Even the Wicked

by Ed McBain

  The dead woman on the living-room floor was Evelyn Cloud.

  Gently, he lowered her hand. He stood up. He supposed he had known all along, too, that he would not report this to the police. He certainly would not have pocketed the medallion if he’d intended calling the police. He knew instinctively that involvement in a homicide would keep him from accomplishing what he’d come here to do. He could not waste time clearing himself with the police. And he also knew instinctively that the death of Evelyn Cloud was inextricably connected with the drowning of Mary. And so he turned his back on the body, wiped the inside knob of the living-room door with his handkerchief, opened the door with the cloth covering his fingers, closed it, and wiped the outside knob.

  “What are you doing?” Penny asked.

  “Shhh,” he said. “Did you touch anything in here?”

  “No. Is someone dead?”

  He looked at her, surprised for a moment, and then remembered the educational facilities of television. “Yes,” he said. “Someone’s dead.”

  Penny nodded. “Who?”

  “The woman we came to see. Let’s get out of here.”

  He opened the screen door, let Penny out, and then wiped the knob clean. As they drove out to the main road, he wondered if his tires would leave tracks in the packed sand.

  5

  The blonde was waiting at the house.

  She sat on the front steps smoking a cigarette. She wore a full skirt and a halter, and her legs were crossed casually, too casually. She looked up as the Plymouth approached, but she did not uncross her legs, nor did she seem conscious of what the wind was doing to her skirt. She continued smoking leisurely, her eyes never leaving Zach as he stepped out of the car and went around to the other side for Penny. Then she dropped her cigarette to the sand and extended one sandaled foot to put it out, the wind catching at her skirt, billowing it upwards so that a long length of smooth golden thigh was revealed.

  “Hi,” she said. Her voice was huskily rich. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Zach and Penny came over to where she was sitting. “Have you?” he said.

  “You are Zachary Blake, aren’t you?” She smiled. Her face was very tanned, and her smile was wide and white. Her eyes were an intense blue against the tan. There were tiny laughter wrinkles at the edges of her eyes. He combined the voice and the face and the mature body and came up with an age of thirty-four or so.

  “I’m Zachary Blake,” he said. “Have you come to dispossess me?”

  “What?” She looked up at him with honest puzzlement.

  “Never mind. What can I do for you, Miss—?”

  “Murphy. Enid Murphy. They used to call me ‘Bridey’ at cocktail parties, but it doesn’t get a laugh any more.”

  “How do you do?” Zach said politely. “This is my daughter, Penny.”

  “Hello,” Penny said.

  “Hi,” Enid answered.

  “You still haven’t told me.”

  “I’m from the Vineyard Gazette,” Enid said. “That’s the local newspaper. And I’m not really from it. I contribute an occasional piece to it during the summer.”

  “So?”

  “So I try to get to any celebrities before the mainland papers do.”

  “So?”

  “So you’re a celebrity.”

  “I am?”

  “Indeed.”

  “That’s news to me,” Zach said.

  “It shouldn’t be. We get Resignac in Massachusetts, too, you know. Hordes of people up here begin their evening meals to the honeyed tones of Zachary Blake.”

  “You sound as if you don’t like my broadcast,” Zach said.

  “I never listen to it,” Enid admitted. “Shall I go stand in a corner?”

  “Are you a native of the island?” he asked.

  “No. I’m from Boston.”

  “And down for the summer?”

  “And down for the summer,” she repeated.

  “What do you do when you’re not tracking celebrities?”

  “Swim. And sun. And drink.”

  “I meant in Boston.”

  “I’m a free-lance writer. I do articles for the women’s magazines.”

  “That’s entirely plausible,” Zach said.

  “You sound as if you don’t like women’s magazines.”

  “I never read them,” Zach admitted. “Shall I go stand in a corner?”

  Enid smiled. “Touché. Do I get the interview?”

  “Will they pay you for it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Come on in. I’ll give you an interview and a drink. I hate to deprive any working stiff.”

  They started into the house and Penny said, “May I go down to the beach, Dad?”

  “Not swimming.”

  “No. Just to get some shells.”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “May I take my tomahawk?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” She kissed him and then turned to Enid. “Nice meeting you, Miss Murphy,” she said, and ran through the house and onto the back porch and then down the steps to the beach.

  “She’s adorable,” Enid said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Is your wife with you?”

  “She’s dead,” Zach said simply.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  The room was silent for a moment. “What would you like to drink?” Zach asked. “I’ve only got rye.”

  “I’ll have rye,” Enid said. “On the rocks, please.”

  She stayed with him while he fixed the drinks. “Let me see,” she said, taking out her pad and pencil. “Brown hair, brown eyes, strong jaw. I guess I can say ‘the handsome Zachary Blake.’ All right?”

  Zack shrugged.

  “How tall are you, Mr. Blake?”

  “Five eleven and a half.”

  “We’ll make it an even six. It sounds more romantic.”

  “Is this going into one of the women’s magazines or just the local paper?”

  Enid laughed. The laugh was rich and full, and for a moment it reminded him of other laughter, past laughter, and he forced the memory aside.

  “How old are you, Mr. Blake?”

  “Thirty-six,” he said.

  “I’m thirty-three,” she answered. “Where were you born?”

  “The Bronx.”

  “Boston meets the Bronx,” she said, and she stopped writing and looked at him studiously. Her look embarrassed him somewhat. He handed her the drink.

  “Why don’t we go out on the porch?” he said. “It’ll be more comfortable there.”

  “All right.”

  They sat facing the ocean. The steps from the house descended sharply into the shrubbery so that the beach was invisible from the porch. But they could hear the distant sound of the breakers, and the steady dong-gong of the bell buoy and the wild shrieking of the gulls overhead.

  “That’s the Gay Head light out there,” Enid said.

  “Um,” Zach answered.

  “Did you hear about the Indian woman?”

  He felt instantly tense. He forced himself to relax. “Which Indian woman?”

  “The one who was selling authentic Gay Head souvenirs made in Brooklyn?”

  “Oh. Oh, no.” He wiped his lip and then hastily gulped at his rye.

  “I thought it was funny,” Enid said, and she shrugged. “How long have you been in broadcasting, Mr. Blake?”

  “Twelve years.”

  “Is there any truth to the rumor that you were supposed to take over the Ed Liggett show last year?”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “What happened?”

  “My wife died,” Zach said. “I didn’t want the show any more.”

  They were silent again. Enid sipped at her drink.

  “How’d she die?”

  “Is this for your paper?” Zach asked.

  “No. It’s for me. Unless you’d rather not talk about it.”

  “She drowned,” Zach said.

  �
�Where?”

  He gestured toward the water with his head. “Right out there.”

  “Were you with her?”

  “No. I was here at the house. I was taping a farewell broadcast at Resignac’s request. I was supposed to take over the Liggett show when I returned. Resignac thought it would be a good idea to do a farewell show instead of a news summary on the night I left radio. I was working on it when Mary … when my wife drowned.”

  “And you came back this summer?” Enid asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  He did not answer.

  “You get over it,” Enid said suddenly.

  “What? What did you say?”

  “I said you get over it. My husband was a naval pilot. He was shot down over Okinawa. We’d been married two years.” She paused and then sipped at her drink. “It takes a long while. But you get over it. You can’t go on living in the past, Mr. Blake.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “I’m sorry if I was too frank.”

  “You weren’t.”

  “Is the interview ended?”

  “Not unless you’ve run out of questions.”

  “I have one more.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Enid Murphy put down her drink. “What are you doing tonight, Mr. Blake?”

  He studied her for a moment and then said, “You sound like the Merry Widow.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not kind, Mr. Blake. Forget I asked.” She rose and started for the screen door. “Thank you for the interview. I’ll send you tear sheets.”

  He came up out of his chair quickly. “Wait!” he said, and he put out his hand involuntarily, and then drew it back. Enid stood just outside the screen door. Her blue eyes were very serious now. The wind flattened her skirt against her thighs, and she held it pinned there with her small black pad in one hand.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry I was rude,” he said. “I’m not doing anything tonight.” He suddenly felt that he was being unfaithful to a memory, unfaithful to his reason for being here. But there was contained hurt in the woman’s eyes, and somehow he did not wish to hurt her further.

  “I’m having a small party at my house,” she said. “Some of the people who are down for the regatta day after tomorrow. I thought you might like to come.”

  “What about Penny?” he asked.

  “You can get a baby-sitter.”

  “I haven’t used a baby-sitter in the past year,” he answered.

  “Maybe this is a good time to start,” Enid said.

  He nodded. “Maybe it is.”

  “There are signs outside the Menemsha store. Dozens of baby-sitters. Will you get one?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ll get one.”

  Enid smiled. “I’ll see you later then. Nine o’clock?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s the house opposite the Coast Guard station. The one with the green shutters. Back of The Home Port.”

  “I’ll find it.”

  “Good. It was nice meeting you, Bronx.”

  “It was nice meeting you, Boston,” he said, and he was surprised to find himself smiling. He walked her to her car, and then went out onto the porch to wait for Penny. She did not return from the beach for a half-hour.

  “I lost my tomahawk,” she said. She came up the steps with her hands full of shells and rocks.

  “Where?” he said.

  “In the sand someplace. I put it down while I was hunting shells. Did you ever see a red-white-and-blue rock?”

  “No.”

  “I’ve got one,” she said, and she dumped the collection at her feet, and began picking through it. “See?”

  “It’s red-white-and-blue, all right. A very patriotic rock.”

  “Yes. I’m going to call it the George Washington Rock.”

  “That sounds like a popular song.”

  Penny laughed delightedly.

  “Honey,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “Would you mind staying with a baby-sitter tonight?”

  “Nope. Are you going out?”

  “Yes.”

  “With Miss Murphy?”

  “To her house, yes. For a party.”

  “That’s good,” Penny said. She nodded, as if in agreement with some hidden theory of her own.

  “We’ve got a few things to do first, though,” he said.

  “Like what?”

  “First we’ve got to get the baby-sitter, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And next, I want to be at the dock when the sword-fishing fleet comes in.”

  “Yes?”

  “And then I’ll buy you a lobster dinner at The Home Port. How about it?”

  “Sometimes I love you, you know?” she said, and she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  6

  John Cloud was six feet four inches tall with the shoulders and hips of a fullback. His head was massively compact, chiseled from brownstone. His eyes were squinting black in the uneven features of his face. He wore dungaree trousers, a denim shirt and a white canvas jacket. His head was bare, and his hair was as black as gunpowder.

  He leaped from the boat to the dock and then pulled his son ashore after him. He moved with muscular nonchalance. It was not difficult to picture John Cloud stalking a deer through the woods, wearing only a breech clout and carrying a bow and arrow.

  Zach stood at the end of the dock, Penny’s hand in his own. A sharp wind blew off the water, and he was happy he’d insisted on her wearing a sweater. They had gone into the general store and post office, the thriving center of Menemsha summer activity. He had asked the woman behind the counter to recommend a sitter from the score or more of those whose advertising signs were tacked to the outside of the store. The woman had suggested a girl named Thelo Ford, and Zach had called her from the pay phone outside the store. Miss Ford promised to be at the Fielding house at 8:45 sharp. Yes, she knew where it was. No, he needn’t pick her up; her mother would drop her off. Satisfied, he had bought Penny a half-dozen Golden Books and then gone to wait on the dock.

  The wind had torn patches in the gray overcast, and the patches had expanded until they formed a clear stretch of blue over the water. The blue was painful to the eyes, a sharp, unrelieved, glaring blue that gained intensity from the darkness of the water. Along the dock, the pleasure boats bobbed idly. Tied to stout poles, the tails of previous swordfish catches rose to the sky, the wide wings black against the piercing blue. From a yacht at the end of the dock, Zach could hear the drunken laughter of an afternoon cocktail party.

  And then he saw the tall Indian and the small boy, and he instantly knew this was John Cloud and his son. He waited until the man approached, and then he said, “Mr. Cloud?”

  Cloud broke his stride. The black eyes flicked to Zach’s face. There was, for the fleeting of an instant, fear in the eyes.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you John Cloud?”

  “Yes?” The “yes” was still a question. The fear had vanished from the eyes to be replaced by caution.

  “My name’s Zachary Blake.”

  “Yes?”

  “I received a letter from your wife.”

  “My wife’s business is her own,” Cloud said, and he began walking again. Zach caught up with him.

  “Just a minute, Cloud,” he said.

  “What do you want?”

  “I talked to your wife from New York yesterday.”

  “I don’t know about it.” Cloud glanced over his shoulder. The fear had seeped back into his eyes.

  “Mr. Cloud, my wife drowned here last year. She—”

  “I don’t know about it,” Cloud repeated.

  “Your wife knew about it!”

  “Her business is her business. She’s a foolish woman. Her tongue—”

  “Mr. Cloud, don’t turn away from me, please!”

  Their eyes met. A tic had started at the side of Clou
d’s mouth. Again, he glanced over his shoulder. Then, in a whisper, he said, “Go back to New York, Mr. Blake. I can’t help you. I’ve got a wife and a young boy. Don’t bother me, Mr. Blake. I don’t want trouble. Go back to New York.”

  “You’ve got a stake in this,” Zach said.

  “Have I?” Cloud said, and he turned away.

  “Your wife is dead,” Zach said.

  He could not have stopped the man more effectively had he struck him with a baseball bat. Cloud drew up short, the words slamming into his eyes and face. His brow lowered menacingly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Where?”

  “Your house.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw her.”

  Cloud was silent for a moment. Then he muttered. “Those rotten bastards,” and he took Johnny’s hand.

  “Will you help me now?”

  “I’ve got a son,” Cloud said. “I’ve still got a son. Get out of my way, Mr. Blake.”

  “Who killed her, Cloud?”

  “Get out of my way!”

  He swung his arm sidewards, flinging Zach out of his path. Zach staggered backwards, almost losing his balance. He fell against a dock pile, shoved himself erect and yelled, “Cloud! Goddamnit, wait a minute!”

  Cloud did not answer. He strode off the dock, clutching his son’s hand tightly. He opened the door of an old Chevrolet, deposited his son on the seat and then climbed in and slammed the door. He started the car immediately and pulled away in a screech of dust and burning rubber.

  Zach stared after the retreating cloud of dust. He took Penny’s hand. Disconsolately he said, “We’d better get dinner.”

  7

  The sitter arrived at 8:45 on the button. She was sixteen, a brunette with large brown eyes and a mouth that was too wide. She wore no lipstick. She wore chino trousers and a gray sweatshirt. She looked like a physical education major at a women’s college. She looked as if she might wrestle alligators during the baby-sitter off-season.

  He began showing her through the house, and the first thing she said was, “I don’t like Elvis Presley.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No. That surprises you, doesn’t it?”

  “It certainly does surprise me,” Zach said.

  “All teenagers are supposed to like Elvis Presley. Well, I don’t. I don’t believe in conformity. Teenagers are the biggest conformists around.”