The following is a continuation of the April 25, 1949 entry in the Rocky Stone notebooks:
A quick telephone call to the society reporter at the Los Diablos Post revealed all I need to know about Mr. Frank Weller. He was the fourth in a line of Frank Wellers. The eldest Frank Weller owned half the land that became Los Diablos. His son, Frank Jr., began selling it off piece-by-piece, and Frank III developed whatever was left. When Frank III died a year ago, it was time for Frank IV to do something with the money and land his forebears had left behind. He was still getting around to it.
I bundled Dave into my car and drove up into the hills, through paths so narrow I could barely keep my Buick on the road, much less a truck. The pavement disappeared and then so did the houses, and we were out in the country. We drove along the top of a canyon in silence. Dave sat motionless for a good bit of the trip and I wasn't sure he knew where we were going until he pointed out a collection of sugar cubes growing out of a secluded spot on the side of the hill. If it weren't for the windows, I wouldn't have taken it for a private residence. A gate appeared on the horizon and as we made our way up to it, I could see the letters spelling “WELLER” twisted in among the wrought iron.
The pavement began again on the other side of the gate and I fit the Buick through. Another half a mile and I found a place to park. Only the top-most cube was visible from here; the rest of the house was below us, sinking slowly down the side of the hill. A man in glasses and a sharp suit charged up a set of steps off to the side, his manner aloof and angry. His narrow eyes caught mine.
“Weller?”
“That name used to mean something to me once,” he said, barely masking his hostility, “but now... I wouldn't go down there if I were you, sir.”
“What would I find?”
The man didn't dignify that with an answer. He continued on his way, stomping at the ground as if it had something to do with it, until he disappeared around a corner. The sound of an engine followed, and soon after the man reappeared behind the wheel of an Oldsmobile that peeled out of the driveway and through the gate.
“Your Mr. Weller certainly has a way with people,” I said to Dave. He nodded silently back.
We dipped down the steps and climbed in front of the first door that looked to be a main entrance. I rang the bell. The door opened a fraction of a second later and a dark-haired beauty stood in my way, her eyes flashing like an ambulance. She was dressed in a bathing costume, barely covered by a sheer robe. When she saw I wasn't the gentleman caller who just flew the coop, her manner changed from outrage to coquettishness. Her hand touched her chin and her pointing finger slid quietly to the corner of her mouth as she studied me.
“You're not Rollo,” she pointed out.
“I get that all the time. We need to see Frank Weller. There's something he'll want to know.”
“Why not tell me?” she replied, as her finger smoothed along her lower lip. “Frankie and I have no secrets between us.”
“I can hardly believe that. Are you his girl?”
She feigned insult. “His girl? Certainly not! I'm his wife!”
The robe inched open by design so I could get a glimpse of her body, as she turned and lured me in to the house. This was going to be a long day.
Is Rocky getting himself into real danger? Tune in next week to The Adventures of Rocky Stone to find out!
A quick telephone call to the society reporter at the Los Diablos Post revealed all I need to know about Mr. Frank Weller. He was the fourth in a line of Frank Wellers. The eldest Frank Weller owned half the land that became Los Diablos. His son, Frank Jr., began selling it off piece-by-piece, and Frank III developed whatever was left. When Frank III died a year ago, it was time for Frank IV to do something with the money and land his forebears had left behind. He was still getting around to it.
I bundled Dave into my car and drove up into the hills, through paths so narrow I could barely keep my Buick on the road, much less a truck. The pavement disappeared and then so did the houses, and we were out in the country. We drove along the top of a canyon in silence. Dave sat motionless for a good bit of the trip and I wasn't sure he knew where we were going until he pointed out a collection of sugar cubes growing out of a secluded spot on the side of the hill. If it weren't for the windows, I wouldn't have taken it for a private residence. A gate appeared on the horizon and as we made our way up to it, I could see the letters spelling “WELLER” twisted in among the wrought iron.
The pavement began again on the other side of the gate and I fit the Buick through. Another half a mile and I found a place to park. Only the top-most cube was visible from here; the rest of the house was below us, sinking slowly down the side of the hill. A man in glasses and a sharp suit charged up a set of steps off to the side, his manner aloof and angry. His narrow eyes caught mine.
“Weller?”
“That name used to mean something to me once,” he said, barely masking his hostility, “but now... I wouldn't go down there if I were you, sir.”
“What would I find?”
The man didn't dignify that with an answer. He continued on his way, stomping at the ground as if it had something to do with it, until he disappeared around a corner. The sound of an engine followed, and soon after the man reappeared behind the wheel of an Oldsmobile that peeled out of the driveway and through the gate.
“Your Mr. Weller certainly has a way with people,” I said to Dave. He nodded silently back.
We dipped down the steps and climbed in front of the first door that looked to be a main entrance. I rang the bell. The door opened a fraction of a second later and a dark-haired beauty stood in my way, her eyes flashing like an ambulance. She was dressed in a bathing costume, barely covered by a sheer robe. When she saw I wasn't the gentleman caller who just flew the coop, her manner changed from outrage to coquettishness. Her hand touched her chin and her pointing finger slid quietly to the corner of her mouth as she studied me.
“You're not Rollo,” she pointed out.
“I get that all the time. We need to see Frank Weller. There's something he'll want to know.”
“Why not tell me?” she replied, as her finger smoothed along her lower lip. “Frankie and I have no secrets between us.”
“I can hardly believe that. Are you his girl?”
She feigned insult. “His girl? Certainly not! I'm his wife!”
The robe inched open by design so I could get a glimpse of her body, as she turned and lured me in to the house. This was going to be a long day.
Is Rocky getting himself into real danger? Tune in next week to The Adventures of Rocky Stone to find out!
Go to Part 3 The Lady of the House
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