Don’t Crowd Me

by Ed McBain

  She leaned back and stretched out both her legs, and I remembered what she’d said a little earlier.

  I seem to have lost all my underwear.

  I looked at her legs, and then up into her face. Her eyes pleaded gently. I walked over to where she sat and leaned down, kissing her softly on the lips.

  “I was so worried about you, Steve. So worried. I … I thought you’d killed her.”

  “No, baby,” I said in a whisper.

  She pulled my head down then and fastened her lips to mine, warm and moist. And there was sweetness in her kiss, and fire, and sadness, and spring, and a crazy rolled-up feeling of ecstasy and happiness and wanting and promise.

  When she left, she said she’d come back that night.

  I waited, thinking of the gentle softness of her. She was a smoldering fire that glowed with intense heat. Her sister had been a blazing inferno, but this was different and better, and I envied Sam, I envied him a great deal because I had a sneaking suspicion I was falling in love with his wife.

  I waited that night, but she didn’t come back.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I didn’t sleep well. I kept dreaming of a blond, blue-eyed vixen with lust in her eyes and fire in her hips. When I woke the next morning, the blankets were twisted around my legs and I had a strangle hold on the pillow. My underwear was drenched from perspiration and there was a sticky taste in my mouth.

  I slipped into a pair of trunks and ran down to the lake, anxious to wash off the sweat, anxious to get the taste out of my mouth. The water was cold, a biting cold that as-sailed my skin with a million sharp little teeth. When I broke water, I looked up at the sky again, at the big sun, molten orange on the horizon, at the white, puffy clouds hanging against the pale blue. It struck me again how incongruous the whole damned mess was. Murder was unthinkable in such beauty. Murder at Lake George was like a penciled moustache on the Mona Lisa.

  I climbed up onto the dock and shook myself, throwing an anxious glance over to Site One. There was no sign of Jean, and I began thinking of her, the fire starting in my blood again. I was angry, too, angry because I’d been stood up. She’d given me just a taste last night, just enough to whet my appetite. And there had been a promise of more later. But later never came, and it was morning now, and I still had an appetite. I walked over to the cooktent and started breakfast, knowing damn well that food alone wouldn’t fill me.

  I was sitting down to my eggs and coffee when I heard the throaty roar of a speedboat pulling around the jut of the island.

  I looked up, my fork poised over the round, yellow eyes on my plate. It was the police launch again, Owens standing in the bow, his hair blowing free, his eyes squinted against the sun. The launch pulled up to my dock and Owens waved at me, then jumped ashore. I noticed the way his eyes covered the entire area as he walked up the dock. He didn’t move his head, but those piercing blue eyes were looking from right to left, down to the planking, over the small inlet. He was like a man who’d lost a hundred dollar bill on a crowded city street, retracing his steps to see if he could find it, but keeping the loss furtively secret lest the passers-by begin looking for it, too.

  I dug into my eggs, wondering whether it wouldn’t be best to square with Owens right now, tell him all about Johnny, all about the shots that had been meant for me a short while back.

  “’Morning, Richmond,” Owens said.

  “’Morning.” I tried to make it bright, but I was thinking about Johnny again, and Lois. The eggs suddenly tasted greasy and flat. I put down my fork and reached for the coffee cup.

  Owens swung his legs over the bench, looked quickly at the eggs and then at my face. “Got any more coffee?” he asked.

  “Sure, I’ll get you …”

  He was on his feet instantly, starting for the cooktent. “No, no, finish your meal. I’ll get it.”

  I sipped at the hot, brown liquid. Owens stepped out of the tent with a cup in one hand and the coffee pot in the other. He poured a steaming cup, then rested the pot on the table as he sat down.

  “This damn hopping back and forth,” he said, “is likely to give a man ulcers. Haven’t had a decent meal since this mess started.”

  I nodded in appreciation, looking down at the cold eggs.

  Owens gulped at the coffee, smacked his lips, put down the cup, and said, “Understand you had a little trouble on the mainland.”

  The suddenness of his statement shocked me. I looked up quickly, met his probing blue eyes. “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Little brawl, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh. Yeah. That was about a week ago.” I hadn’t realized I’d been here that long. The thought shocked me. Hell, this was one vacation that was turning out to be a great big bust.

  “Understand you tangled with Pete Avers.”

  “Is that his last name?”

  Owens nodded, gulped at the coffee again. “What happened?” he asked.

  “Well, I didn’t tangle with Pete himself,” I said.

  “No, huh?”

  “No. Who said I did?”

  “Oh, local talk. You know how it is.”

  “I was talking to Pete and one of his buddies got tough. I kind of creased his skull with a bar stool.”

  Owens didn’t smile. He kept gulping at his coffee, finishing the cup, and pouring a fresh one. He drank it black, no cream, no sugar. “Now why do you suppose any of Pete’s friends would pick on you?” he asked.

  I grinned, trying to get a responsive twinkle in his eyes. There was none. They remained impersonal, cold; blue circles scattered with a sprinkle of white flecks. Hard, intelligent eyes. “I think they had me pegged as a racketeer. Pete was carrying a big roll, and his buddy probably figured I was after it.”

  “That right?”

  “That’s the way I figure it, anyway. I’d never seen the guy before. I was sitting there talking to Pete and …”

  Owens jerked his head up, and his eyes bored into mine. “What were you talking about?”

  “I …”

  Owens watched me, his hands steady around his coffee cup.

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, it was a private discussion.”

  “Maybe you’d better tell me what it was about.”

  I couldn’t tell him. If I told him about that, I’d have to mention the warning, and that would lead to Johnny’s death and I’d be in this thing up to my eyebrows. “I’d rather not,” I said. Then, as soon as I’d said it, I began to wonder just why I rathered not. What the hell did I have to lose? Why not tell Owens all about it? Why not drop the whole stinking mess into his lap and let him wrestle with it for a while? What the hell, he was a cop. He got paid to solve murders. I was here on an alleged vacation. I was about ready to tell the whole story when Owens started speaking again, slowly, looking down into his coffee cup, the steam rising lazily before his eyes.

  “Reason I ask about all this,” he said, “is that a funny thing happened day after you got into that brawl.”

  “What was that?” I asked, anticipating a complaint from the bastard who owned the bar.

  “Well, Pete’s disappeared.”

  “What?”

  “Mmmm.” Owens nodded, sipping at his coffee now, as if the gulping he’d done before had left him tired. “He may be off on another bender, of course. With Pete, that would be normal. We kind of suspect otherwise, though.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Owens stood up, stretched, the muscles on his arms rippling with the sudden motion. “Tell you, Richmond, it’s like this. Pete was a notorious drunk. He was just about the worst drunk in Bolton, maybe the worst drunk in the state, for that matter. He drank a lot, and he kept drinking. Every cent he ever had went into alcohol.”

  I noticed his use of the past tense, and a tiny icicle of apprehension edged its way up my spine.

  Owens leaned on the table, his fingers widespread. “That roll you mention he had. We found it.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. In his room
, stuffed into a corner of one of his dresser drawers. We figure that a man on a bender would like to have some money with him.”

  “What are you driving at, Sheriff?”

  Owens passed a sun-browned hand over his leathery face. “We figure maybe he’s dead.”

  I let this sink in for a few minutes. “How … how do you figure that?” I asked, thinking of the warning again, realizing that Owens had a reason for telling me all this.

  “Day after your fight, he didn’t show up for work. Mark Gandler went down to his room down by the boat sheds, found Pete’s bed hadn’t been slept in. He thought nothing of it, figured Pete was out walking off a head. Matter of fact, Gandler still wouldn’t have thought anything of it if some of Pete’s friends hadn’t come to me yesterday. I went down to his room then and found the roll.”

  “Maybe he’s gone away. I mean, well hell, anything’s possible, you know.”

  “Sure, Richmond. Pete was a drunk, though. You’ve got plenty of them in New York, haven’t you? I understand they frequent the Bowery. Pete was like that. His Bowery was Charlie’s place. A drunk isn’t likely to leave his stamping grounds, Richmond … especially without any money.”

  “Well …”

  Owens leaned closer to me, and his eyes were blue steel now, white chips of granite biting at the round discs. “What are you keeping back, Richmond?”

  “What …”

  “There’s something, Richmond. I’ve been in this business a hell of a long time, and I know when a man is lying. You’re lying, Richmond. You’re keeping something from me, and you’re making my job a hell of a lot harder, and I don’t think kindly of you for it.”

  “You’re wrong, Sheriff. I’ve got nothing …”

  “Horse manure,” Owens said. He stood up straight, his lips pressed together. “All right, Richmond, play it your way. I’m going to find out anyway, you know. You could make it all a lot easier for me.” He paused, and a sadness sneaked into his eyes, a forlorn tugging at the eyelids, a drooping of the mouth. “Damn this job anyway,” he said.

  He turned and started walking toward the launch, then stopped and faced me again. “I meant to tell you, Richmond, that you can feel free to go to any of the islands you want to. Make sure you stay away from the mainland, that’s all.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “I hope it’s not you,” he said suddenly. There was no malice in his voice, only a godawful tiredness. “If it is, you’re going to get stepped on, and hard.” He started to go, then turned again and said, “I’ve got a daughter just about that girl’s age, Richmond.”

  He showed me his broad back again, and I knew his eyes were studying the woods, the ground, the water as he walked down to the launch. He hopped aboard, put one foot up on the gunwales, nodded at the driver. The boat whooshed into life, a bubbling foam erupting behind it. It backed out into the lake and swung north, heading for the opposite end of the island.

  I felt lousy. I sat down and watched the flies settle on the cold eggs, their hungry forelegs rubbing together greedily. I was obstructing justice, withholding evidence, being in effect an accessory after the fact.

  Except that I didn’t know who I was being accessory to.

  And what if I did tell Owens all about it? What if I went over, put my arm around his shoulder and said, “Now this is the way it was, Sheriff. I found this body, see? Johnny. Johnny Aurori. That was a week ago. Yes, a body, but there isn’t any body, don’t you see, no body? Well, and then Lois turns up dead in my cabin. Of course, I had nothing to do with either murder. I was just standing there waiting for the Lexington Avenue Express, so help me. And Pete? Well, he warned me, told me to leave while the leaving was good. Of course, that has nothing to do with his disappearance. The Lexington Avenue Express again.”

  Sure, sure. That would go over big with Owens. What had he said? You’re going to get stepped on, and hard.

  And what happens when he finds out I wasn’t really with Jean? I thought. What happens then? If I lied then, I could in all probability lie again. So which part of my story should he believe?

  None of it.

  He’d step on me … and hard.

  I thought of Jean again, pleased somehow with the way she’d leaped to my defense, supplying me with an alibi when she thought I needed one. That led to other thoughts of her, and I decided to walk over to Site One, maybe sniff around a little.

  I picked my way over the rocks, walking up past the cooktent. The door was open, and I unconsciously looked down at the floor, expecting to find another body, I guess. Or maybe Johnny’s again. The floor was spotless. I kept walking, up to where the sleeping tents huddled together in the woods. I peeked through the screen door of the first one, saw nothing inside.

  Had this been Lois’ cabin? Was this where she’d slept? A strange feeling settled in the pit of my stomach, like a heavy iron ball with hooks in it. I pulled my face away from the screen and walked over to the next cabin.

  There was a gentle whistling coming from inside, off key, soft.

  “Anybody home?” I asked.

  “Come on in.” It was Jean’s voice, and the sound of it sent a warm spot spreading through my stomach. I opened the door, stepped into the dimness of the cabin. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust, after the bright sunlight.

  Jean was sitting on the bed, one knee tucked against her breasts. She leaned over that knee, her hand reaching for the toes on the end of her leg. She held a small brush in her hand, and she was carefully applying a bright red polish to her big toe. Her other foot rested firmly on the floor.

  She wore a loose peasant blouse with a red cord threaded through the neck. Her shoulders above the white cotton were brown and soft-looking. Her hair was pale in the dimness of the cabin, fluffed gently about the curve of her neck.

  She looked up when I came in, pulled the brush away from her toe. “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi.”

  I stood watching her as she reached over to dip the brush into the bottle on the table alongside the bed. After a moment she seemed to remember that she was sitting there with her leg up. Her knee came down abruptly, and she pulled her skirt over it, rising slightly to tug it free from her body. She put her foot up on the rung of the chair opposite her, her skirt tucked demurely around her.

  There was an uncomfortable moment of silence. A fly buzzed noisily against the screen, frantically butting his head against the wire mesh. Jean dipped the brush into the nail polish again, and I stood there feeling foolish as hell, wondering why I’d come over here in the first place.

  “I waited for you last night,” I said.

  “Did you?”

  “Yes.”

  She waited so long before speaking again that I figured the conversation was going to end right there. She finished painting her second toe, dipped the brush again, and finally said, “I couldn’t get away.”

  “You could have let …”

  “Sam was here all night.”

  “Oh.”

  She leaned forward again, her tongue licking her lip as she started on the third toe. “Sam’s a jealous man,” she said.

  It seemed to require no further comment, so I made none.

  “He guards me like … oh damn! I’ve smeared it.” She reached for a wad of cotton on the table and began dabbing at the toe. When she’d removed the offensive smear, she put the red-stained cotton back on the table. The polish looked curiously like blood against the fluffed cotton ball. I brought my eyes back to the steady motion of her hand, the brush evenly moving over her nail. “Guards me like a watchdog,” she finished.

  “He doesn’t seem like the type,” I said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “That incident on Big Burnt. With Lois.”

  “Double standard,” Jean said. “That’s Sam all over. He can bed down with any likely tramp that comes along, and it’s all right. If I so much as dance with another man, though … brother!”

  I cleared my throat uncomfortably. She’d done a h
ell of a lot more than dance with me yesterday afternoon.

  “You’re angry, aren’t you?” she asked. She was lying flat on the bed, her hands beneath her head, her eyes glued to the peaked roof.

  “Why should I be?” I kept my eyes fastened to her nails.

  “Because of last night.”

  “No. No, I’m not angry. If you couldn’t get away, you just couldn’t.”

  “You should have thought of that first.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m a married woman, Steve. That means limitations.” She kept her head bent low, so that the open front of her blouse was covered.

  I felt like a kid who’d been caught with his fingers in the jam pot. I stood up and began pacing the floor of the cabin.

  “It means sharing me with Sam,” she said, pursuing the subject.

  “You’ve got that slightly twisted,” I said. I was beginning to feel a little miffed. After all, I hadn’t asked her to come back last night. She’d volunteered. And I hadn’t gone to her cabin dead drunk. And it wasn’t me who’d reached up and kissed her at the campfire the night of the party. What the hell!

  “I don’t understand you,” she said.

  “It’s Sam who’s doing the sharing, Jean. He’s the guy you’re married to.” I bit off the words, and a scowl deepened on my forehead.

  “You see?” she said, “You are angry.”

  “All right, I’m angry.”

  “Well, you’ve no reason to be. I simply couldn’t get away. When a woman is married …”

  “Listen, let’s cut the wedding ceremony, shall we? You’re married, period. We’ve called a spade a spade and that’s it. I’m not sore about last night, either. I’m sore about now. Right now. Right this very minute now.”

  She lifted her head, examined the completed job on her nails, then gingerly screwed the cap onto the bottle. “There,” she said.

  I started for the door, boiling mad now, ready to say the hell with her, and the hell with her goddamned jealous ox of a husband. “So long,” I called. “I’ll see you around.”

  “Steve, wait.”

  I stopped, not turning around, my back still to her. “Yeah?”