Don’t Crowd Me Read online

  EARLY BIRD BOOKS

  FRESH EBOOK DEALS, DELIVERED DAILY

  BE THE FIRST TO KNOW—

  NEW DEALS HATCH EVERY DAY!

  Don’t Crowd Me

  Ed McBain writing as Evan Hunter

  MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

  THE TIME OF MY LIFE!

  There were dozens of islands on Lake George

  where I could have spent my vacation.

  But I had to pick Little Harbor.

  There were girls there, the man said.

  I found that out the first night. One came out

  of the water and up onto my dock and

  practically all that covered her beautiful body

  were glistening drops of Lake George.

  I’d have fun there, the man said.

  I did. That first night. Her name turned

  out to be Lois and she needed a man with a

  desperation I’d never known before.

  You’ll never forget this vacation, the man

  said. I won’t. Not after Lois turned

  up dead in my bed.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I went to Lake George because I had two weeks and two hundred bucks, and I wanted to spend them on an island. Not that I don’t like people, or that I’ve got anything against civilization. It’s just that I wanted peace, complete peace, away from the neon brilliance of New York, away from everything and everybody I knew. Just for two weeks, that’s all.

  Then I’d go back to the business again, back to Joey and his corny jokes and Mike with his nude girls lining the edge of his drawing board. Two rooms we had, and we called them an advertising agency. Stevens Advertising Agency was the name, and we got it by adding an S to my first name. I wrote all the copy and handled visiting clients. Joe hustled new clients. We’d hired Mike as Art Director, and we set up a drawing board with a fluorescent lamp over it, bought him some brushes and paint pots, and gave him a corner near the window. The business was growing, bursting its way out of the two rooms. It was a thriving little affair. It was also a headache.

  Sometimes a guy can get a bellyful of smiling at idiotic clients, explaining the difference between live copy that sings, and the dead drivel a cousin of the president is turning out for the firm. It was a goddamned rat race, and I was away from it. For two weeks in the middle of August.

  You drive to Bolton Landing, and you take your choice. Bolton Landing is a thriving town with all the usual features: the bus stop, the bars, the movie house, the candy store, the restaurant; every small town has them. This town also had natives who depended largely on the summer trade for their livelihoods. That meant they took all they could get. And they usually can get plenty.

  The choice involves renting your site from several guys who have the island leased from the government. The prices are the same and it doesn’t really matter which guy you choose because, I discovered later, they’re all hungry anyway. I chose a place called Paradise, Incorporated.

  The guy I spoke to was tall and tanned, and there were deep furrows spreading from the edges of his eyes. The eyes were slate grey and they were set in a young, good-looking face. There was an athletic huskiness about the guy, and a cigarette that never left his lips until it was ready to be put out. He brought me into the little office on the lakefront, a cubbyhole crowded with outboard motors, coils of heavy rope, canoe paddles, and the smell of grease and gasoline. A calendar hung on the wall alongside a picture of a nude girl under a waterfall by moonlight. A desk jutted out from one of the walls. He went behind the desk and asked how long I expected to be staying.

  “Two weeks,” I answered.

  The cigarette bounced between his lips as he spoke again. “All alone, or are you expecting somebody?”

  “All alone.”

  He nodded a little and said, “Twenty-five bucks a week,” and he eyed me as though he doubted I had fifty bucks.

  “That sounds all right,” I said.

  “In advance,” he added.

  “You natives don’t trust anyone, do you?”

  “I’m not a native,” he answered, smiling a little.

  “Oh?”

  “Never even heard of Lake George until I bought this place some three years ago.”

  I looked around the office appreciatively, my business head replacing my vacation ideas for a moment. “Must be a thriving little setup,” I offered.

  “There are worse businesses,” he agreed, still smiling. “There are better ones, too.”

  I nodded, and he seemed to remember my comment on his wanting payment in advance.

  “We have to take it in advance,” he said. “Lots of dead beats, you understand.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I understand.”

  “You want a canoe or an outboard?” he asked.

  “What do you suggest?”

  He shrugged. “The canoe is twelve bucks a week. The outboard is twenty-five.”

  “You’d suggest the outboard, I guess.”

  “Take what you like,” he said, the cigarette bobbing. “If you like exercise, take the canoe. If you like a beer on the mainland every now and then, I’d suggest the outboard. Thirteen bucks ain’t gonna make us or break us.”

  “I’ll take the outboard,” I said.

  “Okay. That’s seventy-five bucks. You want us to carry you out on the speedboat, or you want to try it alone in the dark?” The way he said it, I had visions of drowning out there alone in the dark.

  “How much is the speedboat trip?”

  “Three bucks is all. One way.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Three bucks ain’t gonna make me or break me.”

  He cocked an eyebrow and looked at me briefly. Then he dropped his gaze to the pad on which he was adding the figures.

  “You got blankets?”

  “Nope.”

  “Buck apiece,” he said. “A week.”

  “Throw them in. Will I need anything else out there?”

  “Food. I hope you can cook. Each site has a cooktent with a kerosene stove. You drink water from the lake. There’s a commissary on Glen Island within rowing distance of any of the other islands. You’ll make it in three minutes with the outboard.”

  “How are prices on Glen Island?”

  “Same as on the mainland. You can get your stuff now and carry it out with you, or buy it there. Makes no difference.” He saw the question in my eyes. “Ike’s down the street is open. You can at least get some stuff for breakfast.”

  “Is the stove hard to work?”

  “Directions out there, fuel, pots, everything, all for the twenty-five. You won’t want to come back, brother, believe me.”

  “What does that come to?” I asked.

  He read the total from the pad. “Eighty-two bucks. I’m giving you two blankets. You’ll need them.”

  “Eighty-two,” I repeated, and a grin crossed his face.

  While he made out the receipt, he glanced up quickly and said, “Lots of girls out there on the islands.” He picked the cigarette from his lips, and his teeth flashed in a wide, pleasant grin. I looked into his slate grey eyes and scrutinized the browned, rugged planes of his face. I had no doubt whatever that he’d never had a bit of trouble with the girls out on the islands. In fact, I was willing to bet he’d never had trouble with any girl, anywhere.

  He wasn’t a Tyrone Power, you understand. But there was a suggestion of strength about him, a rugged power combined with an undertone of supreme confidence. Yeah, the girls probably stood on line for this guy.

  “Yep,” he repeated, as though I hadn’t heard him, “plenty of nice girls out there.”

  “Thanks,” I said, grinning back. “I may look some up. Right now I’m going to look up some eggs. Will the speedboat be ready when I get back?”

  “Sure thi
ng,” he said, placing his suntanned hands widespread on the desk. “I’ll get your outboard lashed down, and we’ll shove off when you get back.”

  “What island am I on?” I asked.

  “Little Harbor,” he answered. “You’re Site Number Two. Right across from Big Burnt. You’ll love it.”

  He paused. “You swim?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’ll love it,” he repeated.

  I bought eggs, coffee, some bacon, a loaf of pumpernickel, butter, and some sugar at Ike’s. When I yanked out my wallet, his eyes got bigger and he licked his lips eagerly. I peeled off three bucks and waited for my change. He seemed reluctant to part with any of the three. He put my change on the counter, grinned, and said, “See you,” when I walked out.

  I went back to Paradise, Incorporated, wondering whether Adam had paid so dearly for his paradise. The speedboat was waiting, its motor idling. I saw my outboard lashed on deck, and an old weatherbeaten guy who looked like a crooked piece of driftwood bent over the wheel. I waved to the guy who’d taken my money. He waved back and I shouted, “Who do I ask for if the plumbing leaks?”

  “Gandler is the name. Mark Gandler.”

  I nodded and stepped into the boat. The old guy pushed on the throttle and the boat sidled away from the dock. He nursed it into clear water and then gunned it forward. I felt the spray leap over the side and lash against my face. I licked my lips and smiled in the darkness. The old guy turned on a spotlight and focused it on the water just ahead. I looked back to see the lights of Paradise, Incorporated, fade away in the distance.

  And then we were in the middle of a black, fathomless pit, with the stars blinking down like hard, unsmiling eyes, and the sound of the engine’s hum in our ears, and the sting of the cold spray against our faces. I grinned in the darkness and watched the water ahead where the spotlight tickled it with yellow fingers.

  Lovely Lake George, I thought, my mind reverting to copy. Island Paradise.

  “You on Little Harbor, ain’t you?” the old guy asked.

  “Yep,” I answered, breathing deeply of the pine-scented air that drifted across the water.

  The old guy nodded and bent over the wheel again.

  “How far out is it?” I asked.

  “Ten minutes by speedboat. Half hour by outboard. Two hours by canoe.”

  “Will you pick me up when it’s time to come in?”

  “Sure. You’ll see me around. Just let me know when.”

  “Two weeks from today will be fine,” I said.

  With his face in shadow, almost as if he hadn’t heard me, he said, “Just let me know when you’re ready to leave.”

  A pinpoint of light appeared on the water ahead, and he swerved the boat sharply. We ran past the bobbing canoe as the couple in it shouted wildly, waving their flashlight in the air.

  “Damn canoes,” he muttered. “Some one of these nights they’re gonna get split right down the middle.”

  He cut the throttle and turned sharp on the wheel. He eased up to the shore. All I could make out was a big blob of black against the sky.

  “Hope you got a flash,” he said.

  “Aren’t there any lanterns?”

  “Sure. Need a flash to find ’em, though.”

  “I haven’t got one,” I admitted, reaching for my wallet.

  “Got a few spares,” he said reluctantly. “Let you have one for a buck.”

  I sighed deeply and drew a dollar from the wallet. He handed me the flash and I played it on the shore, spotlighting the narrow dock and the two canvas-topped wooden shacks.

  “I’ll help you with your boat,” he said. “Then you’re on your own.”

  We lifted the boat over the side and heard it plop into the water. He leaped to the dock and tied a line to one of the long poles supporting the planking. I stepped out with my two bags and my groceries, and he hopped back into the speedboat and waved in the darkness. I listened to him ease it away from the dock and then gun away, the roar of the engine filling the quiet night. I was on my own.

  It was black, blacker than anything I could remember. I heard singing from one of the other islands, soft and muted. I snapped the flash on and swung the beam around to one of the shacks. I picked up my bags and the groceries I’d bought. Then I kept the light on the ground as I walked and hoped I was heading for the cooktent. I was.

  It was rather large, with several work tables against the walls, an icebox with no ice in it, a hanging kerosene lamp, and a kerosene stove. Pots and pans hung from nails in the wall and there were several gallons of kerosene alongside the stove. I rested the flash on one of the tables and lifted a can. It was full, I satisfied myself. I stepped out of the tent and swung the light to the other cabin.

  When I reached it, I kicked open the door and peeked in. There was a pair of cots in the cabin, unmade, an end table between them, and a battered chair against one of the walls. The cabin was wood up to about a man’s waist. From there up, it became screening on a wooden frame. Outside the screening there was canvas that could be rolled up or down according to the weather. The roof was wood. I dropped my bags on one of the cots and closed the door as I stepped outside. Then I walked down toward the dock.

  I swung the flashlight over the edge of the dock, then in a semi-circle back toward the shore. I could see now why they called this island Little Harbor. My site was on the northern bank of a small inlet formed by two prongs of flat rock that jutted out into the lake. On the southern bank, its cooktent barely visible, was another site. Site Number One, I guessed. There were no light anywhere on the site, and I figured it was empty. All the better. I wasn’t interested in sharing a vacation with Mr. John Jones, his beefy wife, and his six kids squawling away next door.

  I took a deep breath of air again, felt it washing my lungs like a needle-spray shower. Then I walked down to the dock, walked to the very edge, and flashed my light over the water. It looked good. Clean and refreshing. I walked back to the cabin, stripped down in the dark, grabbed a towel and a flannel shirt from one of the valises and went down to the dock again. I put out the flash and plunged into the water.

  It was cold, and clean, and I ducked under and felt my arms slice through the water. I broke surface, gulping big breaths of fresh air, and then I headed back for the dock. I pulled myself up, trembling a little from the cold, wiped myself dry and wrapped the towel around my waist. I put on the flannel shirt, found a stray cigarette in the pocket, and lighted it. Then I sat near the edge of the dock, enjoying the smoke.

  I was beginning to like Lake George already. The clear, almost heady air, the stars shining white and cold overhead, the distant singing. I was aware of the water lapping against the slender dock, of the wind easing through the tall pines. I drew deeply on the cigarette and leaned back on the dock, stretching out fully, feeling the roughness of the flannel against my bare back.

  There was a scraping at the end of the dock, and a patch of whiteness swung over the edge, panting hard. It crouched on the end of the planking for a moment, head down, chest heaving, as I sat bolt upright. Then the figure was on its feet and coming toward me.

  With sudden panic, I gripped the flashlight and fumbled for the trigger. The dock exploded in a splash of brilliance, and she stood there, nude, pale ivory in the glare of the flash.

  She blinked at the light, green eyes squinting against the brilliance. I couldn’t tear my eyes from her. Her hair was black, black as the night around her and glistening with the wetness of the lake. Two graceful eyebrows arched over the green eyes, curving away from the straight, wide-flared nose. Her lips were full and sensuous, and her neck arched away from her chin in a flawless curve. Her breasts looked cold, two mounds of ice tipped with twin points of coral. Her hips were broad and they dropped away to the sheer curve of magnificent legs.

  For the moment it took my eyes to travel over her, I was speechless. She squinted into the light.

  “Jean?” she asked, her voice a little annoyed.

  I kept my mout
h shut, wondering what to do next. An uneasy feeling crept over me as she slowly approached.

  “For God’s sake, Jean,” she said, “it’s me. Put out that light.”

  I hesitated.

  “Jean!” she shouted, and she was across the dock before I could move. She dropped down on me, reaching for the flashlight, expecting to find Jean, finding instead a flannel shirt and a towel, and one hundred and eighty pounds of surprised manhood. Her hands grasped for mine and she forced the light out. And then a sudden realization seemed to grip her. Her hand paused on my forearm, tightened there.

  “You’re not …” she started.

  I tried to help her up, and my hand brushed against one of her breasts. I pulled it back quickly.

  “I … I’m sorry,” I said. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  She pulled away from me, her knees on the dock, her hands widespread on her thighs.

  I expected a slap, a kick, anything but what I got.

  Her voice was mildly surprised. “Where’d you come from?”

  “I just arrived,” I said.

  She began to chuckle softly in the darkness. “Wait’ll Jean hears about this,” she said. “She’ll have a fit.” She shivered suddenly in the darkness, and I saw her teeth flash for an instant. “Have you got something I can put on?”

  I took off my shirt and handed it to her. I was wondering when she’d begin to react to the situation, when she’d either jump back into the water, or run back to where she belonged. Apparently, she was in no hurry. She was buttoning the shirt, her movements a blur in the darkness.

  “I suppose I should have a look at you,” she said. “Where’s your flash?”

  I handed her the light and she snapped it on, full in my face. She seemed to study it a moment while I squinted at her. Then she lowered the light to my shoulders, my chest, the towel draped loosely about my waist. I could feel her eyes boring into me, and my flesh began to creep.

  “Thanks,” she said, and she handed me the light before snapping it out, the beam pointed toward her for an instant. The shirt was unbuttoned at the top and her breasts bobbed easily as she moved, exposed in the wide V of the shirt’s neck. I took the flash, and snapped off the light, the darkness closing in with the stillness and suddenness of death.