Once a Widow

by Lee Roberts

  “Lieutenant Prentice tells me that she could not swim.”

  “That’s correct, but I never worried when she was on the boat. She is quite expert in its operation, and often took it for cruises along the shore. Sometimes she’d put in at the docks of friends’ houses and visit a while, maybe have a few drinks—you know?”

  Both the sheriff and Prentice exchanged glances and looked interested. The sheriff said, “I see, Mr. Barry. Had she been—uh—drinking when she left?”

  “Not any more than usual,” Richard said lightly. “A few cocktails before lunch, perhaps one or two whisky highballs afterward.”

  “Hmmm,” the sheriff said. “Would you say that she was intoxicated?”

  Richard frowned and said slowly, “No—not really.”

  “Were you drinking, too?”

  “A little,” Richard admitted. “Two martinis before lunch, but nothing afterward.” He gazed at the sheriff with a puzzled expression. “What’s that got to do with it?”

  The sheriff leaned forward and said kindly, “Mr. Barry, I don’t wish to alarm you unduly, but if your wife had been drinking—to excess, apparently—it’s quite possible that she lost her balance and fell overboard, especially during the storm we had today, and not being able to swim…” He spread his hands in a hopeless gesture.

  “I doubt that,” Richard said. “She is thoroughly familiar with the boat, and would take precautions.” He paused, and added with faint grimness, “Of course, perhaps she drank too much at times, but she couldn’t have…” His voice broke and he brushed a hand over his eyes.

  “We just want you to face the facts, Mr. Barry,” the sheriff said gently, “and not harbor any false hopes.” He hesitated, and when he spoke again his voice was sharp and no longer gentle. “Why did you wait until this morning before you reported her missing?”

  Richard looked at him quickly. This yokel is smart, he thought, and I must not sell him short. He said evenly, “I told you she’d been out in the boat before, many times. I didn’t worry too much. When it got dark I turned on the light at the end of the dock for her, as I always do. Then I phoned our home in Cleveland, thinking that she might have taken it into her head to run there, but she hadn’t, and I decided that she was just cruising the lake in the moonlight as she had done before. I took some aspirin for my cold, and a sleeping pill, and went to bed. When I awoke this morning, and realized that she hadn’t returned, I became alarmed, of course, and called the coast guard.”

  The sheriff nodded gravely. “You and Mrs. Barry got along well, I suppose? I mean, you didn’t maybe have a quarrel yesterday, before she left?”

  Richard shook his head. “No, not at all. Oh, maybe we’ve had a few arguments, mostly about her—well, her drinking. But not yesterday. In fact, she was in very good spirits when she left.”

  “High spirits?” the sheriff suggested.

  Richard’s mind worked swiftly. He’d planted the drinking angle, but he must not lay it on too thick. He said bluntly, “She wasn’t drunk, if that’s what you mean.”

  The sheriff nodded. “Were you at home all afternoon and evening?”

  Richard looked at the sheriff once more. The hick bastard is really sticking his nose in, he thought. He’d have to cut him down a little. “Yes, I was,” he said.

  “Can you prove it?”

  “Yes, I can prove it,” Richard said slowly and distinctly, “but I don’t have to and I’m not going to. I’m a tax payer in this county. My wife is missing. I’m very worried and upset. Instead of asking me silly questions you should be out trying to find her. Why don’t you start doing what you’re getting paid to do?”

  The sheriff flushed. Prentice, who had noticed the Cadillac and the Corvette in the garage, stood up and said heartily, “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Barry. We’ll do our best.” He glanced sharply at the sheriff and added, “And so will the sheriff’s department, I’m sure.”

  Lambert got to his feet and said to Richard, “I meant no offense. I hope we can find your wife. We will certainly try.”

  “Thank you,” Richard said quietly. “I’m sorry I lost my temper.”

  “It’s quite understandable, under the circumstances.” Lambert and Prentice moved to the door. Richard opened it for them and said, “Thanks for coming, gentlemen.”

  “All part of our job,” Prentice said. “Good night, Mr. Barry.”

  “Good night.”

  When they were gone Richard carried the coffee pot and cup to the kitchen. Then he went to the terrace with the bourbon bottle and sat in the wind and drank just enough from time to time to maintain a mild glow. It helped, because he was restless and tired of being confined to the house. He wanted to leave, take the Corvette and just drive anywhere, but it wouldn’t be wise, not tonight. Tomorrow it would be all right for him to leave. Maybe then it would be even safe for him to see Rose Ann, if only for a short while. He sipped the whisky and thought of Rose Ann.

  At eleven o’clock he went to bed. As he lay naked, smoking a final cigarette, he reached out and switched on the radio beside the bed. The tubes warmed and presently a man’s smooth, modulated voice filled the room.

  … And there is mystery in Harbor City this evening, a mystery involving an unidentified blond woman who was found unconscious on a small island in the lake this afternoon by a party of fishermen…

  Richard jerked erect, turned up the radio’s volume and listened intently while a growing sick horror filled his brain.

  … She was taken to Memorial Hospital where she is reported to be recovering from exposure, fatigue and shock. However, she apparently cannot remember her identity or how she came to be on the island clad only in a bathing suit. She is described by hospital attendants as having light brown hair, cut short, gray eyes, about forty years old, with an abdominal scar resulting from an appendicitis operation. And now to the world of sports. This evening—

  Richard snapped off the radio and in the sudden quiet he heard the wind rustling around the house. He took a cigarette from a package on the bedside table and lit it with hands that trembled only a little. He drew on the cigarette, frowning, and then crushed it out. He stood up and dressed quickly—gray flannel slacks, the dark blue polo shirt, a light gray tweed jacket. After pocketing keys and money he turned out the light and left the house by the front door, locking it behind him. The garage door was open and in the moonlight he saw the two cars there, Karen’s white Cadillac and the yellow Corvette. He unlocked the trunk of the Cadillac, took out a flat, heavy crescent wrench, slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket, closed and locked the trunk. Then he stood a moment, gazing at the two cars. Abruptly he got into the Corvette and started the motor. He would have preferred a less conspicuous vehicle for his mission, but he did not have much choice.

  He drove the sixteen miles into Harbor City at a steady fifty miles an hour and was careful to obey all traffic signs, lights and warnings. On the edge of the city he stopped at an all-night gas station to ask for directions to Memorial Hospital. He reached the hospital a little after eleven-thirty, parked a block down the street in the shadow of a maple tree and walked back. A wide cement walk bordered by a thick hedge led from the street to the front entrance of the long low building. Richard approached the building at a normal gait, annoyed at the sagging weight of the wrench in his jacket pocket. He liked his clothes to fit neatly. He reached twin glass doors and peered through them. Inside the entrance were three marble steps leading up to a dimly lit corridor. He saw a woman working at a desk in a small glass-enclosed office.

  Richard paused, made his plan, remembering what he’d learned from Alex Kamin. Then he entered the hospital.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  In the early morning of that Sunday in July it was fairly clear, but the sun, behind shreds of racing clouds, held an odd saffron look and the sky was lead-colored over the Canadian horizon. Shortly before noon the sun disappeared and the clouds thickened and darkened and swept in from the northeast. The lake began to roll an
d presently whitecaps sprang up. Then came the wind and with it was rain.

  Mortimer Watson, general agent for the Great Northern Casualty Company, said disgustedly, “Well, that ruins our fishing,” and began to reel in his line. “The fish’ll be nosing the bottom until this blows over.”

  “You’re right, Mort,” said a slender elderly man with thick brown hair touched with gray. “We may as well go back to the clubhouse and play some poker.” His name was Lewis Sprang and he was a lawyer.

  “Hah!” Watson jeered. “Itching to get your money back, huh?”

  The elderly man, also reeling in his line, smiled thinly around a black cigar clenched between his teeth. “That’s right, Mort. I figure you’re in to me for forty-seven dollars.”

  “I’m available,” Watson said, grinning, and called to a third man standing in the stern of the small cruiser. “Hey, George, ship your tackle. We’re heading back for the basin.”

  The man in the stern, who was much younger than the other two, in his early twenties, gazed at the heaving water and darkening sky and nodded. “I’ll get the anchor,” he called back. He was a well built young man, perhaps a trifle too heavy, with thick blond hair, blowing now in the wind, and calm blue eyes. Like the two older men he wore rubber-soled canvas shoes, slacks and a short-sleeved shirt. His name was George Yundt and he was a teller at the Harbor City State Bank. He reeled in, placed his rod on the deck, and moved forward to the anchor chain. The boat was pitching quite badly now.

  Mortimer Watson, who owned the boat, entered the tiny cabin and started the motor. Lewis Sprang followed him into the cabin, stooping as he entered. He was seventy-one years old, tall and spare, with a thin tanned face and kindly brown eyes behind rimless glasses. Watson was younger, fifty-four, a thick, short man, partially bald.

  George Yundt shipped the anchor and shouted over the wind, “All clear! Take her away!” He was enjoying himself, even though the storm had interrupted their fishing. It was only by chance that he was a member of the party. He had been strolling on the pier of the Harbor City yacht basin, restless and bored on a Sunday morning, when Watson and Sprang had been preparing to shove off. They had invited him to come along and he had accepted, faintly proud of the opportunity to be the guest of two of Harbor City’s most prominent citizens. Besides, he had nothing better to do. He hated Sundays, usually.

  Now he moved along the deck and entered the cabin. Watson swung the wheel and the boat began to move in a slow churning circle, rising and falling with the pitch of the waves. Watson shouted above the roar of the motor, “There’s plenty of beer and sandwiches.” George Yundt, wishing to be helpful, lifted the lid of an ice chest, brought out three bottles of beer, snapped off the caps and passed them around. Watson drank from his while holding the wheel with one hand. Lewis Sprang sat on a narrow padded bench against one wall of the cabin. George Yundt stood beside Watson and gazed through the glass at the prow as it pitched against wild water and dark sky. The waves foamed angrily and it seemed that they were growing much larger, very quickly. The boat began to roll.

  Mortimer Watson handed his beer bottle to George Yundt, gripped the wheel with both hands and grunted, “Looks like a real blow.”

  The boat lurched and dipped in a long rolling wave and the bow was buried in foaming water. The propeller sang as it left the water, and then churned water again as the hull resounded with the impact of the waves. George Yundt swayed on his feet and steadied himself against the pitching of the boat. Lewis Sprang called from behind them, “Hold her steady, Captain.”

  “Steady she is,” Watson said cheerfully. “This old tub has weathered more than this little blow.” He opened the throttle and the motor sang a keener song. “Have a sandwich, you fellows. There’s ham and cheese.”

  “I think I’ll wait until we get in,” George Yundt said, glancing nervously out at the storm.

  “Me, too,” the old lawyer said. “Mort, how long do you figure it’ll take us to reach the basin?”

  “Better part of an hour.” Watson was panting a little, fighting the wheel. “Maybe longer, with this wind.” As he spoke, a huge wave struck and the craft shuddered. The freed propeller whined shrilly. “Wow!” Watson cried, lurching sideways as the boat yawed alarmingly.

  “Keep her into the wind,” Lewis Sprang said sharply.

  “Sure, sure. We’ll make it.” There was sweat on Watson’s round red face.

  It was almost dark now, not the darkness of night, but of the storm, and the wind was a high piercing scream. Water lashed at the small boat and sometimes it seemed that it would not emerge from the engulfing waves, but it did, trembling. The three men could feel the trembling, the shuddering, and the sound of the motor was like a frantic heart beat. Water was inside the cabin now, flowing in rivulets on the boards beneath their feet. Mortimer Watson tried to remember if the hatches in the bow were closed, but he could not. He hoped they were closed, because the motor was there, in the bow, and if water got to it, drowning it, they would be helpless.

  Mortimer Watson felt fear. He gulped and gripped the wheel, staring ahead at the driving rain and violently moving water. The boat lurched again and George Yundt staggered backward, jarring against the cabin wall. Lewis Sprang got to his feet and stood unsteadily, holding his beer bottle. George Yundt leaned against the wall, wishing that he did not hold the two beer bottles, but he didn’t know what to do with them. Suddenly he wished he was in his room at the Y.M.C.A., lying on his bed reading a book and listening to the rain on his one window. Pleasant as it had been, this unexpected outing with Mr. Watson and Mr. Sprang, he wished now that he was in his cozy little room at the Y. He took a drink from the bottle in his left hand, his bottle, he remembered. The neck rattled against his teeth and beer dribbled over his chin as the boat lurched sickeningly. He heard Mr. Sprang shout hoarsely, “We can’t make it, Mort! What’ll we do?”

  “Shut up!” Watson shouted. “Please shut the hell up!” He struggled with the wheel and peered ahead through the rain-drenched windshield. He was thoroughly frightened now. Although he had lived along Lake Erie all his life, he was not really a sailor or a strong swimmer. He knew that Erie was the most shallow of the Great Lakes and that when the wind came it could turn with shocking suddenness into a seething maelstrom. For an instant the wind lessened and he caught a glimpse of a dark mass ahead. He slowed the motor, peering through the rain.

  Lewis Sprang saw it, too. “Snake Island, Mort. Put in there.”

  “Yes,” Watson breathed, gripping the wheel. He could see it quite plainly now, the rocky beach, the high bluff and the pine trees bending in the wind. They were approaching the leeward side. He breathed a deep sigh of thankfulness and relief.

  Lewis Sprang stood beside Watson and said tensely, “Can you put her in?”

  “I—I think so, if one of you will handle the anchor.”

  “I will,” George Yundt said. He looked helplessly at the beer bottles he held. Then he placed them upright in the ice chest, hoping they would not tip over.

  “Be careful,” Watson shouted over his shoulder.

  George Yundt left the cabin, rain pouring inside as he did so, and made his way along the deck to the bow, where he knelt by the anchor in the wind and rain. Watson throttled the motor and edged the boat toward the island. They were in calmer water now and as they approached the overhanging bluff it seemed that the wind was high above them. Twenty feet from the shore Watson cut the motor, knowing that he could not go in any closer without danger of beaching the boat. He had often still-fished for bass near the island and was familiar with the area. Through the windshield he saw Yundt lowering the anchor and he turned away from the wheel wiping sweat from his red face with a freckled and hairy forearm.

  Lew Sprang gave Watson his thin smile. “We’re lucky, Mort. We never could have made it to the harbor.”

  “Sure, we would have, but this is better. We’ll just ride it out.” Watson moved to the cabin hatchway. “I’d better throw out the stern anchor, too.”r />
  “Never mind,” Sprang said. “George is doing it.”

  “Smart boy,” Watson replied. “I’m glad we asked him to come along.”

  “I think he enjoyed it,” Sprang said. “He’s a good boy, in spite of his family background. He’s doing fine at the bank, too.”

  “I knew his dad,” Watson said. “A no-good if I ever saw one. And his mother was no better. After they got divorced and left town the boy would have been a county charge if Louise Yundt hadn’t taken him in. She died of cancer, didn’t she?”

  Sprang nodded and sighed. “Yes, four years ago. I handled the estate—what was left of it. She loaned all her savings to George’s father.” He sighed again. “She may as well have burned it. I felt sorry for the boy and tried to help him. Never had any kids of my own, you know, and—” He stopped abruptly as the young man entered the cabin.

  Watson said to him, “Thanks, George.”

  “Sure.” George, grinned at the two older men. “A little wet out there.” He brushed water from his face and gazed down at his soaked shirt and slacks.

  “I’m afraid we can’t do anything about dry clothes,” Watson said, “but this shouldn’t last long. I’ll bet you a dollar that the sun will be out in an hour.”

  “Make it five,” Lewis Sprang said quickly. “This will last longer than an hour.”

  Watson turned and grinned at the lawyer. “Still greedy, huh? I was betting George, but I’ll take you on, too. Let’s make it ten.”

  “Twenty. I know Erie weather.”

  “Okay,” Watson said, and laughed. He was feeling good, now that the danger was over. He had really been worried out there, before he’d seen Snake Island ahead. He turned to Yundt. “You want in on this?”

  George smiled. “No, thanks.” He removed his shirt and hung it over the wheel. His torso was compact and muscular, in spite of the thin layer of fat.