The Scarred Man (14 page)

    I waited another twenty minutes but there was no further sign of life. The sun was beginning to do funny things to my head. I swept the beach the way I had come and could make out the flash of red that was the bikinied girl with the dog.

    I brushed the sand from my clothes and walked as casually as possible down the track to the house. I had already made up a reasonable cover story if I were challenged. I was a friend of Mary Caldwell. She had in fact visited my boat earlier in the day. Now I was returning the visit. Probably should have called first, but there just hadn't been an opportunity. Sorry to hear she wasn't at home. Perhaps her brother, Skid…

    It was a naked feeling, walking up to the house. So far as I knew there was still nothing to connect me with the disappearance of Stud or the death of Soldier. Or was there? The world of the motorcycle gangs was small. I had asked a lot of questions and had appeared in two places where men had died. By this time someone might have begun to put it all together. For all I knew, Skid could be sitting up there now behind those drawn blinds with a rifle pointing down my throat. The defense would be easy. Lonely house on the dunes-prowler… I shrugged off the thought and went up to the door and rang the bell.

    I heard it sound inside and waited for the click of footsteps. Nothing. I rang again. Still nothing. Wearing my best birdwatching air I circled the house. Nothing unusual. Combination tool shed and beach cabana. I didn't touch anything but continued on around.

    When I got back to the carport, I checked out the Harley. It was in showroom condition. Impossible to tell when it might have been used last. I checked the gas. Three quarters full. Well that didn't mean much either. Still trying to appear casual, I walked back along the tract to A-1-A. It was only when I was well clear of the house that the itchy feeling between my shoulder blades began to subside.

    I repeated the procedure the following day. My second surveillance of the house turned up no more than had the first. The red Volks went out once during the day with Mary Caldwell at the wheel, but there was no other movement. The Harley was still in the carport.

    The Volks chugged up the track, and Mary got out. She was carrying groceries. She wore tight jeans and was slim enough in the hips to have been a boy.

    By the end of the third day of watching, I had become convinced that she was in fact alone in the house. So far there had not even been a servant or a delivery man. When she needed something from the store, she went out for it, but otherwise she stayed close to the house. A couple of times I saw her romping alone in the surf.

    There was, however, one thing that had changed since my first visit to the place. The Harley had been moved. I had made a careful check on its location that first time, and now it was a couple of feet further forward. Did that mean Skid was in the house and that he sneaked out when I wasn't around? Or had Mary moved the bike? Why would she want to move something as big and clumsy as the Harley? And certainly it hadn't been moved during the day when I was watching the place. Why would Mary want to move it at night? Did that mean Skid was holed up in there all day just waiting for nightfall to go racing around the countryside on his bike? It didn't make much sense.

    I decided my own actions weren't making much sense either. I could go on watching the Caldwell house for days or weeks or maybe forever without getting any closer to my quarry. I would have to somehow force the issue in an effort to smoke him out.

    I went back for my rented car and turned in at the Caldwell mailbox and drove up the track to the house. The Volks was there, so I knew Mary was at home. I rang the bell and put my ear against the door hoping to hear the sound of voices, but there was nothing. I rang again. She opened the door. Her hair was down over her forehead and her face flushed. The top buttons of her yellow silk shirt were open and the nipples of her small breasts were clearly visible beneath the silk. She looked sleepy and sensuous and wonderfully attractive. She narrowed her eyes against the light and squinted at me in an inquiring way as though she had never seen me before.

    "Hi," I said. "It's Bill Shaw. Off the
Corazon
. Remember?"

    "Oh. Yes. Of course. Forgive me. I was taking a nap, and I'm a little groggy."

    As she spoke she lurched slightly, and I almost reached out a hand to steady her. It occurred to me that she might be drunk.

    "I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to disturb you. Perhaps I'd better come back another time."

    She brushed back her hair, making a visible effort. "No, no. It's quite all right. Come in. Let's cut out that bloody sunlight."

    I closed the door behind me. The house was cool and quiet. The central air-conditioning was only a distant hum.

    "Want something cold?" she said.

    "Thanks."

    "Booze? Beer? Coke? Water?"

    "A beer would be nice."

    She gestured toward the kitchen. "Get it yourself out of the fridge if you don't mind. I'm going to splash a little water on my face."

    "Can I get something for you?"

    "Coke with lots of ice, please."

    She vanished into the bedroom. I made my way into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. The shelves were almost empty. There was bread and cheese and half a head of lettuce and a six-pack of beer and nothing else. If Skid was living in that house, he would have to be subsisting on bird seed. I opened the food cabinets. Except for a few cans of sardines and tuna, they were equally bare. Beyond any question Mary Caldwell was alone in the place.

    When I came out, she was fiddling with the controls of the hi-fi. Bach filtered through the room. She had brushed back her hair and put on dark glasses. I handed her the coke.

    "It's a nice house, Mary."

    "Thank you, Bill."

    "Who designed it?"

    "As a matter of fact, I designed it myself."

    "Really? Do you do it professionally?"

    "Just for my own amusement. I've done this house and a couple of others for friends. Would you like to see the rest of it?"

    "I would indeed."

    She led the way. There was another bedroom in the far wing but it bore no sign of recent occupancy. Not only was Skid not there, there was nothing even to indicate that he ever had been. There were no servant's quarters. Obviously Mary Caldwell was one of those rare types who really enjoyed living alone. When I made a comment to that effect, she shrugged and said, "Why does that strike you as strange?"

    "Not strange, really. Just out of the ordinary. This is a lonely stretch of beach, and the nearest house is several hundred yards away. What with all the housebreaking that goes on these days, I should think it might make you nervous."

    "As far as possessions are concerned, I don't give a damn. That's the insurance company's problem."

    "What about yourself? Is that their problem too?"

    "You mean that I might be raped or murdered?"

    "It could happen."

    She shrugged, her eyes hidden behind the dark glasses. "What's a body, after all?"

    "You think the body is divorced from the soul?"

    "It should be. Otherwise you remain shackled to it. A nice body is a pleasant possession, nothing more. Like a good car."

    "Cars are replaceable."

    "Well, why should anyone want to bother me? If they break into the house, I'll be glad to show them where everything is. I have no interest in jewelry, and I don't even own a teevee. My money comes from a family trust administered in Boston, and my bills are paid directly from that office. I keep virtually no cash in the house. It's just that simple."

    "I don't think it is. There are people who do some mighty strange things just for kicks."

    She smiled. "Are you trying to tell me something?"

    "I suppose I am."

    "Perhaps you're a secret axe murderer yourself. Is that it?"

    "It might be."

    "And you're about to do me in after first performing some ghastly sex act on my poor defenseless bod?"

    "I'm giving it some thought."

    "You are a rather sinister looking type at that. That scar just beneath the hairline, for instance. The result of a Marseille street brawl? Have you been running a little heroin on that elegant yacht of yours, Mr. Shaw? Are you and that piratical looking bartender engaged in some nefarious enterprise. Are you trying to drag my baby brother into a life of crime? Is that your game, Mr. Shaw?"

    "And if it were?"

    "Why to tell you the truth, I couldn't care less. It would all be in a very solid tradition. A lot of the most respectable family fortunes were founded on exactly the same basis. Take the Caldwells for instance. Fine old New England seafaring clan. Clipper ship builders and masters. Family mansion on Beacon Hill still with the original authentic purple windows. And how did it all begin? Why just by running opium to Peking and blackbirding slaves to South Carolina. So if you think you can horrify me with your devilish schemes, Mr. Shaw, you're very much mistaken."

    "Oh? Then how would a little flier in white slaving appeal to you, Miss Caldwell?"

    "Surely you can come up with something jazzier than that. Is anyone still serious about white slavery?"

    "So I'm told."

    "But with every girl over the age of fourteen just dying to give it away, where would the market be?"

    "You may have a point there. What about a nice little load of pot from Jamaica?"

    "The old ganga, eh?"

    "The what?"

    "That's what the Jamaicans call it. What kind of a dope smuggler are you, anyway?"

    She had managed to disarm me to the point where I nearly blurted it out. If she had been looking full at me with the astonishing candor of those sky blue eyes, I think I would have been lost. As it was, the blank stare of the dark glasses saved me. I took time for a long sip at my drink before answering.

    "It's all pretty much what Red told you."

    "Buried treasure?"

    "Yes."

    "Malarky. Do you really expect me to believe that?"

    "Why not?"

    "Because it's such old hat. You'll have to come up with something better than that, my friend."

    "Are you aware that last year the State of Florida collected taxes on more than two million dollars in recovered treasure? Do you know that less than six months ago skin divers fishing off the reefs at Lucaya came up with a quarter of a million in gold nuggets and assorted other trinkets? The town of Nassau was created by buccaneers. Every pirate worth his salt was based there at one time or another. The harbor was open at both ends, and therefore the pirate ships couldn't be trapped. And remember too that the Spanish gold ships used to beat up through the Windward Passage and the Florida Straits. If you've ever sailed that area, you know its nothing but shoals and cross currents and sudden hurricanes. Damn it all, the whole city of Key West was founded by wreckers. Wrecking was a major industry along this whole coast. There's enough gold down there somewhere to pay off a good chunk of the national debt, if it can be found and gotten out."

    "And you have some handy little bit of ancient parchment, is that it? Did you buy it from the same fellow who sold you the Brooklyn Bridge?"

    "If you choose to think I'm a complete idiot, that's your privilege. Naturally I'm not going to tell you how I know where the stuff is, but believe me I do."

    "Then what's your problem. Why not just go and get it?"

    "Because if it becomes known what I'm doing there, the local government will demand anywhere up to eighty percent of what I recover. I need someone with me who doesn't mind shading the law slightly and at the same time knows how to keep his mouth shut. Your brother may or may not be the one. So now thanks for the drink, and let's just forget the whole thing."

    I stood up. I thought I had her convinced. I had almost convinced myself.

    She smiled and said, "Sit down, Bill. Don't get so huffy. Have another drink. I've got a proposition for you."

    "I'm always open to a proposition from a pretty girl."

    "We'll get to that part later. First let me freshen your drink."

    She came back with the drink in her hand. "I don't suppose you want to tell me exactly where this treasure of yours is buried."

    "I don't suppose I do."

    "Can we say it's somewhere between the Bahamas and Jamaica?"

    "That's fair enough." I said. "We're only talking about an area of roughly a hundred thousand square miles."

    "And you still want Skid to go with you?"

    I shrugged. "If it isn't Skid, it will be someone else."

    "Well, the thing is that Skid and the treasure are both in the same area right now."

    "So?"

    "That gives us a common objective. We both want to find Skid. I don't know if he's the right man for this job you have in mind, or if the job is right for him. That's your business. I want to find him for my own reasons. He is my brother, and I do feel responsible for him, and I am worried about him."

    "Isn't there any way you can reach him?"

    "None at all. The last I heard he was on a big old schooner called
Trident
down at Georgetown. He may still be there, or he may have been on six other boats by this time. You know how it is with boat bums, they drift around a lot, and about the only way you can find one is to follow in his tracks and ask everybody you see. Obviously you don't want to talk your particular project around any more than you really have to. You've already discussed it with Red and myself which is probably too many. But that's already done. So what I'm suggesting is that I sail down to the Bahamas with you. I'm really very handy on a boat-been around them in one way or another most of my life-crewed a couple of times on
Ticonderoga
in the S.O.R.C. Anyway, that will get you in the general direction you're heading for, and it will give me a chance to find out what's become of Skid. If all else fails, we'll have had a nice little cruise. How does that strike you?"