3

The red-and-black car pulled into the parking area while Zach was making lunch. It carried a Massachusetts license plate, the first three digits of which were 750. He did not know at the time that the 750 digits were given to year-round residents of the island that year. Nor was there anything about the man who stepped from the car which could have identified him as a native. He was tall and blond, and he moved with lithe familiarity toward the house. Watching from the kitchen window, Zach saw the man glance at the Plymouth, rub a hand across his chin, and then start for the house.

He stopped just outside the kitchen door. He didn’t knock. He put his face close to the mesh of the screen and said, “Hi.”

“Hello,” Zach answered.

“You Zach Blake?”

“Yes.”

The man opened the screen door and stepped into the kitchen. “I’m Pete Rambley,” he said.

The way Rambley walked into the house without being invited annoyed Zach. He looked more closely at the man. There was a trace of a smile on Rambley’s mouth, a touch of sardonic humor in his blue eyes.

“What’s on your mind?” Zach asked.

“Your rental.”

“What about it?”

“Seems to be a little confusion down at the Dubrows. Shame Carol ain’t here because she’d clear it up in a minute. Anne’s got no head for business.”

“No?”

“No.” Rambley stared at him, the blue eyes still mildly amused. “I’m afraid we rented this house to somebody else, Mr. Blake.”

“I’m afraid I heard this story before,” Zach said.

“Mmm, well maybe you didn’t listen too close the first time around.”

Zach put down the skillet he was holding and turned from the stove. “Meaning?” he said.

“Meaning I think you’ll have to get out, Mr. Blake.”

Zach did not answer for a moment. Then he said, “Don’t be ridiculous. I paid for this house and—”

“But you didn’t, Mr. Blake.”

“I wired $500 to Mrs. Dubrow yesterday morning. Even if they’d sent it by carrier pigeon, it’d have got here by now.”

“We didn’t get any money, Mr. Blake.”

“Then call Western Union. It’s probably been waiting there since—”

“I already did.”

“I don’t believe you,” Zach said flatly.

Rambley shrugged. “Call them yourself. You got a phone here?”

“I don’t have to call them,” Zach said. “I know I sent the money. Suppose you just get out of my kitchen, Mr. Rambley.”

Rambley planted his feet wide and clenched his fists, as if he were preparing for a battle. Then, calmly, he said, “I guess I’ll have to get the police.”

“I guess so,” Zach said tightly.

“Nice meeting you, Mr. Blake,” Rambley said, and he walked out of the house. Zach watched him start the car, back around, and drive up the road, a cloud of dust swelling up behind the vehicle. He waited until both dust and automobile had vanished. Then he went to the telephone and dialed the operator.

“Get me Western Union,” he said.

He waited.

“Western Union,” a voice said briskly.

“My name is Zachary Blake,” he said. “I wired $500 from New York yesterday morning to Mrs. Carol Dubrow in Chilmark. Can you tell me whether or not that money was claimed?”

“Yesterday morning, sir?”

“Yes.”

“One moment, please.” Zach waited. The voice came back. “Yes, sir. Mrs. Dubrow collected on that wire late yesterday afternoon.”

“Mrs. Dubrow herself?” Zach asked.

“I don’t know her personally, sir,” the woman said. “But whoever collected was required to show identification.”

“Thank you,” Zach said. He hung up and went to the back porch. Penny had already collected two dozen shells from the beach and was arranging them on the wooden desk like British infantrymen.

“Want some lunch, honey?” he asked.

“I’m starved,” Penny said. “How do you like my army?”

“Little girls shouldn’t think of armies,” Zach said.

“Girls are braver than boys, didn’t you know that, Dad?”

“I hope they’re hungrier, too,” he said. “Scrambled eggs coming up in five minutes. I’ve got to make a phone call first.”

“Okay,” Penny said, and she went back to arranging her shells.

He went through the house and into the pantry off the kitchen. The telephone rested on a shelf there. He drew a stool up to the shelf and then opened his wallet and took out the letter.

The letter had been mailed from the island four days previously. It had been sent by air, and had been addressed to him at Resignac Broadcasting in New York. He had not received it until yesterday morning. He had dialed information, and then placed a call immediately to the sender, a woman named Evelyn Cloud. Her voice on the telephone had bordered on the narrow edge of terror. She refused to discuss the letter. She refused to discuss Mary. She would not tell him anything except face to face. He told her he would come to the island instantly, and then he phoned Mrs. Dubrow and arranged for the rental of the Fielding house.

He had deliberately chosen the house he and Mary had shared the summer before. He had deliberately chosen it because Evelyn Cloud’s letter had reopened a closed issue—and if there were any truth at all to her words, perhaps the Fielding house would serve as the logical base of operations.

He spread the letter open on the shelf and read it again. It had been written in a hurried, uncertain scrawl.

Gay Head, July 10

Dear Mr. Blake,

My conscience can not be still no longer.

Your wife Mary did not drown accident.

Evelyn Cloud

He read the words once more, and then again. And then he flipped over the letter to where he’d written the woman’s number when he’d got it from Information in New York. Hastily, he dialed.

“Hello?” It was the voice of a young boy, and Zach felt momentary annoyance.

“May I please speak to Evelyn Cloud?” he said.

“Who’s this?” the boy asked.

“Zachary Blake.”

“What do you want?”

“I want Evelyn Cloud.”

“That’s my mother,” the boy said. “Why do you want her?”

“Would you call her to the phone, please?”

“She’s getting ready to go out on the boat.”

“Well, get her before she leaves,” Zach said.

“Just a second.”

Zach waited. The pantry was small and hot. Impatiently, he drummed on the shelf.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Cloud?”

“Yes.”

“This is Zachary Blake.”

“Who?”

“Zachary Blake.”

“I don’t know you, Mr. Blake,” the woman said.

“You sent me a letter,” Zach answered. “I spoke to you on the phone yesterday, remember?”

“I didn’t send you no letter. I didn’t talk to you.”

“Mrs. Cloud, it’s about my wife Mary. You said—”

“I don’t know your wife Mary,” the woman said.

“But you wrote me—”

“I don’t know how to write,” the woman said.

“What is it?” Zach asked. “What are you afraid of?”

“I ain’t afraid of nothing. I don’t know you, Mr. Blake.”

“Can’t you talk? Is someone there with you?”

“Just my son. I don’t know you, Mr. Blake.”

“Do you want money? Is that it?”

“I don’t want nothing.”

“I’m coming to Gay Head, Mrs. Cloud. Right now. I’ve got to—”

“Don’t come. I’m going out on the boat. I won’t be here.”

“I’m coming.”

“I don’t know you, Mr. Blake. Good-by,” she said, and she hung up.

“Mrs. Cloud, wait a—”

The line was dead. He hung up and tried the number again. He got a busy signal. Either Evelyn Cloud was talking to someone else, or she’d taken the receiver off the cradle. He slammed down the phone, looked up Cloud in the local directory, and found a listing for John Cloud in Gay Head.

He went out to the back porch then and said, “Come on, Penny.”

Penny saw his eyes and did not question his sudden command. She scrambled to her feet, took his hand, and left her scattered shells on the porch.