It's a Sin to Kill (15 page)

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.

C
AMDEN 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 landed 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.

“Hey, you,” Ames repeated.

Camden snored in his face for answer.

Ames wiped his sweaty hands on his wet pants. The lump was back in his throat, his throat was constricted. Camden
had
to talk. Otherwise the hell he'd been through was for nothing.

He fought the limp body over his shoulder in an abortive version of a fireman's carry. It was all he could do to stand up. Camden was a larger man than he looked. He weighed at least two hundred pounds and his bulk wasn't fat, it was muscle.

Ames stood a moment uncertain, his legs spread, under the weight on his shoulder. Then he walked across the living room to the unlighted hall and opened the first door he came to.

The dark room was faintly scented with the fragrance of expensive perfume. Ames felt for and found the wall switch and flicked it on. The room was huge, with twin beds against one wall. The robe Camden had been wearing that morning was lying across one of the beds. The other bed hadn't been slept in.

He closed the door behind him and stood a moment looking at another larger framed picture of Helene Camden. It was standing on the “Mr.” side on an expensive looking “Mr. and Mrs.” chest of drawers and was inscribed:

In her day, the owner of
helene camden, incorporated
had been a very pretty woman. Even in the fairly recent picture, she was still attractive. A lot of her own products had gone to make her so, but there was a certain coldness to her face and eyes that detracted from her charms. She'd been a woman who'd known what she'd wanted and gotten it one way or another. Mary Lou had called her a bitch. It could be she'd been one. Ames thought of the bloated body he'd seen on the floor of Rupert's Fish House and shuddered. She was nothing now and he was tagged for it.

He crossed the parquet floor of the bedroom and opened the bathroom door. The bath was as large as most living rooms. There were two stools with a colored tile wall between them. There were two basins, a huge sunken tub and a separate glass-enclosed shower stall. It was the first time Ames had ever seen anything like it. Attorney Ferris hadn't been exaggerating when he'd told Sheriff White there was money in the manufacturing of cosmetics. Even the ceiling was tiled.

Ames slid back the etched glass door of the shower stall and lowered Camden to the tile. The big man continued to snore. Ames ripped off Camden's shirt. He leaned him against the wall in a sitting position. Then turning on the cold water, he adjusted the needle spray so it played on the face of the unconscious man.

Camden kept snoring a few more minutes, his rubbery lips blowing out with every exhalation. Then he stopped snoring and his mouth began to work. He swallowed a mouthful of water and sat up gagging.

“What the hell?”

“It's good for you,” Ames said. “I've swallowed a lot of water tonight.”

Camden got to his feet and tried to get out of the shower.

Ames pushed him back under the spray. “Not quite so fast. I want you sober when we go round again.”

He stood poised, waiting for Camden to try to bull his
way out of the shower. Camden started to and changed his mind. Instead, he stood rubbing the cold water into his hair and face and chest.

“I thought I remembered seeing you,” he said. “I would pick tonight to get drunk.”

Most of the thickness was gone from his voice. He took off his sodden slacks and tossed them in a corner of the shower. Stripped to a pair of jockey shorts, he continued to massage the cold water into his body. A minute passed, two minutes, three. Ames turned off the water. Camden ran his fingers through his hair. He stepped out of the shower and toweled. Finished, he tossed the towel aside and stood glowering at Ames.

“All right. I'm sober. Let's have it. What are you doing here?”

Ames leaned against the tile wall. “Looking for information.”

“What sort of information?”

“I want the name of your girl friend.”

“What girl friend?”

“The one who killed Helene or arranged to have her killed.”

“You're crazy. You killed Helene.”

Ames shook his head. “Uh-uh. I was just the goat. Some woman arranged that scene in the cabin of the
Sea Bird
. The same woman tried to kill my wife and did kill Celeste.”

Camden seemed sincerely puzzled. “What the hell are you trying to hand me, Ames?”

“I'm not trying to hand you anything. I suppose you were in love with your wife.”

“No. Not particularly,” Camden admitted. He squeegeed water from his wet hair. “Helene was a pretty good joe, but I can't say that I was in love with her. In fact, I was quite relieved when I heard that one of her messes had finally caught up with her. You can stomach some things just so long. And I've been fed up for a long time with being Mr. Helene Camden.”

“So you plotted to kill her.”

Camden shook his head. “Make sense, fellow. I was in Baltimore when Helene died.”

“Then you had your girl friend kill her.”

“There you go again. What's this about a girl friend?”

Ames fought back a feeling of panic. There
had
to be
some other woman involved. Camden had to have guilty knowledge of the murder of his wife.

“You don't have one, I suppose?”

“I have several. Like I told that Cracker sheriff, if Helene could play around with punks like you, I saw no particular reason why I should sit home and knit.”

“These girl friends are in Florida?”

“No. In Baltimore.” Camden walked toward Ames slowly. “But all this is beside the point. You're supposed to be in custody.”

Ames backed out into the bedroom. “That's right. I'm the goat. But I won't be when I leave here. I know damn well I didn't kill Helene. I had nothing to do with her.”

“The evidence says different.”

“The evidence was rigged.”

“So you say.”

Ames tried a new tack. “I suppose you don't need money.”

“I always need money.”

“And now you have it.”

“That's right,” Camden admitted. “Not as much as I'd like, but when I sell the house and the boat and Helene's ring and collect what's due me from the estate, I should have a nice piece of change.”