Even the Wicked

by Ed McBain

  Again she laughed. “I admire a cold-hearted businessman,” she said. “Where do you want me to send it?”

  “Resignac Broadcasting in New York,” he told her.

  He went to the car and started it. Anne Dubrow walked onto the front porch, looked briefly at the paint cans, and then went into the house.

  “Night key,” he murmured, and drove off.

  13

  He packed in the silence of the master bedroom. He had packed in this same room, in a deeper silence, the year before. The year before, each piece of Mary’s clothing in the dresser drawer had been a physical reminder of her. Torturously, he had packed the bags and then had driven to the ferry.

  This year, he packed Penny’s clothes, the sun suits and the dresses and the bathing suits and sneakers and dungarees. And with each garment, he thought of his daughter, and he longed for 1:45 P.M., willed it to come quickly, desperately wished the time would pass swiftly. He broke the time into segments so that, compartmentalized, it seemed shorter. It would take him a half-hour to drive to Edgartown. If Lieutenant Whitson was still there, he would give him the forty-five-thousand dollars he’d found at the Cloud house. If not, he would leave it with the Edgartown police. Or was it wise to go anywhere near the police? In any case, he would have to leave Menemsha at about a quarter to one if he wanted to catch that boat. What time was it now?

  He glanced at his watch. 9:45. Three hours before it was time to start. Four hours before he boarded the boat. And then the long ride to Providence. Was Penny all right? Or had they already …? Could they do something like that, could they ruthlessly …?

  He refused to think about it. Penny was all right. She would be waiting in Providence at a restaurant called …

  For a moment, his mind went blank.

  What was the name of the restaurant?

  God, what …?

  The blue …

  The Blue …

  Think! his mind shrieked. For God’s sake, think! What had he said? What was the name of …

  The Blue Viking!

  He sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. He lighted a cigarette, watching his trembling hands, telling himself he had to keep his grip until this was all over, until Penny was safe in his arms again. He smoked, relaxing as he did. Again he looked at his watch.

  It was 9:50.

  Had only five minutes passed?

  How could he possibly live until five o’clock this afternoon, knowing that Penny was in the hands of strangers, knowing that her life depended …

  Don’t!

  Don’t even think it. Just relax. It’ll be all right. She’ll be there. She’ll be waiting for you at the restaurant. She’ll see you, and she’ll come running to you, and she’ll smile, and her smile will be the radiant smile of Mary, and you’ll hold her close and comfort her, comfort her.

  “The Blue Viking,” he repeated aloud, afraid he would forget it again, wanting to commit it irrevocably to memory.

  He took the remainder of her clothing from the drawer, and then closed the suitcase. The lock would not snap. He tried it again. The suitcase was packed full, and one clasp wold certainly not hold it shut. He left the bedroom and went into the corridor inside the front entrance, opening the closet door there, looking for a toolbox. All he needed was a screwdriver to force the spring back into place. There was no toolbox in the closet. He checked each closet in the house, and then tried to fix the spring with a kitchen knife. Cursing, he realized he needed not only a screwdriver but a pair of pliers. Didn’t Mr. Fielding keep any tools whatever in his damned house? Where would he keep tools? In the basement, where else? Zach went out of the house and threw open the cellar doors, starting down the steps.

  A huge spider web had been woven across one corner of the stone overhang that formed the cellar ceiling. He ducked beneath it, saw a hanging light just beyond the web, and turned it on. The right-hand side of the cellar was stacked from floor to ceiling with shakes and cut logs, fuel for the fireplace in the living room. The hotwater furnace was over on the left of the basement, and beyond that was a row of floor-to-ceiling shelves. Zach walked over to them.

  Mrs. Fielding, whoever she was, was both an industrious and a farsighted woman. The shelves were covered with preserves she had undoubtedly made herself and put into Mason jars. In addition, there were rows and rows of canned goods, boxes of candles, tinned biscuits, and at least a dozen jars of what looked like floor or sugar. Curiously, Zach unscrewed the lid of one of the big jars, dipped his finger into it, and tasted it. It was sweet. Sugar then. Mrs. Fielding was apparently expecting a new war with its ensuing sugar rationing. A new war with its …

  And again Zach thought of the Nike site.

  He screwed the cup back onto the jar, placed it with the other big jars of sugar, and searched the remaining shelves for a toolbox. He did not find it on the shelves, but he did find it resting on a suitcase in one corner of the basement. He opened it, took out a screwdriver and a pair of pliers, turned out the light, avoided the spider web, and left the cellar of the sugar-hoarding Mrs. Fielding.

  He was reclosing the cellar doors when the car pulled up in front of the house.

  “Zach!”

  He recognized Enid Murphy’s voice at once. He let the second door slam shut and then turned to greet her, surprised to discover he was smiling. The smile dropped from his face when he saw she had company. The man walking from the car with her was Freddie Barton, the regatta champ.

  “Putting up some preserves?” Freddie asked.

  “Just a few to get me through the winter,” Zach answered. Enid ran to him and took his hand.

  “I was worried sick,” she said. “Have you heard anything further?”

  “No.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Leave,” he answered.

  Freddie Barton walked over to where they were standing. “Nice house,” he said. “Good view of the water.”

  “Yes,” Zach said. “Why don’t you go out on the porch? The view’s better from there.”

  Freddie’s eyebrows went up speculatively. “You two want to be alone?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Enid answered.

  “Sure,” Freddie said, apparently amused. “Just call me Cupid.” He walked around the side of the house, and they could hear his shoes clattering on the steps as he climbed to the porch.

  “Where were you?” Enid said. “I kept calling and calling—”

  “I was in jail. Look, did you check on—”

  “In jail?”

  “Yes. Did you check on that regatta date?”

  “This morning,” Enid said. “It was held on July 13th last year.”

  Zach nodded.

  “Is it important, Zach?”

  “I guess not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mary drowned on the 25th.”

  “What possible connection could there be, anyway?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They stood silently looking at each other.

  Enid broke the silence. “You said you’re leaving. Without Penny?”

  “I’m to pick her up in Providence.”

  “Will you come back?”

  “Why?” he said.

  She took his hand in her own. Very softly, very gently, she said, “Because I want you to, Zach.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll think I’m silly.”

  “No, I—”

  “You’ll think I’m reckless and—”

  “No—”

  “… shameless and … and … a Merry Widow.”

  “What, Enid?”

  “It would mean a great deal to me, Zach. If you come back.”

  He looked at her and there was expectation on her face, and anticipation, and the anticipation was somehow pained, as if she expected to be injured.

  “You … you hardly know me,” he said.

  “I know you, Zach Blake,” she answered.

  “I’m … I’m not a very nice guy. I go around lo
ng-faced, and I—”

  “You’re a nice guy,” she said. “You’re a very nice guy,” and she kissed him. He clung to her this time. He clung to her because she was a woman, soft and sweet-smelling, and he clung to her because there was another need inside him, a need to love and be loved, a need to call something his own, perhaps to call this woman his own. She broke from him, but her fingers held to his arms.

  “You’ll come back,” she said.

  “I’ll see.”

  “You’ll come back,” she repeated.

  They heard Freddie’s footsteps coming around the side of the house. She pulled back her hands, but her eyes lingered on his face.

  “A view’s a view,” Freddie said. “How long can I keep looking at it?”

  “When are you leaving, Zach?” Enid asked.

  “I’ve got to catch the 1:45 ferry.”

  “You going to Vineyard Haven?” Freddie said.

  “Yes.”

  “Mind if I go along with you?”

  “I won’t be leaving until later.”

  “That’s all right. I’m in no hurry.”

  He studied Freddie. The voice on the telephone had said a man would be watching in Vineyard Haven, to make sure he boarded the ferry. Was Freddie Barton that man?

  “I don’t want to seem rude,” Zach said, “but I’d rather go alone.”

  “Sure,” Freddie said. He smiled indulgently. “I’ll find my way there. Maybe I’ll run into you.”

  “Maybe you will.”

  “Sure,” Freddie said. “Maybe I will.” He turned to Enid. “Want to drop me off at the tennis courts, sugar? I’m a half-hour late already.”

  “Will you call me from Providence, Zach?” Enid asked.

  “All right.”

  She took his hand and squeezed it. “Be careful.”

  “I will,” he promised.

  At 10:30 he went down to the docks again.

  Looking out over the waters, he wondered how it had been for Mary last year. How do you drown? How does an expert swimmer drown? Is it quick, is it painless? Or do you struggle against a strong pair of hands holding you under?

  Your wife Mary did not drown accident.

  “The currents are very tricky in the Bight, Mr. Blake. You wife shouldn’t have gone out so far.”

  Mary dead, his mind echoed dully. Mary dead.

  “Perhaps she suffered a cramp, Mr. Blake. Perhaps that’s what happened.”

  And his mind had repeated, Mary dead, Mary dead, Mary dead.

  Now, as he looked out over the waters, there was no feeling of menace. As still as a lake, the water reflected a flawless blue sky. A boat with red sails lay becalmed far out near the Elizabeth Islands. It was a beautiful day, and more beautiful down at the docks where the real life of an island throbs in muted regularity. He could understand why people came here—even the wicked. He could understand.

  He would not have recognized Cloud’s boat had he not seen the name Evelyn painted on the prow. It was a trim fishing craft, painted a light blue, with the dead woman’s name lettered onto it in black paint. He walked to the boat. A muscular man wearing only a tee shirt was working on the engine. A cigar jutted from one corner of his mouth. The man chewed relentlessly on the cigar, oblivious to the fact that it was dead.

  “Al right to come aboard?” Zach said.

  The man looked up. There was a faint beard stubble on his face. A curious-looking scar curled on his right cheek. He took the cigar out of his mouth, studied Zach for a moment, and then said, “Who’s asking?”

  “Zach Blake.”

  “You own this boat?”

  “No.”

  “What’s your business on her?”

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  “I’d rather talk aboard.”

  “Come ahead then.”

  Zach leaped from the dock to the boat. He looked for a place to sit, pulled up a fender and straddled it while the man went back to the engine. The man’s hands were powerful, but he poked at the engine with the delicacy of a surgeon.

  “You’re aboard,” he said without looking up, “so start talking.”

  “Do you know John Cloud?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then what are you doing on his boat?”

  “I was hired.”

  “What for?”

  “To take her out.”

  “For what?”

  “Fish, I guess. Why else would you take out a fishing boat?”

  “Who hired you?”

  “Fellow in Oak Bluffs. I’m a fisherman. My boat was smashed in the last hurricane. A fisherman without a boat is dead. I hire myself out sometimes. I’m building a new boat now, but it takes time.”

  “What was the name of the man who hired you?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I’m curious.”

  “You sound too curious. I got this scar being curious. Fellow on my boat once made a strike. I couldn’t wait to see the damn fish. I leaned over the side while he was pulling her in. The fish got off the hook, and the hook snapped up and caught my cheek. It don’t pay to be too curious, mister.”

  “Maybe not. Who hired you?”

  “I don’t suppose I’ll tell you that until I know why you want to know,” the man said.

  “Do you want money? Is that it?”

  “I make my money fishing.” The man paused. “There’s a name for people who sell information. I don’t like the name.”

  “There’s a name for people who withhold it, too,” Zach said.

  “Suppose you just tell me why you’re interested.”

  The man looked up, chewing his cigar. Zach met his eyes.

  “My wife drowned here last year,” he said. “I don’t believe it was an accident. Is that a good enough reason?”

  “That’s a pretty good reason,” the man said. He extended his hand. “They call me Ahab because of the scar. My real name’s Abraham.”

  Zach took his hand. “Which do you prefer?”

  “Either one. I’ll answer to either or both. I remember the drowning. Martha. Wasn’t that her name?”

  “Mary,” Zach said.

  “Mary, yep. You still want to know who hired me?”

  “Yes.”

  “A fellow named Carpenter.”

  “In Oak Bluffs, you said?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’d he hire you? Does he have an office or something?”

  “Nope. Said he had a boat and needed somebody to take him out in it tomorrow. Said he’d asked around and heard I was a good sailor.” Ahab paused. “I am.”

  “Where was this?”

  “A bar. Right opposite the carrousel. You familiar with Oak Bluffs?”

  “No.”

  “Well, there’s an Italian restaurant on the corner, just as you come into town. Sort of a circle there. The carrousel’s across the street from that in this wooden building. And the bar’s right alongside the restaurant. That’s where he found me.” Ahab paused again. “I drink a lot.”

  “What’s the man’s first name?” Zach asked.

  “Carpenter. That’s all I know.”

  “What time are you going out tomorrow morning?”

  “Early.”

  “How far out?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Fishing?”

  “I suppose so. Why else would you take out a fishing boat? This ain’t exactly a pleasure cruiser.”

  “How much is he paying you?”

  “That’s personal, ain’t it?” Ahab said.

  “I suppose so. It’s not important. Forget it. And thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” Ahab said. He took Zach’s hand again. “I’ve got a wife too, Mr. Blake. Good luck.”

  “Thanks,” Zach said. He leaped to the dock, and as he began walking, Ahab called after him, “He’s paying me thirty dollars a day.”

  14

  If every community must have a Coney Island, then Oak Bluffs was the Con
ey Island of Martha’s Vineyard.

  Zach entered the town at about 11:00 in the morning, passing the boats moored in the water on the left. The first sign that he was entering a carnival town was the multitude of paddle boats on the water. The boats were strictly for the amusement-park trade, and no respectable seaman would have come within ten feet of them.

  As he proceeded into the town looking for a parking space, he was amazed by the number of bars on each street. He knew that Oak Bluffs and Edgartown were the only two “wet” communities on the island, but he felt nonetheless that Oak Bluffs was trying a little too desperately to outdo its dry neighbors.

  He parked three blocks away from the carrousel and began walking back down the main street. The street was crowded, and he might have missed the boy behind him had he not been wearing a bright orange shirt. But the lurid shirt caught his eye, and as he walked past the hot-dog stands and the ice-cream stands and the cotton-candy stands, he became increasingly certain that the boy in the orange shirt was following him. In spite of what had happened since he’d come to the Vineyard, the idea of being followed in this gingerbread-house town was somehow ludicrous. He walked rapidly past the Indian restaurant on the corner, turned right, and found the bar in which a man named Carpenter had hired Ahab. He hesitated outside for just a moment, and then entered. The boy in the orange shirt came in a moment later.

  A fishing net had been draped over the mirror behind the bar. The room was long and narrow. Two men, both wearing fishing boots, were playing shuffleboard. The bar top was chipped and scarred. Judging from the number of initials-in-hearts carved into the wood, Oak Bluffs was a very loving town. Zach pulled up a leatherette stool and sat. The boy in the orange shirt walked to the far end of the bar, sat, and ordered a beer. The bartender drew it, and then walked to Zach.

  “Call it,” he said.

  “Rye neat,” Zach answered. “And a man named Carpenter.”

  “I’ve got the rye,” the bartender said. He hooked a shot glass with his forefinger, took a bottle from the shelf below the net, and poured. “Want a chaser?”

  “Water. What about Carpenter?”

  “Never heard of him. Are you a cop?”

  “Do I look like one?”

  “The bulls from Axel Center look like Harvard men.” The bartender shrugged. “A guy comes in asking questions, he’s either a bull or a hood. I don’t cater to neither.”