“It’ll look even funnier if we come into Pheeney’s Landing with me handling a scull oar.”
“You know best,” Sally said.
Gootsie said, “I sometimes wonder.” He looked over his shoulder at Cornell. “Is your husband all right?”
Cornell darted a startled look at Sally.
Sally’s hand was cool and firm, tightening on his. “Everything is fine now, Gootsie.”
The roar of the outboard motor drowned out further talk. Cornell took Sally’s hand from his and looked at her. She was shaking slightly, and he realized that she was laughing at him. She put her lips to his ear.
“Don’t argue now,” she said.
He didn’t argue.
Pheeney’s Landing consisted of two rickety wharves thrust like gnarled fingers into the quiet cove. A string of yellow and red lights made a sad attempt at gaiety, lighting up the frame shed where a neon sign, bright and garish, announced that Pheeney’s Landing could provide everything an oysterman could desire—Wine, Liquor, Beer, EATS, Dancing, and the Excelsior Tourist Cabins. The jumping rhythm of a juke box carried out over the dark water as Gootsie nosed the boat in to the landing.
Sally touched Cornell’s arm. “How is your leg now?”
“I’ll walk,” he said.
Gootsie shut off the motor, and the noise of the juke box grew louder as they drifted in. The squat man sighed with relief. “Well, we done it.”
“I don’t know how to thank you, Gootsie,” Sally said.
“Wasn’t much to do for an old friend.” He looked dubiously at Cornell. “Think he can make it from here, Sally?”
“We’ll be all right.”
“Just don’t say anything, that’s all.”
“You can count on that,” Sally said fervently.
Gootsie fended them off from the pier bumpers and Cornell stood up. The stab of pain in his knee was not as bad as he had expected. Sally watched him anxiously, then smiled.
“We don’t have far to go.”
He was willing to save his questions for later. He gave Sally a hand up to the wharf, and when he looked around for Gootsie, the man was gone. Sally didn’t seem surprised. She said, “Come along and act natural. The pressure is off. Of course, you might decide to get out of Calvert Beach right away, but it seems to me that the time has passed for that kind of move. You wouldn’t get a mile on any road leading out of here, and then they’d pick you up and you’d be a gone goose.”
“What about you?” he asked.
“I’ll be all right. I’ll be the goose. You’re the gander.”
“Don’t you think you’re running a foolish risk?”
She paused on the hard-packed path that led past Kelly’s Bar. Her eyes were earnest as she tilted her head up to look at him.
“What kind of a risk?” she asked.
“Being with me.”
“You said you didn’t kill Jay Stone, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“That’s good enough for me,” Sally said.
The neon sign splashed rosy light on her small face. Cornell grinned and took her arm.
“Lead on,” he said.
A dirt road led up from the landing toward higher ground, but none of the village was visible from here, and aside from the juke box and the low murmur of casual voices from behind the screened door of the bar, there was no one in sight. Sally seemed to know exactly where she was going. He limped along beside her when she turned off the main road under a darkened sign that read, “Excelsior Cabins—Day, Week, or Month.” His mouth tightened a little, and then he saw her small coupé, parked beside one of the cabins in the back, in the deep shadow of towering poplars that edged the woodland.
“Home, sweet home?” he asked.
“For a while,” Sally said. She turned and faced him, a tight note in her voice. “Look, Barney. I met Gootsie in the Calvert Beach Inn. I went in for coffee. You were gone a pretty long time, and I had an idea where you were—the only place in Calvert Beach that has any connection with you. The longer you were gone, the more I worried, and when I met Gootsie, there was all the excitement around the police station, and he offered to help.”
“And?”
“How did the cops learn about the murder?” she asked. “I don’t know. I couldn’t very well ask. Anyway, while I waited for Gootsie to get his boat, I thought I’d better rent one of these cabins. Just in case.” Her face was pale and touched with anger. “If you want to borrow the car and try the highway, go ahead. You won’t last long. Your only chance is to hide out here, where they won’t dream of looking for you. That was all I had in mind. By tomorrow, things may cool off enough so that you can give yourself up, without getting shot on sight. Jay Stone was pretty important. I don’t have to tell you that. There are a lot of hotheaded officers who will be feeling pretty hipped on capturing or killing his murderer. For tonight, the impression I got from the local man is that they’ll shoot first and ask questions afterward.”
Her voice quivered with her anger, and Cornell was silent. The soft flutter of insect wings was the only sound to be heard. There was a light in one of the cabins at the far end of the row, but those on either side of the one where they stood were dark, although not empty. Cars were parked beside them, too. He shook his head and grinned.
“Do you have the key?”
“Here,” she said, and handed it to him.
“Let’s go in.”
The cottage was surprisingly clean and cozy inside. There was a small brick fireplace and a stack of cord-wood, new maple furniture with bright chintz that matched the window drapes, a tiny pullman kitchen, and a small bath with a shower stall. Sally snapped on a lamp and did a pleased pirouette.
“All the comforts of home,” she said. “You see?”
“I see,” Cornell nodded.
He looked at the sofa bed and then at the angular chairs. Sally grinned. “You don’t have to be chivalrous, you know.”
“I hate to get you into this,” Cornell said.
“It’s better than jail, isn’t it?”
She had a point there, he admitted. After the first moment, Sally didn’t look at him directly. She busied herself with kitchen utensils, and presently he smelled fresh coffee. He didn’t bother to ask where she had arranged for supplies. He had the feeling that questions were useless. The girl had her plans all made and was acting along their direct lines. She would tell him about them whenever she deemed it convenient, and it was a relief to let everything go and ride along with the tide.
She was competent enough. It seemed only a moment before she turned away from the tiny stove and brought him coffee. The soft lamp made her look good, clean and fresh and friendly. He saw that her eyes were a blue-green, intelligent and humorous, and again he had the impression that she was not at all as plain as she pretended to be. Then he remembered the absurd coincidence of their meeting on the trolley that afternoon, and caution touched him, because he knew now, more than ever, that Sally Smith was not a coincidence at all.
“This will perk you up,” she said. “I practically live on coffee, myself.”
The hot liquid cleared some of the cobwebs from his mind.
“Questions?” she asked, and smiled.
“Lots of them.”
“Can they keep until morning, Barney?”
He said, “Look, Sally, I just don’t understand, that’s all.”
“About me?”
“Yes. About you. Everything. Being here.”
“It’s really simple,” she said. “I told you before, I just wanted to help you. As for Gootsie Thomas, I knew him a long, long time ago. That is, my father knew him. Gootsie was always fond of me, in a big-brother way. There’s nothing really mysterious about our finding you tonight. We had the advantage of being offshore and watching them chase you. It was easy to figure your direction just by watching the lights. We were lucky to pick you up before the cops caught you, that’s all.”
“How much does Gootsie know? Does he
know who I am?”
“I told him you were my husband.”
Cornell grinned. “But with the cops plainly after me—”
“Gootsie has no love for cops,” Sally said briefly. She finished her coffee and picked up his cup and took them both to the kitchen side of the room. Cornell watched her straight back and shoulders. His vision blurred for a moment, and he felt exhaustion creep into the corners of his mind. The girl went briefly from window to window, tightening the blinds. When she came back, she said, “You’re more knocked out than I am. The rest of your questions can wait.” Then her voice became oddly tender. “Don’t worry about me, Barney. Please. You say you didn’t kill Jason Stone, and I believe you.”
“But suppose I did?” he asked.
She said, “It wouldn’t make any difference. None at all. And now I’m going to bed. Do you mind?”
He got up and opened the sofa bed, limped to the chest of drawers, and got out sheets and blankets. He felt half blind with fatigue, now that the reaction was setting in. All his thoughts stuck together and lacked coherent force. He was aware of Sally Smith undressing, of her quick, silken movements, the splash of water in the shower. He lit a cigarette and walked to the door and looked out at Pheeney’s Landing. The neon sign had been switched off over Kelly’s Bar. The juke box was silent. The wide Chesapeake shone dimly under the starlit sky beyond the cove entrance. There was no one in sight.
He turned when the light clicked out and he heard her scramble into bed. He lit another cigarette, and in the tiny flare of the match he saw that she had the blankets drawn up to her chin. Her long hair was in chestnut braids, and her eyes watched him with a wide, solemn wisdom that went beyond her previous amusement. He limped to one of the chairs and eased himself down in it, found an ash tray, and tried to make himself comfortable.
Sally’s voice sounded small and far away in the dimness.
“Is that where you’re going to sleep?”
“Yes.”
“Good night, then.”
“Good night,” he said. And after a moment he added, “Thanks for everything, Sally.”
There was silence and darkness and the width of the strange room between them. And sleep would not come. Perhaps he was overtired, or else the events of the night had churned his nerves into raw and helpless confusion. Nothing during the war had been quite like this. His leg ached, and little stabs of pain needled his wrenched knee. He took off his shoes and coat and necktie and unbuttoned his collar. No matter how he tried, he could find no comfortable position for his leg. The chair creaked whenever he shifted his weight, although he tried to keep as silent as possible. His cigarette burned down and he lit another. Again, in the flare of the match, he looked across the room and saw Sally Smith, her eyes wide-open, watching him over the edge of the blanket.
“Barney?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“Are you worrying about her?”
“Who?”
“Kari Stone.”
So she knew about Kari. He was not surprised. Sally seemed to know a lot about him. When he did not reply, her voice came to him again.
“She’s all right, you know. Gootsie Thomas and I saw her car go by. She was with Paul Evarts. She got away, I guess.”
“Thanks,” he said.
There was silence.
He dragged on the cigarette, and the glow touched the hard line of his jaw and the angular planes of his Yankee face.
“Barney?”
“What is it?” he asked.
“Do you love her, Barney? Kari I mean. Very much?”
He didn’t know what to say.
“Do you, Barney?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
There was more silence. But he was aware of a change in the dark, cool atmosphere of the room. It seemed as if some tension had gone out of it. He shifted again in the chair, and because he was thinking of what Sally had said, he was careless about his knee. The muffled exclamation came from him involuntarily. He heard the quick rustle of the blankets through the stabbing pain that shot through him, then the quick pad of her bare feet as she came toward him.
“Are you all right?”
“I’ll be all right.”
He caught the scent of her hair as she bent over him. Her voice was impatient. “Barney, this is silly. You’ve got to be comfortable. In the morning, I’ll do what I can for your knee, but if I keep the light on at this hour, somebody might get to wondering. You take the bed. Let me help you.”
The room was too dark for him to make her out. But when her arm went around him, the touch of her body was like an electric shock. She was nude. Her skin was like cool silk under his fingers. He started to draw away, limping toward the bed, acutely aware of her beside him. He was grateful for the cool comfort of the sheets when he sank down on them. Sally drew away then and he listened to her circle the bed and then he felt the movement of the covers as she slipped in on the other side. She didn’t touch him again. But her voice sounded very near, though disembodied in the almost total darkness between them.
“I don’t care what you think about me, Barney. Not that it isn’t important, because it is. I want you to think well of me. But I don’t care, for tonight. I know you’re wondering how I know so much about you, and why I’m doing this. I’ve read about you, and I’ve seen your pictures in the papers, and I know that Stone made up a tissue of lies about you. So you see, it’s not as if we were complete strangers who met for the first time today. I don’t feel that way about it at all.”
“I don’t understand,” he said slowly. His voice was quiet, addressing the dark ceiling. “Why are you interested in helping me at all?”
“I suppose I’ve got to tell you,” she whispered.
“Tell me what?”
“That because I used to watch you so much—even though you never knew I was alive—I fell in love with you. Is that too silly? And I’m in love with you now.”
It was as if she had reached and touched his heart. He had been thinking of her, and wanting her, and suddenly her words seemed to make the darkness light.
“Sally?” he whispered.
She didn’t answer. He reached out for her then, wanting her with a sudden fierce desire that shook him. She didn’t move. He listened to her breathing, light and steady, and grinned in wry amazement into the darkness. She had turned her back on him and gone to sleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HE AWOKE at dawn, although afterward he had to think back and remember carefully to be sure he hadn’t dreamed the awakening. There was a gray, pearly mist outdoors, and the cabin was still in deep darkness. When he moved, a twinge of pain shot through his knee, and a mutter of annoyance escaped him. He was aware of something desperately wrong, of a drastic change in the pattern of his life. For several moments he could recall nothing. He looked up at the wallboard ceiling of the cabin, and it was all unfamiliar to him, frightening, because he could not remember how he’d got here or where this place was. His confusion lasted for only a moment. When memory flooded back, he moved again, aware of the pain-full stiffness in his body. Alarm tingled in his nerves.
Sally was a soft, curved shape, all pink and ivory, in the pearly shadows beside him.
“Barney?” she whispered. “It’s all right.”
The alarm died in him. He stared at her as she leaned on an elbow, watching him. Her eyes were compassionate.
“How long have you been awake?” he asked.
“Since it grew light.”
“An hour?”
“I guess so.”
He could see the softness of her, and was suddenly conscious of himself, of the aches in his ribs and thighs. Her hand smoothed back his thick dark hair, and her fingers were tender. Wake up, Cornell, he told himself. This is the sort of thing you used to dream about as a kid. It would have to happen, he thought, when he ached in every bone, when alarm churned inside him. He remembered how she had turned away from him before. He remembered other things, too—about Kari
and Paul and the café where they had met yesterday. He felt a sudden overpowering need to clear things up inside him. Sally’s face was waiting, somehow innocent, blended with an eternal wisdom in her eyes. He turned toward her with a quick fierceness that brooked no resistance. There was a moment when her lips and her body were cool and uncertain; and then he was met with warmth and softness, and he felt no twinge in his knee when he moved toward her again…
Later, when he awoke again, he wondered if it had all been a dream. The cabin was empty. Sunlight poured through the horizontal slats of the Venetian blinds and shone quietly on the floor. From outside came the throb of an outboard motor and the shrill cry of children at play. A short-wave radio squawked and rattled from a cabin farther down the line. There was nothing to be alarmed about.
Cornell looked at his knee. It was discolored and somewhat swollen, and there was an uncomfortable stiffness in it. Yet despite the knee and his memories, he felt unusually well.
“Sally?” he called.
There was no answer. The bath stood open and empty. He wondered at his lack of alarm over her absence. By all the rules, he ought to get up and get out of here—fast.
Swinging his legs off the bed, he tested his weight. The knee was tender and painful. But remembering the nightmare pursuit by the police last night, he felt he was lucky to escape with such minor damage. He could walk, even though he limped. He wondered where Sally had gone. He didn’t think she was gone for good. No matter how she fitted into the scrambled pattern of murder, he didn’t think she intended to desert or betray him.
Coffee was perking on the electric stove, and a cup and saucer were set out for him. There was also a note on Excelsior Tourist Cabin stationery, which read: “Have gone scouting. Hold the fort until I get back.” It was signed, “Pocahontas.” He grinned and poured his coffee and wondered when she had got up.
A shower made him feel considerably better. The hot water soothed his aches and bruises. Looking at himself in the little mirror, he decided that aside from the stubble of his beard, he did not look much like a fugitive. His lean face, with its trace of Narraganset ancestry mingled with his Connecticut forebears, was just an average American face. He combed his thick hair with his fingers and made himself as presentable as he could.
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