“What do you mean?”
“It’s the pose. He’s trying to imitate the casual slouch of a workingman but it’s off somewhat. He’s lounging against that fence in the manner of a man who is accustomed to lounging at the bar of his club. His shoes are wrong, too. They’re not boots. They don’t belong to someone who delivers fish or drives a cab. They look expensive. He was in a rush tonight. Didn’t get the costume right. He just made his first mistake.”
Vivian took a closer look.
“I see what you mean,” she said. She shuffled through the photos, looking for other pictures that included the man in the cap. “He’s in the first couple of photos but not in the last ones. He must have taken off when he saw me shooting the crowd.”
“It would have been easy for him to slip away, especially after the fire department arrived. He probably had a car parked on a nearby side street.”
Vivian crossed her arms. “So much for hoping these pictures would enable us to spot the guy.”
Nick looked up. There was a lot of heat in his eyes now. The anticipation of the hunter, she thought.
“We don’t have him yet,” he said, “but we have a lot more information about him.”
“We can’t be sure of that. The man in the cap might be a perfectly innocent bystander.”
Nick glanced at the photo and shook his head once. “Whatever else he is, he’s not an innocent bystander. He was a man playing a part, I’m certain of it.”
Vivian froze. “An actor?”
“A talent for acting is a job requirement for a man who has made a career of getting away with murder.” Nick paused, eyeing her closely. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“Probably nothing.” She folded her arms. “But an actor showed up at the scene of the Clara Carstairs murder. He begged me not to take his picture. I didn’t. There were no other photographers there so, in the end, no photos of him at the crime scene ever appeared in the papers.”
“Did you recognize the actor?”
“Oh, yes. There was no mistaking that good-looking face. Ripley Fleming.”
Chapter 20
Adelina Beach
That night . . .
Toby Flint adjusted the focus of his camera and peered through the lens. Much better. Now he had a detailed close-up of the woman’s excellent breasts. He could see every detail of the nipples. It was as if he could reach out and touch them. Unfortunately touching the models was not allowed. That did not stop him from getting hard.
He was not the only man in the studio with a stiff cock. It was the weekly meeting of the Adelina Beach Photography Club. Tonight’s theme was Women of the Ancient World. The room was packed, mostly with men. They had formed a circle around the nude model who was stretched out in a languid position on a cheap bedsheet that was supposed to be exotic silk drapery.
The sweat on the brows of the male photographers could have been explained by the hot lights that illuminated the tableau but the bulges in their trousers told the real story. They were here for the same reason that Toby had decided to show up for the meeting tonight. It gave them a legitimate reason to get close to a real, live naked woman and take pictures for their personal collection.
Toby was pretty sure that every man in the club had turned up for the event because it was understood that Cleopatra would be posing nude or nearly so. After all, you couldn’t do serious, artistic photography without nude models.
The truth, Toby thought, was that taking pictures of naked young women was about as close as he could get to sex these days. He couldn’t afford the kind of classy lady who insisted on being taken out to dinner and a show before falling into bed with a guy. Couldn’t afford the type who worked in brothels, either. He was almost broke. Again.
He’d made a few bucks with his shots of the Clara Carstairs murder—enough to buy some film and flashbulbs—but that was it. He didn’t have nearly enough cash to pay off his gambling debts and he could not see any way to obtain the amount that he needed.
He probably should have been down at the police station, hovering over the teletype machine in hopes of getting early word of a nice little murder or car wreck or fire, but what was the point? He was in too deep. He could not possibly make enough with a few crime-and-fire shots to get free of the very dangerous man who had loaned him the money for the last, ruinous night on board the offshore gambling ship.
He had attended the photography club meeting tonight in a desperate effort to distract himself from the hopelessness of his financial situation.
The model’s name was Millie Crosley, and under other circumstances he would have been very distracted. She was a real looker, another aspiring actress who was doing photography modeling to pay the rent while she waited to be discovered by Hollywood.
She was good, Toby decided. There was a lot of sensuality in her pose. Her dark hair tumbled in waves across her rounded shoulders. One long leg was drawn up in a seemingly casual manner that revealed the luscious curves of her thigh and hip. Her heavily made-up eyes were half-closed in a way that was meant to project sultry, seductive heat. A gossamer-thin scarf was draped in a coy fashion across the dark triangle of hair between her thighs. Aside from that, her only attire consisted of a lot of cheap dime-store necklaces that fell artfully across her bare breasts.
Several shutters snapped. The model smiled, reached down, and removed the scarf that had veiled her privates. She separated her thighs just enough to reveal a little more forbidden territory. It was the moment everyone had been waiting for. The temperature in the room shot up several degrees. There was a lot of commotion as most of the men frantically tried to get the close-up.
Toby reached into the pocket of his coat and discovered that he had used his last film holder. Briefly he considered trying to talk one of the other artists into loaning him some spare film but he saw at once it was hopeless. Every man around him was lost in the hot excitement of the moment.
No one noticed when Toby left the circle of photographers and headed for the door.
He went outside into the night. A light fog partially obscured the quiet street. He opened the door of his battered Ford sedan and got behind the wheel. For a moment he sat quietly staring into the mist-shrouded darkness while he considered his options. There was only one left. Time to head for Mexico. If he hung around Adelina Beach he was a dead man. He had forty-eight hours to come up with the cash. That was simply not going to happen.
It wouldn’t be a quick, clean death. The loan shark would make an example of him.
A rustling sound in the back seat warned him he was not alone in the sedan. He froze, terrified. The shark had sent his enforcers after him before the deadline.
He lurched out of his paralysis and grabbed the door handle in the vain hope of escaping from the car. But it was too late. He heard the snick of a gun being cocked.