by Ed McBain
“I’m neither.”
“Why do you want this Carpenter fellow?”
“I understand he’s going out on a boat tomorrow. I wanted to do some fishing. Thought I’d go along with him.”
“He’s a big fisherman,” the boy in the orange shirt said.
Zach turned to him. “You talking about Carpenter?”
“I don’t know any Carpenter. I’m talking about you.” The boy was smiling. He wore his hair in a high crown, with long black sideburns. His eyes were brown, cruel, with the incongruously long-lashed lids of a girl. His mouth was thin with the faint suggestion of a perpetual sneer hovering about the lips. He seemed no older than seventeen, but he was excellently built, the orange shirt stretched taut over bulging muscles which were undoubtedly the product of weight lifting.
“I’d advise you to mind your own business, sonny,” Zach said.
“I don’t take advice from strangers,” the boy answered.
“Shut up and mind your own business, Roger,” the bartender said.
“Did I pay for this beer?”
“That don’t—”
“Don’t go shoving at me, Bill. I don’t like getting shoved.”
“Big man,” Bill said disgustedly, dismissing the boy. “If you’re interested in hiring a boat, mister, there’s plenty around. Does it have to be this Carpenter’s?”
“No. But I thought you might know him.”
“Strangers shouldn’t go around asking questions,” Roger said from the end of the bar.
“Why don’t you take a walk?” Zach said.
Roger was silent for a moment. Then he nodded and said, “Maybe I will,” and he rose from the stool quickly, paid for the beer, and walked out of the bar.
“He’s trouble,” Bill said. “A bad apple. Got a record.”
“At his age?” Zach asked, surprised.
“He’s nineteen. Don’t get mixed up with him, or you’ll have the cops down on your ears.”
“That’s the last thing I want right now.”
“Then don’t mess with Roger. Take my advice.”
“Thanks, I will. You don’t know Carpenter, huh?”
“Never heard of him, Sorry.”
“That’s all right. What do I owe you?”
He was paying the bartender when Roger came back into the bar. There were two other teenagers with him.
“Get your boat?” he asked Zach.
“No.”
“Get your Carpenter?”
“No.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Yeah.”
Zach picked up his change and walked out of the bar. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that Roger and his friends were following him. And, abruptly, he realized he was carrying forty-five-thousand dollars in his pocket.
He crossed the street, following the music of the calliope to a high wooden building. He walked into the building. The carrousel occupied half of the wooden structure, whirling monotonously. An extended wooden army reached toward the carrousel, bearing rings one of which was presumably gold. The riders were mostly teenage girls reaching for the gold ring each time they whipped past the extended arm. The girls were adept at the game. Each time a girl’s turn at the arm came up, her hand would move in a rapid succession of winking snaps, yanking half a dozen rings from the mechanism before the carrousel whirled her past the arm. Monotonously, the carrousel rotated. Monotonously, the girls performed their sleight of hand with the rings. The calliope music filled the hollow shell of the building, creating a mock carnival spirit. Zach watched for a while and then walked over to the stands opposite the carrousel.
A man whipped cotton candy from the rapidly revolving metal bowl, spinning the pink fluff onto its white holders.
“I’m trying to locate a man named Carpenter,” Zach said.
The man looked up. “I don’t think I know him.”
“He’s a fisherman,” Roger’s voice said behind Zach. “This man is a fisherman, too. A big fisherman.”
“I still don’t know him,” the cotton-candy man said. He turned his eyes away from Roger, as if recognizing him for what he was and not wanting to have anything to do with him.
“Thanks,” Zach said. He turned. The three boys were blocking his path. “You’re in my way,” he said.
“Are we?” Roger answered.
“Come on,” Zach said patiently.
“Where we going?”
“Get out of my way.”
“Why, you can just walk around us,” Roger said.
Zach felt his fists balling at his sides. He forced himself to relax, and then walked around the boys. Roger snickered behind him. He started for the door and heard the clatter of their boots on the wooden floor behind him.
He walked back toward the car, stopping in each bar he passed and asking for Carpenter. No one seemed to know the man. And each time he came into the street again, Roger and his friends were waiting.
He did not want trouble with teenage punks. It was almost 11:30. In a little more than two hours, he had to board the ferry. A street brawl with young hoodlums was not the thing to encourage—not with Penny waiting in Providence, not with her life depending on whether or not he boarded that ferry. Doggedly, he walked back to the car. He was turning the ignition key when Roger and his friends caught up with him.
Roger climbed onto the hood, straddling it. His two friends sat on the right fender. Zach rolled down his window.
“How about it, fellows?” he said.
“We want a ride,” Roger answered.
“Get off the hood,” Zach said.
“Take us for a ride, fisherman.”
“I can’t see with you on the hood.”
“That’s a real shame,” Roger said.
Zach sighed, opened the door on his side, and started for Roger. He was no sooner out of the car than the boys on the right fender leaped off, opened the door opposite the driver’s seat, and scrambled into the back of the car.
“Hey!” Zach said. “What the hell—?” He went back to the car. Leaning in past the wheel, he said, “Look, I don’t feel like—”
He looked across the front seat. Roger was standing in the opposite doorway. A Smith and Wesson .38 caliber revolver was in his fist.
“Get in, fisherman,” he said.
Zach stared at the gun.
“Get in, I said.”
He got into the car.
“Close the door.”
He closed it.
“Now give me the loot,” Roger said.
“What are you talking about?”
“The forty-five grand.”
“What forty-five grand?”
“You want us to take it from you, fisherman?”
“I haven’t got it, so how can you take it?”
“Start the car,” Roger said. “Drive straight through town, and then make a left. We’ll find a place and then convince you.”
Zach started the Plymouth, and then edged into the stream of traffic. On the sidewalks, the crowds bought souvenirs and hot dogs and cotton candy. Slowly, the car moved down the main street.
“There’s a traffic cop at the intersection,” Roger said. “No funny stuff. I know how to use this gun.”
“Suppose I stop the car and yell?”
“I wouldn’t try it.”
“Why not? What have I got to lose?”
“Your life,” Roger said.
“And yours, too,” Zach said. “I’m gambling you’re not that stupid.”
“What do you—?”
Zach stopped the car and then pulled up the hand brake. The man behind him began tooting his horn almost instantly.
“Get moving!” Roger said. “Goddamnit, I’m warning you! Get this heap moving.”
“Go ahead, shoot me,” Zach said. “That cop’ll be here in two seconds. Go ahead, dope. Shoot.”
Roger hesitated. His face was covered with a fine film of sweat. From the back seat, one of the boys whispered, “Rog! The cop. He’s coming over …
”
“Get this car moving, you bastard!” Roger shouted. The hand with the gun was beginning to tremble. The traffic cop was waving his hands as he approached the Plymouth. He was a big, red-faced man, sweat staining the blue shirt he wore. Containing his anger, his face getting redder as he came closer, he strode rapidly toward the car.
“You’d better—” Roger started.
“You’d better hide that gun,” Zach said, and Roger instantly put the .38 in his pocket.
“All right, what the hell is this all about?” the cop said.
“I was just letting these boys out, officer,” Zach answered politely.
“At the busiest corner in town? For God’s sake, what the hell do you think—?”
“They were just getting out, officer,” Zach said. “You’d better hurry, boys. We’re holding up traffic.”
“If you’re getting out, get out!” the cop said. “Come on, hurry it up.”
Roger threw a frustrated menacing look at Zach. Then he opened the door and left the car. The boys in the back seat hurried out after him.
“Okay, mister, move!” the cop said, and Zach put the car in motion instantly.
Over his shoulder, he called, “See you, Rog!” and then he made a left turn and gunned the car toward Edgartown.
15
On the drive to Edgartown, he tried to piece things together. The encounter with Roger seemed to indicate one thing clearly. He was no longer dealing with a simple thing. He was dealing with what seemed to be an organized group, a group which could afford to hire local talent to do its dirty work. And knowing this, he wondered how many of the local residents were involved in the death of Mary, the death of Evelyn Cloud, the kidnaping of Penny. Forty-five-thousand dollars was a lot of money, and murder had certainly been committed before for less. But what was a swordfisherman doing with forty-five-thousand dollars? And how had Roger learned about the money so quickly? Was Anne Dubrow involved in this? She had, after all, been the only person who’d seen him at the Cloud house that morning—and her reason for being there had seemed flimsy enough. But if she’d been there in search of money …
Wait a minute, he told himself. Start from the beginning. Do it logically. Do it simply. Add the facts.
Fact:
My wife Mary drowned last year in Menemsha Bight.
Fact:
A letter from Evelyn Cloud told me the drowning was not accidental.
Fact:
Evelyn Cloud was killed by a blond wearing a regatta medal.
Fact:
John Cloud fled with his son. But first he left forty-five-thousand dollars immersed in a can of paint.
Fact:
Freddie Barton is a sailor.
Fact:
Ahab has been hired to take out Cloud’s boat tomorrow.
Fact:
He was hired by a Mr. Carpenter, the same man who rented the Fielding house from Pete Rambley.
Fact:
Roger knew I had the forty-five-thousand dollars, and tried to get it from me by force.
Fact:
Whoever is behind all this wants me out of the Fielding house and off the island today.
Those are the facts. How do you add them? Why is the Fielding house important? Why does Carpenter, whoever he is, want the Cloud boat? What is that forty-five-thousand dollars going to buy?
The plans for the Nike site?
Is Dr. Reutermann involved in this? But damnit, just how secret is the Nike? Haven’t they already shown films of it on television? And didn’t I see … now hold it a minute … on the drive up, didn’t I see a sign in one of the Massachusetts towns? Rhode Island? Somewhere along the way, didn’t the sign read NIKE SITE, OPEN FOR INSPECTION? Didn’t it read something like that? And if the site is open to the public, isn’t it a little farfetched to assume that any of this is connected with the guided missile?
The Fielding house.
The Fielding house and water. Mary was killed by water, and Freddie Barton is a sailor, and Carpenter hired a sailor to man the Cloud boat. Why? Because Cloud has run off, obviously, and because it’s important to get that boat out on the water tomorrow. What’s out there? What the hell is out there on the water? What did Mary see or hear last year?
I’m on a carrousel, he thought. I’m reaching for the gold ring the way those teenage girls were a little while ago. I’m grabbing half a dozen rings each time I pass that wooden arm—but I can’t catch the gold one.
He drove directly to the Edgartown Yacht Club.
The town was bustling with pre-regatta activity. The people in the streets were dressed in casual sailing clothes, carrying canvas bags under their arms or dangling on white lines. The race was in the air, the excitement of a keen competition, the excitement of skilled sailors pitting small craft against the ocean. The town was thronged with strangers, each hoping to share vicariously in the thrill of the race. He wondered what it was like to be a man like Freddie Barton, a man who roamed from regatta to regatta, a man who made the sea his life, a man who flitted from oceanside to oceanside searching out races.
The yacht club was the hub of the activity. If the town seemed frenzied, the club seemed on the verge of excited hysteria. Zach sought out the man in charge of the regatta committee, and then asked to see a list of the entrants in tomorrow’s race. The man was hurried, but very obliging. He produced the formal entry list, and Zach searched the pages until he found a listing for BARTON, FREDERICK. The name of Barton’s boat was Inheritance.
“Do you know this fellow?” he asked.
The committee chairman looked at the list. “Freddie Barton? Sure. Races here every year. Races everywhere, for that matter.”
“Ever win?”
“Not last year,” he said. “Year before that, he did. He’s a good sailor. In the winter, he hits the Florida regattas. Sails everywhere. The Coast, Lake George, everywhere. He’s a real sailor. It’s in his blood. Where there’s water, you’ll find Freddie Barton.”
“Must be pretty rich. To be able to do that, I mean.”
“Not so rich,” the man said. “In fact, Freddie’s broke. His father’s loaded, but Freddie’s a black sheep. The old man won’t give him a dime.”
“Then how can he afford—”
“The Raven? He inherited it. One of his uncles left it to him. That’s why it’s called Inheritance. I think that’s pretty clever, don’t you?”
“Yeah. How does he make a living?”
“Search me.”
“Does he spend a lot when he’s in here?”
“Same as any other club member.”
“I thought you said he was broke.”
“Well … well, that’s what he always says.”
“But he buys drinks and dinners and pays his bills, huh?”
“Yes. Yes, he does.” The man shrugged. “Maybe he’s got stock or something.”
“Maybe so,” Zach said. “Thanks a lot.”
“You down for the regatta?” the man asked.
“You might say that,” Zach answered, and he left the club.”
It was a little after noon. In an hour and forty-five minutes, he would have to board the ferry. He debated whether or not he should turn over the forty-five-thousand dollars to the police. He decided against it. The money had so far succeeded in smoking out Roger and his playmates. The money was important, and you couldn’t spring a trap without bait. Besides, he was fairly certain the police were not following him, and he did not want to remind them that he existed. Satisfied with his decision, he started the car and began driving back toward the house to pick up his luggage.
A red-and-black car was parked in front of the house. He recognized it at once as Pete Rambley’s.
The real estate salesman was sitting at the kitchen table. His hand was on the table, and there was a .45 automatic in it.
“Come in, Blake,” he said.
Zach entered the kitchen. The screen door slammed shut behing him.
“What do you want, Rambley?”
> “The money,” Rambley said.
“What money?”
“The money John Cloud left in a can of red paint at his house.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’ll explain as quickly as I know how, Blake. I’m in no particular hurry, but this gun is. Cloud has taken off. After what happened to his wife. I guess he’s scared for his kid’s safety. He wants out. So he’s hiding somewhere.”
“Wants out of what?”
“That’s none of your business. All you have to know is that he sent a note before he took off. The note said he had hidden something that belonged to us in a can of red paint on his front porch. That something is forty-five-thousand dollars, Blake, and I want it.”
“What makes you think I’ve got it?”
“Anne Dubrow saw you at Cloud’s house this morning. It’s our assumption you stumbled across the money. Now hand it over.”
“Is Anne in this, too?”
“Anne is nowhere near it. She simply mentioned to me that she’d seen you there. Give me the money, Blake.”
“How do you know I’ve got it on me?”
“I don’t. I’d just as soon go through your pockets after you’re dead.”
“And if I’m not carrying it, you’d never find it then.”
“Perhaps not. But I hate to think of what would happen to your darling daughter without Dad around to look after her.”
Zach reached into his pocket and threw the tobacco pouch onto the table. Slowly, with the gun trained at Zach’s middle, Rambley thumbed through the stack of bills, counting.
“All there,” he said. “You’re an honest man.”
“What have you done with my daughter?” Zach said.
“That’s right, you have a ferry to catch, don’t you?” He rose. “You’d better catch it. Time and tide …”
“I want to get my bags.”
“Get them. And then get out. And forget all about Martha’s Vineyard, Blake. When you get back to New York, don’t mention a word of this to anyone. If you do, we’ll find your daughter again. And next time, we won’t be so gentle.”