I
swam left around the breakwater and kept going, swimming an easy sidestroke parallel to the beach, a sidestroke which would not kick up enough of a wake to be seen from the sand.
Call the boss Mr. X. He ruled indirectly, holding his organization together loosely by means of the letters he wrote. Quite probably, he controlled things from afar but remained on hand incognito to guard his interests. Then Mr. X had two roles to play, the one by mail, the other directly. Perhaps someone had challenged the second role. Perhaps someone had figured he could take over on this end, not knowing that Mr. X’s lieutenant and Mr. X were one and the same man. Such a someone, thanks to Becky’s goading, might have been Ben Lutz, who got himself killed. But…
There was something else.I counted four more breakwaters spaced a couple of hundred hefty strokes apart and headed for the beach. Something Vito had said once. Something which might tie everything together if only I could remember it. Ever try to remember the name of a vague acquaintance? The more you try to think of it, the further away from consciousness you push it. This was like that. Vito had said something, something he didn’t know was important, something innocent, but something which might hold the answer to everything. Vito had said… Damn it, what had Vito said? He’d been giving me some cock and bull story about Sheila, telling me she was cold and distant and had some notions about honesty and all the while successfully hiding his own smoldering, unfounded jealousy. Well, partly. At that point, perhaps Sheila had wanted him to get out of the bootlegging business before it caved in on top of him. Anyway, he’d said something, made some comparison….
I
dragged myself up on the beach and sprawled out there, panting raggedly, realizing for the first time that rain had begun to fall, etching tiny craterlets in the sand.
And then I remembered. If Karen had been taken, I thought I knew where I could find her. The more I explored the angles, the more convinced I was she
had
been taken.
My trousers soaking wet and plastered to me, I headed for the boardwalk and under it. I walked through to the street, ignoring the curses as I almost tripped over a foursome of bare legs, two male and two female.
I’d swam far enough to come out on the block with my hotel, and even if the police had been summoned, they’d be in no hurry to look for me at home, not when I’d last been seen heading out in the general direction of the Ambrose Light. I drew some strange glances on the street but made it to the hotel, where I changed my clothing and was on my way out again in ten minutes. I had to hurry but I had to make sure. I found a phone booth in a candy store and called Tolliver’s, but Karen hadn’t returned. I called Karen’s apartment in Queens and cradled the earpiece after a dozen rings. Then I stepped out into the street and wished I’d picked some other candy store. Any other candy store.
Approaching me were Becky Lutz, calmer now but still wild-eyed, as unlovely a figure as I’d ever seen in the rain, and officer Billy Drake. It was Billy who saw me and pointed, but Becky who did the yelling. I whirled and started to run, but when Billy told me to stop his voice said he had me covered. I turned around.
He did.
“You’ve got a lot of answering to do, Frey.”
“Not now. Later. You won’t believe this, but it’s a matter of life and death. Be a good kid, Billy.”
“Sure, someone’s life and death, with you maybe holding a gun and doing the job. I’ve got to run you in, Frey. Man, they’re still looking for you out on the beach.”
“He killed Ben,” Becky said.
“I don’t think so,” Billy admitted — which made me feel a little better. “As far as we can see he has an airtight alibi on that.”
“Thank you very much,” I said sarcastically.
“You’re going to let him get away!”
“Not on your life, Mrs. Lutz. I only said—”
“But he killed Ben.” Becky’s eyes had grown big, but the pupils were pinpoints in a lot of white, as if she’d been mainlining. She stared at me and spoke to Billy and needed psychiatric treatment. Her husband had been murdered and maybe her subconscious told her she was responsible. Her goading had driven him inevitably to the edge of his grave, had motivated the hand which wielded the shovel which dug the hole. She knew it unconsciously and she struck back at her environment so she wouldn’t have to admit that fact to herself. It was ugly, but you couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.
Fat arms streaked out. Fat fingers clenched and twister!. Billy Drake stood there, stunned, pointing his empty fist at me. Becky held his revolver in both hands and stared at it, then at Billy, then at me.
“Now, Mrs. Lutz,” Billy said. He was more than alarmed. He was frightened. “You can’t take the law into your own hands.”
Becky was beyond logic, beyond reasoning. She was not taking the law into her own hands. She was a law unto herself.
“I’m asking you, Mrs. Lutz,” said Billy. “Please give me the gun.” A crowd had gathered, surrounding us on three sides, with the entrance to the candy store on the fourth. The proprietor, a small man with shell-rimmed glasses and a stained white apron girdling his ample middle, stood there wringing his hands.
Becky lifted the .38 with both hands, grasping the butt like it was the neck of a copperhead and she didn’t want it to turn around and sink its fangs into her. I began to back away and wished I had the gift of gab which often talks people more talented than I — or so you read in the lurid mysteries — out of man-sized jams. I said, “I was Ben’s friend, Becky. I wouldn’t do a thing like that. I didn’t kill Ben, but I think I know who was responsible.”
Maybe she didn’t hear me. Maybe she did but wasn’t interested. Either way, it was as if I hadn’t opened my mouth. “A knife you killed him with. You stuck it in his back and pushed and let him lay there, bleeding….”
It was Billy Drake’s revolver. Right then, Billy had made a pretty sorry spectacle of himself as a cop. The crowd had begun to circle us and had seen. Perhaps that passed through his mind, I don’t know. It’s hard to tell what passes through a man’s mind when he decides to become a hero.
Becky’s fingers tightened. Becky sobbed. I couldn’t back off into the crowd because Becky might hurt an innocent bystander. I figured I’d rush her at the last possible instant and at least die trying.
Billy Drake stepped between us as I girded myself and Becky fired.
He fell slowly, not joint by joint but in a slow-motion, liquid movement. He rolled to the ground and you couldn’t tell where the bullet had gone in. He settled almost gracefully on his back. He folded his hands over his chest with easy grace. His cap had flown off and his blond hair was combed neatly in place.
“I asked you, Mrs. Lutz…” he said. Blood necked his lips and then welled from his mouth. He’d been hit in the chest.
There was no need to take the revolver from Becky. She let it fall and stood there staring down not at Billy, but at the gun which clattered to the pavement at his side. I could see how the one thing which stood out most to annoy you, his pride, had probably saved my life. And I could see how you couldn’t really blame Becky Lutz, although that didn’t help Billy. She had a debt to pay but it was up to the rest of the taxpayers to collect. So I stooped down while the first screams swept through the crowd and men began to shout in angry voices and picked up Billy’s .38 Special. Then I ran.