Don’t Crowd Me

by Ed McBain

  “All right,” she said. “’Bye.”

  “Goodbye.”

  I held the receiver in my hand for a moment, then dropped it onto the hook.

  Johnny was dead.

  There was no doubt in my mind now.

  When I got back to Little Harbor, Sheriff Owens was just pulling away in the launch. When he saw me, he tapped one of his men on the shoulder, and the man cut the motor.

  “Make your call?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. I was tempted to tell him about Johnny, but that guilty feeling crept over me again, and I held my tongue. “Are you leaving?” I asked.

  “I’m leaving some men out here. You’ll be all right.”

  I nodded briefly, and he went on.

  “I’ll be back in the morning. Your new mattress is here, by the way.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “That’s all right,” he answered, smiling. “See you.” He tapped his man again and the launch rumbled into action, pulling away rapidly and speeding across the lake.

  I watched the launch kick up a shower of spray behind it, wondering about the sheriff, wondering how much I could tell him. He was still standing, watching the shoreline as the boat vanished around the jutting point of land and headed for open water.

  I fished for a cigarette, came up with an empty pack which I crumpled and ground into the earth. I started back to the cabin for a fresh pack, remembered Lois, turned and sat down on the edge of the dock, still yearning for a cigarette.

  She’d sounded like a nice woman, Johnny’s mother. Fat, maybe, with big white teeth, and deep brown eyes. A pleasant smile, and probably a booming laugh. A nice lady. A lady waiting for September when her son would come home from his vacation.

  Only her son would never come home from this vacation.

  It should be simple, really, to find a murderer in a place like this, I thought. What happens when someone is killed in a sprawling place like New York City? What happens then? Just where do the cops begin? But here, a guy is killed on a small island, and a girl is killed on that same island. It should be comparatively simple to find the murderer.

  Except that there were one hundred and fifty-five islands in Lake George, and the murderer could have come from any one of them.

  Hell, I needed a cigarette.

  I stood up and walked up to my cabin. I opened the door. They’d taken Lois away, and the cabin looked just the way it always did in the late afternoon. I took a fresh package of cigarettes from my suitcase and tore open the top, lighting one quickly. I sat down on the edge of the fresh mattress, the blue and white ticking looking new and unused. The smoke from my cigarette curled upward, lashed out and filtered through the screens. Outside, the sun was dropping into the lake, a molten ball of fire about to be extinguished.

  I heard a launch pull up to the dock and I rose quickly, peering out through the screens.

  Sam stepped out of the launch and Shorty, the Bolton deputy said, “Don’t go in to the mainland now, mister. You heard the sheriff’s orders.”

  “Sounds goddamn ridiculous to me,” Sam protested. “You just checked and you know exactly where I was at the time of the murder.”

  “Just the same,” Shorty said, “don’t go in to the mainland.”

  “Why the hell did you bother checking?” Sam asked.

  For answer, Shorty gunned the motor of the launch and spit over the side into the lake. Sam grumbled a little and walked up from the dock, looking over at my cabin once. He quickly crossed the rocks and headed for his own cabin as the launch pulled away.

  So Sam’s alibi has been checked, I thought, moving away from the screens and sitting on the new mattress again. That let him out. Vaguely, I wondered where all the men Owens had left behind were hiding. He’d taken two back in his launch, and now Shorty and the other deputy—what was his name?—Ogden, no that was Shorty’s last name. Manners, that was it. Well anyway, they’d both left, too. Who stayed behind?

  The state troopers probably. Sneaking around in the woods with their popguns ready to go off. If they caught murderers as fast as they caught speeders, the case would have been closed hours ago. Probably be suicide for a man to go to the john with the Junior G men on the prowl. They’d shoot first and then give you a ticket for dying on them.

  I grinned in the approaching darkness and stretched out on the bed. It had been a hard day.

  Have a hard day at the office, dear?

  Oh, not too bad. Found a dead body under the desk, but otherwise things were pretty calm.

  Steve Richmond, the Grim Jester.

  I snubbed out my cigarette and felt myself relax against the mattress. I knew I should go out and prepare some supper, but I was too damned tired. Besides, I wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t every day you found a body—although it was getting damned close to being that for Steve Richmond.

  What was the name of that play where all those bodies are found dead around a poker table? The Damon Runyon thing?

  I yawned and threw my arms over my head.

  You know, where the mob goes around leaving them on doorsteps and all over town? What was the name again?

  No-Nose Charlie, he was one of the characters. I yawned again and closed my eyes to rest them. A Slight Case of Murder, that was it. A very funny play. Very funny. Very very very.…

  I opened my eyes slowly. It was light in the cabin. A flickering light that danced on the roof and threw shadows on the walls. I closed my eyes again, rolling over and wondering who’d lighted the lantern. I tried to doze off again, didn’t quite make it, and rubbed my eyes, trying to get the sleep out of them. I propped myself up on my elbows and stared around the room.

  “Well,” she said, “at last.”

  She was sitting in a chair opposite the bed, her legs crossed, her skirt tucked tightly around them. She wore high heeled shoes with ankle straps, sheer silk stockings, a tight blue skirt, and a white blouse. The top two buttons of the blouse were open, showing the hollow in her throat. Her eyes were shockingly blue against the tan of her skin, and her hair gleamed dully in the flickering light.

  “You’re a sound sleeper,” Jean said, her head nodding slightly.

  I lighted my cigarette and leaned back on my elbows again. Her voice was thick, and she said “shound shleeper.” I smelled the whiskey on her breath then.

  “I wasn’t expecting company,” I told her.

  “Go ahead,” she said, waving her hand in an exaggerated gesture, “go back to sleep. Don’t mind me, mister, don’t mind me. Just go right back to sleep. Go ahead.”

  I grinned and drew in on my cigarette.

  “Where’s the party?” I asked.

  “No party,” she said, shaking her head, her hair slapping against her cheeks. “No party at all, at all. My beloved spouse is drunk. Dead drunk. Oops, shouldn’t say ‘dead,’ should I? Everybody’s under suspicion, the sheriff said.”

  She began to laugh, bringing her hand down against her thigh. “Sheriff! That gets me, boy it really gets me. I thought they only had sheriffs in cowboy movies.”

  She threw back her head and laughed again, the way a drunk will laugh at something that is only mildly funny.

  There were a lot of things I wanted to ask her. Like why she’d kissed me at the party that night. And why she’d alibied me this afternoon. But I didn’t think she was in any condition to give me the straight answers I wanted, so I decided to let it go for another time.

  She stood up abruptly and held her hands out from her sides, swaying slightly.

  “Pretty, aren’t I?” she asked. She turned slowly, like a model, her head thrown back. She drew in a deep breath and her blouse tightened against her body. Then she began to giggle foolishly, stumbling against the end table and almost falling.

  “Sam’s idea,” she said, her voice still thick and slurred. “Can’t go in to the mainland, so we’ll have a little drink here. That’s what he said, he did. So we both got all dressed up, high heels and all.” She stopped and put her hand to her mouth,
suppressing a giggle. “Not Sam, you understand. Just me. The silk stockings, I mean. Sam put on a nice, clean, pressed pair of slacks and a pretty sport shirt. And a jacket. He put on a jacket, too.”

  I listened and smoked as she weaved before me. She staggered backwards then and plopped into the chair, her legs stretched out in front of her, her skirt rising over her knees. She pulled in her feet quickly and adjusted her skirt, yanking it down below the knees.

  “So what happens?” she asked. She pointed a finger at me and said conspiringly, “I’ll tell you what happens. Sam gets dead drunk and passes out. And little Jean gets bored.”

  “So?” I asked, snubbing out the cigarette.

  “So? So what? You want a moral?”

  “So what brings you here?” I persisted.

  “I saw your light. I figured you were a poor, lonely, little bitty boy all by his lonesome.” She hiccupped and giggled. “Sorry.”

  “You didn’t see a light because there wasn’t any.”

  “That’s right, you know?” she said. “I didn’t see a light until I came in and lighted one. Then I saw your light and since I was here, I figured I might as well stay. There.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Okay what?” She stared at me dumbly, her lids drooping.

  “Okay, you can stay.”

  “Thanks. I was going to anyway. So there.”

  I smiled and swung my legs over the edge of the bed.

  “Give me a cigarette,” she said. I took one from the pack and held it out to her. She kept her hands on her knees and jutted her head out, her mouth open. I hung the cigarette on her lower lip and lighted it for her.

  “Thank you, kind sir,” she said.

  “Not at all.”

  “What?”

  “I said …”

  “Never mind. I heard what you said.”

  “Okay.”

  She took a deep drag on her cigarette and suddenly kicked me in the shins.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Sorry,” she apologized. “Darn shoes got straps. Uncomfortable.” She leaned back in the chair and stretched out one of her legs, resting the foot on the edge of the bed. “Unstrap it, will you please? Damn uncomfortable.”

  I took her ankle in my left hand and unloosened the straps with my right. She kicked off the shoe, pulled back her leg, tucked in her skirt and lifted the other leg to the bed. I unstrapped the other shoe and she kicked that one off too.

  Demurely, like a little old lady, she tucked in her skirt again and wiggled her toes.

  “That’s much better,” she said, grinning contentedly. “Much much better, all right. Sam and his damn ideas.” Suddenly, she had an idea of her own. “Say, have you got a drink?”

  “I think you’ve had enough.”

  “And I think I haven’t had near enough.”

  I shrugged.

  “Well, have you got a lousy drink or haven’t you?”

  “Sure,” I said, “but we don’t serve after midnight.”

  She glanced at the watch on her wrist and said, “It’s not after midnight, so break out the whiskey.”

  Reluctantly, I went to the end table and lifted the pint bottle. There was about one full jigger left in it. I poured this into the cup and handed it to her.

  “That’s all there is,” I said, thankful the bottle was empty.

  “Crumby joint,” she murmured, taking the cup and drinking it in one hasty gulp. She leaned over, her short hair falling over her face, and set the cup on the floor. She straightened up then and looked at me fully, her eyes narrowing. She wet her lips and said, “You’re almost as boring as Sam, you know.”

  “And you’re almost as drunk as he is.”

  “I know. Ain’t it a shame?” She giggled and scratched her leg, her nails raking against the silk stocking.

  She was suddenly attentive, and she sat up straight in her chair. “How do I get sober, mister?” she asked.

  “Go take a cold shower and a cup of coffee,” I suggested.

  She laughed loudly and said, “That’s silly.”

  “What is?”

  “A cold shower in a cup of coffee.”

  “Take the shower first then,” I said, humoring her. “Then drink the coffee.”

  “That sounds good. Except there’s no showers here. No toilet facilities, don’t you know?” she said, assuming the pose of a snooty Bostonian. I smiled in spite of myself.

  “Take a dip in the lake, that’s what. Nice and cold, and the hell with the shower. That’s what.” Her fingers fumbled with her garters.

  She leaped out of the chair as soon as she’d taken off her stockings and hopped onto the bed. She made like a ballet dancer then, kicking her legs into the air, bending them at the knee, holding her skirts high all the while.

  “Music,” she shouted, clapping her hands in command. “Background music. Come, maestro, play.”

  She began humming, and then started to sing a burlesque tune.

  I watched her as she strutted back and forth on the bed, slowly, in time with her singing, her head almost touching the sloped roof.

  “Union City,” she said gleefully, “ever been there? Sit down, Baldy, sit down.”

  I sat on the end table and watched her go into a drunken burlesque routine.

  “Sam took me there once. All bald heads, my friend. All bald.”

  Her hands went to the zipper on the side of her skirt and she slowly lowered it, dropping the skirt around her ankles and then stepping out of it. As I watched her my mind flew over to Sam on Site One. How drunk was he?

  She kept singing, butchering the lyrics pitifully.

  I wasn’t listening to the song, though. I was watching her unbutton the blouse, button by button, all the way down. She whipped the blouse off and threw it at me. I caught it and she said, “Now pay attention, ladies and gentlemen.”

  I stared at her violently shaking figure, forgetting her full breasts and focusing on the bra. It was a black bra, nylon, with black silk straps. And it could have been the mate to the one I’d found in Johnny’s cabin!

  She began to roll her hips.

  “How’s that?” she called, her cheeks flushed. “How’s that for an amateur? I’m loaded, and I don’t give a damn!”

  I was beginning to feel a little high myself. Slowly I got up from the end table and reached for her. She scooted to the other end of the bed, then jumped to the floor.

  “Curtain coming down!” she shouted.

  Her hands went behind her back as she started for the door. With amazing deftness for a girl so drunk, she unclasped the bra and whipped it off. Then as she reached the door she threw the bra at me and rushed outside.

  I ran to the door, heard her giggle penetrate the night air, heard her running swiftly down to the water. She pattered barefoot onto the dock, stood on the edge and daintily stepped out of the rest of her costume.

  She stood there a moment, then plunged into the lake.

  I needed a cold shower, too. Was the family full of nymphomaniacs?

  She swam out a little ways and I debated following her. I decided against it, and I watched her from my cabin door. She swam in at last, back to her own dock. She climbed out of the water, stood on tiptoe and waved at me. And then she vanished behind the trees that blocked the cooktent on her site.

  I sighed and walked down to the dock and picked up the undergarments she had left behind her. When I got back to the cabin I spread them out on the bed, along with the bra she’d tossed at me earlier. Each of the pieces bore the label of a swank Fifth Avenue shop. Without hurry, I searched in my suitcase for the bra I’d found in Johnny’s cabin.

  The labels matched perfectly. Which, of course, didn’t mean a damned thing.

  I searched in both bras for the little tab bearing the size. I found it—the same size in both. Thirty-six. Which still didn’t mean anything. Assuming the bra I’d found in Johnny’s cabin belonged to either Lois or Jean—but hell, that was an awful lot of assuming to do. God only knew how m
any women with a thirty-six bust size bought lingerie in this particular shop. Well, assume it anyway, and where did it get me? Nowhere, really. I’d known plenty of sisters who wore each other’s clothes. Did I know any women who wore their married sister’s clothes, though? I tried to remember, and I couldn’t even think of a girl I knew who had a married sister.

  Why not go right up to Jean and ask her if she’d been in Johnny’s cabin before he was killed?

  I beg your pardon, Mrs. Fowler, but did you leave your brassiere in Johnny Aurori’s cabin? I found it there, don’t you know?

  Some reaction to that, I’d bet. Make a beautiful picture for page four of one of the tabloids. Jean standing there with her mouth wide open and her brows high in indignation. Caption: Jewelry Partner Reacts to Bra Inquiry.

  A wonderful time for jokes, Richmond. You must be hilarious at a wake. Keep the pall bearers in stit …

  “Nice collection you’ve got there,” the voice at the door said.

  I turned suddenly, a tremor of fear shooting up my spine. Sam Fowler let the screen door bang to behind him and stepped into the cabin.

  I was still holding both bras in my hands. Guiltily, I dropped them onto the bed. Sam’s eyes shifted over to the assorted lingerie and back to me again.

  “They look familiar,” he said drily. “Anyone I know?”

  I took a deep breath and said, “Your wife went for a swim. She asked me if she could use the cabin to change in.”

  Sam grinned without mirth. “And you, of course, gallantly stepped outside while she changed.”

  “Of course,” I said, trying to sound as indignantly righteous as I could.

  Sam nodded, the grin still on his lips. “Crap!” he said suddenly, startling me a little.

  I kept staring at him. The grin dropped from his face all at once, leaving hard eyes and a thin, unsmiling mouth.

  “Lay off, Richmond,” he warned. “I’m telling you to lay off.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied.

  “You’ll know damned soon unless you take my friendly hint. Stay away from Jean.”

  “I haven’t been anywhere near her,” I said.

  “Then you’ve got nothing to worry about. Just see that you stay that way in the future.”