Seaweed on the Street Read Online Free Page B

blue-tiled swimming pool where a woman was swimming laps, stroking powerfully and making expert turns. I was in the heart of Victoria, but from the grounds of the Hunt estate no other house was visible. Heavy blue smoke drifted up where garden waste smouldered in an incinerator. The estate’s original carriage house — a two-storey mini-ature of the main house — had been converted into a three-car garage.
    I walked back around to the front of the house and across the terrace to the front door. I rang the bell. After a longish wait a young Coast Salish woman wearing an old-fashioned black maid’s uniform with a white pinafore over it opened the door and stared at me. With my long black hair and brown skin, I wasn’t the usual front-door visitor.
    I announced that Mr. Hunt was expecting me. After some hesitation she let me in. The maid looked sullen and her face was flushed, but I didn’t think I was responsible. Without a word she showed me in to the reception room where I had spoken to Jimmy Scow. The maid withdrew.
    There were fresh dahlias on a refectory table. Morning sunlight, shining through the room’s stained-glass windows, picked out the deep red and blue colours in a Persian rug.
    The returning maid opened the door and stood aside to admit Charles Service. He turned to watch her go and shook his head. “Damn nuisance,” he said, lifting his arms and letting them fall to his sides in disgust. “She just quit on me. A single day’s notice. I’ll have a devil of a time replacing her. Good help is hard to find. Housemaids get jobs in motels now. Half the work, twice the money.”
    I doubted that Service’s duties as Hunt’s lawyer included supervising domestics and wondered why he seemed so upset about it.
    â€œWell,” said Service, apparently forgetting the maid and rubbing his hands with a satisfied air. “I suppose you’re wondering what this is all about, eh?”
    Before I could reply, footsteps sounded and the door opened. A stoop-shouldered, slightly built man with grey hair flattened down on his bony skull came in carrying a black bag. It was Dr. Cunliffe, the father of the murdered man.
    Seeing me, the doctor smiled in recognition and extended his hand. “Morning, Seaweed. Charles told me that you were coming today.” He inclined his head toward the upper regions of the house. “I’ve just been giving Mr. Hunt his weekly checkup.”
    Service said to me, “Dr. Cunliffe knows why you’re here.”
    The doctor nodded amiably and said, “I plan to sit by the swimming pool and drink coffee. Join me there later if you like.” He went out.
    Service said, “Funny, us running into each other last night. I hardly see you for five years, then I run into you twice in 12 hours.” He stopped speaking and looked grave for a moment before going on: “The Bengal Room. Do you eat there often?”
    I laughed and said, “On a sergeant’s pay? Are you kidding?”
    Service smiled. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “That business with Scow last night. To coin a phrase, it put a bee in the old man’s bonnet.”
    I remembered seeing Calvert Hunt fast asleep in an invalid chair and had to work hard to suppress a smile.
    Service said, “It’s all nonsense, of course, but Mr. Hunt wants to stir things up. I’m opposed to it, of course. We should let sleeping dogs lie.”
    I’d heard enough clichés so I looked him in the eye and said, “Why me? If this job is what I think it might be, you need a squad of detectives.”
    â€œYou’re right, we need detectives. However, you were a detective once.” He stopped speaking before adding, “Mr. Hunt thinks you have special qualifications.”
    â€œWhatever they are. From Mr. Hunt’s point of view it’ll work out cheaper than hiring a private shamus, which is what you did last