The Panama Hat

A Jack Dylan Adventure 

By Dixon Kinqade

I was sitting in my office, bombing the ashtray on my desk with paperclips, and wondering what kind of job private detectives get when clients stop calling completely. I was alternately staring at the picture of me as a well-starched huckster and the more comfortable portrait of Jack Dylan. The one in which I wore English tweeds and looked like an author, a man of distinction. That's when the telephone rang and brought a rude awakening.

"Hello, Jack Dylan speaking."

"My name is Isabelle Gordon, Mr. Dylan. I must see you at once! My husband, Bruce, is in terrible danger. Could you possibly meet me in one hour at the Pelican Inn?"

"The Pelican Inn, one hour. I'll be there, Mrs. Gordon."

The Pelican Inn was strictly a liquor license with chairs. A bored piano player sat in one corner, tickling the ivories. The place was empty and I was about to order a drink when the front door opened and a woman entered.

She was tall and slender. From those fashionable shoes to the close-cropped hair, she was a picture straight out of Harper's Bazaar. One look into her fear-crowded eyes and I knew that it was Isabelle Gordon.

I stood up and introduced myself. We went to a table and sat down. Then she laid it out.

"For two weeks now, my husband has been receiving threatening letters. I'm almost sick with worry. I don't know what to do."

"Now wait a minute, Mrs. Gordon. The first thing to do is get hold of yourself. Just calm down and tell me the whole story, right from the beginning."

"Yes, alright. First of all, Bruce and I have only been married for little more than a year. We live with my uncle, Avery Fairchild, on an estate down by the beach."

"What does your husband do for a living, Mrs. Gordon?"

"He's a photographer."

"Movie or portrait?"

"At the present, neither. You see, Bruce has been terribly unsettled lately, sort of lost and unfocused. He's only recently been interested in photography and it's been a lot of help to him."

"But he doesn't exactly work at it?"

"Well, he's converted one room in the guest cottage to a studio. He spends almost all his time there, experimenting with portrait work, but he doesn't actually have a job, if that's what you mean."

"How does that appeal to your Uncle Avery?"

"To be honest with you, Mr. Dylan, my uncle thinks the sun rises and sets on me, but with Bruce..."

"It's a total eclipse, is that right?"

"I'm afraid so. For all his life, Uncle Avery has been concerned only with dollars and cents. He simply doesn't understand or sympathize with an artist's viewpoint. "

"What about these threatening letters? I assume they're unsigned."

"Yes. As I said, he's been receiving them for the past two weeks. They're all made of words cut from newspapers and pasted on ordinary paper."

"Yeah, that's a cheap stunt, but it's usually effective for not leaving much evidence to indicate the identity of the person behind it. What did those letters say?"

"Each one threatened my husband's life. Despite that fact, both he and Uncle Avery consider them nothing more than some harmless prank.

"But you disagree. Why?"

"For the last several nights, I've seen a strange man lurking around our place every night."

"Can you describe him?"

"Not very well, I'm afraid. He's about your height and build and each time I've seen him, he was wearing a white Panama hat."

"It's not much to go on. Tell me, have you informed the police?"

"No, Uncle Avery wouldn't hear of it. He hates publicity and strangers poking around in private affairs. That's why I've come to you."

"You want me to be some sort of bodyguard for Bruce?"

"That and try to figure out who's behind all this. However, I need to tell you that Bruce is somewhat temperamental and would rebel at the thought of being watched over. So I'd rather you pose as a house guest, an old college chum of mine, perhaps."

"My fee is thirty-five dollars a day plus expenses, Mrs. Gordon."

"I haven't any problem with finances. Any price is alright, Mr. Dylan."

"Very well. As a fellow alumnus, I have one final question. Where did you go to college, Isabelle?"

"Southern California."

"That's just fine. I was afraid you were going to say Vassar. That might have been difficult to explain."

"Yes, I suppose it would. Here's the address of my uncle's estate. It's seven o'clock now. Do you think that you can be there in about an hour?"

"That's not a problem. I'll see you there."

After Isabelle left, I realized that I was now on my expense account. So I had a tasteless blue plate special and a barely warm cup of coffee. Then I stepped out of the Pelican Inn and started across the parking lot to my car.

It was already dark. I was admiring the full moon and the beautiful silver wash it made over the ocean. That's when it happened.

An engine roared angrily and a pair of headlights rapidly rushed straight for me. I just stood there and waited patiently. That would lead the unseen driver to believe I was startled and paralyzed with indecision, like a deer caught in the headlights. It would make the driver overconfident and he'd be more likely to drive in a straight line. At the last possible second, I dashed out of the way.

The car went speeding by, barely missing me. It continued out of the parking lot and down the highway. I didn't get a good look at the license number or the driver's face. I only noticed one thing. The driver wore a white Panama hat.

I tried to be broad-minded, but there was no other way to look at it. The gentleman in the white Panama hat definitely meant business. If he was the author of threatening letters, it was no prank.

I returned to my office and went upstairs to my apartment. I shaved, showered, and packed. Then I headed to Avery Fairchild's beachside estate.

At a quarter to nine, I was inside the grounds. Another mile and I was at the front door. When I entered, Isabelle greeted me like I was a keg of brandy around a Saint Bernard's neck.

We waded through a carpet that was an inch thick and moved toward the library, where Uncle Avery was waiting. He was a short, fat, bald, old man. With a hard and sour expression, he looked like he'd just bitten into an unripe persimmon.

I wasn't asked to sit and I wasn't offered a cigar. It said plenty about the social graces of Avery Fairchild. He wasn't a generous man. Most wealthy people aren't. That's how they get to be wealthy in the first place. I quickly discovered that Avery Fairchild was not one to waste time.

"I'm a very rich man, Mr. Dylan. As such, I'm a target for all kinds of fortune hunters, confidence men, and cranks. In my lifetime, I've been threatened and pestered by a score of crackpots. Each one was slightly more psychopathic than the last. It never bothered me and it never will. However, in this case, the approach is a bit different."

"Meaning, that you think someone is trying to get at you through your nephew."

"Never refer to him as my nephew! My niece's husband, if you please, and don't forget it."

"Oh, Uncle Avery..."

"Isabelle, my feelings about your husband are no secret."

"You're being unfair, Uncle Avery. Just because Bruce is an artist and..."

"Artist! Is he? That man's no more an artist than I am a horse jockey."

That's when Bruce Gordon walked into the picture.

"Good evening, everybody. Please do continue. You were saying something, Uncle Avery?"

Isabelle interceded, quickly changing the subject.

"Bruce, I want you to meet Jack Dylan. We were great friends in college. When I heard he was in town for a while, I insisted that he spend the weekend with us."

Bruce Gordon shifted his attention and greeted me.

"It's a pleasure to have you with us, Mr. Dylan."

"The pleasure is entirely mine, Mr. Gordon, but I've had a long trip and I'd like to turn in early. Mrs. Gordon has informed me that I'll be staying at the guest cottage in the room next to your studio. Would you be so kind as to show me where it is?"

"I'd be glad to, Mr. Dylan."

"Please, call me Jack."

"Very well. If you'll follow me, Jack."

The guest cottage was only a landscaped hop, skip, and a jump from that museum Uncle Avery called home. As Bruce and I strolled along a flagstone walkway, I feigned an interest in photography. That was all he needed. He struck at the bait like a shark with a bad case of malnutrition.

"It never occurred to me that photography might be one of your hobbies, Jack."

"I'm strictly a dabbler."

That was true enough. Most of the snapshots I took were of the X-rated variety. In my line of work, most of the clients were seeking evidence of spousal infidelity.

"Tell me, Bruce, how long have you been at it?"

"I've been doing portrait work for about six months. You see, I divide my time between my studio here and photography classes at the university. That way I capture both the theory and practical experience at the same time. Would you like to see my studio?"

"Yes, I would."

He unlocked the door, opened it, and stepped inside. Switching on the lights, he invited me in. It was a large room filled with typical tools of the trade and even included a darkroom.

"Say, this is a pretty nice setup. Are all these pictures your work?"

"Yes. What do you think of them?"

"I'm no expert, but they're good and I like them. They're unusual."

"They certainly are different, aren't they? You see, each picture is actually made up of two separate photographs, which are superimposed over one another. I call it interpretive photography."

"I see. Now this one, the sun and a plant chute?"

"Yes, I call it metamorphosis."

"What about that one in the corner? A woman's face and the clouds?"

"Oh, that. You'll have to excuse me, Jack. That picture isn't ready for display yet. It's still a work in progress."

Bruce quickly ran over to it. He turned it around to face the wall and placed a white cotton sheet over it. There was something odd in his manner, something more than just an artist's delicate sensibility about an unfinished work.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to pry. I thought it was another interpretive piece."

"Well, it's not! That is? it... It isn't finished yet. Now, Mr. Dylan, I'm afraid that I've forgotten what you said about your long trip. Shall I show you to your room?"

"Yes. Please do. Mr. Gordon."

My room, on the other side of that guest cottage, was wider than Hollywood Boulevard. After Bruce apologized for his display of temperament and bid me a polite goodnight. I climbed onto the bed, stretched out, and contemplated the identity of that man wearing a white Panama hat.

An hour passed and I still hadn't come up with any sensible answers. So I switched out the light, put my gun on the table next to me, and snuggled into what felt like a mile and a half of mattress. I was almost asleep when the clang of a shovel falling on the walk outside sent me sitting straight up in bed.

I grabbed my gun and made right for the door. The moment I pulled it open, I knew that I'd made a mistake. Whoever had knocked over that shovel must have heard me coming and poked a large fist straight at my face.

I quickly stepped back and threw the door forward, smashing it against the unseen assailant's fist. I heard a pained growl, followed by rapidly fading footsteps. I opened the door again and was about to give chase, but stopped short.

On the ground was a souvenir from my uninvited visitor. I picked it up and examined it closely. It was a gold lighter and was engraved with the name Skipper.

Putting it in my pocket, I made for Bruce's studio. He wasn't there. I went to the house and found Isabelle in the living room.

I was about to give her an account of what happened. That's when I noticed Uncle Avery. He was quietly sneaking into the house through a side door by the garden.

"What's the matter, Jack?"

"Bruce isn't in his studio."

"What?"

Avery entered the room and joined the conversation.

"Now, Isabelle, there's no reason for alarm. Bruce often goes out into the night. He calls it a search for beauty or some such rot."

"And what, exactly, were you after just now, Mr. Fairchild? I saw you come into the house from outside."

"I was looking for my niece, Dylan."

Avery turned to Isabelle.

"Your cousin, John, just telephoned to say he wouldn't be down this weekend."

I interjected, "I didn't know there were to be other guests."

"Just my cousin, John Martin. He's not really a guest, Jack. He comes down quite often."

Avery chimed in, "Yeah, too often to suit me."

"Oh, Uncle Avery. Please, you know that I'm fond of him."

"Yes, but I don't know why. He's a chronic gambler and of no use to anyone. Living at the Wilshire Gardens when he can't afford it."

"Oh, you're too hard on him. Skipper isn't..."

That's all I needed to hear. I didn't care for all this family quarreling and it was getting on my nerves. I wasn't here to play mediator. So I excused myself and left the house.

I walked to my car and headed for Wilshire Gardens. I was going to pay a visit to cousin John "Skipper" Martin. Just on the off chance that Skipper might own a white Panama hat.

When I got to the prodigal cousin's bungalow, it was dark inside. I pressed one hand close to my gun and the other against the doorbell. There was no answer.

I noticed the side window was open. I started toward it. That's when a nasty voice greeted me from the shadow of a nearby palm tree.

"Good evening. Lovely night, isn't it?"

"I haven't noticed. I've been busy."

"I know. We've been waiting for you a long time."

"We?"

"That's right. Me and this shiny revolver."

"Oh, I see. Well, you make a handsome couple and I hope you're both very happy together. Now what do you want?"

"I don't want anything. I'm here to give you something."

"And what might that be?"

"Advice."

"Look, buddy. I've already told you, I'm busy. So let's get this over with."

"I think you're confused, Mr. Martin. I'm the one holding the gun and that puts me in charge."

"I'm sorry. Do we know each other? I don't recall having the pleasure."

"That's because you haven't. People don't forget me. My tag is Brock. Does that mean anything to you?"

"No. What's your line of work? Do you sing, dance, or tell stories?"

"Yeah. That's it, the last one. I tell stories."

"I can't wait."

"You won't have to. I'm gonna tell ya one right now. It goes like this.

Once upon a time, a young punk borrowed $10,000 from a generous gambler on a promise to pay it back within one week. The young punk never came across. So the gambler contacted a nice fella named Brock and asked him to call on that young punk.

Brock was to deliver a message. Let the punk know that he had twenty-four hours to get the money together. If the punk didn't pay up, he'd never see the forty-ninth hour."

"Is that it?"

"What's the matter, Mr. Martin? Don't ya like stories?"

Brock grinned, shoved his .38 in its holster, and walked away. Soon as he walked around the corner, I went to the window and climbed in. I rummaged through two closets, looking for a white Panama you-know-what.

I was about to search a third when I heard something that brought me to a dead stop. It was a key turning in the lock. I closed a hand over my gun, moved flush against the side wall, and waited.

As the door opened, the telephone rang. A hulk of a man entered the room and went straight for the squawk box. He was wearing a gray fedora.

"Hello?"

"Isabelle, how are ya kid?"

"What?"

"Bruce? Are you sure?"

"But that's impossible! I mean, things like that just don't..."

That's when he turned around and noticed me. I was standing there with my trusty Walther pointed right at him. He froze momentarily. Regaining his composure, he quickly ended the phone conversation.

"Excuse me, Isabella. I have a visitor. I'll call you back."

He returned the receiver to its cradle.

"Reach, Mr. Martin."

"Who are you?"

I decided to do the smart thing. I lied. I pretended that I was Brock and delivered the same message that had been mistakenly delivered to me.

"The name is Brock. You owe a client of mine $10,000. He wants his money in forty-eight hours."

"I'll get it. I swear, I will. I'll get it and right on time, all of it."

"How are ya gonna do that, Mr. Martin?"

"I've got a way. Someone's gonna give it to me, tonight."

"Why?"

"Because it's the healthy thing to do. That's why. Trust me, that's all you want to know."

"Very well. Goodnight, Mr. Martin."

I exited his bungalow, crossed the street, and entered a drug store. I asked a clerk where I could find the nearest wailing wall and was pointed in the general direction. When I found it, I made a call.

"Hello?"

"Isabelle, this is Dylan. Has Bruce returned yet?"

"No, he's been kidnapped and whoever's done it wants $50,000 before morning or we'll never see Bruce alive again!"

As I dashed to my car, it felt like my brain had spent the night in a cement mixer. I was about to head back to Avery's estate. That's when I saw Skipper Martin run out of his bungalow and climb into a long glossy convertible.

I followed Skipper out to the Palisades. That's where he stopped in front of a little house that sat on a bluff overlooking the sea. Once he went inside, I moved up and noted a name on the mailbox. The place belonged to Ms. Carla Winters.

I crawled up to a window, where I could see what was going on and one look at Ms. Winters made the damage I was doing to my suit worthwhile. She was a dragon lady with flaming red hair. She had a waist you could span with two hands, if you were lucky enough to get that close, and the rest of her measurements fit perfectly. They were arguing and I could hear their voices clearly through those thin glass panes.

"You sniveling coward. You wouldn't dare open your mouth about us."

"Wouldn't I? Listen, Carla. I've got myself to look after, first, last, and always."

"You're nothin' but cheap talk. Just look at ya'. You're in trouble now and what do ya do? Ya holler blackmail. Go on and get out of here. Get out of here before I kill you!"

Skipper slammed the door, stomped to his convertible, and roared off. I couldn't think of any reason, any legitimate reason that is, to call on Miss Carla Winters. So I returned to my car and headed back toward the Fairchild place.

Isabelle was somewhere between hysteria and collapse over the fact that she and Bruce had less than $2,000 in their own name. Of course, Uncle Avery was more than reluctant to pay a ransom demand for the return of a man that he'd rather not have returned. Eventually, Isabella won out.

"Oh, alright. I'll put up the money, but understand I'm doing this for you, not for that no good..."

"Yes, Uncle Avery. I understand, but can you get that much cash by morning? The banks..."

"Who said anything about banks? You know that I don't like them. The money will be in your hands in thirty minutes. In the meantime, tell Mr. Dylan what arrangements you've made with your husband's abductors."

"Just a minute, Mr. Fairchild. What about the police?"

"The police have already been notified, Mr. Dylan. They've agreed not to interfere until tomorrow morning. By that time, we'll have Bruce returned to us."

"To us, Uncle Avery?"

"A mere slip of the tongue, Isabelle. I'm only paying for his return. You take over from there. I don't want him."

One half hour later, Mr. Fairchild handed me a bundle of cash, which added to $50,000. The bills seemed slightly dirty. The old geezer must have buried them someplace. For a moment, I couldn't help thinking about getting at this place with a shovel sometime, but I had more pressing matters at hand.

I wrapped up the money in a shoebox and drove north along the coast highway. I covered those sixty miles to the rendezvous point in just about as many minutes. I arrived at the spot, which was an old junkyard, right on schedule.

According to instructions, I slowed down to ten miles per hour. I flashed my lights twice and tossed out the shoebox. I was just about to resume my speed when the headlights of an approaching car illuminated a man as he darted into the junkyard. I saw what I'd been expecting all the time... a white Panama hat.

I was still playing by the rules. So there was only one thing I could do about it. I slammed my foot down on the accelerator and kept it there until I reached the nearest telephone. Then I'd call Skipper Martin at the Wilshire Gardens. It was just possible that he owned two hats, but that little balloon exploded in a hurry.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Martin?"

"Yes, who is this?"

"This is Brock. Remember me?"

"Yes, of course. I've been hoping you'd call."

"You mean to tell me, you've got the money right now?"

"Well, no. Not this minute, but I will have it in a couple of hours."

"You're sure, Mr. Martin?"

"I'm positive, Brock."

Now, only one thing figured. The man in the Panama hat worked for Skipper Martin. It had to be.

An hour later, I pulled into the Fairchild estate. The moment I put my size twelve over the threshold, I knew the kidnapper had upheld his end of the bargain. Bruce Gordon was back, safe and sound.

"It happened shortly after you retired to your room, Mr. Dylan. I was working in my studio when a man wearing..."

"A white Panama hat..."

"Yeah, but how did you know that, Mr. Dylan?"

"They're very popular this season, Mr. Gordon."

That's when Isabella confessed.

"Darling, Mr. Dylan is a private detective, but I'll tell you all about that later. Please, go on with your story."

"Well, the man was wearing a handkerchief over his face and he forced me to go with him at gunpoint. He took me to a car parked in the service drive and ordered me to turn around. Then I was hit from behind and was knocked out cold."

"Oh, darling. How terrible."

"When I came to, I was bound hand and foot, blindfolded, and gagged. I had no idea where I was."

Avery jumped into the conversation.

"Didn't you see anybody before you were released?"

"No, Uncle Avery. Before they let me go, they hit me again. When I came to that time, I was lying near the entrance to the estate. That's about it."

Now it was my turn to ask the questions.

"I suppose you told this story to the police already."

Avery answered the question.

"No, he hasn't, Mr. Dylan. What's more, he isn't going to. I'm sorry, but I was forced to lie to you earlier this evening.

Police mean reporters and they mean publicity. I hate publicity, but on a more practical note. If word gets out that I paid a ransom demand, it would make me a very likely target for another stunt like this. I will not have my family so recklessly endangered. I'm sure you see my point."

"I wouldn't make book on that, Mr. Fairchild. Secrets like this always get out. The fact that you kept it secret and didn't involve the authorities also encourages kidnappers."

"Well, since we no longer see eye to eye, Mr. Dylan. I suggest we consider your services at an end. I'll have a check at your office in the morning. Goodnight, sir."

Avery Fairchild wasn't the kind of man you argued with and it wasn't worth my breath. Throwing my coat over my arm and tipping my fedora to Isabelle, I stepped outside. I hadn't once mentioned Skipper Martin. That might have been a mistake, but I still wanted to poke around before closing the book on him.

Passing by the guest cottage, I decided to go in and check Bruce's studio. Maybe that man in the white Panama hat had left a few odd footprints on the ceiling. Tossing my coat on a chair, I riffled through the clutter.

Ten minutes later, I'd found nothing. I was about to leave when I remembered that picture of the girl and the clouds. The one Bruce hadn't been careful enough to keep out of sight.

It was still in the corner and hadn't been moved. I brought it into the light and didn't have to look twice. It was a portrait of Carla Winters, the redhead dragon lady that Skipper Martin had visited. Now things began to add up.

At the chauffeur's quarters, there was an outside telephone. I put through a call to Lieutenant Wallace of the homicide department. The best I could get was one Sergeant Lyman.

"I'm sorry, Dylan, but Wallace is out on a call right now."

"Do you know where he is? The address, I mean."

"Yeah, sure. It's one of those bungalows at the Wilshire Gardens."

"Wilshire Gardens?"

"Yeah, what's so special about that?"

"Maybe nothing, I'll know in a minute. Thanks, Lyman."

I pressed the clicker and dialed Skipper Martin's number. It only rang twice and someone answered. I recognized the voice immediately.

"Detective Wallace, this is Dylan. What brings you to Skipper Martin's at this late hour?"

"There was a report of gunfire, little more than an hour ago. Four shots to be exact."

"You think that Martin fired them?"

"No, I'm sure he didn't fire them. He stopped them, personally."

Before I hung up, I gave Wallace a run-down on the whole story. After chewing my tail for keeping him in the dark, he told me to sit on the Fairchild's front steps until he arrived.

That gave me half an hour to kill. Most of which I spent walking around, trying to get something close to four out of two and two, but I couldn't. Finally, I heard Wallace's siren approaching the front of Fairchild's house.

I was about to head toward him when a chill in the morning air reminded me that my coat was still on the chair in Bruce's studio. I went back to get it. As I grabbed my coat, a little slip of paper that had been underneath it floated to the floor.

I snatched it up and examined it. I must have held it for a full minute before I realized what it meant. Just a small slip of paper and yet, it made everything, the abduction, Carla, and the murder, all fall into place.

Entering the living room, one glance at Isabelle revealed that she already knew about Skipper's death. Only Uncle Avery, who was not one to shed crocodile tears, didn't seem affected. Wallace, of course, was unhappy.

"Dylan, we can't run any kind of a police department when every private detective acts like he's the commissioner. Why didn't you call me when this whole business began to smell? You know better than..."

"I'm sorry, Wallace, and I hate to sound immodest, but I happen to be one of the two men in this room who can name Bruce Gordon's abductor and Skipper Martin's killer."

"Do you know what you're saying, Dylan?"

"Oh, I think so. That man in the white Panama hat, who put the snatch on Bruce Gordon, is Bruce Gordon himself. In other words, Bruce Gordon abducted Bruce Gordon!"

Isabelle was shocked. Avery Fairchild eyed Bruce suspiciously and with an angry glare. Bruce was indignant as he spoke.

"You're out of your mind, Dylan."

"Am I? Would you still say that if we called up Carla Winters and asked for the $50,000 in so-called ransom money that she's holding for the two of you?"

Wallace cut in.

"Let me guess, Dylan. Bruce plans to divorce Isabelle for Carla, but he and Carla want a little stake, like 50,000 dollars, before running away together."

"That's right, Wallace, but Skipper Martin knew about Bruce and Carla. He also knew about their plans and he tried to blackmail them. So he could pay off his gambling debt.

That's why he visited Bruce's cottage on the sly. However, he arrived just in time to see Bruce leave of his own free will. Therefore, he knew that Bruce couldn't have been snatched."

"And that gave Martin two holds over Bruce."

"That's right. However, Martin made a mistake when he went to Carla's house and was too demanding. Carla told Bruce about that and before he released himself, Bruce took care of Skipper. With four gunshots, to be exact."

"So, Dylan, how do you know?"

"That Bruce was the man in the Panama hat? I was pretty certain, but I found the evidence accidentally. I practically fell over a little slip of paper in his studio. This is the receipt from a department store..."

"For one Panama hat?"

"And nothing else. One white Panama hat, that's the only item on the ticket."

- TERMINUS LIBRI-