“Is there a harbor in Lake Bluff, then?”
“The closest public harbor’s in Waukegan. It’s extremely polluted, however. No, the commandant at Great Lakes Naval Training Station, Rear Admiral Jergensen, is a personal friend. I tie my sailboat up there.”
That was handy. The Great Lakes Naval Training Station lay on Lake Bluff’s northern border. Where would Grafalk keep his yacht when Jergensen retired? The problems the very rich face are different from yours and mine.
I sat in a bamboo chaise lounge. Grafalk opened a window. He busied himself with ice and glasses in a bar built into the room’s teak panels. I opted for sherry—Mike Hammer is the only detective I know who can think and move while drinking whiskey. Or at least move. Maybe Mike’s secret is he doesn’t try to think.
With his back still turned to me, Grafalk spoke. “If you weren’t spying on me, you must have been spying on Clayton. What’d you find out?”
I put my feet on the red-flowered cushion sewn to the bamboo. “Let’s see. You want to know what I think about Jeannine and what I found out about Clayton. If I did divorces I’d suspect you of sleeping with Jeannine and wondering how much Phillips knew about it. Except you don’t strike me as the type who cares very much what men think about your cavorting with their wives.”
Grafalk threw back his sun-bleached head and gave a great shout of laughter. He brought me a fluted tulip-shaped glass filled with straw-colored liquid. I sipped it. The sherry was as smooth as liquid gold. I wished now I’d asked for scotch. A millionaire’s whiskey might be something unique.
Grafalk sat facing me in a chintz-covered armchair. “I guess I’m being too subtle, Miss Warshawski. I know you’ve been asking questions around the Port. When I find you up here it makes me think you’ve found something out about Phillips. We carry a lot of grain for Eudora. I’d like to know if there’s something going on with their Chicago operation I should know about.”
I took another sip of sherry and put the glass on a tiled table at my right hand. The floor was covered with hand-painted Italian tiles in bright reds and greens and yellows and the table top matched them.
“If there are problems with Eudora Grain that you should know about, ask David Argus. My main concern is who tried to kill me last Thursday night.”
“Kill you?” Grafalk’s bushy eyebrows arched. “You don’t strike me as the hysterical type, but that’s a pretty wild accusation.”
“Someone took out my brakes and steering last Thursday. It was only luck that kept me from careening into a semi on the Dan Ryan.”
Grafalk finished whatever he was drinking—it looked like a martini. Good old-fashioned businessman—no Perrier or white wine for him. “Do you have a good reason for thinking Clayton might have done it?”
“Well, he certainly had opportunity. But motive—no. No more than you or Martin Bledsoe or Mike Sheridan.”
Grafalk stopped on his way back to the bar and looked at me. “You suspect them as well? You’re sure the—uh—damage took place at the Port? Could it have been vandals?”
I swallowed some more sherry. “Yes, yes, and possibly, although I don’t believe it. It’s true anyone could empty brake fluid with a little ingenuity—but what vandals carry around a ratchet wrench and a cutting torch just on the off chance that they’ll find a car to mutilate? They’re much more likely to slash tires, steal hubcaps, or smash in windows. Or all three.”
Grafalk brought over the sherry bottle and topped off my glass. I tried to pretend I drank the stuff every day and didn’t attempt to read the label. I’d never be able to afford this sherry anyway; what did I care what it was called?
He sat back down with a fresh martini and looked at me intently. He was turning something over in his mind. “How much do you know about Martin Bledsoe?”
I stiffened. “I’ve met him a few times. Why?”
“He didn’t tell you anything about his background at dinner on Thursday?”
I put the expensive glass down with a snap on the tiled table. “Now who is spying on whom, Mr. Grafalk?”
He laughed again. “The Port is a small community, Miss Warshawski, and gossip about shipowners travels fast. Martin hasn’t asked a woman out to dinner since his wife died six years ago. Everyone was talking about it. Likewise your accident. I knew you were in the hospital but I didn’t know someone had deliberately tampered with your car.”
“The Herald-Star gave me a front-page story—picture of my poor Lynx with its front missing and everything … Gossip about Bledsoe must be buried pretty deep. No one gave me a whiff about his background that sounded as troublesome as you’re seeming to imply.”