabaña and make your own and listen to the record of a busy morning.”
    They went into the cypress-paneled living room of the beach cabaña. She made the drinks.
    “We failed to find out where he’d been by looking for him, my dear. So this morning I was up bright and early and went on a hunt for somebody who might have seen the car. A nice baby-blue convertible. They’re a dime a dozen around here, but it seemed sensible. Tan men with bald heads are a dime a dozen too. But the combination of tan bald head and baby-blue convertible is not so usual.”
    “Any time you’d like a job, Kathy.”
    “Flatterer! Now prepare yourself for the letdown. All I found out was something we already knew. That the baby-blue job was parked at that hideous Coral Tour Haven early in the afternoon.”
    Darrigan sipped his drink. “Parked there?”
    “That’s what the man said. He has a painful little store that sells things made out of shells, and sells shells to people who want to make things out of shells. Say that three times fast.”
    “Why did you stop there?”
    “Just to see if anybody could remember the car and man ifthey had seen them. He’s across the street from that Coral Tour thing.”
    “I think I’d like to talk to him.”
    “Let’s go, then. He’s a foolish little sweetheart with a tic.”
    The man was small and nervous, and at unexpected intervals his entire face would twitch uncontrollably. “Like I told the lady, mister, I saw the car parked over to Drynfells’s. You don’t see many cars there. Myron doesn’t do so good this time of year.”
    “And you saw the bald-headed man?”
    “Sure. He went in with Drynfells, and then he came out after a while.”
    “After how long?”
    “How would I know? Was I timing him? Maybe twenty minutes.”
    Darrigan showed him the picture. “This man?”
    The little man squinted through the viewer. “Sure.”
    “You got a good look at him?”
    “Just the first time.”
    “You mean when he went in?”
    “No, I mean the first time he was there. The second time it