“You know what you can do, Mr. Sonofabitch. If your friend wants to get his rear kicked, fine. But don't bring him here so we all get the boot.”
“As usual, you're talking sheer nonsense, honey,” Matt said. “You'll be slobbering about witches and bogeymen next.” He paused to smile. “Matter of fact you should be grateful for the champ's courage. You see, if he wanted to save his job and name people, he could have very easily named me!”
Wilma stopped sewing. “Really, Matt?”
“You?” Francine blurted the word out. “Now I've heard everything!”
“Indeed, darling, little old me,” Matt said, his voice mocking them. “I know my dearest wife thinks of me only as a drunken dumb-ox so it may come as a shock to learn I didn't quit college to write—as a jacket blurb once stated. I was thrown out for being the only instructor backing a student anti-ROTC demonstration. I was the only teacher with guts. True, that was over 20 years ago, but mere mention of my name would still make headline reading now.”
They were silent for a moment, Matt enjoying things thoroughly. Then Wilma asked, “You were the only teacher? Where was the professor at the time?”
“He was lecturing at—”
Francine stormed over to Matt, her head barely reaching the bushy grey hair on his chest. “You damn fool! Did you lend him any money? You know how tight—”
“I told you to keep your sweet voice down. Hank refused money. But I am going to see if I can do something about finding the champ a job with Longson.”
“They'll love that! Just eat it up! Bill Long is after you to make good the money—” Francine noticed the Hunters straining their ears and stopped. She shouted up at Matt, “You'll have nothing more to do with him!”
“No? I've asked him out for a weekend. If the champ gets a job in New York, I shall certainly see him as often as possible.”
“Matt Anthony, that man is not coming into my house again!”
Matt laughed. “While it isn't your house, nor mine, but the bank's, I am still able to ask my friends here.”
“Matt, I've taken all I can stand from you. I won't see us broke because of some sentimental whim of yours.” Francine started around his big bulk. Matt grabbed her shoulders, asked, “Where are you going?”
“To settle this! To tell that... Red bastard to get the hell out of here!”
Matt squeezed her shoulder and Francine's face screwed up with pain. She tried to get away but Matt shook her hard, his face going paler than his stubble of gray-white whiskers. Matt told her, “Francine, honey, some things I'll take from you because it's a kind of game between us. But Hank Brown is one of the few real things in my life. Do you understand that? He's an isle of reality in this phony world. If you ever say a single out-of-the-way word to Hank, I'll kill you! I mean that.” He pushed her away, sending Francine sprawling against the wall, then walked out.
The poodle whined, Wilma sat there pop-eyed and Joel Hunter said, “My, aren't we melodramatic!”
Francine Anthony stepped away from the wall, rubbed her shoulder.
As they walked toward the roadster, Henry Brown asked, “Something wrong, Matt? You look sick.”
“Nothing. Another row with Francine—as you probably heard.”
“I didn't hear a thing. I'm sorry I caused any—”
“It really isn't about you, champ. She's such a scheming bitch. A silly doc claims my heart does a rumba now and then. Hell, I guess he knows his stuff but... it isn't anything serious. Francine keeps harping on it. Every time I take a drink, a swim, for Christsakes she looks ready to step aside so I won't fall on her when I drop dead.”
“Don't you think you should take it easy?”
“Look, champ, I carried a large policy but two years ago we were stony and I had to borrow to the hilt on it. I couldn't meet the payments and they had to cut down the insurance. Francine wouldn't mind my dying—if I had the full policy again. She's trying to get me reinstated. I guess I couldn't pass a new physical.”
“All those books, how could you be broke?” Brown asked, getting into the Jaguar.
“Don't talk like a hick, champ. Writers never make real money. In the last census the income of the average professional writer was substandard. In a way we're like pugs: a few writers are in the top brackets, a few more make a fair living—and most writers need a working wife to keep above water. Anyway, we were building this house that year.” Matt started the car, the motor purring with power. “Hank, we're really equipped for decent living here. When you come out I'll take you tuna fishing—I have a hell of a fine sea boat and... damn I never had a chance to show you the boat, the beach. This was some visit. When you come out we'll do nothing but fish and bull about the old gang. I won't do a drop of work, won't think about my damn cobra gimmick. We were all so full of purpose, so sure of life in those days. Sometimes I wonder if it wasn't all a kind of binge. Tell me, do you ever hear of Nick and old Pete? What's become of Hazel the pretty kid with the haunting eyes?”
They talked about 'old times' while waiting for the train, an awkward conversation since neither could recall much about any one person. Brown again refused a check, said he would phone about the weekend the moment he knew about his time. When the train pulled out, Matt drove down a deserted side road and parked. He ran around to the car trunk and eagerly opened a large cardboard carton—the real reason he'd gone to Hampton.
Through the mail, and under a pen name, he had ordered a complete skin-diving outfit: mask, fins, spear gun and two compact air tanks that fastened over the back. A month ago, after he had tried a friend's outfit, there had been a bitter fight with Francine over buying one. “That's all your heart needs!” she had said.
“Nonsense. I won't go down more than 50 feet. We'll buy two and both of us can explore the bay.”
“Forget it, Matt. Or better yet, let's call the doctor and have him tell us it's okay?”
Now Matt fingered the gadgets like a happy kid. He thought, It will be a cinch, hide it in the sail locker in the boat house, she never opens that. I'll only use it at night or when Fran is away. I can stay under for nearly an hour. My God, they're always talking about the British ships sunk here in 1776—-be something if I find them. Maybe treasure! Has anybody used skin diving as a plot gimmick yet? Must have been used.
When he reached the house Joel Hunter was sleeping on a beach mat on the front lawn, a shaker of cocktails sweating in the sun beside him. Wilma was dozing in a chair, a yellow scarf flung over her eyes. The dog was curled up in the shade of the chair. For a second Matt grinned down at Wilma, mentally taking off her bathing suit—as he had, in his mind, so many times before. Couple of years, he thought, she'll be a pot. But right now... mine for the asking. What the hell am I afraid of?
He walked on into the house, walking softly. Upstairs he heard May working. Quietly he walked to the veranda, opened a closet—Fran's tackle box was gone. Matt glanced at the pines which screened the view (and the wind) of the bay. He looked at his wrist watch and nodded to himself. Crossing the rear lawn, he opened the trunk of the Jaguar, and glancing around like a ham actor, took out the cardboard box, and headed through the pines toward the boat house.
He suddenly came up on Francine, walking toward the main house. She was wearing a floppy straw hat that they had bought in Haiti and an old Italian sports shirt over her bathing suit. She was holding her fishing gear. Matt asked with real annoyance, “Where did you come from?”
“I forgot my spinning reel and... what's in the box?”
“Nothing much. Tools, oarlocks... a few things I ordered last week,” Matt said, walking past her, shielding the box with his body.
“We don't need oarlocks. Come back here, Matt.”
He kept walking. She said, “You louse, you have a case of gin in there!” Francine turned to run after him. She fell over a root, and unable to break the fall because her hands were full of tackle, she cracked her head on a large rock imbedded at the side of the rough path. The big hat didn't even touch the rock but her skull and the stone made a dull sound.
Matt dropped the box, raced back to her. He said, “Honey, are...?” as he started to lift Francine, then let the body fall again. Her head hit the stone once more—hardly any sound this time—and Matt jumped back in horror: he knew she was dead.
Matt was dazed. He stared at the body and couldn't believe what he saw. He knelt beside her and felt the back of her neck. He massaged the pulse-less wrists, turned Francine over gently and started to put his hand under her bathing suit to feel for a heart beat, but the unseeing open eyes stopped him. She wasn't stunned or hurt, she was dead.
Matt was numbed, shocked, grief-stricken: he began to weep—a little. And under all these emotions there was another one pushing its way to the top of his mind—relief. For a second the tears came, and he seemed to be kneeling in prayer and crying. But the more he stared at her body, the stronger an entirely new thought grew—one which filled him with fear and horror. He mumbled half aloud, Joel would break under any kind of questioning and Wilma—she'd hold it over me the rest of my life. No, there's only one thing to do and I have to do it damn fast—make it look “Nobody will ever believe this was an accident! The Hunters heard me say I'd kill Francine a short time ago... 'She tripped and hit her head on a rock....' No, no, oh, my God no! I wouldn't believe that myself. I'm in a hell of a jam unless... unless what? Can I make the Hunters forget they heard me threaten her? more like an accident.”
He stood up, studied the body, the ground: he was thinking clearly, the top-flight mystery writer looking for a plot witch. The rods weren't touched. Her canvas shoes hadn't been torn by the root. He pulled back the floppy hat: there was a suggestion of blood on her lips and nose but no blood on either the rock or the ground. Her forehead was discolored and of a queer shape, like a cracked egg. Matt turned the hat down over her eyes.
“Don't understand why there isn't any blood,” Matt told himself, “But it's a break. Now... Fran must have told the Hunters she was going fishing. Okay, she stood up to cast, lost her balance, struck her head on the side of the boat, fell over and drowned? No, that's out, any medical examiner could prove she was dead before she hit the water. Suppose she's found hanging over the side of the boat, just her face resting on the water? That would hold up, hitting the side of the boat would be the cause of death, not drowning. Sure, she stood up to cast, lost her balance, hit her head. Would such a blow cause death? Hell, it had to, it did! What's my alibi? Do I need one? May probably heard me drive up in the car even if the Hunters didn't. But no reason for May to check the time I arrived. As for the Hunters, they're half-bagged, shouldn't be hard to confuse them on a time lapse of a half hour. Can I work that corny bit of changing and rechanging the clocks I used in the old pulps? I'll think of... damn, wonder if anyone else is fishing in this end of the bay? Although I can swim out and back underwater with my outfit!”
Matt picked up the cardboard box and ran to the boat-house—the bay was empty. He ran back and picked up Fran-cine, carried her down to the little rowboat beached on the sand. He raced back and picked up the fishing gear, carefully studied the ground in the shade of the pine trees. He ran back, his heart pounding. He quickly put an old reel on Francine's rod, hooked and baited the line. Matt thought: Damn, good I posted all the land around here, little chance of anyone seeing me—although always a chance of some dumb kid being in the woods. I don't have to worry about fingerprints, I've often used her tackle. Now—what made her trip? A shoe lace caught on the broken duckboards. Poor Fran, always after me to fix them. Then her head would hit about... here. Would it make a dent in the wooden gunwale?” I think so. But have I the guts to bang Fran's head against the boat?
Matt quickly stripped nude, found a large rock on the sandy bottom of the water, a rock almost as large and smooth as a skull. He took careful aim and banged it on the gunwale, slightly crushing the wood. It seemed to make a terrific sound and Matt froze for a second, waiting to see if the noise brought anybody on the run.
For a horrible, fleeting moment, his nerves started to snap, like the rubber bands flying off an open golf ball. He forced himself to be calm as he thought: I have to get this over with. If anybody sees me now, this second, I'm cooked. Oh, my God, I have to be careful. I must think clearly... so very very clearly. And I must work fast.
Throwing the rock as far out into the bay as he could, Matt then washed the beaten wood to remove any particles of rock or sand. Feeling sick to his quivering stomach he deposited Fran's body on the seat and worked a shoelace under the duckboard. With sudden inspiration he jerked her canvas shoe hard enough to snap the lace, leaving part of it still entwined in the boards. Taking the bailing can, he doused the shoe and lace with water to remove any prints. The sun would soon dry the shoe. Beside, a damp shoe was common in a rowboat.
Racing time, Matt put on the face mask and tested the air tanks. They worked fine. Strapping the big rubber flippers on his feet, Matt next put the anchor in the front of the boat, after first dragging the rope through the water to remove the sand. Then, pushing the boat free of the beach, he was about to pull the outboard down into the water and start it... but yanked his hand back as if he had touched a flame. “That was close!” he whispered to himself. “Real dumb! Motor makes such a racket it might have been heard at the house. Damn, I have to think, think clearly.”
He started swimming, one hand holding the bow of the boat, swimming and drifting out with the tide, carefully checking the bay and the boat. “There's only two holes in this,” Matt told himself. “Somebody can be watching me from the lousy woods. And the post office clerk in Hampton might remember my getting the package, even under a phony name. Knowing I have this diving outfit could make the cops suspicious... nothing I can do about it now but chance it. Oh, God.”
Several hundred yards from the shore, Fran's favorite spot for King fish, Matt pulled the anchor over. He let out some fishing ling, and on further thought, released the brake on the reel so the line went out with the tide: Fran would have had the reel free when she started to cast. Next, Matt adjusted the mask on his face and the air intake. Closing his eyes he reached up, nearly tipping the boat, cupped his free hand around the back of her head... opening his eyes he brought the front of her skull down exactly where the rock had hit the side of the boat.
Her body hung over the side of the boat, the floppy hat resting on the water, one limp hand in the water. The fishing rod stuck out at a crazy angle from under her bent body. Matt swam to the stern and pulled the tilted outboard so that the propeller was in the water. Then, floating on his back, he slowly ran his eyes over the boat, checking every detail— his heart pounding so he wondered if he was about to have an attack. The weight of her body made the rowboat list to that side, but there wasn't any danger of it tipping, nor of the corpse falling overboard. The anchor was holding, and swimming closer he saw traces of blood and hair in the smashed wood.
