Fourteen
Hollis had never had cause to visit the Maidstone Club before, and the appearance of a police officer was clearly something of a novelty for the members as well. Four of them gathered on the green abutting the parking lot broke off from their golf game and stared as he pulled the patrol car to a halt. Words were exchanged, and a ripple of laughter passed between the men.
The interior of the clubhouse was cool, dark and strangely dank, the moist air heavy with the odor of wood polish. The desk clerk peered over the top of his spectacles as Hollis approached. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said coolly.
‘I’m looking for Anthony Cordwell.’
‘I wouldn’t know if he was here. Members aren’t required to sign in.’
‘And I suppose you can’t leave the front desk to check.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ came the reply, heavy with false regret.
‘Then I guess I’ll just have to take a look around myself.’
He was a few steps shy of the doors leading to the back terrace when his path was blocked by the desk clerk.
‘I’ll see what I can do. If you’d be so good as to wait over there.’ He indicated some club chairs before disappearing.
Hollis lingered at the doors, curious to get a glimpse of the wealthy at play. From its vantage point at the top of the steep grassy slope, the clubhouse offered a wide vista over the swimming-pool complex with its sandy sunning areas, restaurant, bar and dining patio. Beyond, two long runs of cabanas arced through the broken dunes towards the beach like arms reaching out to embrace the ocean. All around, people were gathered beneath striped umbrellas, finishing lunch or sleeping it off. Only a handful of youngsters were braving the sun, frolicking in the pool, diving for hoops.
Hollis felt a little cheated; the Sunday afternoon scene before him was hardly different from those being enacted all over the country, though the setting was surely grander than most.
‘May I help you?’
The gentleman from the front desk had reappeared. He was accompanied by a colleague, a younger man with a thin, reedy voice.
‘I don’t know, can you?’
‘You want to see Anthony Cordwell.’
‘I think we’ve already established that.’
‘Is there a problem?’
‘Not unless you don’t go get him for me.’
Anthony Cordwell had been playing tennis, and judging from his complexion he was being given a run for his money.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said warily.
‘I won’t take up much of your time,’ said Hollis. ‘Though it looks like you could do with the break.’
Hollis was led through to the bar, which to Cordwell’s evident relief was deserted. Cordwell wiped his face with a towel.
‘Couldn’t this have waited?’ he asked.
‘You’re a bright boy. You’ll think of something to tell them.’
Hollis handed him a buff envelope. Of the two photos inside, the first was a close-up of a dress shoe, Cordwell’s name clearly embossed inside. The second showed the shoe beside a hydrangea bush, the Rosens’ defaced front door visible behind, the crude, dripping white Star of David clearly in focus.
‘What is this? Blackmail?’
‘Think of it as a gift.’
Cordwell eyed him suspiciously. ‘And in return…?’
‘I have a few questions, then I’m gone. Those stay.’
‘And the negatives?’
Hollis patted the breast pocket of his uniform. ‘When we’re done talking.’
Cordwell nodded, as if accepting a deal from the Devil himself.
‘Justin Penrose, you know him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well?’
‘As well as anybody, I suppose.’
‘Meaning?’
‘He’s what you might call private. Why?’
‘How long was he with Lillian Wallace?’
‘A year, two years.’
‘Try and be more specific.’
Cordwell thought on it. ‘Just under two years.’
‘Why did they break off their engagement?’
‘Differences. I don’t know. She ended it.’
‘You must have heard something.’
‘You know,’ said Cordwell, casting his mind back, or at least appearing to, ‘it really wasn’t discussed.’ He paused. ‘It was never going to be easy, what with Gayle.’
‘Gayle Wallace? What about her?’
‘They were an item once, Justin and Gayle.’
‘What are you saying, he switched horses in mid-stream?’
‘It was over with Gayle by then, but she still wasn’t happy when she heard about Lillian.’
I bet she wasn’t, thought Hollis.
‘What does Penrose do?’
Cordwell snorted, amused by the notion. ‘He doesn’t have to do anything. His family has a bank.’
‘And what do you do, Mr Cordwell?’
‘Me?’
‘Aside from persecuting Jews?’
Cordwell was too angry to manufacture any kind of response at first. ‘Are we finished here?’ he asked sharply.
‘No, we’re not. Penrose came to see Lillian about a month ago.’
‘Did he now?’ sighed Cordwell.
‘Why would he do that?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean did he still carry a torch for Lillian?’
Cordwell hesitated before replying. ‘It’s possible. He was pretty upset when it ended.’
It was a hard image to conjure up, Justin Penrose upset by anything.
‘What’s this all about?’ asked Cordwell.
‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this conversation to anyone.’
‘And I’d appreciate it if you gave me those negatives now.’
Hollis handed them over.
If Cordwell had bothered to examine the negatives before slipping them into the envelope he would have noted that they didn’t match the incriminating photos. Rejects from the batch of shots taken by Abel, one was of the Rosens’ daughter, a ravenhaired beauty with whom Abel, in characteristic fashion, had been mightily and momentarily taken; the other showed Hollis on his hands and knees in a flower border, the crack of his ass just showing above the waistband of his pants.
A print of this last shot now hung on the wall of Hollis’ kitchen. Framed up and presented to him at the time by Abel, the handwritten title on the matt proclaimed: The Thin Blue Line.