John D. MacDonald

Finding Anne Farley

Copyright © 1977 by John D. MacDonald. Reprinted by permission of the author. First published in the Chicago Sun-Times.

I am not an expert on diamonds. I am pretty good at recovering stolen goods. I have had a lot of luck. Equity used to loan me out all over hell and gone until I got smart and set myself up as a consultant. A piece of the action is always better.

This time Equity was paying for my services. First time for them. I thought they were going to stay mad forever.

They briefed me and I left with the thirty-two big color prints of the thirty-two missing items. They had them made from the color slides the jeweler took of his merchandise, everything worth over three hundred dollars. For insurance purposes. A neat and orderly man, and a camera buff. Nice pictures, with a scale next to the item, and technical data on a separate sheet.

Equity is at Park and Fifty-fifth. I walked down to Forty-eighth, four doors west of Fifth Avenue, and waited until Wally Marks got through talking to some fat men from Amsterdam.

He is a totally hairless man. No eyebrows, eyelashes, or hair on the knuckles, even. I think it was a disease he had. He told me I looked bigger than he remembered, and I said I was actually smaller because lately I had more chances to work out. The idea of working out pained him.

I sat across the desk as he went through the thirty-two pictures and thirty-two sets of technical information. I tried to read him as he studied them. No way. A man who makes his living buying and selling diamonds is in a poker game every day. If you can read him, he goes broke.

“Flawless stuff,” I said.

He shrugged. “No such thing exists. All flawless means, according to FTC regulations, is that you can’t see any flaws with a ten-power glass. But at forty diopters you’ll see flaws. If I believe what it says here about cut and color and mounting, what you have here, Duke, is maybe six hundred thou wholesale.”

“You are twenty thousand higher than the insurance payoff.”

“Payoff?” He was startled.

“After six months of delays and some threats of legal action, good old Equity paid off.”

“Who got ripped?”

“Wescott and Sons. In Atlanta.”

He nodded. “Fancy place. Big stock. Hell, Duke, it would have to be a big stock.” He stared at his low ceiling for a few moments, fingers laced across his belly. “What somebody did,” he said at last, “they winnowed out the top standard items. Blue whites and whites. Your classic standard cuts. The biggest you’ve got here is four point nineteen carats. Quality, but anonymous quality. Some you could leave right in the settings. This one, for example. What you’ve got here is an eight-millimeter-round brilliant cut, two and a half carat, blue white; hand-crafted platinum setting with two fair-size baguettes. I could move that tomorrow, as is, for sixteen thousand five, without a fear in the world. But a lot of them would have to come out of the settings. Nobody took this stuff with the idea of selling it back to Equity.”

“So they finally decided.”

“Somebody has a channel to feed this stuff right back into the industry. Somebody had a lot of time in the vault to select these items and leave the fancy cuts behind. There’s no junk here. All these stones are salable, and probably already sold.”

“Somebody had a couple months in the vault.”

For an instant he looked startled and then said, “One of those, huh? Made substitutions?”

I took out my pocket notebook to make sure of the name. “Anne Farley. Trusted employee. Apparently she sneaked the photos and descriptions out one at a time and had pretty fair dupes made — good enough to fool the ignorant eye — saved them until the manager was away from the shop, switched the thirty-two items, and took off.”

I had one of the substitute items given me by Equity and I put it in front of him. A solitaire. He pushed at it with a thick white finger and said, “Garbage.”

“Workmanship?”

He picked it up. “Pretty good. Not bad.”

“Can it be traced by the workmanship?”

“Sure. Maybe fifteen thousand guys could do this, in this country. Ask them all. Has to be one of them.”

“Very funny.”

“Duke, somebody is laughing. Somebody made off with a half million in diamonds. Nice thing about them is there is hardly any bulk at all. All the great diamonds of the world would fit in one suitcase, and you could walk away with it. But it is an artificial market. Don’t invest for investment. Buy for pretty.”

“What’s wrong with investment?”

“Where they mine them, the countries are unstable. If they decide not to deal with the cartel, they could bust the price down to maybe ten percent of where it is. Fake scarcity keeps the price up.”

“Wally, what do I owe you for your time and advice?”

“Owe? Don’t talk about owe. Just tell me how you make out. On this one you are going to swing and miss.”

“That’s what Equity hopes. Then again, maybe they don’t. It’s their money.”

Wescott and Sons was in a new hotel/bank/office building, shopping plaza, and park complex — one of those places that look as if they have been designed for the elegant people of some remote time in the future; but until the future arrives, they will let us barbarians blunder around, hawking and spitting, gawping and exclaiming, spending all our money, and forgetting where we left our car.

The jewelry store had two entrances, one onto an exclusive little mall, the other opening into a corner of the lobby of a luxury hotel. The display windows, both in the lobby and on the mall, were little niches set behind a reflectionless curve of armored glass, where single items of great value rested on velvet, illuminated by the narrow beams from concealed spotlights.

The interior was deeply carpeted in a tufted blue. Ceiling spots shone down on glass cases, on the twinkle of gold watches, bracelets, chains, and charms, on the polished silver of cigarette cases, wedding gifts, and baby presents. There were some customers. The clerks were slender, pretty ladies, all dressed in gray skirts and white shirtwaist blouses, gold cuff links. A young one came to me and murmured shyly of her great wish to help me in any possible way. I said I would like to see the manager, J. Trevor Laneer, and she asked what about, and I said that it concerned Equity Protection and the recent settlement. She went away with my business card and came back in three minutes and begged me to please follow her.

Laneer stood up from his leather furniture and shook my hand. He was fifty trying to look thirty. Mod clothes, bright-blue contact lenses, forty-dollar hairstyling, and a bandito moustache. But the pouches under his eyes, the turkey neck, and the brown spots on the backs of his hands gave him away. His office was like an alcove in a club lounge. No desk. Clever diorama of the English countryside. He waved me down into a deep leather chair, smiled, and said, “Now then! How may I help you, Mr. Rhoades?”

“I’d like to ask you some questions about the robbery last year.”

His smile faded but slightly. He shook his head from side to side, almost regretfully. “Oh, I am sorry, Mr. Rhoades, but that is impossible. It really is. Five different people — two of them from Equity Protection — questioned me at great length over a period of many weeks, you know. They extracted every scrap of information from me. Surely all that material is on record, and if you have a legitimate purpose in all this, surely it will be available to you. Frankly, I am sick unto death of it. I was deceived by a person I trusted. It took far too long to get the insurance settlement. I feel I was treated badly. I needed money to replace stock. I deal with some very affluent people, and I cannot afford to have a stock so skimpy they get in the habit of going elsewhere. No, Mr. Rhoades. To me it is a closed book. And don’t quote the policy to me, the part about reasonable cooperation. I have cooperated. All I am going to. It is over. It cost the business twelve thousand dollars in interest on borrowed money to replenish my stock. I had to borrow against the settlement. I do not feel kindly toward Equity. Good day, sir.” He stood up and motioned toward the door. I stood up and walked out and he closed it behind me.

I walked out of his office but not out of the store. I shopped the cases, looking at golden goodies, waving away the shirt-waisted ladies until the one who had caught my eye drifted close enough for me to beckon her over.

“Would you take that bracelet out of there for me?”

“Here you are. Lovely, isn’t it? Fourteen carat.”

“Now let’s pretend to be talking about the bracelet.”

“Sir?”

“I investigate insurance claims. There was a big one from here, settled in full. Now Laneer won’t talk to me.”

“The bracelet is four hundred dollars, plus tax.”

“You don’t look as demure and bloodless as the rest of the sales staff. I hope Laneer isn’t one of your favorite people.”

“Hey. Hold it down. Why?”

“What’s the office gossip, or store gossip, about where Farley is right now?”

“I can’t talk here!”

“I’m in the hotel. I saw a little lounge over on that balcony thing. Named after an animal.”

“The Blue Raccoon.”

“Five-thirty? Six?”

“Like ten past six.”

The Raccoon got a good after-work play, and they were jammed up close and deep at the bar. I had a fine little leather corner with the lady. She said her name was Libby Franklin, a married name but she was not working at it lately, and she thought all guys named Rhoades were called Dusty; and I told her that for the first, terrible twenty-five years of my life, I had been called that, and that my real name was Oliver. But in my twenty-sixth year I had begun to look remotely like John Wayne. She tipped her head and squinted at me, pursed her lips and finally said, “Faintly.” So I told her I was a sort of sawed-off version of the real Duke, and then did my imitation, which knocked her out. She told me I certainly was no great judge of womankind if I thought the other girls at Wescott and Sons looked demure and bloodless. She said they were about as sweet and demure as a pool full of barracudas. She said Wescott and Sons had always hired better-than-average-looking women and made them dress alike, paid them well, and gave them a commission on sales over a certain figure each week. She had been there a little over two years, and J. Trevor Laneer was not, repeat, not one of her favorite people.

When I asked her why not she explained that he was a very autocratic person. “He expects and gets total obedience. The girls who can’t take that, who give him an argument, last about two weeks. ‘Clean the fingerprints off that case, Laura.’ ‘I don’t like that hairstyle, Wendy. Change back to the way it was before, please.’ ‘Print the sales slips, everyone. Do not use script. Is that clear?’ ‘Bring me my tea at eleven, Miss Farley.’ ”

“And Anne Farley didn’t resent it?”

“Resent it? She adored it! She worked for him for twelve years. Of course, most of that time was at the old store on Piedmont before he moved the business here.”

“He owns it?”

“Well, for all practical purposes. His wife, Betty, is a Wescott, the last of the clan. Poor old thing is an invalid.”

“And Farley had something going with J. Trevor?”

“What a truly gross idea! She was sort of the head vestal virgin. She thought it was something very special to sell gems to people who got their name in the papers. Laneer was cruel and mean to her, and she passed it along to us peasants.”

“So why would she steal?”

She looked at me in a measuring way, head atilt, bright blond hair hanging to her shoulder. “Fido will be howling his poor head off. Want to eat Chinese?”

She had a townliouse-type apartment in a new development in an old area north of Candler Park, near Emory University. I followed her out in my rental. She had an old Volvo that looked as if it had been stomped flat and then patted back into shape by a huge, hasty child. She undid three locks and defused the alarm system. Fido turned out to be a huge gray altered tomcat, very, very impatient for his supper. As she waited on him she had me fix drinks. The apartment was clean, but it was certainly cluttered, mostly with books, magazines, records, and tapes.

“I don’t really have any date-type dates, anything sincere,” Libby said. “This is my one night of the week without classes. Communications and media. I should be studying this evening, but the thing is, nobody would listen to conjecture, you know? Just the facts ma’am. Well, hell, that may be the legal way, but after a couple of tries I shut up because I do not like being classified as some kind of gossipy broad.”

Fido sat and washed for a while, and then he came over to my chair and studied me for a long time, then lowered his head and started gently butting it against my leg, while making a sound like a distant snare drum. Libby was astonished that he liked me, and I told her I was hurt that she should be so astonished, and how about the gossip nobody would let her mention officially.

To prove, I guess, that she had an orderly and logical mind, Libby ticked off the facts I knew already. It had been known in the shop that J. Trevor Laneer would not be in on the Friday when apparently the theft took place. At night a great deal of the stock was locked in the vault. In the rear portion of the vault, there was a sturdy cabinet that locked with a key. Laneer, Anne Farley, the bookkeeper, and Laura Wheelock, who had been with the company almost as long as Anne Farley, knew the vault combination. Only Anne Farley and Trevor Laneer had keys to the inner cabinet where the best things were kept. Anne Farley’s vacation started on the Monday. On the following Wednesday morning Laneer went and got a tray of rings to show an old and valued customer. He took a close look at one of the rings and became very agitated. In an hour he knew thirty-two had been switched. He informed the police and telephoned the news to Equity Protection. It was soon learned that Miss Anne Farley, age thirty-five, had apparently left for good. She had given up the shadowy old paneled apartment in the downtown apartment hotel, which she had shared with her mother until her death a few years ago, and had lived alone in a motel until that weekend before the Friday theft, seven months ago.

“Starting way before she took the diamonds,” Libby said, “she sold everything. Furniture, clothes, books, dishes. Even her old pink VW. What she couldn’t sell, she gave to Good Will. Shall we order Chinese now? It takes them eighteen minutes on the average from when you hang up to when they ring my doorbell. Fix the last drink, Duke, and I’ll phone. I know what they do best.”

I let her keep talking. I was waiting for nuances, looking for inflections, hesitations. It followed the reports I’d studied, to the letter. Farley had moved into a motel by the airport a week before she took the diamonds. Registered as Arleen Fay — a typical amateur selection, almost an anagram. Checked out Saturday morning early. One suitcase. No messages. No mail. A check of airline reservations and travel agencies had come up empty. I was on a very cold trail. By the time I get on them, they are always cold.

Libby had changed to ancient jeans and a work shirt. The man had brought fine food. Fido was eating his egg roll. He was very weird for egg rolls, leaving only the small bits of onion.

“Farley is a bright lady?”

“You can bet on it. She saw everything, knew everything. The thing about it, the store was her life. Come early, leave late. Keep track.”

“You girls, I mean ladies, you had no clue she was working up to some big change, selling all?”

“Anne wasn’t the sort of person you could ever get too close to. I guess we all had the feeling there was something in the wind. She seemed to be hiding some kind of big excitement. It made her a little bit flushed and bright-eyed and absentminded. We wondered if, unlikely as it seems, she was in love.”

I went through the office files in my inside pocket and found the picture of Anne Farley. “She doesn’t look unlovable,” I said to Libby.

“Wow, this is some old kind of picture.” She went away, and over the muted sound of her high fidelity system, I heard drawers opening and banging shut. She came out with color photographs and sat and dealt them out on a table, picked two of them, and gave them to me.

OK, in the color flash shots she did not look lovable. She looked more like she would make you into a lampshade: grim mouth, hair pulled back tightly and welded into a knot. They were taken at an exhibit of jewelry designed by a famous actress.

Libby let me have the negatives. And in time I could find no more new items about Anne Farley in her memory banks, so we went on to other subjects.

In the morning I found a custom photography lab, and they let me work with the technician to get what I wanted. I got some four by fives in black-and-white glossies, cropped to show Anne Farley full face and in left profile. The face was neurotic, vulnerable, and imperious, all at once. In Underground Atlanta I found an artist who could do very good pencil work. Thirty dollars later I had three realistic sketches of Anne Farley in three different blond hairstyles.

I spent four full days and evenings drawing blanks. I worked through the weekend. People do leave marks. The trick is to find those footprints on the trail and see which way they point. Her bank was no help. She had closed out checking and savings two weeks before the day of the theft. I bought ten minutes with her retail credit bureau records. That led me to Belk-London’s, and to a merry, round, white-haired little woman who, she said, had sold Anne Farley and her mother their clothes for twenty years.

“Oh, yes!” she said. “She said to me, ‘Mattie’ — she always calls me Mattie — ‘I am going to have to buy some resort clothes for very hot weather. Very, very hot weather.’ I was pleased for the poor dear. She has always dressed so much older than her years, you know. And she has a pretty figure. A very pretty figure, a bit too lean maybe. I had to have some idea of where she would wear the resort clothes. You wouldn’t take the same things to Cannes you’d take to Sea Island, now would you? She told me never to tell anyone and here I am telling you, breaking my promise, but I think the darling girl has come to harm. She said it would be Cancun, at a fancy hotel called the Garza Blanca. I can remember about the hotel because I looked up the words over in the book section. Garza is a heron, and blanca is white.”

“She buy a lot?”

“Very little. But practical. Pretty and practical. Wash-and-wear things. She said she couldn’t take much with her.”

“What makes you think she has come to harm?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t. I think this business of the police looking for her because they say she stole diamonds is terrible. I’ve known her since she was a child. She would never steal.”

“Even if she got very, very tired of the life she was stuck with?”

“Not Anne Farley,” she said firmly.

With Cancún as a guidepost, I went rooting around in the airlines schedules. The best way to go, it appeared, was by Eastern or National to Miami, and by Mexicana from Miami to Yucatán. Eastern and National run big, busy desks at Atlanta. I was a nuisance. Me and my pictures and drawings. Seven months ago? You’ve got to be kidding, friend. Do you have the faintest idea just how many thousand people we run down to Miami every week? Sorry to have troubled you, fella.

I went back to my uniquely architectured hotel, with its Gee Whiz lobby and my sterile plastic room on floor nine, and went through the travel agencies again and made a little list of the ones close by.

I told Libby Franklin how it went. It was Monday night. Eighteen pounds of gray cat lay curled up arid purring on my stomach, full of egg roll. The soft denim of her jeans, stretched tight around a long slim thigh made a pillow effect that just fit the nape of my neck. Everyone had had some egg roll. And almond gui ding. And shrimp fried rice.

I said, “It was about the third or fourth agency, a little one in that arcade off the Omni complex. A neat little redheaded lady with, I swear, rings on every finger and both thumbs, she looked a long time at the drawing — the one where he gave her blond bangs to her eyebrows — and then she went and poked around in her files, biting her lip, frowning, and came up with a card that said she had sold such a blond person a round-trip ticket, tourist class, for two people, Atlanta to Cancun, for cash money, a Mr. and Mrs. Dan Barley. More anagrams. She figured it was an illicit pair slipping away for fun and games: the woman buys, cash deal, no reservation on return. So what she did was tell the blond person that she was going to have to get tourist cards, and she could fill out the blank there and take one for her husband, or they could do it at the Mexicana desk in the Miami airport. They would have to show birth certificates, passports, or something like that. She said it seemed to upset the blond person a little, but she said they would apply at Miami.”

Libby scowled down at me. “Anne Farley? Fun and games?”

“There is always somebody for everybody,” I said. “The reservation was made three weeks in advance for the Sunday flight, with a two-hour layover in Miami before catching the five-thirty flight to Cancun. Did the Dan Barley couple catch it? Who knows? Maybe passenger manifests are tucked away into some computer somewhere, with no awareness or access except in the microelectrical heart of some other computer.”

“So?” she said.

I tried a fixed leer, staring up at her. “Wanna go to Yucatán, sweetie?”

“I can’t take off work, and Fido hates kennels and sitters, and I seldom go out of the country without being married first.”

“I could go ask that neat redheaded lady.”

“With all the rings? Sure. Good thinking. She can probably get you a discount on everything. Bite him, Fido. Sic’um.”

Tuesday morning I plodded into Wescott and Sons, right after my hotel coffee shop breakfast, braced for a lot of resistance from J. Trevor Laneer. But he greeted me with rueful smile, waved me into the deep leather once again, and said, “I’m glad you came back, Mr. Rhoades. I’m afraid I was very rude the last time. You’re trying to do a job. I appreciate that. It is in the interests of the industry to — make certain no one gets away with gem theft. And a so-called inside job is especially disheartening.”

“So-called?”

He paused, obviously choosing his words with care. He was wearing fawn slacks, a bushy white turtleneck, a long gold neck chain with a dangle of coins and gold replicas of animal teeth. “Miss Farley was such a scrupulous person. So loyal and reliable and thorough, I can’t help feeling that she was exposed to some terrible pressure from outside, somehow, to do what she did, some merciless form of blackmail.”

“You’ve heard about all the preparations she made, selling everything, moving?”

“Of course. We all had no idea site was doing anything like that. Of course, she would have had to disappear once she had stolen those thirty-two pieces.”

“With a man?”

He shrugged. “A blackmailer.”

“Or the fellow she fell in love with.”

“It is hard to see her in that light — throwing everything away for love.”

“It’s been done. I suppose she would have had access to a lot of people who could have made the substitutes.”

“Oh, yes. I’ve sent her to some of the shows and exhibitions when I couldn’t attend because of my wife’s illness. And, of course, she often dealt with salesmen who came by the store here, not the ones selling gemstone quality, but the trinkets we must stock. And many of those, of course, have the skill and equipment necessary to duplicate our best diamond items, as well as they were duplicated.”

“No leads?”

“What? Oh, I would imagine the police checked out every name we could come up with, and I would have been told, I think, if they learned anything.”

“And she asked for her vacation after she knew you were not going to be in on Friday.”

“And we were closed Saturday. Yes, that’s right. She was usually less impulsive about taking time off, but I told her it would be all right. She asked the Monday before her vacation began.”

“The summary they sent me said that you were in Chicago on business that Friday.”

“Yes. At an auction. A large yellow diamond was coming on the market again after being in a private collection for thirty years. A local collector whose name I am not at liberty to mention, sent me up to place his bid and also verify the description of the stone. Very beautiful. Marvelous color. It went for forty thousand over my client’s top limit. I flew back Saturday afternoon.”

“Did Anne Farley ever say she’d like to go to Mexico?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Mexico! Is that where she went?”

“I don’t know. It’s possible.”

He frowned. “I do remember one thing about Mexico. She was fascinated by ancient ruins. Mayan, Aztec, Toltec, that sort of thing. I suppose there is a lot of that there.”

“Yucatán has more than its share?”

“Yes. Yucatán.” He made a face and shook his head. “But you see, that presupposes that she acted of her own free will out of self-interest, and I can’t believe that.”

“Maybe it’s the Kepone.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Gets in the fatty tissues. Gets into the fat in your brain. Tells you to go steal stuff, or write protest songs, or turn Mayan. I’ll send you a card from Yucatán.”

After a full hour’s delay, half of it waiting in line with the other birds, my Mexicana flight number 308 took off into the flat, silver light of a rainy day in Miami. It was a 727, and the pilot yanked it up quickly, turning takeoff into an irritable and impatient gesture. It was a single-class flight, less than half full in this May off-season.

The flight attendants were slim, tense, and limber ladies, oppressed by their obligation to serve everyone a hot meal during the hour-and-fifteen-minute flight. I wondered how they could possibly manage it during the three months when their flights would be full.

I had gone to Miami almost empty-handed and spent some money in the airport shops acquiring a tourist costume composed of a lightweight, chino leisure suit with twice as many pockets as necessary, a white denim hat with big brass grommets around the ventilation holes, a couple of rainbow-colored rayon shirts, big blue shades, sandals, and a brand-new, shiny, cheap flight bag advertising the Orient Express. And I smiled a lot. This is called professional invisibility. Indians wearing buffalo skins used to be able to sidle right into the herd and select their dinner.

Dusk was beginning to catch up with us when we landed. The concrete apron had stored sun heat all day and radiated it back up at us as we filed into the modern little airport building, into air conditioning from the steaming heat outside. All the tourists were sorted out by hotels, and after the usual confusions of luggage, we were taken off in blue-and-white vans. I was loaded in with a shy, silent woman and a stately old couple, all three dressed in canary yellow. We were the ones going to the Garza Blanca.

Cancún is a contrived resort. The government planners picked an empty area of small keys and Caribbean beaches, then bridged the keys, put in an elegant highway with sodium-vapor lights, and aided the hotel people in finding the money to put up the hotels. The hotels mark out the narrow keys and causeways — Villas Tacul, Dos Playas, Playa Tortugas, El Presidente, Camino Real, Chac Mool, Cancúm Caribe, and the Garza Blanca, the last one of all, except for the formidable isolation of the Club Mediterranee at the far end, Punta Nizuc, fourteen miles from the mainland.

The van had either a broken muffler or no muffler, and the driver played his tape deck at maximum volume to drown out the muffler noise. Conversation would have been impossible even if anyone had felt like it. I smiled a lot.

We went up a very steep curve of cobblestone driveway to the impressive entrance. No doors. A vast lobby, dimly lit, open at the far side as well, looking out from a height across the tropic sea.

The dark girl at the desk took care of me last, and with cold-eyed indifference said they could let me have a room for seven hundred pesos a night, not on the beach of course. “It is always better, of course,” she said, “to make a reservation, Meester Road-ace.” The key she gave me was brass, fastened to an oval hunk of wood six inches long and an inch thick, stained dark.

I followed a small, stocky Yucatecan who carried my shiny bag across the lobby, down the curved stairs at the far end, past the pool, empty and wind-riffled, where the day’s litter of towels, empty plates, glasses, and trash had not yet been cleaned up and the sun chaises had not been realigned. We went between a row of two-story buildings separated by a cobbled lane. The ones on my left were built on the bluff facing the sea. My building was on the right, my room at the top of an exterior staircase. The fellow turned on low-wattage bulbs, started the grinding roar of an air-conditioner set into the plaster wall, shrugged as he pocketed his dollar tip, and went on out, sandals slapping the tile floor.

I stripped to the waist and stood in front of the chilled air until I dried off. I put my other bright shirt on and went out in search of a cold beer, wondering if Anne Farley had liked the Garza Blanca, the beach, the tropic sun that maybe melted her rigidities, her scruples, her reserve. Was the wig for here too? Do blonds have more fun? Or merely seem to be having-more.

The next morning, after my breakfast of huevos rancheros and papaya, I encountered total frustration at the big front desk. The manager was away. He would be back maybe next week, maybe next month. The assistant manager, he has gone to the bank in the city. In what city? In Merida, señor. There were three of them behind the desk, a dark, surly girl; a tall dark, surly fellow; and a round, chubby man full of false cheer. There are well-run hotels with efficient desks. There are badly run hotels with infuriating front desk service. And then there is the Garza Blanca.

“Please listen. Very carefully. OK?”

“I listen, señor.”

“I have written a name on this piece of paper. I have printed it. Mr. Dan Barley. Mr. and Mrs. Dan Barley. They made a reservation in November. Last year. Were they here?”

“I was not here, sir.”

“Are there no records?”

“Records?”

“Don’t you keep track of reservations?”

“Me, señor? I am a clerk. The manager is...”

“There must be a file of...”

“Excuse me, señor. Yes, madam, I may help you?”

Then when he turned back to me, I had to start all over again. Finally I said, “Suppose I walk in and say I have a reservation. What do you do?”

“I give you one card to sign.”

“You don’t care whether I have a reservation or not?”

“Don’t care? Oh, but yes. I look in the book, señor.”

“Ah, the reservation book!”

We beamed at each other. “Let me see the book.”

“Is not permitted.”

Finally, for a negotiated fee it was permitted, but the book he put on the counter went back to January 1 only. He did not know where the old book was. He had no idea. Then he talked to the surly girl. Another fee was negotiated. She went away, behind the scenes, and returned in ten minutes with the book. I carried it off into the small lounge, pretending not to hear the cries of consternation from the three of them.

I did not see how a hotel could be operated on the basis of such terrible records. Six unkempt varieties of handwriting. Blots, erasures, dates, amounts, and room numbers scratched out and changed. I found the reservation for Mr. and Mrs. Barley. A one-hundred-dollar deposit had been received in October. The room number written beside the name and date had been scratched out and not rewritten. I took the book back to the desk. I pointed to the entry and said, “They never arrived, did they?”

They moved away to have a heated conference, full of gestures and interruptions, flashing eyes and gigantic shrugs. Smiley came back to me and said, “Why you are wanting to know?”

“What difference does that make?”

“You are not wanting the hundred dollars back?”

“No.”

“You are right, señor. We never heard again from them. That is what this mark is meaning here.”

I took a long walk on the white, hot, empty beach, walking south from the hotel, wearing a new pair of swim pants and a straw hat from the hotel shop. The sun scalded my shoulders. There was an almost total lack of seashells. I walked in the wash of the small waves that were nibbling away at the sand, making small cliffs. I avoided the tar balls, big as plums and apples, rolling in the white foam. I walked by a house so elegantly beautiful and so enormous, I knew it had to belong to a politician. Suspicion confirmed when I saw some Mexican army up on the road, two of them standing in the shade, wearing automatic weapons.

Finally I sat on one of the sand cliffs, chair height, comfortable, the sea sucking at the sand under my bare feet. I felt very grouchy. I had expected some kind of confrontation down here, even though the voice of sanity in the back of my mind had said from the beginning: Don’t waste the money on the trip, Duke.

OK. Haul it out into the open and look at it. I never get big brilliant flashes of inspiration. Like a dog with a slipper, I have to pull it out from under the bed and gnaw.

A false trail. Which is a very common happening when straight people suddenly go crooked. A man gets in over His head in business deals, and when he knows the whole thing is going to fall in on him, he grabs the loose cash, leaves his folded clothes on the beach, and heads for Belize. Or he squirrels away money over a period of time, then goes on a sedate trip with the little woman, takes a little walk in downtown Algiers, and is never seen again, he hopes. But I found that one in downtown San Miguel de Allende, wearing beard and smock, and he wept when I called him by his old name. Pity.

There is one constant factor. The false trail is always clearly marked. You can’t miss it. But this trail had been obscure. I’d reaped the reward of a lot of diligence and a lot of luck. Tired feet and a sharp nose, like a wise old hound dog.

A brown pelican hovered and tilted and came crash-diving down into the blue water next to some floating weed, sat for a moment, then gulped something down.

So either the lady and her partner changed their mind and picked a different hideaway. Or somebody had overlooked or disturbed or thrown away the false clues left behind. Or the partnership had come to an abrupt and untidy end somewhere along the line.

Why come here anyway? The sun, the sand, and the sea. And Mayan ruins? Not the place to unload stolen gems, apparently. Maybe they had been fenced on the Saturday in November between the theft and the departure. Because they were very good diamonds, and selected for anonymity of cut and size once separated from the platinum settings, it could have been for three hundred thousand. If everybody trusted everybody. But do you tote that kind of cash to a middle-class, contrived resort? Would you put that amount of cash in the Garza Blanca office vault?

I could not make the pieces fit properly. I could make them fit, but I didn’t like the fit. I recently saw a puzzle advertised. The ad said that every piece fit every other piece, but they had to be assembled in the right order or the puzzle could not be completed. Optimum sadism.

No light bulbs flashed on above my head. Nobody said, “Aha!” I followed an old rule. If you go somewhere expensive to get to, make sure you don’t have to return. I had not found a lady alone in the Garza Blanca pages for November under any kind of anagram name, in fact not many ladies alone at all. I went back to the room, changed, gathered up my various photographs and sketches of Miz Anne Farley, rented a VW bug from a sleepy man in the lobby, and went droning from hotel to hotel, showing my wares, smiling my smile, doing my John Wayne imitation where necessary. Kid sister of a dear old friend. She was last seen down here in November. Could be using the name Farley, Arley, Barley, Fayhee, Fanny France, Harley, Carlee, Parley, Arleen Fay. She hadn’t wanted her big brother to find her. Now the poor chap was dying, and desperate. And maybe you could look at the reservations for last November... Please? Or let me run down the names. Won’t take more than a minute.

The Camino Real was the best organized, and the most helpful. The attitude at the Presidente was one of hostile indifference. The Cancún Caribe wanted authorization from the police. When I got tears in my eyes and shook my head slowly in shocked disbelief, they relented. Money worked pretty well. Five-hundred-peso notes. Worth a little over twenty dollars.

Nothing checked out. So the next day I caught the early afternoon flight to Miami. My back was red-brown and tender from the two beach sessions. I had the Aztec two-step from the Garza Blanca food. My purse was considerably lighter, with a lot of expense that Equity Protection was not going to pick up and would not have authorized had I asked.

I caught Libby Franklin just as she was leaving her place to go learn a little more about communications. There was concern in her voice when I told her I had come up absolutely empty. Concern changed to coolness when I said I wanted a chance to talk to Laura Wheelock, the one who had been an employee of Wescott and Sons almost as long as Anne Farley. She said of course she could fix me up. Would lunch tomorrow be useful?

On the morrow at a few minutes after twelve, she brought Laura over into the hotel lounge to the designated area. I stood up when I saw them approaching, dressed alike like flight attendants on the Junior League Airlines. Libby was very correct. Mission accomplished, she whirled and headed back to the shop. I called to her to wait. She turned and flashed a totally artificial smile and waved and kept going.

Laura Wheelock was as slim as the rest of them. But older. Gloss of black bangs curling to her dark eyebrows, thick weight of shiny black hair straight to her shoulders. Dark brown eyes, dark complexion, high round cheekbones dotted with the acne scars of her adolescence of twenty years ago.

She looked pleased when I suggested the hotel’s best restaurant and told her I had made a reservation. We had a corner table behind a low stone wall, looking down over the length of the Gee Whiz lobby from an elevation about sixty feet above it.

When we had our drinks, she said that she was doing this as a favor to Libby, such a dear child, because she had vowed that she would not talk about the Anne Farley incident anymore. She was desperately tired of it. Everyone had assumed that because they had worked together for over ten years, they were friends. It worked the other way actually. One did not want close friendships with someone one worked with all day, every day, did one? Besides, Anne did not have the gift of friendship. She was second-in-command, Mr. Laneer’s assistant, and one was wise never to forget that. If one was insubordinate, Anne Farley gave them the worst chores in the store for weeks on end. You know, like in the army. P.K.

“K.P.?”

“Whatever.”

“I am interested in just how totally loyal she was to Mr. Laneer.”

“There are no words for it, Mr. Rhoades. People have to give themselves to someone or something, don’t you think? We all have a terrible need to be needed and necessary. I don’t mean to imply there was ever anything emotional or sexual about Anne’s relationship to Trevor Laneer. She just wanted to be so diligent, so thorough, so knowledgeable that the business could not survive without her. And the more indispensable she became, the more she cherished her job. It was more than a job to her. It was a dedication.”

“OK. Suppose Laneer said to her, ‘Miss Farley, for the good of the business, I want you to strip, paint yourself blue, and go live in a tree like a Druid. I don’t want you to ask me why. Just do it. I am depending on you.’ How would she respond?”

“Twenty minutes later, she’d be blue and living in a tree.”

“And if he asked her to steal from the business to save the business?”

Her smile disappeared at once. She frowned and bit her thumb knuckle. “I think I see where you’re trying to go. Say it.”

“Let’s say the business doesn’t go too well. So J. Trevor starts quietly turning good stuff into junk, selling the good stuff, and putting the money back in. After he has converted thirty-two pieces, he tells her to go away on a long, long trip. He accuses her of robbing him and collects from Equity Protection.”

She shook her head slowly. “The business has been doing very well. Much better now than in the old location. I know gems. I have a good eye and good training. I would bet my life those good pieces were there a few days before he went to Chicago.”

“Try it another way, then. Maybe it was women or gambling. But he dropped a lot, took it out of the business, and had to replace it.”

“That won’t work either. The person who keeps the books is very competent. And we are audited frequently by the bank. It’s a headache, the way we have to take inventory so often.”

“Why by the bank?”

“I don’t know, really. It has something to do with the Trust Department. The Wescotts are a wealthy family and there were a lot of trusts set up and the store is in one of the trusts, I think.”

“How about J. Trevor’s bad habits?”

“Mr. Rhoades, Mr. Laneer is absolutely devoted to his poor wife. She had a terrible stroke, you know? She is absolutely unable to communicate in any way. He spends his free time at home with her, in that lovely old house. His only vice, if you could call it that, is working so hard on that big rock garden he built where she can see it from her bedroom window. It is really something. Waterfalls and boulders and exotic plants and trees and fish ponds and all, and even floodlights at night. A couple of times he’s given himself a bad back working so hard. I suppose it is because it takes his mind off... her helplessness.”

“He dresses like a secret swinger.”

“I know. But he sells a lot of diamonds to a lot of ladies and gets along with them beautifully, and that is as far as it goes.”

“And there is a lot of money?”

She closed her eyes for an instant, expression beatific, then said, “Gross ugly wads of it. Cellars full of it.”

OK. So scrap another set of assumptions, Duke. Try again.

I spent a part of Saturday afternoon in the small, walled sun yard behind Libby’s townhouse apartment. Fido stalked imaginary monsters. Libby, in string bikini, atop a picnic table, asprawl on a huge towel imprinted to resemble a thousand-dollar bill, worked on her tan and complained about mine. I carried empties into the apartment and brought new beers back out.

After I had walked around and around the table, reciting my doubts, suspicions, and inadequacies, she said in a sun-dazed mumble, “How’n hell’d she plan so far ahead?”

“You mean making the hotel and air reservations in October? Well, everybody says she was a very orderly person and...”

I stopped. “Hm,” I said. “How orderly do you have to be to know you are going to be able to heist all those stones on a Friday when you didn’t know whether Laneer would be there or not? Damn it, he told her a week or so ahead of time he was going to that auction in Chicago to bid on the yellow diamond. And that’s when she asked if she could start her vacation. Vacation in November?”

“He owed her a week, Duke. She took just two weeks last summer. He owed her another week.”

“But she had the reservations all made before she asked!”

“She could be pretty sure he’d say OK.”

“Do you think she could have managed the switch anyway? I mean, even if Laneer hadn’t gone to Chicago?”

“I suppose so. It wouldn’t have been easy, though. It would have been more risky.”

“So she had the date all picked,” I said, “and his going away was just a lucky accident.”

“So why didn’t she set the date for the other week of her vacation earlier?” Libby asked. “From what they found out about what she’d been doing, she was already moved out of her apartment by the time she asked for that week.”

“Maybe she asked for it a lot earlier,” I said. “Would the other women have known?”

“No. She didn’t talk about things like that to us. She was always — you know — distant. Are you saying Mr. Laneer lied about it?”

“I don’t know what I’m saying. The timing is all screwed up. She had to start planning the robbery months and months before it happened. She had to get thirty-two fake pieces made, smuggling out the photographs and specifications and smuggling them back in again. Careful, careful long-term planning. Very smart in the beginning, and very stupid toward the end.”

“So how should she have done it, Investigator Rhoades?”

“Don’t needle me. She’s gone and the diamonds are gone, so it had to be a pretty good job. I keep wanting to tie J. Trevor Laneer into it. But facts and instinct say no. I have seen so many people react to so many different things, I can tell when I’m being conned. Laneer’s reaction when I first saw him was exactly right. It wasn’t overdone or underdone. He had the settlement. He’d told everything he knew so many times he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. And the reaction was exactly right the second time too. Remorse, apology — not too much or too little. You know, Lib honey, I like the guy. He is OK.”

“Duke, I told you the first time we talked that Laneer is one cruel, mean person.”

“Come on!”

“I really mean it.” She rolled up onto her elbow and squinted at me through the hot yellow sunlight. “Lots of people complain about their boss. It isn’t like that. He’s really a bastard. He goes out of his way to do mean things. A long time ago, when I was about twelve, my parents took me and my brother to see him in a play, at Halloween time. It was supposed to be for kids. He was an evil wizard and he scared me so bad I had nightmares for a week.”

“In a play?” I said wonderingly.

“Oh, yes, he was very big around town in the Peachtree Playhouse Amateur Theatre, but they have a professional director and a big budget, and they do good things. He quit about seven or eight years ago, I think, when his wife had that stroke. He’s an actor, Duke. He can make people like him. They say that’s how he snared Betty Wescott. She was getting some family jewelry repaired — that was after her divorce — and it must have been twenty-five years ago, and he was the one in the Piedmont store, the old store, who was doing the bench work at that time, and she wanted to explain exactly what she wanted done. At least, that’s what they say. She’s older than he, by ten years I guess. Because he didn’t have... the breeding or the advantages, they never had much to do with the social stuff before her stroke. Just the little theatre is all.”

I sat on the corner of the picnic table glowering over at where Fido was shaking the shrubbery, and marveling at the chronic incompleteness of the investigations and the reports filed. And I marveled at my own gullibility in believing yet another set of misleading, incomplete reports.

She nudged me in the small of the back with her bare heel and said, “Hey! You!”

“He just left,” I said.

“Let me know when he gets back.”

She was a little bit of a woman, somewhere on the windward side of sixty, living alone in a high-ceilinged apartment full of mahogany, silver, lace, and old portraits. Her cropped hair was dyed fudge brown, and her face was weathered to a red-brown. She wore jeans and an embroidered cotton blouse. She was slim and moved well. She let me in at a little past nine in the evening.

“It’s good of you to see me so late, Mrs. Culver.”

“Late, hell, Mr. Rhoades. I’m a night person, and you better call me Mim because everybody else in the world does.”

“I’m Duke.”

“There’s ice and water and bourbon over there, if you’d fix us both one, Duke. I spent four hours on the practice range today. I had to stop when I started to get this blister. They won’t let women play at the club on Saturday, the chauvinist rats. But I think I found my trouble. I was coming off the ball too soon. On Monday I am going to see just how much of Doris Jane Cupper’s money I can take away from her. Thank you, dear. No, sit there, on the side where I hear better. You said on the telephone you had talked to Tammy Rice? Yes, she was right. I was Betty Wescott Boland Laneer’s best friend in all the world, all through school and Briarcliffe; but who sent you to Tammy Rice?”

I explained that I had got access to the back file of clippings on the Wescott family at the newspaper and had weeded out some people who might have been lifelong friends and then tried to find them. “I’m a hired snoop,” I said.

She studied me pertly. “I would say you are probably brighter than you look, young man. And I am not as rattlebrained as I might seem to some. So I will have to know why you are snooping around.”

I smiled my best smile and said, “I am presently representing a company that paid out over half a million dollars to J. Trevor Laneer, and we want to be sure he deserves it. And needs it.”

“Oh, Anne Farley! You know, that used to be a very good family name in Atlanta. Every bit as good as Culver or Boland. Wescott wasn’t quite as good a name because, you see, they were in trade, but really they made most of their money in land way out north of town. I knew Roger Farley, her father, quite well. Nearly married him, in fact. Oh dear, all my... values mean so little nowadays. Atlanta has turned into a monstrous place, really. We are all swallowed up by this terrible energy of growth. Every time you look around, there is a new bank or a new hotel or a lot of yellow machines tearing up lovely old buildings. Trevor Laneer was what my father would call a counter jumper. My departed husband couldn’t stand him. Betty and I used to see each other for lunch often. It makes me feel guilty to think about the poor dear. But I just can’t go see her. It’s too horribly depressing. And what good does it do? Those blank, dead eyes. And she has to be waited on hand and foot. He talks to her as though she could understand every word. There’s something very strange about that, somehow. Does Trevor Laneer need the money? Well, I would hardly think so. I have to say that one must credit the man with compassion. I would think it has been a very long eight years for him. But he does seem unwaveringly faithful and constant. I went to see her — would it be six months ago or longer? Longer, God help me. It could be a year. That lovely rock garden. On a slope, you know, below the bedroom window. He turned a downstairs study into her bedroom because it is so much easier that way for the nurses. Her grandfather built that house. Except for the sound of traffic — not very loud because of all the trees — you would think you were in the country. It is very private, really. There must be at least three acres there, and heaven only knows what that land might be worth now.”

“I suppose the house and land are in a trust arrangement too.”

“Too?”

“The store is.”

“Really? I didn’t know that. I do know that her affairs are handled by Mid-Georgia Fidelity. And mine and Tammy’s. We all have the same trust officer. Tammy’s grandfather founded that bank. Bunny Gearhart takes care of us old ladies. He’s a dear young man. Well, not so young, I guess. Young to me. He must be getting on toward fifty. I could call him if you want to talk to him, but I have to ask you something first.”

“Anything. Almost.”

“Could this all wind up in such a way people find out that Anne Farley was innocent?”

“It could,” I said, and, smiling, she reached for the phone.

Those determined ladies, Mim Culver and Tammy Rice, put so much pressure on Bunny Gearhart I was able to see him at his tennis club on Sunday morning. He was a big, pink, rubbery fellow with all the social graces and a very correct tennis outfit. As a senior trust officer, he felt that he should not disclose any information at all without a court order. After I told him all my reasons he looked slightly ill. But he wouldn’t talk until I threatened to call Mim Culver and tell her that her favorite banker was being uncooperative. And then he sighed, shrugged, and talked. I have discovered one thing about the professions. Get a banker, lawyer, doctor, politician away from his familiar office and he is much more likely to tell secrets. One of the interesting things Bunny told me was that the doctors did not believe Betty Laneer could last much longer. Eight years of inactivity had caused a fatty degeneration of the heart muscle structures and decreasing circulation was beginning to affect the other major organs. And, of course, Trevor Laneer knew this.

“The Wescott estate used to be much larger, of course,” Trevor Laneer told me.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your Sunday afternoon, Mr. Laneer.”

He smiled. We were walking from the iron gates up the gentle slope toward the house. “You said on the phone it was important, Rhoades. I have to hope you’ve located Anne. If you can recover the diamonds, you won’t have to prosecute, will you?”

I admired die rock garden. He took me over for a closer look. It seemed to cover a half-acre slope at least, where probably it had once been lawn. There were paths, raked gravel, river stones, huge boulders, pools, fountains, rivulets of water over stone. The plantings were not overdone. The whole area had a sparse, Japanese flavor. The back of his work shirt was dark with sweat in a pyramidal pattern. His bare arms were sinewy. I could see the place where he had been working with a shovel. He said he was preparing a place for another boulder, a very interesting one he had picked out at the stone yard. They brought them in by flatbed and crane to place them in the prepared spot.

I looked up at the house and saw a pale oval beyond the glass, a motionless face, a motionless woman apparently on a chaise longue or uptilted hospital bed. Two dark circles and a slit for a mouth. A child’s drawing of a face.

“It gives her something beautiful to look at,” he said.

We talked inside a garden house, an octagonal, screened structure with a Japanese roof. It was in heavy shade and smelled of wood rot. I moved a little way from him so I could face him more directly.

“Preface to my question,” I said. “Your wife’s father, Prentiss Wescott, reorganized his personal financial affairs a few months before he died, when his daughter was separated from her previous husband, but not divorced. He put everything in trust for her, all the securities, this house, the business, everything. Income during her lifetime, with the income divided between her and any children she might have as they readied twenty-one. Is that your understanding?”

“Yes, of course. The bank manages the estate.”

“If she dies without issue, everything goes to Emory University Hospital. Immediately after her death the trust officer must start the liquidation of everything not in cash or securities, close the estate as soon as possible, and turn over the bequest to the hospital trustees. And your wife, I understand, is not expected to last out this year.”

He laughed as he held his hand up. It was a very good laugh. “Wait! You are really straining at a gnat, Mr. Rhoades. Are you serious? Is that your script? Store manager conspires with clerk to steal diamonds? Fears unemployment? I think I’d be angry if it weren’t so amusing. Whoever buys the business would be a fool not to hire me to operate it my own way. If that didn’t work out, I’d start my own shop. My customers would be loyal. I have savings, you know? Quite a lot. The trust department has always paid our living expenses, and I get a salary in line with my position. I suggest you stop inventing fantasies and get on with finding Anne Farley.”

On Monday I was very busy. On Tuesday the signs on the doors of Wescott and Sons said “Closed for Inventory.” It was a rainy Tuesday afternoon. I didn’t want to be out in Libby’s enclosed yard with her and Fido anyway, for fear I wouldn’t hear the phone.

“He made the duplicates, then?” she asked.

I told her he had made them and made the switch himself, and they did not know where he’d done the work yet, but they would probably find out. She told me to stop pacing around and I told her I was too tense to sit down.

“What are you saying is that he talked Anne Farley into laying her own false trail. Why would she do such a dumb thing?”

“She believed whatever he told her. Some plot against him or the business. Some kind of ripoff he was trying to avoid. He told her to paint herself blue and live in a tree, and she did.”

“What?”

“Never mind, honey. He thought she’d lay a clumsy trail and it would have been followed to a dead end in Yucatán a long time ago. But nobody found the loose ends except me, the old hound with the sore feet and the great nose.”

“That nose has been broken.”

“I didn’t mean great looking. I mean function.”

“Oh.”

“The way I read it, he had her all set to leave for someplace else on the Saturday he got back from Chicago. Per instructions, she had checked out of that airport Holiday Inn with her suitcase and her tropical clothes and waited for his plane. His car was at the airport. He took her home and...”

The phone rang. I didn’t knock anything over getting to it. A wonder. I didn’t have to say much. Grunt and listen. Sigh and listen. Hang up. Plod back to the couch and sit down heavily. Sigh.

I finally responded to her anxious questions. “After locating the right stone yard and talking them into letting me see the records on delivery dates to Laneer, and after talking all those official types into picking him up and getting the warrant, wouldn’t I have looked like all kinds of damn fool if I’d been wrong.”

“But... they found her?”

“Under the boulder they delivered the day before he found, to his horror, all those diamonds were missing. Since then he’s been selling them back to the business a few at a time under a dummy name and pocketing the funds. He paid himself almost seven hundred thousand to buy them back, they think.”

“Poor Anne,” she whispered.

“The weather bureau says it was a nice November afternoon. Warm and sunny. They say it looks as though he clubbed her in the back of the head with the flat of his spade, using a full swing. Then he dug the hole, buried her and her suitcase, and prepared the site for the two-tone boulder he’d preselected. Journey to nowhere.”

She shuddered and looked gray. I put my arm around her. “And it’s a good guess that woman in the house watched it all through the window. I wonder how much she saw, how much she comprehended. J. Trevor couldn’t care less, because she could not tell anyone anyway.”

It got to me too, just then. A little more than usual, and I put both arms around the lady, looking for, as much as trying to give, comfort.

Laneer had told me to get on with finding Anne Farley. And, God help me, I had. Cold winds blow through the loveless heart.

Content

John D. MacDonald
Finding Anne Farley