Death on the Diagonal - By Nero Blanc Page 0,27

he’d stay mum as long as—”

“So we have to try a little harder, Bonnie honey, be a little sneakier. What’s the gripe? Besides, like I said, a private eye ain’t no cop. Anyway, the whole thing’s given me a great idea.” Clyde depressed a button to close the car’s window against the cold evening air. “Listen, I have no intention of being ferreted out either; not this late in the game.”

“Neither of us can afford it.” This was a statement of fact, not an opinion, and it silenced Clyde for a long and heavy moment.

“Anyway, Bonnie baby, back to my dynamite idea. This is going to take us some time—which is why I wanted to get right on it.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“How about Munnatawket Beach? No one will be there this time of year; especially after dark. Any beachcombers or dog walkers will have left when the sun went down.”

“Okay.” They passed through three stoplights and turned onto the beach drive. Once they’d left the city limits, high beams were flipped on, and Bonnie pressed a lead foot down on the accelerator.

“Hey, take it easy. The last thing we need is a cop on our tail.”

The response was an acid, “I hope you’re not attempting to tell me how to drive—on top of everything else, Clyde.” Despite the words of protest, their speed was reduced considerably. “So what’s this big hush-hush plan?”

Clyde chortled. “Wait till we get there . . .”

Pulling into the parking lot of Munnatawket Beach fifteen minutes later, both were relieved to find the place deserted. Fluorescent streetlamps illuminated the asphalt, puddling a flickering greenish light every fifty yards or so, and windblown sand drifted up and over the recycled horizontal telephone poles that separated the lot from the beach. Where the seashore began in earnest, small dunes had formed around the mangled aluminum chairs, treadless tires, and chunks of driftwood washed in by the ocean waves. Not a trace of summer’s mirth remained.

“I hate the beach when it looks like this,” Bonnie observed. “It makes me think the end of the world is near; like in that old movie. What was the name of it?”

“I have no idea.”

“It gave me the creeps. It had that guy in it.”

“Oh, that movie,” was the snide reply. “The black-and-white one with that woman?”

Clyde’s obvious sarcasm eluded the person sitting behind the steering wheel. “Yeah, that’s the one.”

“Hell of a film.”

“It gave me the creeps.” Bonnie set the parking brake and stared at the gloomy darkness, “Okay, what’s this brilliant plan?”

“Who’s he married to?”

“Who?”

“Polycrates, Bonnie darlin’, who do you think?” The words were pinched and exacerbated.

The answer took a few seconds and was formed as a half-question, half-statement. “The crossword puzzle lady at the Evening Crier, Annabella Graham?”

“Exactly.” Clyde reached into the Papyrus bag and removed a pad of quarter-inch graph paper. “This is called ‘Watch Your Target and Focus.’ We make a crossword puzzle and fax it to her. Something that will grab her attention, and then get her hubby jumping to the conclusions we need him to—”

“That won’t work. Fax transmissions print out the originating phone numbers. If we’re trying to pass along information and remain anonymous, that’s not the way to do it.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got a solution worked out.”

Bonnie sighed. “Let me see that pad of paper.”

It was handed over and then examined. Graph lines were printed on both sides.

“I don’t know . . . this seems really rinky-dink. Like schoolkids’ stuff.”

“That’s part of the deal. We send la Graham something that looks totally unprofessional . . . like it was done by some loony-tunes ratting on a onetime buddy, or a loner nursing a grudge, or an old geezer with nothing better to do. The important thing is that we point her and Polycrates in the right direction.”

“But we’re hardly loners.”

“Looks like, not is,” was the sharp reply. “We make her and hubby dearest think this is a solo act. Then when he tries to figure out who’s tipping him off, he won’t be hunting for a couple.” Clyde pulled a pencil from the bag and started to mark off lines. “Okay, here’s what I figured out; the puzzles are fifteen squares across and fifteen down, and the words are at least three letters long—”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I’m Clyde, aren’t I? I’m one hot and sexy hombre.”

“For today,” was the quick retort. “Besides, I still don’t—”

“Stuff it, sweetheart. I’m telling you this’ll work. We clue him in; he makes the right