Once a Widow (4 page)

Richard paused, made his plan, remembering what he’d learned from Alex Kamin. Then he entered the hospital.

In the early morning of that Sunday in July it was fairly clear, but the sun, behind shreds of racing clouds, held an odd saffron look and the sky was lead-colored over the Canadian horizon. Shortly before noon the sun disappeared and the clouds thickened and darkened and swept in from the northeast. The lake began to roll and presently whitecaps sprang up. Then came the wind and with it was rain.

Mortimer Watson, general agent for the Great Northern Casualty Company, said disgustedly, “Well, that ruins our fishing,” and began to reel in his line. “The fish’ll be nosing the bottom until this blows over.”

“You’re right, Mort,” said a slender elderly man with thick brown hair touched with gray. “We may as well go back to the clubhouse and play some poker.” His name was Lewis Sprang and he was a lawyer.

“Hah!” Watson jeered. “Itching to get your money back, huh?”

The elderly man, also reeling in his line, smiled thinly around a black cigar clenched between his teeth. “That’s right, Mort. I figure you’re in to me for forty-seven dollars.”

“I’m available,” Watson said, grinning, and called to a third man standing in the stern of the small cruiser. “Hey, George, ship your tackle. We’re heading back for the basin.”

The man in the stern, who was much younger than the other two, in his early twenties, gazed at the heaving water and darkening sky and nodded. “I’ll get the anchor,” he called back. He was a well built young man, perhaps a trifle too heavy, with thick blond hair, blowing now in the wind, and calm blue eyes. Like the two older men he wore rubber-soled canvas shoes, slacks and a short-sleeved shirt. His name was George Yundt and he was a teller at the Harbor City State Bank. He reeled in, placed his rod on the deck, and moved forward to the anchor chain. The boat was pitching quite badly now.

Mortimer Watson, who owned the boat, entered the tiny cabin and started the motor. Lewis Sprang followed him into the cabin, stooping as he entered. He was seventy-one years old, tall and spare, with a thin tanned face and kindly brown eyes behind rimless glasses. Watson was younger, fifty-four, a thick, short man, partially bald.

George Yundt shipped the anchor and shouted over the wind, “All clear! Take her away!” He was enjoying himself, even though the storm had interrupted their fishing. It was only by chance that he was a member of the party. He had been strolling on the pier of the Harbor City yacht basin, restless and bored on a Sunday morning, when Watson and Sprang had been preparing to shove off. They had invited him to come along and he had accepted, faintly proud of the opportunity to be the guest of two of Harbor City’s most prominent citizens. Besides, he had nothing better to do. He hated Sundays, usually.

Now he moved along the deck and entered the cabin. Watson swung the wheel and the boat began to move in a slow churning circle, rising and falling with the pitch of the waves. Watson shouted above the roar of the motor, “There’s plenty of beer and sandwiches.” George Yundt, wishing to be helpful, lifted the lid of an ice chest, brought out three bottles of beer, snapped off the caps and passed them around. Watson drank from his while holding the wheel with one hand. Lewis Sprang sat on a narrow padded bench against one wall of the cabin. George Yundt stood beside Watson and gazed through the glass at the prow as it pitched against wild water and dark sky. The waves foamed angrily and it seemed that they were growing much larger, very quickly. The boat began to roll.

Mortimer Watson handed his beer bottle to George Yundt, gripped the wheel with both hands and grunted, “Looks like a real blow.”

The boat lurched and dipped in a long rolling wave and the bow was buried in foaming water. The propeller sang as it left the water, and then churned water again as the hull resounded with the impact of the waves. George Yundt swayed on his feet and steadied himself against the pitching of the boat. Lewis Sprang called from behind them, “Hold her steady, Captain.”

“Steady she is,” Watson said cheerfully. “This old tub has weathered more than this little blow.” He opened the throttle and the motor sang a keener song. “Have a sandwich, you fellows. There’s ham and cheese.”

“I think I’ll wait until we get in,” George Yundt said, glancing nervously out at the storm.

“Me, too,” the old lawyer said. “Mort, how long do you figure it’ll take us to reach the basin?”

“Better part of an hour.” Watson was panting a little, fighting the wheel. “Maybe longer, with this wind.” As he spoke, a huge wave struck and the craft shuddered. The freed propeller whined shrilly. “Wow!” Watson cried, lurching sideways as the boat yawed alarmingly.

“Keep her into the wind,” Lewis Sprang said sharply.

“Sure, sure. We’ll make it.” There was sweat on Watson’s round red face.

It was almost dark now, not the darkness of night, but of the storm, and the wind was a high piercing scream. Water lashed at the small boat and sometimes it seemed that it would not emerge from the engulfing waves, but it did, trembling. The three men could feel the trembling, the shuddering, and the sound of the motor was like a frantic heart beat. Water was inside the cabin now, flowing in rivulets on the boards beneath their feet. Mortimer Watson tried to remember if the hatches in the bow were closed, but he could not. He hoped they were closed, because the motor was there, in the bow, and if water got to it, drowning it, they would be helpless.

Mortimer Watson felt fear. He gulped and gripped the wheel, staring ahead at the driving rain and violently moving water. The boat lurched again and George Yundt staggered backward, jarring against the cabin wall. Lewis Sprang got to his feet and stood unsteadily, holding his beer bottle. George Yundt leaned against the wall, wishing that he did not hold the two beer bottles, but he didn’t know what to do with them. Suddenly he wished he was in his room at the Y.M.C.A., lying on his bed reading a book and listening to the rain on his one window. Pleasant as it had been, this unexpected outing with Mr. Watson and Mr. Sprang, he wished now that he was in his cozy little room at the Y. He took a drink from the bottle in his left hand, his bottle, he remembered. The neck rattled against his teeth and beer dribbled over his chin as the boat lurched sickeningly. He heard Mr. Sprang shout hoarsely, “We can’t make it, Mort! What’ll we do?”

“Shut up!” Watson shouted. “Please shut the hell up!” He struggled with the wheel and peered ahead through the rain-drenched windshield. He was thoroughly frightened now. Although he had lived along Lake Erie all his life, he was not really a sailor or a strong swimmer. He knew that Erie was the most shallow of the Great Lakes and that when the wind came it could turn with shocking suddenness into a seething maelstrom. For an instant the wind lessened and he caught a glimpse of a dark mass ahead. He slowed the motor, peering through the rain.

Lewis Sprang saw it, too. “Snake Island, Mort. Put in there.”

“Yes,” Watson breathed, gripping the wheel. He could see it quite plainly now, the rocky beach, the high bluff and the pine trees bending in the wind. They were approaching the leeward side. He breathed a deep sigh of thankfulness and relief.

Lewis Sprang stood beside Watson and said tensely, “Can you put her in?”

“I—I think so, if one of you will handle the anchor.”

“I will,” George Yundt said. He looked helplessly at the beer bottles he held. Then he placed them upright in the ice chest, hoping they would not tip over.

“Be careful,” Watson shouted over his shoulder.

George Yundt left the cabin, rain pouring inside as he did so, and made his way along the deck to the bow, where he knelt by the anchor in the wind and rain. Watson throttled the motor and edged the boat toward the island. They were in calmer water now and as they approached the overhanging bluff it seemed that the wind was high above them. Twenty feet from the shore Watson cut the motor, knowing that he could not go in any closer without danger of beaching the boat. He had often still-fished for bass near the island and was familiar with the area. Through the windshield he saw Yundt lowering the anchor and he turned away from the wheel wiping sweat from his red face with a freckled and hairy forearm.

Lew Sprang gave Watson his thin smile. “We’re lucky, Mort. We never could have made it to the harbor.”

“Sure, we would have, but this is better. We’ll just ride it out.” Watson moved to the cabin hatchway. “I’d better throw out the stern anchor, too.”

“Never mind,” Sprang said. “George is doing it.”

“Smart boy,” Watson replied. “I’m glad we asked him to come along.”

“I think he enjoyed it,” Sprang said. “He’s a good boy, in spite of his family background. He’s doing fine at the bank, too.”

“I knew his dad,” Watson said. “A no-good if I ever saw one. And his mother was no better. After they got divorced and left town the boy would have been a county charge if Louise Yundt hadn’t taken him in. She died of cancer, didn’t she?”

Sprang nodded and sighed. “Yes, four years ago. I handled the estate—what was left of it. She loaned all her savings to George’s father.” He sighed again. “She may as well have burned it. I felt sorry for the boy and tried to help him. Never had any kids of my own, you know, and—” He stopped abruptly as the young man entered the cabin.

Watson said to him, “Thanks, George.”

“Sure.” George, grinned at the two older men. “A little wet out there.” He brushed water from his face and gazed down at his soaked shirt and slacks.

“I’m afraid we can’t do anything about dry clothes,” Watson said, “but this shouldn’t last long. I’ll bet you a dollar that the sun will be out in an hour.”

“Make it five,” Lewis Sprang said quickly. “This will last longer than an hour.”

Watson turned and grinned at the lawyer. “Still greedy, huh? I was betting George, but I’ll take you on, too. Let’s make it ten.”

“Twenty. I know Erie weather.”

“Okay,” Watson said, and laughed. He was feeling good, now that the danger was over. He had really been worried out there, before he’d seen Snake Island ahead. He turned to Yundt. “You want in on this?”

George smiled. “No, thanks.” He removed his shirt and hung it over the wheel. His torso was compact and muscular, in spite of the thin layer of fat.

Sprang looked at a gold watch strapped to a thin tanned wrist. “It’s twelve-ten right now. If the sun doesn’t show by one-ten, I win.”

“Right,” Watson said. “Let’s eat.”

The three men ate and drank and when they were finished the wind had died and the small cruiser rode gently to her anchors. Out beyond the little island, on the windward side, the lake still boiled sullenly and the sky remained a leaden gray. The old lawyer leaned back on the bench and said, “How about some three-handed poker?”

“Don’t count me in,” George Yundt said quickly. “I don’t gamble.”

Sprang puffed on a cigar and nodded approvingly. “And you’re right, son. A banker should never gamble.”

“I’m not exactly a banker, sir—just a teller.”

Sprang lifted a long finger. “You’ll be a banker some day, and a good one.”

“I hope so, sir,” George said modestly. Even with the secret plan he had, he must remember that Mr. Sprang had gotten him the job at the bank, was his benefactor; he must always seem grateful and sincere. In another few weeks it would not matter. He would be gone then, far away, to Havana, which was in Cuba, where no one would find him.

Sometimes George was sorry that he’d picked Mr. Sprang’s savings account to loot by means of forged withdrawal slips, the signature carefully copied from the master card, but to carry out his plan he needed money. He had already taken three thousand dollars from Mr. Sprang’s account alone. It was one of the accounts he’d carefully selected. Like the others, all elderly depositors, Mr. Sprang never withdrew from his savings account and never questioned the balance. Of course, George vaguely supposed that he’d be found out eventually, but not until he was safely away from Harbor City and all the memories the city held for him.

Mortimer Watson said to the lawyer, “Hell, two-handed poker is no good. How about some rum, a dollar a point?”

“You’ve got a customer. Get the cards.”

The two older men played their game while George Yundt sat on the seat by the wheel and watched. Watson won consistently and kept goading the old lawyer with disparaging comments on his ability as a gambler. Sprang paid no attention and grimly played his cards. Presently weak sunlight crept into the cabin and the three men gazed out at the sky and water. The lake was almost quiet now, the water rolling very gently, and the clouds on the horizon were moving slowly westward. Then the sun, almost directly overhead, burst through brightly and a patch of blue sky showed behind it.

“You lose, Lew,” Watson crowed. “Pay up.”

Sprang looked glumly at his wrist watch, saw that it was seven minutes until one. He sighed, took a fat wallet from a hip pocket, extracted a twenty from a thick sheaf of bills and handed it to Watson. “I’ll get even,” he said. “You wait.”

“Sure you will, Lew,” Watson said with mock sympathy. “Do you want to pay me now what you lost at rum, or should we finish the game at the clubhouse?”

“To hell with you,” Sprang said amiably. “We’ll finish at the clubhouse—but it’s going to be poker. There’ll be a game going.”

“Name your poison,” Watson said cheerfully, and winked at George Yundt. “Anchors away, son. I’ll start the motor.”

Lewis Sprang went on deck with George Yundt and helped with the anchors. They stood side by side in the stern as Watson backed the boat away from the island. The lawyer lit a fresh cigar, cupping the match flame against the gentle breeze, and said, “By the way, George, I’m closing out my savings account in the morning—going to put it in bank stock. Since I’m a director, I should have done it long ago. You figure the interest and make a cashier’s check for the total and I’ll be in around ten o’clock with my pass book to check it against the bank’s balance.” He laughed shortly. “I don’t even know how much it is, not exactly, with the accumulated interest. I haven’t touched the account in years.”

It seemed to George Yundt as he stood there in the sun, smelling the fragrance of Mr. Sprang’s cigar, that the world was whirling. The sky and the water seemed to spin around him and his face felt stiff and numb. He hadn’t thought it would ever happen, had not thought about it very much, but it had happened, was happening now. He was caught, found out. When Mr. Sprang brought his pass book in the morning it would show a balance of three thousand dollars more than the bank’s record showed. He stood rigidly and did not speak. He could not speak.