Beware the Curves

agreed. “Of course it would depend somewhat upon whether it was business property or ranching property.”
    “It would, wouldn’t it?” I said.
    He grinned.
    I could have walked out at that time and nothing would have happened, but I had been lulled into a sense of security. I had had things so easy I wanted to get it all buttoned up.
    “By the way,” I said, “there’s a chap by die name of
    Endicott here who has some acreage for sale I understand.”
    “Endicott?” he said.
    “Karl Carver Endicott,” I told him.
    The reporter tried to swallow the expression of startled surprise on his face and didn’t make a good job of it. The girl back of the counter dropped a dating stamp she was holding in her hand, and didn’t stoop to pick it up.
    The reporter gulped a couple of times and said, “Did you know Endicott?”
    “Shucks, no!” I said. “I’m interested in property, not people.”
    “I see.
    “I could be looking for a lease,” I told him.
    “You could,” he said.
    Well, I’d gone that far. I might as well go the rest of the way. “All right,” I said. “What’s wrong with Endicott?”
    “It depends on how you look at it.”
    “He still lives here, doesn’t he?”
    “He’s a short distance outside of the city.” The blue eyes were watching me as a cat watches a rat hole.
    “There’s just a chance,” I said, “I may know the guy at that. I met an Endicott who came from this part of the country several years ago. He was abroad on his honeymoon.”
    “I see,” the reporter said.
    “Look,” I said, “is anything wrong with Karl Endicott? Has he got the plague, or something?”
    “Karl Endicott,” he said, “was murdered a short time after he returned from his honeymoon. In case you’re interested there’s a reward of twenty-five thousand dollars for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the person or persons responsible for his death. And if you’re snooping around on a live lead we’d sure appreciate getting the story.”
    “Murdered?”
    “Murdered.”
    “Who offered the reward?”
    “The Board of Directors of his company, Endicott Enterprises.”
    “Well,” I said, “it’s nice having met you.”
    “You haven’t met me yet.”
    I grinned, “No, I didn’t get your name, but of course I know who you are,” and then added, “and I guess murder cases don’t have anything to do with scouting out pieces of property.”
    I walked out of the door.
    I’d driven down to Citrus Grove in the agency heap and had parked the damn thing almost in front of the door. I didn’t dare get into the car so I walked over to a real estate office. I went in and chatted generalities with the realtor for a few minutes about this and that and these and those. I went out and had breakfast. I walked over to the public library, found it didn’t open until ten o’clock, went to another real estate office, went to a phone booth and thumbed through the telephone directory.
    The reporter was still following me.
    I saw an officer going around checking the parking time on automobiles. The last thing I could afford was to have the car tagged, so I went to a restaurant, had a cup of coffee, went toward the back where there was a sign “Rest Rooms,” closed the door behind me and walked out to the kitchen.
    The cook, scooping up fried eggs from a hot plate, motioned with his thumb and said, “Over that way, buddy.”
    I just grinned at him, walked through the kitchen and out into an alley.
    I walked rapidly down the alley, detoured a block, then cut across to my car as fast as I could walk without running.
    The officer was just putting a tag on the car and the reporter was standing beside him with his notebook. I said to the officer, “I’m sorry, officer. I was just coming to get in the car.”
    “You’re a little late.”
    “I thought your ordinance started at nine o’clock.” He pointed to a diamond-shaped sign at the corner. “Parking one hour, 8:30 A.M. to 6:00 P.M.,” he said. “Sundays and holidays excepted.”
    I gave him my best smile and said, “You should make some concessions for out-of-town people.”
    “You own this car?”
    “I drive it.”
    “Let’s take a look at your driver’s license,” he said. I showed it to him.
    “Okay,” he said. “I’ll let it go this time.”
    The reporter grinned like a Cheshire cat.
    I got in the car and drove away, leaving behind me a nice Little story. I could even see the headlines in my mind’s eye.