A Gambling Man (Archer #2)(49)

Archer spoke up. “Then why would your husband hire us to investigate the matter if it will have no impact on the outcome of the election?”

She graced him with a look that hit Archer somewhere between his gut and his heart. Her slender tongue slid over the pale, glossy, and full lips.

“An excellent question to which I have no viable answer. Did you ask him that?”

Dash said, “I don’t usually discourage clients from hiring me, and in our defense, we didn’t know the lay of the land yet. But what you said does give me something to chew on.”

Archer said, “So you know Alfred Drake, then?”

“I used to go to him for my teeth.” She smiled. “He’s actually an orthodontist and an excellent one. I think he did a rather marvelous job, taking out some teeth and putting braces on which straightened the ones that were left. I was hopeless as a child. My father was ready to give up on my having any sort of a social life simply because of the atrocious state of my teeth. But it was my mother who finally put her foot down and took me to Drake.”

“I hardly think anyone would have agreed with your father’s assessment,” noted Archer.

This did not earn him a second graceful smile. The eyes grew cold.

“In many ways, his observation was spot-on because people are invariably shallow, at least here. But you can know nothing of that, so don’t bother rendering an opinion.”

Archer held up a hand in a motion of acquiescence and also apology.

This also did him no favors with the woman. “You surrender quite easily, Mr. Archer. I hope you’re not as squeamish in your work. If so, my husband will certainly be overcharged.”

She turned her attention to Dash, as though now totally discounting the value of Archer’s presence. “Anything else, or can you both leave me in relative peace now?”

“Not unless you can think of anything that might help our investigation.”

“If I did, I probably wouldn’t tell you.”

“So, you don’t want to help out your husband here?”

“If Douglas got himself into this, he can get himself out of it.”

“I apologize in advance for this question, but is he the sort of man who has the wandering eye?”

“What man doesn’t?” was her reply.

“Well, I think that’s it for now, ma’am. Thank you for your time.”

She leaned over and pushed a button on the wall. Five seconds later the same man appeared to lead them out.

As they were leaving, Archer put his notepad and pen away and glanced back at Kemper.

She caught him looking and said imperiously, “Something on your mind, Archer?”

“Nothing wrong with having that second drink now. It might taste better at this point.”

“And why is that?” she asked in a disinterested tone.

“You got your piece off your chest and didn’t stumble once over your lines. I’d clap in appreciation except I’m holding my hat.”





AS ARCHER AND DASH APPROACHED the Delahaye, the man who had been washing the Triumph out back came up to them rubbing his hands on a white towel. He was around thirty-five with a muscular build, good looks, a trim black mustache, and brooding eyes. A short-barreled stogie perched from one corner of his slash for a mouth. He was wearing a white T-shirt and dark brown jodhpurs tucked into leather lace-up boots and a chauffeur’s black cap.

General George Patton would have been proud of the man’s wardrobe choices, thought Archer. Now all he needed were the twin pearl-handled Colt pistols.

“Nice ride,” said the man, looking the Delahaye over.

“Right back at you,” said Archer, pointing to the Phantom and the Bentley. “And I saw you washing the Triumph. Rode in one of those over in England.”

The man pinched his stogie and nodded. “I was over there too. Hundred and First Airborne. Name’s Adam Stover.”

“Meaning you jumped out of perfectly good airplanes,” noted Dash with a grin.

“I was Eighth Army,” said Archer. “Name’s Archer. That’s Willie Dash.”

Stover eyed Archer. “Eighth Army? Then you got your share of killing and nearly being killed.”

“I think we all did.”

“You two here visiting Mrs. Kemper?”

Dash said, “Yes, on some private business.”

Archer said, “Nice place.”

Stover laughed. “One way to see it. They got more money than God.”

“How’d you end up here?”

“I’m from Bay Town. Came back after the war. Know my way around cars. So there you go.” He eyed the house and then Dash. “Seen your billboards around town, Mr. Dash. You’re a private dick.”

“That I am. So is Archer here.”

“Got trouble here, then?”

“Again, we’re private dicks, so that’s as far as it can go, Mr. Stover.”

Stover touched the bill of his cap and walked off.

As Archer climbed into the car, he glanced at one of the French doors to see Beth Kemper watching him. With his gaze still locked on her, Kemper turned and walked away.

As they drove away from the mansion and out through the gates, a marine fog was coming in off the ocean and accumulating like fire smoke in the clefts and fingers of the foothills after already invading the lower canyons. The wind had picked up, and it looked like rain was coming as the temperature dropped.