It's a Sin to Kill (13 page)

More, this thing had been planned for some time. The coffee itself had been drugged before he put out for bait. It had to be. He'd made the coffee himself and there had been no one aboard the
Sally
but himself and Mrs. Camden.

Now she was dead and he was accused of murder. It failed to make sense from any angle from which Ames viewed it. If someone had killed Helene Camden for gain, why had they put five thousand dollars in the hip pocket of his dungarees? And if it had been Celeste who had slugged Mary Lou and rolled her in the pass, why had Celeste been murdered? By whom?

Ames's head began to ache again. He knew a moment of sadness when he thought of the
Sally
. It had been a good boat. It had earned their bread and butter and an occasional sirloin steak. He and Mary Lou had had a lot of good times aboard her. Now the
Sally
belonged to Ben Sheldon. Ben had bought her for fifteen hundred dollars, five hendred dollars less than Ben had offered him.

Ames wondered about Sheldon. Despite his age and fat, the ship chandler was a ladies' man. He had been married four or five times. He always had some girl on his string, the girl usually young and married. Still, Ben wasn't particular. The fat man played the field and, alive, Helene Camden had been pretty in a brittle blonde sort of a way.

Ben had access to the
Sally
. He could have drugged the coffee and rowed or carried Ames to the
Sea Bird
. Ben could have killed Helene Camden. But if they were telling the truth about Mrs. Camden, she wouldn't attempt to defend a non-existent virtue to the point of losing her life. Nor would Ben leave five thousand dollars in anyone's pants pocket. It was a toss-up which Ben loved most, the opposite sex or money.

Ames reached for his clothes and stood with his right hand raised as a thick-bodied snake slithered along the dry roots and showed Ames the cotton in its mouth. Ames eyed the snake thoughtfully.

“Your great grandpappy caused a lot of trouble, fellow,” he told it. Then picking up the bundle of clothes, he cocked his white cap on the back of his head and waded out into the water.

The herons, standing on one leg, put their other legs down and flapping their great wings, moved on to less crowded fishing waters.

Ames waded thigh deep watching the man in the boat off Mermaid Point. The fisherman was casting the other way. Even if he should turn, Ames doubted that the man could see him. He was three hundred yards away. The sun would be in his eyes. Regardless, he would have to chance it.

Twice he stepped into pot holes. The first time he saved his clothes from getting wet by holding them over his head with one hand, while he swam with the other. The second time they got wet. After that, Ames carried the roll under his arm. There would be plenty of time for them to dry after he reached Pine Key. Night was hours away.

He came to the swash channel and swam it.

At one time, before netting in the bay had become illegal, a netting outfit had based their operations on the island. There were still a half-dozen weathered cypress drying racks, with shreds of rotted net still clinging to them, rising from the shore. There was still a palm-thatched cabin of sorts. Ames put on his shoes and his shorts and walked past the crumbling cabin into the shade of the tall trees that had given the island its name.

There was little underbrush. Pine needles crackled under his shoes. Squirrels scolded in the trees. Birds cheeped and twittered. Ames knew a feeling of peace. He would be safe on the island until nightfall. A wry smile twisted his lips. He would be safe unless Skins had gone to the Law, unless the fisherman or someone else had seen him across the half-mile of water.

He located a, cluster of small trees growing in a circular formation that formed a natural shelter. From this vantage point he could still see the bay and he spread his clothes on the ground to dry.

There were three cigarettes left in his package. He opened it to dry in the sun then sat with his back against a tree, watching the distant causeway through his green screen of pine needles. The causeway was so distant that the cars crossing it looked like toys. Beyond the causeway was the lower bay and pass and bridge and basin. He'd come a long way in his commandeered car. It was a long way back. He returned his attention to the fisherman. The man was still casting and obviously having good luck. Ames envied him.

The sun was warm on his bare body. He closed his eyes and tried to think. There had to be some solution. Neither he nor Mary Lou had killed anyone. Somebody was throwing off on them.

Ames started back at the beginning. Mary Lou had been singing at the club. He'd just come in from catching his bait. He'd put a pot of coffee on to boil. Mrs. Camden had hailed him from the pier.

Ahoy, the Sally
, she'd called.

Ames's chin lowered until it rested on his chest. His clenched fingers relaxed. The sun beat on his bronzed face, unfelt.

His head rolled on the trunk of the tree against which he was sitting. His white cap fell off, unnoticed. His chest rose and fell with his breathing. Drugged with fatigue, he slept….

• • •

It was dark. He was cold. A particularly vicious mosquito was boring into his thigh. Ames lifted a hand to swat it and sat with his hand raised as a powerful white light swept over the tips of the small trees under which he was sitting and an unfamiliar voice forced its way into his sleep-sodden mind.

“Now he tells us,” the voice said.

Ames's neck was stiff. His back felt as if it were broken. He was cold and at the same time his whole body was on fire. He put his raised hand on the small of his back and sat erect. Full consciousness returned slowly.

He could hear the throb of a marine motor. The white light swept the trees again. A second voice said: “For my money, the old Joe is nuts. Ames is out of the country by now. He wouldn't be chump enough to stick around and he had plenty of time to get across the Seminole Rocks Causeway before the boys could block it.”

“Funny none of the boys have located that Buick.”

“Yeah,” the first speaker said. “It is. You'd think the guy would come forward. Just one of those breaks, I guess. It must have been one of the boys on the waterfront. Those damn fishing guides are all outlaws at heart.”

Still another man laughed. “Oh, it's not that bad. They were just born too late.”

Ames began to gather up his clothes, pausing from time to time to rub his bare flesh with his calloused palms. His body was aflame with bites. The mosquitoes and the sand-flies had probably been working on him since dusk. He put on his pants and shirt and coat and looked through his screen of needles. He could see the running lights of a launch and the vague silhouette of four or five uniformed figures.

“Is there an anchorage here?” one of officers asked.

“I doubt it,” another one answered. “We're going to have to wade ashore. I tell you what, Sam. Pull on for another hundred yards or so. As I recall, there are some old drying racks and a cabin on the west shore. And that's where old Joe said he saw someone in a white cap wade ashore.”

Ames felt for his cap and found it. Of course. He'd been too tired to think straight. The fisherman had seen his cap. White was visible for a long distance.

There was a throb of power as the launch moved on but the officers' voices were still plainly audible.

“The damn hog,” one of them said. “He must have had fifty trout on that string, all of them two pounds or better. Then he had to eat supper before he read his paper.”

Ames got to his feet. The fisherman had seen him but hadn't put into shore until late afternoon or early evening. When he'd read of the break in the evening paper he'd called the sheriff's office and reported he'd seen a man wade ashore on Pine Key, a man wearing a white captain's cap. Ames realized that he'd automatically put his cap on his head. He took it off and put it under his coat. He didn't want to leave it on the key. It would be proof that he had been here, that he was still in the vicinity.

The officers' voices were fainter now. “This will do, Sam,” the deputy in charge said. “You other guys make sure your lights are working and the four of us will fan out and comb the island while Sam circles it to keep Ames from taking to the water. But watch out for snakes. And keep your guns
in your hands and your lights away from your bodies. If the bastard is on the island, remember, he has Ken's gun.”

There was a splashing in the water then a crackling of pine needles. Smaller white lights began to stab through the trees. Sleepy squirrels began to scold and birds to cheep and flutter. Ames was glad for the small noise they made. He parted his screen of needles and walked down to the shore.

The first of the stars were beginning to appear but the moon had still to rise. The night felt like hot black velvet. Pine Key was fair sized. It would take the police launch at least five minutes to circle it. He could see the white spotlight probing through the trees on the far side of the island. When the launch passed him again, the light would pin him against the shore like a butterfly on a collector's board, unless he was on its far side.

He waded out into the water, taking great care not to splash but unable to do anything about the phosphorescent ripples caused by his moving legs. The water came to his knees then his thighs. He waded on until it was chest deep, wondering why he wasn't frightened. He wasn't. Man, he decided, acclimated quickly. He felt perfectly cool, as though he'd been hunted and running for years.

The launch was nosing around the far end of the island now. He could see the running lights on the prow showing green to starboard and red to port. A wry smile twisting his lips, he quoted from maritime regulations: “From right ahead to two points abaft the beam on their respective sides, to be visible at least one mile.” But maritime regulations said nothing about the powerful spotlight that was mounted on a swivel. And now the officer in the launch was wising up. He was sweeping the water to starboard as well as port.

Ames wished he could do something about his cap. He ducked under water, filled the cap with a scoop of sand and left it on the bottom. When he broke water again, the launch was less than fifty yards away. He crouched as low as he could, with only his face visible, ready to duck with the sweep of light.

Before it was necessary a gun yammered on shore and the deputy in the launch tried to spotlight the sound.

“You get him?” he called.

“Hell, no,” the deputy who'd fired answered. His voice was shaky. “But I got a goddamn diamond back that must
be six feet long. He was coiled back of a log and I almost stepped on him.”

“You wanted the job,” the deputy in charge said. “Wait until you're sheriff. Then you can sit on your can and let someone else do the dirty work.”

“I should live so long.”

“You won't if you step on a six-foot diamond back. Watch it, the rest of you guys.”

The launch was past Ames now, its powerful light sweeping the drying racks and the cabin. He waded a few more steps and began to swim. The gun in the pocket of his coat felt like it weighed ten pounds. The coat bound his arms but he was afraid to stop and take it off. The next time the launch came around the island, he wanted to be out of range of the spotlight. Next time there would be no diversion.

He lifted his head in the water and located the Seminole Rocks Causeway lights. They were a good five miles distant The basin was nine miles beyond the causeway. Ames decided he would swim a few hundred yards more, then cut in toward Mermaid Point. There was a small bait camp around the bend. Most bait camps left their boats unattended after seven o'clock. Possibly he could borrow a row-boat. He would be safer on the water than on the beach.

His sneakers were weighing him down. He tried to unlace them and couldn't. He'd knotted the wet laces too tightly. More, he was in swash channel now. He could tell by the feel of the water. It was deep. There was a current and the current was working against him.

Ames realized his breathing was labored. He turned on his back and tried to float. The effort was only partially successful. His weighted feet wouldn't stay up. His wet coat and the gun dragged him down. He turned in the water and swam on doggedly, trying to cross the channel so he could wade ashore. He hoped he was swimming in the right direction. There was no light on the point and he was too low in the water to see the distant lights on the causeway.

His breathing became more labored. His chest began to hurt. It was an effort to move his arms, to kick. He lowered his feet and tried to touch bottom. He couldn't. The water was still seven or eight feet deep. Attempting to navigate the bay at night was an entirely different matter frum during the day. In the daytime you could tell the depth of the water by its color.

He changed from a crawl to a side stroke and there was a muffled but steady throb in his submerged ear. It sounded like an underwater exhaust and the slow turning of an idling screw.

Ames knew panic. The deputy in the police launch must have seen him. He stopped swimming and raised his head. The unlighted stern of a cruiser rose out of the water less than ten feet away. Ames tried to read the name of the boat and couldn't. It was too dark.

“That you, Charlie?” Shep Roberts called softly.

Ames swam toward the side of the cruiser and a muscled arm reached over the side to help him scramble aboard. Ames stood wet and dripping in the cockpit of the
Falcon
.

“What you doin' here, Shep?” he panted.

“A-lookin' for you,” Roberts whispered. “I heered that Bob White's boys were a goin' t' search Pine Key, so I thought I'd kinda mosey down this way in case you were on it.”

Ames leaned against the live bait well, still fighting for breath as the grizzled charter boat captain, running without lights, eased the cruiser slowly up the swash channel toward the deep channel leading under the bridge of the Seminole Rocks Causeway. All Ames could think of to say was, “I thought they were going to jail you.”