It's a Sin to Kill (14 page)

He could feel Roberts grin in the dark. “They did.” He seemed proud of the fact. “Leastwise they took me in ‘n Gilmore fined me twenty-five dollars for obstructin' an officer in the performance of his duty.” He pressed a pint bottle into Ames's hand. “Here. Take a shot of this. It'll be good fo' what ails you.”

Ames uncapped the bottle but didn't drink. “I didn't kill her, Shep. And Mary Lou didn't kill that French girl.”

“Hell!” Roberts said. “I know that. I wouldn't be here ef I thought you had.” He deliberated a moment. “Mebbe I would. They's a lot of women that need killin'.”

T
he waiting, the long hours of waiting, was hardest. All she could do was dream. Mexico City and a dark-eyed virile young caballero. Rio de Janeiro. Cairo. Cannes. The world
was wide. It was also her oyster, complete with pearl. Now all her troubles were over. She would never have to worry about income or keeping up a front again. True, there was one male fly in the ointment. But once the fly had served its purpose, it, too, could be disposed of
.

The night wind cool on her cheeks, the waiting woman lifted her head and listened to a police siren wail its way down the beach road. Muted by distance, the siren sounded like a disappointed hound baying after an elusive fox. That's what the police were — hounds. Stupid hounds moving in a circle, chasing their own wagging tails
.

If only they would capture Charlie Ames. The young charter boat captain was far from dumb. So was his snip of a wife. With her trained musician's ear, she'd detected the one false note in the score. Neither Ames nor his wife knew a thing, still they knew too much. And a little knowledge sometimes was a dangerous thing. So was the love of a man for his wife
.

The waiting woman paced the floor of the unlighted room. The most important thing right now was to turn Helene Camden's tangible and intangible assets into cash. The thought amused her. She laughed. The fly could be depended on for that. The fool. He thought she loved him
.

Meanwhile, it was nice to dream…
.

• • •

Still running without lights, Shep Roberts swung in toward shore and held the
Falcon
alongside the last of the unlighted row of commercial fishing boats extending out from the Rupert Fish House pier.

“You sure you know what you're doing, Charlie?”

“No,” Ames admitted. “I'm not. But Camden knows more than he's telling. He has to. He's been too unconcerned, too smug about the entire affair.”

He started to pick a cigarette from the package Shep had given him and returned the package to his pocket. Sheriff White might or might not have a stake-out on the Camden house, but he was almost certain to have left one on the
Sally
. And the
Sally
was less than a hundred yards away.

“Well, it's your neck,” Roberts whispered.

“Yeah. It's my neck.” Ames's wet suit and shirt and shorts and sneakers felt cold and clammy. He wished he had a change of clothes. He wished this whole thing hadn't happened. He wished, instead of having to confront Camden,
that he was just coming in with his bait, that he could put on a pot of coffee and sit down to wait for Mary Lou to get through singing at the Beach Club.

“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 knew 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.