Even the Wicked

by Ed McBain

  “I suppose so,” Zach said. “This is Penny’s bedroom. If it starts to rain, or it gets too breezy, close the window, will you?”

  “Sure. My full name is Thelonious Ford, did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Sure. My parents named me after Thelonious Sphere Monk. He’s a jazz musician.”

  “I see.”

  “My brother’s name is Krupa Ford. You know Gene Krupa, of course?”

  “Of course.”

  “My parents dig jazz,” Thelo said. “That’s how come we got the names.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Zach said. He had looked up Enid Murphy’s phone number before dinner. She was one of the summer residents who, by making a small payment to the telephone company, had had her name listed in the local directory. He gave Thelo the number now and said, “If there’s any trouble at all, call me at this number.”

  “Don’t worry,” Thelo said. “I’m an experienced sitter.”

  “I know. But if anything should give you trouble—”

  “What could give me trouble?”

  “I don’t know. But I’ll be at this number, just in case.”

  “Sure. Come on, Penny,” Thelo said, “I’ll read you a story.”

  Zach kissed Penny and said, “Nine-thirty, all right, honey?”

  “Okay,” she said. “Have a good time,” and she scrambled onto Thelo’s ample lap.

  The party was in full swing when he got there. He pulled up near the Coast Guard station, and then walked slowly toward the house. Outside, he lighted a cigarette. He felt suddenly strange, and nervous, and curiously awkward. He had avoided all social engagements since Mary’s death a year ago. He had become a literal hermit, going nowhere except with Penny. And now he was going to a party. Alone. Without Mary. He stood just outside the white fence, half-tempted to leave. The sky was black overhead, buckshot peppered with silver stars. He could hear the ocean, and the ever-present shrieking of the gulls holding their convention out on Gull Island. He could remember what Mary had said about the early morning chatter of the gulls last year. “They’re discussing a book called Should Birds Hold Executive Positions?” He smiled grimly. The coal of his cigarette burned in the darkness. There was party laughter inside the house. Someone began playing a piano, and suddenly he wanted no part of it, wanted to get away quickly and unobserved, wanted to get back to his daughter and his memories of a woman who had filled his life. He squashed out the cigarette and took a step away from the picket fence.

  “Zach?” the voice said.

  He stopped.

  “Aren’t you coming in?”

  He turned. Enid Murphy stood just outside the screened porch. The subdued light from the house caught at her blond hair. She wore a black blouse with a scoop throat. A turquoise-colored skirt flared out over her hips. The belt at her waist was made of linked silver. There were silver earrings on her ears, each dotted with a tiny turquoise stone. She moved out of the light and the blond hair lost its reflection. The blond hair …

  And then he remembered that the hairs clenched in the fist of the dead Evelyn Cloud were blond, and he wondered abruptly if Enid Murphy had really wanted an interview that afternoon.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m coming in.”

  She took his hand, squeezed it briefly, and said, “I’m glad you could come, Zach,” and then she led him into the house.

  The crowd was an arty one. Remembering the Menemsha parties from last year, he had not expected less. A cameraman who had worked with the Japanese on Gate of Hell was discussing the superiority of their color photography. A bearded poet was complaining to a Broadway producer about the cultural decline of the American reading public as demonstrated by the sales of his latest poetry volume. The piano player was playing “The Boulevard of Broken Dreams” and the author of a best-selling novel about big business was singing in a mock French accent. Someone put a drink into Zach’s hand, and he watched the dance director for one of television’s big comedy hours throw back her skirt and point her toe at the ceiling in time to the piano music. In deference to propriety, she was wearing a black leotard under the skirt.

  Zach sipped at his drink.

  “What do you do?” the poet asked him.

  “I’m a radio announcer.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “A disc jockey?”

  “No.”

  “What then? Station breaks?”

  “No,” Zach said. “I’m a news commentator.”

  “It’s news that destroys the culture of America,” the poet said. “Why don’t you grow a beard?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Why the hell shouldn’t you? You’re a man, aren’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  “What brings you to the Vineyard?”

  “Fun,” Zach answered. “Hilarity.”

  “You sound cynical as hell. You’re probably one of the bastards destroying culture in America.”

  “It’s my hobby,” Zach said. “Excuse me. I need a refill.” He shoved his way through the crowd, walking toward the makeshift bar which had been set up in the kitchen. A man wearing sneakers, Navy grays, and an Italian sports shirt unbuttoned to his navel was mixing a stiff gin and tonic.

  “Greetings,” the man said. “I’m Freddie.”

  “I’m Zach.”

  “Crummy party, isn’t it?” Freddie said.

  “Not bad. Par for the course,” Zach said.

  Freddie looked at him with interested blue eyes. His face bore the dissipated ingrained appearance of too much money and too much whisky.

  “Zach what?” Freddie said.

  “Blake.”

  “Never heard of you.”

  “I never heard of you, either.”

  “Freddie Barton,” he said, almost viciously. “My father owns half the movie theaters in New York State.”

  “Who owns the other half?” Zach asked. He poured rye over some ice, and then edged away from the table, planning on the shortest escape route.

  “My uncle,” Freddie said, and he laughed. “You here for the regatta?”

  “No.” Zach moved back to the table. “Are you?”

  “Yes,” Freddie said, and Zach’s eyes moved upward on the man’s face and stopped at the blond hair worn in a high crown off the forehead.

  “Do you sail a lot?” Zach asked.

  “I do. I’ve got a Raven. It’s a small boat, but it’ll beat any damned craft on the water. I know. I’ve got cups to prove it.”

  “Medals, too?”

  “A few. Why? Don’t you believe me?”

  “I believe you,” Zach said. “Ever race in Miami?”

  “I’ve raced everywhere.”

  “The Taxton Club?”

  “Second rate,” Freddie said. “Did you race there?”

  “No.”

  “Then what made you think of it?”

  “I just thought of it.”

  “Mmm,” Freddie said. He studied Zach again. “You’re beginning to bore me, Blake.”

  The girl with the black leotard under her skirt came into the kitchen. “Enid told me to dance with the handsome stranger,” she said. “Which one of you is the handsome stranger?”

  “It must be Freddie,” Zach said. “His father owns half the movie theaters in New York State,” and he walked out of the room. He found Enid talking to a woman doctor who’d just come back from the Russian zone of Germany. She waited for a break in the conversation before looking up.

  “Didn’t Marcia find you?” she asked.

  “She found me,” Zach said. “But somehow we lost each other again.”

  “Dr. Reutermann, I’d like you to meet Zachary Blake,” Enid said. “Zach, Inge Reutermann.”

  Zach shook hands with the woman. Her grip was firm and strong. She had the square-shaped hands of a man, and the brown eyes behind the tortoise-shell glasses were shrewdly intelligent.

  “You are the news commentator, is that so?” she said.
She spoke English precisely, biting her words with Teutonic meticulousness.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Do you comment, actually, or just report?”

  “I comment,” Zach said.

  “I could tell you things about the Russian zone.”

  “I’d love to hear them,” Zach said.

  “Not now,” Enid interrupted. “I want to dance with you, Zach.”

  “I—”

  “Please?” she said.

  “Certainly. Excuse us, Dr. Reutermann.”

  “Inge,” the doctor corrected, smiling.

  The piano player was playing “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” A busty girl in sweater and shorts was singing to it in a high soprano. Out on the screened porch, three couples were dancing.

  “That’s one of my favorite songs,” Enid said. “But how she’s murdering it!”

  “I used to like it, too,” Zach said with a grin.

  “How do you like the crew?”

  She was in his arms now, quite close to him. He could smell the faint trace of perfume in her hair. Her cheek against his was smooth and vibrant.

  “They’re people,” he said.

  “Is that the best you can say for them?”

  “That’s the best you can say for anybody,” Zach said.

  “And the hostess?”

  “The hostess is nice.” He paused. “Tell me about Freddie Barton.”

  “A spoiled brat, rich as New Jersey soil. Why?”

  “Does he sail a lot?”

  “It’s his life. He’s married to that goddamned Raven. I think he goes to be with the spinnaker.”

  “Ever see him wearing a small medallion around his neck?”

  Enid looked at him curiously. “My, you certainly make fascinating dance conversation,” she said.

  “Have you?”

  “A medallion? Around his neck? Why, I don’t know. I never noticed. Are you serious?”

  “Just wondering,” Zach said. “Is the regatta held every year at this time?”

  “In July sometimes, yes.”

  “Was Freddie Barton here for last year’s regatta?”

  “I think so.”

  “Would you know when the regatta took place last year?”

  “No, but I can find out. I’m sure the Gazette has a morgue. Do you want me to look it up for you?”

  “Yes, would you?”

  “First thing in the morning. I don’t understand, Zach.”

  “I don’t, either. Not yet, anyway.”

  She moved closer into his arms. “Have you seen the Murphy view yet?” she asked.

  “No. What is the Murphy view?”

  “Come.” She moved out of his arms, took his hand and led him outside. The garden was very still and very black. The Gay Head light blinked red and then white. The light far off at the end of the jetty reflected in the water. Out on the ocean there were more lights, the lights of boats soundlessly cruising.

  “That’s the Murphy view,” she said.

  “It’s nice.”

  And suddenly she moved against him and brought her arms up about his neck. Her mouth caught his, held it in a warm kiss. Her lips were full and longing. Her mouth was vibrantly alive, and he could smell the perfume in her hair, and then she drew away from him.

  “That’s the Murphy kiss,” she said.

  “Yes.” He reached for his handkerchief and wiped the lipstick from his mouth.

  “Was it very painful?”

  “No.”

  “Zach—”

  “Shouldn’t we go inside?” he asked.

  She stared at him for a moment and then thrust out her lower lip in a completely girlish gesture. “Sure. Sure, let’s go inside.”

  She deposited him with Dr. Reutermann, and went to get herself a drink. He watched her as she crossed the room. The bearded poet stopped her with a complaint about the whisky. Apparently it, too, was destroying the cultural potential of America.

  “Is it true, Mr. Blake?” the doctor said.

  “If it’s Inge, then it’s Zach,” he replied.

  “Zach, forgive me. Is it true?”

  “Is what true?”

  “That the government is putting a Nike launching site on Martha’s Vineyard?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “It would be interesting, don’t you think?”

  “I … I suppose so,” he said. He stared at the woman with renewed interest.

  “Don’t look at me that way, Zach,” she said, chuckling. “I’m not a Russian spy. I was only in the Russian zone for two days to give my learned opinion on a cardiac case. I’m a heart specialist, you know.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Yes. But I must admit the notion of a Nike site here on the sand dunes has great melodramatic possibilities. Don’t you think so?”

  “Yes,” he said, and he wondered suddenly how long plans for the site had been in progress. As long ago as last summer?

  “I must tell it to that novelist fellow. What was his book?”

  “The Pirate’s Gold,” Zach said absently.

  “It is a sea story?”

  “No. It’s about big business.”

  “He is famous in this country?”

  “Yes,” Zach said.

  “He is not famous in Germany,” Dr. Reutermann said flatly. “But he will think it farfetched. I cannot conceive of a spy story set on this beautiful island, can you?”

  “I don’t know,” Zach said.

  “But then, there is violence everywhere, is there not? That Indian woman today.”

  He felt a sudden warning rocket into his brain. Casually, he lighted a cigarette. “What Indian woman?”

  “Have you not heard? Someone murdered an Indian woman at Gay Head. The police are investigating it now. It was on the radio, ja. This evening. You did not hear about it?”

  “No,” Zach said.

  He could hear a telephone ringing insistently somewhere in the house. The piano player stopped his rendition of “I’ll Walk Alone” long enough to yell “Telephone!” and then began playing “I’ll Never Smile Again,” almost as if he thought he were playing the same song.

  This is nostalgia night, Zach thought. This is old-song, and beach-view, and a-kiss-from-a-blonde night. This is hold-the-torch-high night. This is memory-of-Mary night, full blown, sitting on my heart like a black stone. This is Freddie and his regattas, and Inge Reutermann and her Nike launching sites, and this is a night to wonder why my wife was killed, and a night to jump in fear whenever a dead Indian woman is mentioned. This is a night of confusion and memory, and I’m lost, good God, I’m lost in the wilderness!

  “Zach!”

  He looked up sharply. Enid was calling him. “Yes?”

  “It’s for you.”

  “What?”

  “The phone.”

  “Oh. Excuse me, Inge.” He threaded his way through the crowd, and Enid led him to a bedroom off the corridor. The phone was resting on a night table near the bed.

  “The sitter?” he asked, picking up the receiver.

  “Not unless the sitter is a man,” Enid said. She stood in the doorway watching him. He sat on the edge of the bed and brought the receiver to his mouth.

  “Hello?” he said.

  “Blake?” The voice was muffled and unclear. It sounded as if it were coming from a long way off.

  “Yes?”

  “Get out of that house and get off the Vineyard,” the voice said.

  “Wh—?”

  “Get out! Unless you want what Evelyn Cloud got. Do you hear me, Blake? Get out!”

  “Who is—?”

  The line went dead. He sat staring at the receiver for a moment, and then suddenly he thought of Penny alone with a baby-sitter in a house on the edge of the ocean. He slammed the receiver into its cradle and leaped to his feet.

  “What is it?” Enid asked.

  “I’ve got to get home,” he said. “Thanks for the party.”

  “And the kiss?”


  “That, too. Thanks for everything.”

  “Will I see you again, Zach?”

  “Yes. I don’t know. Look, I’ve got to get home.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “How’ll you get back?”

  “Someone’ll pick me up. Or I’ll walk. I don’t care.”

  “What do you want, Enid?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure yet,” she said. “Right now, I want to go with you.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said. “Come on.”

  In the living room, the piano player was playing “Talk of the Town.”

  8

  The house lights were out.

  He felt his heart lurch when he saw the total darkness of the house, and he began cursing himself for leaving Penny alone with a sixteen-year old jazz fiend. He thumbed open the glove compartment, seized a flashlight, and ran out of the car to the kitchen door.

  “Penny!” he shouted.

  He slammed into the house and turned on the kitchen light, and then he went into the living room.

  Thelonious Ford was unconscious on the floor.

  He did not stop beside her. He ran instantly to Penny’s bedroom and snapped on the light. The bed covers were thrown back. The bed was empty.

  “Penny,” he called, and then he heard footsteps behind him, and he whirled, bringing up the flashlight, ready to use it as a club.

  “My God!” Enid said. “What—”

  He pushed past her and went into the other bedroom. He ran upstairs, checking each room, checking the bathroom, even checking the closets. The house was empty. And then, the phone downstairs began ringing, the two signals that indicated his number on the party line. He went down the steps at a gallop and then into the pantry. He pulled the phone off its cradle.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “She’s gone, Blake,” the voice said.

  “Who is this? What have you—?”

  “Shut up!”

  Zach closed his mouth. He was squeezing the receiver tightly, as if trying to drain it of information.

  “Shut up and listen,” the voice said. “Your daughter’s all right. She’ll continue to be all right until tomorrow afternoon. There’s a ferry leaving Vineyard Haven at 1:45 P.M., Blake. Have you got that? 1:45 P.M.”

  “I’ve got it.”

  “Good. You’d better be on that ferry. When you get off at Woods Hole, drive straight to Providence. You should be there by five o’clock, even if the traffic is heavy.”