Even the Wicked

by Ed McBain

  “Yes, but my daughter—”

  “I said shut up!”

  He was trembling, but he closed his mouth and waited. The man on the other end was silent for a moment.

  “You ready to listen, Blake?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s a restaurant in Providence called The Blue Viking. Your daughter will be waiting there for you at five o’clock. When you pick her up, go straight back to New York. Forget Martha’s Vineyard, and don’t ever come back. Have you got that, Blake?”

  “The Blue Viking at five o’clock. Penny will be there.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “How do I know she’s all right now? Let me talk to her.”

  “Forget it, Blake. Just take me word for it. She’s all right. Get on that 1:45 ferry tomorrow and drive like hell. And don’t come back. Someone’ll be watching at Vineyard Haven to make sure you board the boat. If he doesn’t see you, your daughter—”

  “I’ll be on the boat,” Zach said.

  “Good. One last thing. Don’t tell the police. Either now or later. If we hear even a hint that there’s been a kidnaping—”

  “I won’t tell the police,” he said quickly.

  “Have you got it all?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Have a nice trip home,” the man said, and he hung up.

  Zach signaled for the operator immediately.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Operator, can you trace that call I was just speaking … that party I was just speaking to? Can you trace the call?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. We are unable to do that.”

  “This is important!”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but we’re unable to—”

  “Oh, never mind!” He slammed down the phone. Enid was waiting in the pantry doorway.

  “What is it?” he said.

  “Someone’s kidnaped my daughter.”

  “What? For God’s sake, Zach, call the police!”

  “I can’t. No.” He thought for a moment. “They must be somewhere near. That phone call came right after we turned on the house lights. Thy must be able to see the house from wherever they are. One of the houses on the hill, maybe.”

  “Or a boat,” Enid said.

  “How could they have phoned from a boat?”

  “They wouldn’t have to. They could have signaled ashore as soon as they saw the lights go on. Someone anywhere along the coast could have made the call.”

  He stared at her suspiciously. “You seem to know a hell of a lot about it,” he said.

  “I’m only—”

  “Are you in this, Enid?”

  “In what? Do you mean—?”

  “Everything.”

  “I’m not in anything,” she said flatly.

  “I hope you’re not, Enid. But it was you who invited me to a party, you who suggested I leave Penny with a baby-sitter. If you’re—”

  “What do you take me for, Zach?”

  “If you’re mixed up in this—”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  He stared at her and then sighed heavily. “Forgive me, I’m—” He shook his head. “Let’s take a look at the sitter.”

  Thelo Ford was gaining consciousness when they went back into the living room. She sat up, saw Zach, and was ready to scream until he laid a comforting hand on her arm.

  “What happened, Thelo?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Someone knocked at the door, and I asked who it was. I wouldn’t open the door until I knew who it was. ‘It’s me. Mr. Blake,’ he said. So I opened it. And then somebody hit me, and that’s all I remember. Was it a burglar? Is Penny all right?”

  “Penny’s fine,” he lied, and Enid looked at him curiously. “Come on, I’d better take you home.”

  He dropped Thelo off first, and then he took Enid back to the party.

  “I’m sorry,” he said to her. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

  “What are you going to do, Zach?”

  “Follow their instructions.”

  “Won’t you call the police?”

  “I can’t. They’d—” He shook his head. “I can’t.”

  “What are their instructions?”

  “They want me off the island by 1:45 tomorrow. They’ll be watching. I’ll have to … Enid, I don’t feel like talking. I’m sorry, but I can’t seem to think straight. I want to get home. God, if they touch her—”

  “She’ll be all right. Don’t worry.” She squeezed his hand. “She’ll be all right.” She got out of the car and closed the door gently. “If you need help, Zach, anything, anything at all, call me. Just call,” she said, and she started for the house. He sat watching her for a moment, and then turned his eyes from the house. He could see out over the water, could see the cruising lights of countless surface craft. Had one of those boats signaled ashore to someone waiting to make a call? Was Penny out on the water now, in one of those boats? He folded his arms on the steering wheel and then put his head down. He was suddenly very confused and very tired. He wanted his wife back, and he wanted his daughter back, and a wave of self-recrimination washed over him when he thought of Penny in the hands of strangers. If he had left well enough alone, if he had stayed in New York and thrown away Evelyn Cloud’s letter, if he had only allowed dead ashes to settle, Penny would be safe now.

  He started the car. Wearily, he drove through Menemsha.

  The Massachusetts State Police were waiting for him back at the Fielding house.

  He got out of the Plymouth, and a voice reached for him in the darkness.

  “Mr. Blake?” A flashlight came up onto his face.

  “Yes,” he said, shielding his eyes.

  “Just stay right where you are. We’ll come to you.”

  He waited. The flashlight stayed on his face. He could hear the troopers’ boots crunching in the packed sand. They stopped alongside him, the light still in his eyes.

  “Can’t you lower that flash?” he said.

  “Sure.” The light came down, spilling a cold glow onto the sand at their feet. “Mr. Blake, you’ll have to come along with us.”

  “What for?” Zach asked.

  “The lieutenant wants to talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  “About a dead woman.”

  His eyes were getting accustomed to the darkness. He studied the trooper’s solemn face and then said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “A woman named Evelyn Cloud,” the trooper said.

  “I never heard of her.”

  “No? Mr. Blake, there’s an old Indian at Gay Head. He sells souvenirs. He said a man and a little girl were asking about Evelyn Cloud this afternoon. He told them how to find her. He also sold the man a tomahawk, Mr. Blake.” The trooper paused. “Evelyn Cloud was killed with a tomahawk, Mr. Blake. Want to come along with us now?”

  “I bought that tomahawk for my daughter,” Zach said.

  “Where’s your daughter now, Mr. Blake?”

  “She’s been …” He stopped, suddenly remembering the warning voice on the telephone. Don’t tell the police. “She’s … she’s been sent home,” he said. “I sent her home. To her grandmother.”

  “And I suppose she took that tomahawk with her, huh?”

  “No, she lost it on the beach this aft …” He let the sentence trail. It sounded ridiculous, it sounded absurd, it sounded like the flimsiest snap fabrication.

  “That’s very interesting, Mr. Blake,” the trooper said drily. “You can explain it all to the lieutenant. Come on now.”

  He shrugged wearily, and followed them to their car.

  9

  It was one o’clock in the morning.

  The state troopers had come all the way from Oak Bluffs, but they delivered Zach to the police in Edgartown. The Edgartown police were very polite and very friendly. The lieutenant from Axel Center across the Sound was very friendly and polite, too. But none of them could disguise the fact that they suspected Zach was implica
ted in a murder.

  The lieutenant from Axel Center had come over on the ferry that afternoon after a call from the sheriff of Dukes County. He was a big man in his early forties with bright red hair and deep brown eyes. His voice was deep and patient, his manner cool but forceful. He wore a seersucker suit and a simply printed cotton tie. His shirt was an oddity which told Zach it was hand tailored; it had a button-down collar and French cuffs. The cuff links were two silver miniatures of a .38 automatic, one at each wrist. The real article hung in a barely concealed shoulder holster under the seersucker jacket.

  “I’m Lieutenant Whitson,” he told Zach. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Blake?”

  Zach sat.

  “It looks as if you may be in a little bit of trouble, Mr. Blake,” Whitson said.

  “It doesn’t look that way to me,” Zach answered.

  Whitson smiled indulgently. “I can understand your annoyance, Mr. Blake,” he said, “but there’s nothing personal in this. If we can lift it off the personal plane, things’ll be a lot easier for all of us. I’m sure you understand.”

  “I didn’t kill that woman,” Zach said.

  “Well,” Whitson said noncommittally. He paused, lighted a cigar, and then said, “Perhaps you don’t mind answering a few questions?”

  “I don’t mind at all,” Zach said.

  “Very well. Were you at Gay Head with a blond girl of about nine or ten years old this afternoon?”

  “I was.”

  “Did you buy a tomahawk from an Indian there?”

  “I did.”

  “Where is that tomahawk now?”

  “My daughter lost it at the beach. I’m sure we can find it when the sun comes up—if you’re willing to take the trouble.”

  “We’re willing to do anything that will establish your innocence, Mr. Blake.”

  “Sure,” Zach said dispiritedly.

  “Did you ask this Indian about Evelyn Cloud?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted to see her.”

  “Why?”

  “On a personal matter.”

  “The nature of which was what?”

  “A personal matter,” Zach insisted.

  “Mr. Blake, you are not in the Army, and police investigation doesn’t recognize the sanctity of a personal matter. Now perhaps you do not realize the seriousness—”

  “I realize it,” Zach said. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to call my lawyer.”

  “You can do that later,” Whitson said. “Why’d you want to see this Cloud woman?”

  “On a personal matter.”

  Whitson sighed heavily and blew out a cloud of smoke. “Mr. Blake,” he said genially, “are you trying to make things tougher for yourself?”

  “No, but—”

  “What the hell are you trying to hide?” Whitson said. “Do you realize a murder’s been committed?” There was something like shocked incredulity in his voice. “What the hell are you? A simpleton? This is murder, Mr. Blake. Murder! Now what do you have to say for yourself?”

  “I didn’t kill her.”

  “Did you go to her house this afternoon?”

  Zach hesitated.

  “Did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “She was dead when I got there.”

  “I see.” Whitson thought this over for a moment. “Why didn’t you report her death to the police?”

  “I didn’t want to get involved.”

  “Well, you’re involved now, mister,” Whitson said, his voice turning suddenly brusque. “And you’d better start talking fast if you want to get uninvolved again.”

  “I want to call my lawyer,” Zach said.

  “There’s no need to call your goddamn lawyer yet!” Whitson said angrily. “Wait until we book you, for God’s sake! Play ball with us, Blake.”

  “I didn’t kill her.”

  “Why’d you go there?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “It may make a lot of difference. Right now, it looks as if you went there to kill her. Now did you or didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t. I already told you she was dead when I—”

  “That why did you go there?” Whitson shouted.

  Zach was silent for a moment. He could not tell Whitson about the letter without elaborating on it further. And if the letter was responsible for Evelyn Cloud’s death, wasn’t Penny’s kidnaping a further extension of the attempt to obliterate that letter and its ominous meaning? If he told Whitson about the letter, if he told him why he’d gone to see Evelyn Cloud, he would also have to tell him that Penny had been kidnaped. And if he did that, he would be endangering his daughter’s life.

  He sighed and said, “I want to call my lawyer.”

  “Okay,” Whitson said, “have it your way. I didn’t think you were a fool, Blake, but it shows how wrong a man can be.” He shoved a phone across the desk. “Will this be a long-distance call?”

  “Yes.”

  “Make it fast. This isn’t the richest town in the world.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll give you five minutes,” he said, and he went out of the room.

  Zach picked up the phone and got the long-distance operator. He placed a person-to-person call to Sam Dietrich in New York, and then waited while the phone rang. His wrist watch read 1:35 A.M.

  “Hullo?”

  “Sam?”

  “Mrmm?”

  “Sam, are you awake?”

  “Huh? Whossis?”

  “This is Zach Blake.”

  “Oh, hi, Zach, whut …” There was a long pause. “It’s 1:30 in the morning. What—?”

  “I’m up at Martha’s Vineyard, Sam. Are you awake?”

  “I am, I am. What’s the matter?”

  “I’m in trouble with the police.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I’m being held on suspicion of murder.”

  “What! What did you say?”

  “Suspicion of—”

  “How the hell did you manage that?”

  “Can you get up here, Sam?”

  “Yeah, sure, sure. Where are you?”

  “Edgartown.”

  “Jail?”

  “Not yet. But I imagine I will be.”

  “The Edgartown jail. How do I get up there?”

  “Northeast runs a flight up here. You can probably get a cab at the airport.”

  “Do they fly at night?”

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to check.”

  “I’ll check. If I’m not there tonight, it’ll be first thing in the morning. You haven’t admitted anything, have you?”

  “No.”

  “You haven’t made any statements?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t. What’s the number there?” Zach gave it to him. “Okay, I’ll check with the airlines, and I’ll probably get back to you. Don’t say another word until I get there.” Sam paused. “Did you do it, Zach?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you,” and he hung up.

  Zach put the phone back onto the cradle. Whitson came into the room. “Finished?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll like the Edgartown jail,” Whitson told him. “It’s old, but very clean.”

  Zach didn’t say anything. A uniformed Edgartown cop took his arm. In an attempt at humor, the cop asked, “Will you be staying for the regatta?”

  From the street, you would never guess that the wooden building housed a jail. Only when you looked at the building from the side could you tell that the back half of it was made of brick. The front looked like a large private house complete with picket fence. A sign to the left of the doorway advised any approaching visitor that the sheriff of Dukes County kept offices in the building. Even the inside of the structure looked like the inside of someone’s home.

  Except for the cells.

  The ce
lls were at the back of the house in the brick half of the building. There were six cells downstairs and six cells upstairs. Each cell block contained three cells on opposite sides of the house. A heavy metal door closed off each cell block from the rest of the house. There was a small panel in each door, set at about eye level, with a metal flap which closed shut over it.

  The Edgartown cop allowed Zach to walk between him and the jail keeper. They opened the metal door of the cell block on the left-hand side of the house, and then took him to a cell at the end of the hall. The brick inside the cell block was painted a peach yellow. The cells were large, at least ten by ten. There was a narrow cot in each of the three cells, and a metal cabinet recessed into the cell wall carried a metal bucket for sanitary purposes.

  “If you have to go to the john,” the keeper explained, “just yell. There’s a real toilet at the end of the cell block.” He opened the cell. “I’d offer you some magazines, but lights-out was hours ago.”

  “Thanks,” Zach said.

  “My advice is for you to get some sleep.”

  “That’s good advice,” Zach said.

  The cell door clanged shut. The keeper and the cop left. At the far end of the cell block, the heavy metal door closed and then the lights went out again.

  10

  The call from Sam Dietrich came at eight in the morning. They led Zach from his cell and put him into a room with a desk and a phone. The receiver was already off the cradle. He picked it up and said, “Hello?”

  “Zach?”

  “Yes. Is that you, Sam?”

  “Yeah. Listen, I—”

  “Where are you?”

  “In New York.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “That’s just it. I’m not.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I can’t get a damn plane reservation. It seems they’re booked for weeks in advance. From Thursday to Monday. Apparently guys commute to that island as if they were going to Scarsdale. I told the airline it was an emergency, but the best they could do was put me on a waiting list.”

  “How about driving up, Sam?”

  “I tried that, too. You’ve got to get a reservation in order to take a car onto the ferry. And they haven’t got any space left this weekend.”

  “Well, for Pete’s sake, you can leave the car on the mainland.