Even the Wicked Page 6

“I can?” Sam asked, as if the idea had never once occurred to him.

  “Of course. Look, Sam—”

  The door opened. Zach turned to face it. Lieutenant Whitson was standing in the doorway.

  “Is that your lawyer?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Tell him to forget it. We’re letting you go.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Tell him.”

  Zach told him. Sam seemed puzzled but relieved. He advised Zach to get the hell back to New York as fast as he could, and then he hung up. Zach cradled the phone and turned to Whitson.

  “This is a surprise. What happened?”

  Whitson shrugged. “I sent some men down to your beach this morning at dawn. We found your tomahawk.”

  “And that’s why you’re letting me go?”

  Whitson studied him for a moment. “I’ll level with you, Mr. Blake,” he said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “I knew you didn’t kill her. I knew it when we picked you up. You’ve got brown hair, and the dead woman was holding a fistful of blond hair. But you did go there to see her, and I wanted to know why. I still wish you’d tell me.”

  “I can’t,” Zach said honestly.

  “Okay, have it your way. You could save us a lot of trouble.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sure. You’re still not entirely in the clear, Mr. Blake. You might remember that. A lot of things about this case stink to high heaven—and you’re one of them.”

  “What are the others?”

  “The woman’s husband and son. They’ve both disappeared.”

  “Whereto?”

  “We don’t know. His boat is still at the dock, so he didn’t take to the water. There’re a lot of woods on the island. He may be hiding out in the brush. We’ll find him. Sooner or later, we’ll find him.”

  “What makes you think he’s hiding from you? He may be afraid of whoever killed his wife. Did that occur to you?”

  “Mr. Blake, a lot of things occur to a man who deals with crime and evil. A lot of things.” Whitson was silent for a moment, staring at the floor. “Do you know what I wish?”

  “What?”

  “Even though it would mean losing my job, I wish there were no such thing as evil.” He smiled grimly. “But even the wicked may come, the man said. I guess he was right.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the Vineyard. Do you know what really started it as a summer resort?”

  “No. What?”

  “The Methodist Camp Meeting in Oak Bluffs. An annual religious meeting, Mr. Blake, which became the largest in the world. They used to pitch tents, but after a while too many people were coming and they had to find lodging elsewhere, away from the Tabernacle. This is a good island, Mr. Blake. Warm days and cool nights, the sea, the smell of bayberry and blackberry, the mild air. People came for the camp meeting and stayed on after the Parting and the Sacrament. They told other people about it, and pretty soon folks were coming here to enjoy the island itself, with no religious ideas at all. That’s when the man made his observation.”

  “What observation?”

  “His name was Hebron Vincent. He said, ‘Even the wicked may come, as they are likely to appear anywhere, but the visit is bound to be good for them.’”

  “I see.”

  “Even the wicked may come, Mr. Blake. That’s why we get murder, maybe. That’s why I’ve got a job.”

  “I wish I could help you,” Zach said.

  “You can. Why’d you go to see Evelyn Cloud?”

  Zach did not answer.

  “What are you afraid of, Mr. Blake?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “I can’t.”

  Whitson sighed. “Okay. Get out of here. The door’s open.” He paused. “Where can I find you if I need to?”

  “In New York. I’m catching the 1:45 ferry.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Blake.”

  “What?”

  “I told you you’re still not out of this, and you’re not.”

  “What do you—?”

  “I’m telling you not to leave the island. Not at 1:45, and not until we wrap this up. Do you understand?”

  “I’ve got to leave!”

  “Why?” Whitson snapped. Zach didn’t answer. “Okay. You’ll be watched. Don’t try to board that ferry. So long, Mr. Blake.”

  The troopers drove him to Menemsha. He thanked them and went into the house. Everything was as he’d left it. He looked at his watch. It was close to nine, still five hours before the 1:45 P.M. ferry. He had no intention of heeding Whitson’s warning. He would board that ferry if he had to fight every cop on the island to do it. He wondered if he should begin packing. And then he wondered why John Cloud had taken to the woods, and he remembered the fright in the big Indian’s eyes. He looked at his watch again. There was still time, a lot of time, before he had to board the ferry. He closed the door and went out to the car. A note was pinned to the steering wheel. It read:

  Zach—

  I tried to get you several times on the phone, and finally came over. Your car is here, but no sign of you. I can’t imagine what’s happened. I’m a normal worrier, but this time I’m frantic. After last night and Penny, I don’t know what to think. Will you call me as soon as you return? Please!

  Enid

  He tore the note from the wheel and went into the house. In the pantry, the number he’d left for Thelo the night before was still resting alongside the telephone. He dialed it and listened while the phone rang on the other end.

  “Hello?” The voice was clipped and precise, a voice speaking careful English, but nonetheless marked with a German accent.

  “Hello, may I speak to Enid, please?”

  “She is not here right now. Who is this, please?”

  “Zachary Blake. Is that you, Dr. Reutermann?”

  “Who?”

  “Dr. Reutermann?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, I thought—”

  “This is the cleaning woman. Miss Murphy is not here right now.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “She went to the newspaper office.”

  “Thank you. Tell her I called. And tell her I’m all right.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “Thank you.”

  He hung up and went out to the car, puzzled. The woman had sounded exactly like Dr. Reutermann. He remembered her talk of the proposed Nike site, her intimations of a spy melodrama. I’m being ridiculous, he told himself, but for God’s sake, isn’t the Nike a secret weapon, and hasn’t my daughter been kidnaped, and doesn’t this whole goddamn thing stink of guys in beards carrying bombs?

  Did Mary see something?

  Did Mary hear something?

  How did my wife Mary, who was on her high school swimming team, who helped bring that high school to a city championship in 1939, drown?

  He had asked the question over and over again last year, and now he was asking it again, and there was still no answer.

  And so he started the car and backed out of the drive, and as he went to Gay Head, he kept thinking of the Nike site, and he kept thinking that the cleaning woman who had answered the phone had sounded remarkably like Dr. Inge Reutermann.

  11

  The Cloud house looked different today. It looked gayer, even though it had been visited by death. The sun was shining today, and it caught at the gray shingles of the house, caught at the scattered paint buckets on the front porch and the brilliantly decorated stone heads of the souvenir tomahawks.

  There was no sign of life about the house. The police, the medical examiners, the laboratory technicians, the photographers—all had apparently come and gone.

  Zach did not know what he was looking for. He had come here on impulse, and now that he was here he felt somewhat foolish. Had he hoped to find Cloud or the boy? He didn’t know.

  He sighed, got out of the car, and w
alked to the house. The front door was unlatched. He went inside. The house was very still, very empty. In the living room, the police had chalked an outline of Evelyn Cloud’s body on the wood floor and a dark brown stain had saturated the wood near the chalked head. A blood stain and a chalk outline, he thought. That’s all that’s left of an Indian woman who tried to help me. And her husband has run away—and why?

  Because he’s scared.

  Scared of what?

  Scared of an international spy ring trying to steal the plans for the Nike.

  It didn’t sound plausible. How would an Indian swordfisherman get involved with spies? No, it sounded wrong. But what sounded right? He looked around the room, trying to visualize Evelyn Cloud fighting off her blond attacker, ripping the medallion from his neck, and then succumbing to the blows of the tomahawk.

  Enid Murphy was a blonde.

  So was Peter Rambley, the real estate salesman.

  And so was Freddie Barton who was here for the express purpose of sailing his Raven in the regatta tomorrow.

  How many blonds are there on Martha’s Vineyard? Zach wondered. How many blonds are capable of committing murder? He shrugged, looked around the room again, and despondently went out to the kitchen.

  The dish towel surprised him because he was certain the police would not have left it here. And yet it hung on the towel rack over the sink, the large smear of blood on it bright and red. He shook his head wonderingly, and then he stepped closer to the towel. There was a peculiar smell in the kitchen, the smell of …

  Turpentine?

  Of course. The painting Evelyn Cloud did, the souvenir tomahawks. He took the dish towel from the rack and smelled the stain. Paint. Not blood, but paint. He smiled. Things had come to a pretty pass when you automatically assumed paint was blood. But had the towel been here yesterday? He tried to reconstruct his entrance into the kitchen on the afternoon he’d found the body. Surely he’d have seen something with such a bright red stain. And if the towel had not been there then, had the paint been wiped onto it later? Last night? And by whom? John Cloud? Before he fled with the boy?

  But why?

  Red paint.

  There were buckets of paint on the front porch. Zach dropped the towel and went out there. At least a dozen cans of paint rested among the painted tomahawk heads. There were four cans of red paint. But only one of them had a screwdriver lying alongside it. He picked up the screwdriver and pried the sticky lid from the can. It was full almost to the top with the same bright red paint that had been on the dish towel. Had John Cloud opened this same paint can last night or early this morning? The paint looked untouched. He looked at the brushes lying on a piece of canvas on the wooden floor of the porch. They had all been cleaned thoroughly. None of them were stained with red paint. Then if John Cloud had not done any painting, why had he opened this can? Or had he painted and then simply cleaned his brush?

  On a dish towel?

  Why not? He had wiped his hands clean on it, hadn’t he? Again, Zach allowed his eyes to roam over the porch. Paint rags, soiled and multicolored, lay on a table at the far end of the porch. He went to them. None of them had been used recently, certainly not this morning. John Cloud had wiped off a smear of red paint, and he had wiped it onto a dish towel. Unless the man were an absolute slob, the act seemed to indicate a man in a hurry. But how had he got the paint on himself? The lid. Of course. It was impossible to touch it without smearing red paint onto the hand.

  Zach went back to the can of red paint. On impulse, he thrust the blade of the screwdriver into the can. He felt it strike something. He prodded the depths of the paint again. There was something stiff and unyielding inside the can. He dropped the screwdriver, rolled up his sleeve, took off his watch, and reached into the can. His hand came out dripping with red paint, holding a rectangular-shaped package. Zach dropped the package to the canvas and tried to untie the heavy cord around it. The cord was wet, and difficult to manage. He went back into the kitchen, wiped his hand on the dish towel, and then found a knife in the kitchen-table drawer.

  His fingers were trembling as he cut the cord. He unfolded the soggy brown wrapping paper carefully. The wrapping paper concealed an oil-skin pouch, and he wondered for a moment why a tobacco pouch was immersed in a can of paint, and then he unwound the pouch, reached into it, and found another packet of wrapping paper, this one untouched by the red paint. He cut the cord on it, and opened it. His eyes widened in surprise.

  He was looking at forty-five-thousand dollars in one-thousand-dollar bills.

  And at that instant, he heard the automobile coming up the dirt road.

  12

  He froze.

  His first thought was that it might be the police coming back. He’d been lucky this morning, but perhaps his luck was running out. If they threw him into the pokey again, how could he get off the island? He had to get on that 1:45 ferry, had to be seen boarding it, had to be in Providence by 5:00. If this was the police …

  Hastily, he thrust the tobacco pouch into his trousers pocket. The car was closer now. He walked quickly to the table with the paint rags, unscrewed the cap on a bottle of turpentine, and poured it liberally onto his hand. He was wiping off the remaining traces of the red paint when the car pulled up. It was not a police car. He rolled down his sleeve, strapped on his watch, and calmly stepped off the front porch.

  The girl in the car was Anne Dubrow.

  She got out of the car, her short black hair tight against her head, the sea-green eyes alert. She walked stiffly erect, the way her mother did, a woman of purpose.

  “What are you doing here?” she said.

  “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

  “We rent this house to the Clouds,” Anne said. “After what happened …” She shrugged. “I imagine we’ll be looking for new tenants. I came to inspect the place.”

  “Is that why you came?” Zach asked.

  “Yes. You sound as if you don’t believe me.”

  “What’s there not to believe?” Zach said.

  “You’re a funny guy. And I don’t mean funny haha.”

  “Am I?”

  “Your wife drowned, okay. Stop acting as if everybody on the Vineyard held her head under water.”

  “Maybe somebody on the Vineyard did,” Zach said.

  “Sure. And maybe I’m a Martian who—”

  “My wife was a high school swimming champ,” Zach said. “She went down to the beach three hours after breakfast, and she’d never had a cramp in the water in all the time I’d known her.”

  “The currents in Menemsha Bight are tricky,” Anne said.

  “That’s what they told me last year. But I’m beginning to think a lot more than the currents are tricky.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning somebody may have held her head under water.”

  “If you believe that, why don’t you go to the police?”

  “Thanks, but I’d rather not.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to look around,” Zach said.

  “For what?”

  “What would I be looking for?”

  Anne’s eyes did not leave his face. Shrewdly, they studied him. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I’m asking you.”

  Zach shrugged.

  “Where’s your daughter?” Anne asked. Her eyes were still narrowed. Suspiciously, she watched him.

  “On the mainland.”

  “Where?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  If he had intended to trap her, he was sadly disappointed.

  “How would I know?” she asked, her eyes wide now.

  “I thought everybody knew everything about everybody on the Vineyard.”

  “If you dislike it so much,” Anne said, “why the hell don’t you go back where you came from?”

  “You’ve been trying to get me to do that since the moment I arrived,” he said. “Relax. I’m leaving on the 1:45 boat. You can give the damn cottage to yo
ur Mr. Carpenter.”

  “Are you kidding?” Anne asked.

  “I’m dead serious.”

  “But you paid for the cottage,” she said.

  “Oh? You’re sure about that now?”

  “I called Mother in Boston last night. She said you’d wired her the money, and she said Pete Rambley was a fool.”

  “That sounds like your mother,” Zach said.

  “Well, if Mr. Carpenter takes the house, I’ll refund your $500,” Anne said. “That’s the least I can do.”

  “That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me since I got here,” Zach said.

  Anne’s face softened. “It’s not a bad place,” she told him. “It gets very dreary in the winter, but it’s not a bad place. I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy yourself.”

  “I suppose I prejudiced myself against it,” he said, watching her face. “I was in the Air Corps during the war, and I understand the Air Force is moving into the island.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. Don’t you know about it?”

  “About what?”

  “They’re installing a Nike-launching site. I thought everybody knew that.” He watched her carefully.

  Anne Dubrow stared at him blankly. “A what launching site?”

  “Nike,” he said.

  “A night-key-launching site? What’s that?”

  “Nike,” he repeated. “It’s a guided missile with a warhead. Haven’t you ever heard of the Nike rocket?”

  “No.” She thought about it for a moment. “I don’t see why it should have disturbed you, anyway. You’re a funny guy. Nike.” She shrugged. “You must have really disliked the Air Corps.”

  “I wouldn’t go back into it for forty-five-thousand dollars,” he said.

  Anne laughed lightly. “Maybe you are funny haha. Maybe we hicks don’t appreciate your humor.”

  “Maybe not,” he said. “Well, I’ll be running along now. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  “All I’m looking for are damages we’ll have to repair before we rent again. That’s all.”

  “How about the money?” he said.

  Anne blinked. “What money?”

  He hesitated before answering her. Her eyes looked completely guileless, but he could not be certain. “My five hundred dollars,” he said. “Will you know where to send it?”