It's a Sin to Kill

by Keene, Day

  The pull of the tide was too strong. The barnacles were too sharp. Now she was out from under the pier. The tide was hurrying her toward the distant line of white breakers and rip tides, where the swirling waters of the pass poured into the Gulf.

  Mary Lou turned on her back and floated until she could breathe normally again. This was the route Helene Camden’s body had been meant to travel. But the blonde woman had been dropped two hours later when the tide had begun to slacken.

  Mary Lou unbuckled her wide belt and let it drop away from her body. She kicked off her shoes then fought her way out of her dress. Now she could swim. She turned on her side. The breakers were closer now. Once the rip tides caught her, she would be helpless. She kicked out strongly, forcing her body through the water, swimming to the right obliquely. If she could bring up on the hook, she could wade ashore from there. Even at high tide, less than three feet of water washed over the bar.

  She swam for what seemed hours, not daring to rest or float. She tried a crawl then a side stroke, alternating between the two in an attempt to conserve her strength. Then one of her thrashing arms struck bottom. She was on the bar. Mary Lou lowered her bare feet to the sand and stood a long time, panting, sobbing with relief, fighting the pull of the tide. Then she waded ashore through waist-deep water, pausing from time to time to rest or glance at the sweep of headlights, as an occasional car crossed the now distant bridge.

  She didn’t know who had struck her. She didn’t care. That was for Sheriff White to determine. Only one thing was clear. Charlie hadn’t killed Helene Camden. Helene Camden had been killed by a man or a woman willing to kill a second time to cover up the first murder that he or she had committed.

  When she reached the beach, Mary Lou sat on the sand until her legs and arms stopped trembling. The sand still retained some of the heat of the day but the night wind was cool on her bare flesh. She got to her feet and walked along the beach, chafing her arms and thighs to warm them. She didn’t dare go back to the Sally for a dress. She couldn’t go into town as she was.

  There was a line of unlighted rental cottages on the hook. She cut in closer to them. Most of them had clotheslines strung from their porches to a wind-blown palm or stunted Australian pine tree. Most of the clotheslines were draped with damp bathing suits. Mary Lou picked one that she thought would fit her and found an almost dry white terry cloth robe.

  She struggled into the bathing suit and zipped it, then put on the white robe. It was damp but it cut off the wind. She could return them in the morning.

  The important thing right now was for her to contact Sheriff White and tell him what had happened to her….

  • • •

  There were lights in the lobbies of the hotels, in the Owl Diner, in the railroad station and in the all-night filling station on Fourth Street, but for the most part, Palmetto City slept. The long rows of green benches were deserted. With the exception of an occasional police cruiser and the Street Department crews sweeping and hosing down the streets, there was little vehicular or pedestrian traffic.

  There were also lights in the Palmetto City police station. In the small back room of the station, reserved for county use, Sheriff White lighted a fresh cigar as he got to his feet.

  His voice was unutterably weary. “Okay. Have it your way, Charlie. It’s your story and you’re stuck with it. But for my money, the whole affair stinks. I’ve a feeling we’re being diddled.” The aged sheriff was indignant. “Why, that smooth son-of-a-bitch of a Camden didn’t feel as bad about his wife being daid as I would about losin’ a five dollar bill.”

  “Not as bad,” Gilmore said. “And that Ferris fellow is a booger, too. ‘Attorney Ferris or Counsellor’ he tells me.”

  State’s Attorney Keely grinned. “Well, you told him off, John.”

  “I did at that,” Gilmore said. “But the thing that got me the hottest under the collar was the way Camden acted about the ring. ‘You’ll probably have to cut it off,’ he says. ‘But when you do, be careful with it. That ring’s worth eighteen thousand dollars.’”

  Keely continued to grin. “You saw her. Why else would he marry her but for her money?” The State’s Attorney glanced at his watch and picked his hat from the desk. “Well, it’s getting on toward five. You boys can kick it around as long as you want to. I’m going home. The coroner’s jury voted to hold Ames for trial and there’s nothing we can do about it as long as he refuses to cooperate.”

  “Not a thing,” White agreed.

  Keely fitted his hat to his head. “I’ll draw up a true bill in the morning. When you going to move him, Bob?”

  White puffed at his cigar. “After I get some sleep.” He looked through the smoke at Ames. “Last chance, Charlie. Once I take you up to the county seat, the chances are you won’t leave there again until they take you to Raiford. You’re sure now that Mrs. Camden didn’t say anything about her husband?”

  It was an effort for Ames to speak. His voice was husky with fatigue. “Just what I’ve told you, Sheriff. She said he was flying down next week, that they were both much in need of a vacation and she thought it would be nice if she and Mr. Camden could return home via the inland waterway.”

  “Then you invited her aboard for a cup of coffee?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who made the coffee? You or Mrs. Camden?”

  “It was already made. I’d made it when I came in with my bait.”

  “So you had two cups of coffee with her and you don’t remember another thing until you came to, nekid in the cabin of the Sea Bird?”

  “That’s the way it happened.”

  “You do hit to her?”

  “You’ve seen her. You’ve seen Mary Lou.”

  Sheriff White pushed his hat on the back of his head. “It’s the goddamnedest thing I ever heard. If you’re lying you’re good at hit, Charlie. But your story jist don’t make sense.”

  In the doorway, Keely asked, “You found anyone yet who saw him board the Sea Bird with the Camden woman?”

  White shook his head. “Not yet. But that doesn’t mean a thing. The boys out on the beach stick tighter than beggar weed on a blue serge suit. Hell, effen half of them had seen him kill her, they’d still swear on a Bible that Charlie was fishing the twenty fathom bank at the time.”

  Biff Clymer, the desk sergeant, looked over the State’s Attorney’s shoulder. “Lady to see you, Sheriff.”

  “Who?”

  “Mary Lou Ames,” Clymer said.

  Keely stepped aside to allow Mary Lou to enter the smoke-filled room. She wrapped her borrowed terry cloth robe around her as though it were an evening cape and walked directly to the chair in which Ames was sitting.

  “I’m sorry, Charlie,” she said. “I mean about walking out on you. I didn’t really. I meant to stand by, honestly I did. Even before this happened. I sold the Sally to Ben to pay for a lawyer.” Mary Lou’s lower lip quivered. “And I put the money in the suitcase with your clothes and the elephant bank and the cup.” Reaction was setting in. Her body shook as with cold. “But I don’t know if it’s still there.”

  “What the hell?” Sheriff White said.

  Ames got to his feet and held her. “Honey.”

  The terry cloth robe fell open as Mary Lou pressed her cheek to his. “And I believe you, darling. I know you weren’t untrue to me. I know you didn’t kill Helene Camden.”

  Sheriff White’s eyes traveled slowly from Mary Lou’s bare feet up her shapely legs to her skimpy bathing suit and rested on her wet hair.

  Keely took off his hat and laid it on the desk. “I knew I should have gone home.”

  White touched Mary Lou’s shoulder. “What are you doing in that get-up? What happened to you, Mrs. Ames?”

  Mary Lou told him. “Someone tried to kill me.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How?”

  “They slugged me with a piece of pipe and threw me in the pass.”

  “You were wearing that
outfit when it happened?”

  “No. I was dressed to come down here. But the tide was running out. I had to take off my dress in order to reach the hook. So I borrowed this suit and robe from a line.”

  “Why?” White asked. “I mean, why were you slugged?”

  Mary Lou turned to face him. “I think because I found the cup.”

  “What cup?”

  “The cup Charlie drank the coffee out of.”

  “I see. And where did you find this cup?”

  “On the bottom of the basin, about twenty feet out from the Sally.”

  “You dove for it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it was missing when I went to pack the set. There were six saucers but only five cups.”

  Sheriff White took off his hat and ran a crooked forefinger around the leather sweatband. “You’re way over my head, Mrs. Ames. I don’t get this at all.”

  Coroner Gilmore got up from the chair in which he was sitting and offered it to Mary Lou. “What you have to tell us is pertinent to the charge against your husband?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gilmore indicated the chair again. “Then suppose you start at the beginning.”

  Mary Lou continued to cling to Ames. “Thank you. I’d rather stand.”

  Ames tightened his arm about her waist. “What’s this about a cup, honey?”

  “Well,” Mary Lou began. “Like I said, I sold the boat to Ben. For fifteen hundred dollars. Then while I was packing some clothes for you, I suddenly realized that you’d never lied to me, Charlie, that if you said the last thing you remembered was drinking a cup of coffee, that was the way it happened. Then when I went to pack the dishes, one of the cups was gone.”

  Keely was frankly skeptical. “So you dove for it in the middle of the night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if Charlie was drugged and whoever drugged him didn’t have time to wash the cup, the easiest way to dispose of it would be to throw it over the side. And I thought if I found the cup it still might have some trace of the drug in it.”

  “You found it on your first dive?”

  “No. I dove six or seven times.”

  “And then — ?”

  “I dried my hair and dressed. And I wrapped the cup in a towel and put it in the suitcase with Charlie’s clothes and the money.”

  “And started down here with it?”

  “Yes, sir. But I didn’t get here. When I got to the T of the pier someone hit me with a piece of pipe and threw me into the water.”

  “Was it a man or woman who hit you?”

  “I don’t know,” Mary Lou said. “But for some reason I’m under the impression it was a woman.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just an impression. All I saw was the pipe.”

  Keely looked at White. White returned his hat to his head. “I’ll be damned if I know what to think,” he admitted. “With your permission, Mrs. Ames.”

  Gently for so large a man, he parted Mary Lou’s matted hair and studied the back of her head.

  “Well?” Gilmore asked.

  “She’s been hit,” White told him. “Hard. Were you by any chance wearing a hat, Mrs. Ames?”

  “Yes. I was. A small white knitted one. It must have come off in the water.”

  “It and your hair are all that saved you,” White said. “She was struck at least twice,” he told Keely. “And both wounds could stand some attention.”

  Mary Lou shook her head. “Not until you find out if the suitcase is still on the pier. I was afraid to go back alone.”

  A moment of silence followed. Then Coroner Gilmore said, “At least it’s a new angle. Mrs. Ames thinks she was struck by a woman. That French maid who testified, what was her name, Celeste Montigny, is a mighty pretty little piece. What if she and Camden were having an affair and Mrs. Camden discovered it and threatened to cut him off at the pants pocket?”

  Some of the weariness left White’s face. “You know, you might have something there, John. A small-town sheriff, am I? Come on. Let’s all ride out to the basin.”

  Chapter Eight

  AMES RODE in the back seat of the car with Mary Lou on one side of him and Sheriff White on the other. He was tired but he no longer felt bitter. Mary Lou still loved him. She believed him. To the best of his knowledge, he hadn’t made love to or killed Helene Camden. This thing would work out somehow.

  The lights of Palmetto City dropped behind. The black silhouette of acres of palm trees replaced the orderly rows of small houses wearing scarlet flame vine and purple bougainvillea and yellow allamanda on their pastel colored walls. Patches of sand began to appear. Mangrove rose out of the swamps. The sweet-sour smell of the tide flats was strong. They crossed the long causeway to the beach.

  From the front seat of the car, Keely asked, “Did you notice anything strange about the taste of the coffee you say you drank, Ames?”

  Ames was truthful. “No. I always drink it without sugar and it’s always sort of bitter.”

  “Were you sick when you came to yesterday morning?”

  “Yes. I was.”

  “You threw up?”

  “Yes. For a long time.”

  “Did you have a metallic taste in your mouth?”

  “I did.”

  “It could have been chloral,” Gilmore said.

  Keely protested, “But if Camden and the French girl are in back of this, why only drug one cup? How was it introduced into the coffee? And where was Helene Camden all this time?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Gilmore admitted.

  Ames asked Mary Lou how she felt.

  “I feel fine,” Mary Lou said.

  “Your head doesn’t hurt?”

  “Not much.”

  “They’re minor lacerations,” White said. “She was struck jist hard enough to break the skin.”

  Ames squeezed Mary Lou’s hand. “You crazy kid. You might have been killed.”

  Mary Lou squeezed back. “But I wasn’t. I did damn near drown. I thought I’d never make the hook.”

  White lighted a fresh cigar. “You didn’t see whoever it was who struck you?”

  Mary Lou shook her head. “No. He came out from behind the piling after I’d passed it. I don’t know if he was tall or short or what he looked like.”

  “He?”

  “She, then.”

  “Your impression is it was a woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “You smell perfume or anything like that?”

  “No, sir.”

  They reached the east side of the pass and the uniformed deputy sheriff slowed down for the sharp turn onto the bridge. Morning was almost full. The catwalk on the bridge over the pass was already lined with optimistic early morning fishermen. All of them looked curiously at the blue and white police car.

  “Cut the lane back of Sheldon’s Ways,” White ordered the driver.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The deputy sheriff did as he’d been ordered and parked the cruiser on the edge of the basin. For a moment no one moved. The wind was from the east. The sweet-sour smell of the tide flats was stronger here. The only sound was the raucous squawking of a flight of greedy gulls fighting over the cut-up trash fish with which the bridge fishermen were chumming the water under their lines.

  “The mackerel must be running,” Keely said.

  “Must be,” White granted.

  A few of the boats showed lights as the captains with charters got breakfast, checked their bait and went over their gear and tackle.

  Sheriff White opened the door on his side. “Well, let’s git at it.”

  Mary Lou looked at the handcuffs encircling her husband’s wrists. “Does Charlie have to wear those?”

  “Yes,” Sheriff White said flatly.

  Keely and Gilmore got out. The driver stayed back of the wheel to listen to the crackle of the two-way radio. Ames followed White from the car. He knew what White
was thinking now that the elderly man’s enthusiasm to prove he wasn’t a small-town sheriff was beginning to wear off. Mary Lou’s story was too pat, too providential, too theatrical. It was the sort of thing a girl vocalist at the Beach Club would think up to attempt to pry a former hot trumpet player out of a murder rap. It was cloak and dagger stuff. Such things seldom happened in real life. Now that his first flush of enthusiasm was wearing thin, White was reverting to his original opinion. He and Helene Camden had gotten drunk together. They’d moved the party to the Sea Bird. Sometime during the night they’d quarreled and he had killed her. So she’d been forty and fat. To a drunken man all women are attractive. Then there was the five thousand dollars. The money was still to be explained. The hell of it was White was a small-town sheriff. Keely was a small-town prosecutor. And while Gilmore might be a capable justice of the peace, he was way over his head in his dual capacity as coroner.

  White led the way out on the pier. The battered leather suitcase was still where Mary Lou had dropped it. She opened it with trembling fingers and checked the contents. The fifteen hundred dollars was still under Charlie’s shirts. The elephant bank with almost eight hundred dollars in it hadn’t been touched. But the towel-wrapped cup was gone.

  None of the four men spoke. Still kneeling, Mary Lou said, “Whoever tried to kill me took the cup.”

  “Why?” White asked.

  Mary Lou said, “Maybe he was afraid a laboratory analysis would show some trace of whatever was used to drug Charlie.”

  Sheriff White’s, “Could be,” was noncommittal.

  Ames could read the doubt in his eyes. Here we go again, he thought.

  Mary Lou said, “You don’t believe me. But there was a cup. I found it on the bottom of the basin, in about two fathoms. And I wrapped it in a towel and put it in the suitcase.”

  “An’ started to town with the suitcase when some someone, you don’t really know if it was a man or a woman, hit you with a piece of pipe and rolled you into the basin.”

  Mary Lou shook her head. “No. They must have rowed me out to the middle of the pass while I was still unconscious. The tide wouldn’t have sucked me out of the basin that fast.”