by Keene, Day
“You’re sure Mary Lou is still in Palmetto City, that they haven’t taken her up to Sweetwater?”
Roberts shook his head. “No. I ain’t sure. But she was, the last time I heard. Up to six this evenin’ they hadn’t even held the inquest on the maid. Your bustin’ away fixed that. White swears he’s agoin’ t’ git you effen he has t’ comb the whole county inch by inch.”
“He may at that,” Ames said.
He was sorry he’d taken the two drinks he had. He hadn’t eaten for so long he couldn’t remember the last time. The two drinks had hit him hard. He could feel the whiskey roaring in his head and he wanted his head to be clear.
“You wouldn’t have any coffee, would you, Shep?”
“I got some cold in the pot. You want me to heat it up?”
“No. Cold will do.”
Shep disappeared into the cabin of the cruiser and reappeared with a mug of cold coffee. Ames drank it, studying the shore line. Lights showed in the back doors of Harry’s Bar and Murphy’s Pharmacy, in the Fisherman’s Lunch, in the Spot. There was a light in Ben Sheldon’s office. The fish house was dark. He couldn’t tell if the Camden house was lighted. He thought it was. He thought he could see a dim light through the trees.
Ames drained the cold coffee in the mug and handed the mug back to Roberts. “Well, thanks. Thanks a lot for everything, Shep.”
“Forget it.”
Ames climbed up on the rail and stood with one foot on the rail of the Falcon and the other foot on the rail of the last commercial fishing boat in the line. “You’d better get back to your berth. They’ll throw the book at you, Shep, if they find out you helped me.”
“Let ‘em,” the aging guide whispered. “I’ll read it whilst I’m a-settin’. I’ve always wanted t’ read a book.” He restated his position. “No. Like I tol’ Mary Lou in Harry’s. I’ve known you man and boy, Charlie. You got disappointed in what you wanted to do for a livin’. You could ‘a’ let it make you bitter or uppity like some folks I could name. But you didn’t. You settled down t’ cut bait or fish. You’ve been jest one of the boys. An’ like I tol’ Mary Lou last night, you might cut a man t’ death. You might steal five thousand dollars. Hell. Who wouldn’t? You might even shoot a woman. But you wouldn’t rate Mary Lou so low as t’ be found daid in baid with a bag like that Camden woman.”
Ames squeezed his shoulder. “Thanks, Shep.”
Roberts called after him softly, “I’ll be right here effen you want to come back the same way.”
The Rupert outfit was a large concern. Most of the fleet was in. There were fourteen boats of varying sizes nosed to the long wooden pier. Ames considered climbing up on the pier. It was unlighted. He could make much better time on the pier than he could by scrambling from boat to boat. On the other hand, if there was a stake-out in the cockpit of the Sally, he would take a chance on being seen. A moving man would be dimly visible against the sky line. He rejected the idea. It didn’t matter how long it took him to reach shore. He wasn’t going anywhere.
Some of the boats were rubbing fenders. There were wide gaps of deep water between others and Ames had to haul on their creaking mooring lines until his wet clothes lost their clammy feeling and became drenched with sweat. His long sleep had rested him. The coffee had helped tone down the whiskey. He felt fine physically.
If only he could beat or frighten the truth out of Camden!
So Celeste was dead. So Camden hadn’t been having an affair with her. There had to be some other woman involved. It had been a woman who had tried to kill Mary Lou. At least, that was Mary Lou’s impression. Now that he’d had some rest, Ames was able to think clearly. He could see things in their proper proportions.
Upon his awakening the cabin of the Sea Bird had showed all the touches of a woman’s fine hand: the beaten up bunk he had occupied; the strapless gown lying in a crumpled heap on top of the unrumpled spread on the opposite bunk; the hose turned inside out; the sheer scanties lying beside the dress; the empty whiskey bottle rolling between the bunks; the smears of lipstick intimately and personally applied.
The stage setting had almost convinced him he’d been untrue to Mary Lou. It would convince any man. Only a woman could have staged the scene, a woman who had been a participant in many similar scenes. In other words, a bitch.
Ames hauled the boat in which he was standing close to the next one nearer shore and scrambled over the rails.
His mind raced on. Camden was a ladies’ man. The Florida beaches swarmed with his type every season — young, good-looking men who had married older women with money. Young men who drooled over the contents of the bobby-soxers’ Bikini bathing suits while they danced studied attention on their own sagging meal tickets.
Only Camden had tired of his bargain. If he lived with the blonde career woman for another thirty years, all he would get under the terms of their pre-marital agreement was twenty-five thousand dollars, his wife’s ring and the Florida communal property, the whole amounting to ninety-three thousand dollars.
Ames added an item he hadn’t taken into consideration before. There was the Sea Bird. The Sea Bird was registered out of Tampa. That added to the list of things Camden would inherit. Even at a forced sale, the forty-eight foot, Diesel-powered, all mahogany luxury cruiser would bring twenty or twenty-five thousand dollars. That built the total of what Camden stood to gain to one hundred and thirteen thousand dollars.
The corners of Ames’s mouth turned down. One hundred and thirteen thousand dollars minus the five thousand that had been stuffed into the hip pocket of his dungarees to make certain that the sacrificial goat would be burned.
Ames wished he could talk to Mary Lou for five minutes. Possibly she’d seen Camden at the Beach Club with some other woman. Sooner or later, all the cheating couples on the beach dropped into the Beach Club for a quick one. It had been one of the reasons why he had objected to her singing there.
Ames stopped to pant for breath. There was only one more boat between him and the shore now. He eased himself up on the pier and bear-crawled the rest of the way. He’d been right about the possibility of there being a stake-out on the Sally. Sheriff White had left a guard. Ames could see the red glow of a cigarette in the cockpit of the boat he had formerly owned.
Stopped by the wall of the fish house, Ames stood with his back pressed to the unlighted building, his arms outspread, his palms pressed flat to the wood, as he visually reconnoitered the Camden grounds and the intervening piers. As far as he could tell by starlight, there was no one on any of the piers. The Camden house was lighted. He could see the white glow of a lamp throwing a path of light between the smooth boles of the royal palm trees in the yard.
Ames sidled around the corner of the fish house, away from the deputy in the cockpit of the Sally and started to jump off the loading platform when he smelled the fragrance of a good cigar. The fat ship chandler saw him at the same time he saw Sheldon. Sheldon was sitting on the edge of the platform, obviously studying the Camden grounds.
Ames thrust his hand into his right coat pocket. His throat constricted with disappointment.
Sheldon said, “I’ll be damned. I thought Bob White’s boys had you holed up on Pine Key. The last I heard, some fish hog reported seeing you wade ashore. Anyway, a man in a white cap.”
It was an effort for Ames to speak. “What are you doing here, Ben?”
“Studying the Sea Bird,” the fat man said. “Nice lines in her, huh? I’ve been wondering what Camden would take for her. If he’s pushed for ready cash, as I hear he is, could be I can get her cheap.”
Ames gripped the butt of the gun in his pocket. He was interested in only one thing. “Well, what are you waiting for? Why don’t you yell for the law?”
Sheldon took the cigar from his mouth. “Why should I? What am I, a cop?” He fished his handkerchief from a capacious side coat pocket and wiped his face and the back of his neck with it. “Believe me, I have enough troubles of my own.”
Ames wished he k
new what to do. The fat man was a development he hadn’t expected. He wished he knew if he could trust Ben. It could be Sheldon was telling the truth. He could be studying the Sea Bird. He could be watching the Camden house for some other reason. He could be waiting in the dark of the fish house loading platform for some woman who had no right to meet him.
Sheldon broke the brief silence that followed. “Look, Charlie. I’ll make a bargain with you.”
“What kind of a bargain?”
“I haven’t seen you, you haven’t seen me.” He returned his cigar to his mouth. “You mind your business, I’ll mind mine.”
“You won’t yell for the law?”
“I answered that one before.”
“I can trust you?”
Sheldon spoke around his cigar. “I don’t know what else you can do. You’re in a bad spot, boy.”
Ames realized he was panting. “Yes. A bad spot.” He hesitated, asked, “You think I did it, Ben?”
“You mean, kill Mrs. Camden?”
“Yes.”
The fat man shook his head. “No.”
“You know who did it?”
“I’m studying on it,” Sheldon admitted.
Ames stood a moment longer, uncertain just what to do, then he jumped from the loading platform and walked, stiff-kneed, along the edge of the basin. When he reached the next pier he looked back. Ben Sheldon was still sitting on the platform of the fish house. Ames could see the glowing tip of his cigar.
Ames ducked under the pier and walked on. There was a dry rustling on the sand as a swarm of fiddler crabs scurried out of his way, then stood on the rims of their holes waving their pincers at him. He passed two more piers. The next one, with the railing, jutted out from the Camden grounds. At the end of it the Sea Bird rose and fell gracefully in the small wash of a passing runabout.
Ames turned and looked back at the dim silhouette of the fish house. If Ben Sheldon was studying the Sea Bird, the ship chandler had good eyes.
Ames began to sweat again. He wanted to turn back, but the only way he could go was on. The tide washed higher here. He had to wade through knee deep water to get under the Camden pier. On the far side of the pier, he stood on the lip of the bay and studied the palm studded lawn. There was no sound, no motion, no tell-tale cigarette glow. This was the one place White wouldn’t expect him to come.
He crossed the sand where Celeste’s body had lain and made his way cautiously across the lawn, moving from shrub to shrub, keeping out of the path of light made by the lamp in the window.
There was a huge red hibiscus bush in one corner of the open patio. Ames stood behind it and looked into the lighted living room. Camden, dressed in gray flannel slacks and a green silk sports shirt, was sprawled in an easy chair. There was a half-filled bottle of whiskey on the end table and, standing beside the bottle of whiskey, the framed picture of a woman.
Ames’s pulse beat a little faster. He tried to see the woman’s face and couldn’t. The glass reflected the lamp light and formed a glare that blotted out her features. He returned his attention to Camden. Camden’s too-long hair was combed, he was shaved, but the expression on his face hadn’t changed. He was still completely unconcerned. So his wife was dead. So?
Ames left the shelter of the bush and walked around the house. The living room was the only one lighted. He looked in the carport next. Helene Camden’s flashy convertible and the Ford station wagon that Phillips had driven to the inquest were gone. It could mean that Ferris and the butler were in town. Ames hoped it did.
He tried the back screen door. The door was unlocked and it opened under his hand. He stood in the dark kitchen a moment, listening. The only sounds he could hear were the faint whirring of an electric clock and the almost as faint purr of traffic on the beach road.
He walked through the kitchen and down a long hall with closed doors on both sides. The hall angled right and opened into a large sunroom that, in turn, opened into the living room.
Ames stood in the doorway a long time before Camden saw him. When he did, the other man got to his feet and stood in front of his chair. It was an effort for him to stand. He had trouble focusing his eyes. He was drunk, much drunker than he looked. He was also very amused.
“Well, whash you know,” Camden said, finally. “If it isn’t Helene’s homicidal boy frien’. So they got you, huh?”
Ames lighted a cigarette, sucked the smoke deep into his lungs and exhaled slowly before he spoke. “Where’s Ferris and the butler?”
“Gone into town,” Camden said. “T make arrangements ‘bout Helene an’ Celeste.” His amused smile turned slightly uncertain as his eyes searched the dark sunroom behind Ames. “Where’s the police with you? Where’s Sheriff White?”
Ames crossed the room and pushed Camden back in his chair. “I’m certain I wouldn’t know.”
The framed picture was facing the other way. Ames picked it up, then set it down again. He’d never been so disappointed.
It was a picture of Helene Camden.
Chapter Fourteen
CAMDEN TRIED to get out of the chair into which he’d been pushed. Ames pushed him back.
“Sit still. I want to talk to you.”
“Where’re the police with you?” Camden repeated.
Ames shook his head. “There aren’t any police with me.”
Camden licked at his whiskey-puffed lips as he digested the information. “There aren’t any police with you? You’re all by yourself?”
“That’s right.”
Camden reached for the bottle on the end table and Ames took it out of his hand. “Uh-uh, you’ve had enough.”
He kicked an ottoman up to the chair and sat facing the other man. “Who’s your girl friend, Hal? That is your first name, isn’t it?”
Camden continued to try to see past Ames. “Yesh. Thash my name. My name ish Hal.”
“All right,” Ames said. “I’m waiting.”
Camden looked at him stupidly. “For what?”
“The name of your girl friend.”
“What girl friend?”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Ames said. He slapped Camden’s face, hard. “You’re not that drunk or are you? Okay. Let’s start all over. Who killed Helene?”
“I’m pretty drunk,” Camden admitted.
Ames repeated patiently, “Who killed Helene?”
Camden’s stolid face brightened. “You did.”
Ames slapped him again. “That’s a lie!”
Camden felt his face. “You hit me.”
“I’ll hit you again. With my fist next time. Who killed Helene?”
“The hell with you,” Camden said. He got to his feet and added with drunken dignity, “You got no right in here. You got no right t’ question me. You’re nothing but a dirty killer.” He took a few uncertain steps away from the chair.
“Where you think you’re going?” Ames asked.
Camden answered with drunken determination, “I’m goin’ to call the police.”
Ames stood up. “Oh, no. Not until I’m through with you. You’ve put me through hell. You’ve involved my wife in this thing. Now it’s my turn. Who’s the other woman?”
“What other woman?”
“The woman who killed Helene and pinned it on me. The woman who tried to kill Mary Lou. The woman who did kill Celeste.”
Camden brushed Ames’s hand off his arm. “Go away. I don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout.”
“I’ll bet.”
Ames realized that his fingers were clenched into fists and that he was breathing through his mouth. He opened his fists and forced himself to breathe normally. He couldn’t afford to lose his head now. He had too much at stake and this was his last chance. Unless he could get Camden to talk, he was sunk.
Camden staggered on toward the other side of the living room. Ames walked with him, studying the cosmetic executive’s face. The big man wasn’t pretending he was drunk. He was drunk. He’d probably been drinking hard ever since his plane had l
anded at the Tampa airport. More, he hadn’t been too bright to begin with. His utter lack of concern was as much stupidity as it was absence of emotion. Helene Camden hadn’t married him for his brains.
Ames remembered something Ben Sheldon had said. When he’d asked Ben what he was doing sitting in the dark, the fat man had told him, Studying the Sea Bird. Nice lines in her, huh? I’ve been wondering what Camden would take for her. If he’s pushed for ready cash, as I hear he is, could be I can get her cheap.”
Ames said, “Sort of convenient your wife died when she did, eh, Hal?”
“Mr. Camden to you,” Camden said.
“But it was convenient?”
“Thash my business.”
There was a phone in a niche in the wall. Camden attempted to lift it from its cradle and Ames pushed him. “Uh-huh. Not until we got through talking.”
Camden’s plump cheeks mottled with anger. “Goddamn you,” he swore. His big fists flailing air, he rushed Ames.
Ames gave ground. Then coldly deliberate, he smashed a hard right to Camden’s jaw that stopped the big man as if he’d run into a wall. Camden’s eyes glazed. His knees sagged. He knelt on the floor, then fell face forward and lay with one arm extended.
Ames rubbed his fist with the palm of his other hand, fighting a desire to be sick. He hadn’t meant to hit Camden so hard. All he’d wanted to do was keep him away from the phone and perhaps sober him a trifle. Now Camden wasn’t going to tell him anything.
He squatted on the floor beside Camden and lighted another cigarette from the stub of the one he was smoking. Camden had to talk. Ames realized his hands were shaking again.
He slapped Camden’s face lightly. “Hey, you.”
The big man continued to lie motionless. Ames felt Camden’s pulse. It was steady. The amount of whiskey he’d consumed was contributing as much to his unconsciousness as the blow. Ames pulled the unconscious man to a sitting position.
