Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 2, April 1961

The Last Kill by Charles Runyon

The “Organization” had it’s big eye on Johnny Quill. Johnny knew he had to make this kill by the rule book... but he hadn’t counted on the woman.

Three hours out of New York International Airport, Johnny Quill rose from his seat to learn which of his fellow passengers he had to kill.

He walked down the aisle of the Viscount, carrying his shaving kit in his left rand. The empty space below his armpit made him itchy and nervous; he’d hated to leave his gun behind when he went through customs.

But he’d have to get used to the emptiness; this would be his last job.

At the spigot, he drew a cup of water and looked back through the cabin. The passengers seemed half-alive, sunk in midflight lethargy. In the nearest seat, a fat man in a flowered shirt cleaned his camera lens with a camel-hair brush. Johnny wondered, was he the man the Organization had sentenced to death? Or was it the black-haired girl with the purple eyelids, whose fingers made typing motions while she slept? Or one of sixty others...?

Johnny tightened his jaw and drew another cup of water. If he looked long enough, he’d begin to think of them as people. He had to think of them as machines, one of which he’d be assigned to turn off. It had helped before...

He crushed the cup in his bony fist and pushed open the door of the lavatory. It was empty; his contact hadn’t yet arrived.

Plugging in his electric shaver, he stooped to the mirror and began shaving his lean face. His light blond beard was not yet visible, but the shaver’s hum would cover the sound of conversation.

He wondered if he looked like the businessman he’d claimed to be in his passport. The gray suit was conservative enough; the maroon tie sufficiently bland. The white scars bunched along his jaw could have been trophies of college football; the thin nose could have been broken in a gentlemanly brawl. Yes, he’d pass...

The door opened and a bald, sticky man squeezed in. He looked like he’d just boarded a rush hour subway. His cheap suit was rumpled, his tie twisted.

“Quill?” he asked.

Johnny nodded, wrinkling his nose at the odor of sweat which had filled the cubicle. “Make it short, huh?”

The stocky man scowled at Johnny’s image. “I oughta see some identification.”

“You saw the signal. I don’t drink two cups of water because I like the stuff.”

The man’s scowl dissolved into a thick smile. “You must be Quill. They said you were a big, independent bastard.” He sobered abruptly. “Okay. She’s in the second seat from the rear, left side. Dark blonde, wearing a brown wool suit and a white blouse.”

Johnny’s hand tightened on the shaver. He’d never had to kill a woman before. “What did she do?”

“I’ll get to that, Quill. She’s only half the package. Her husband is the other half.”

“Oh?” The back of his neck prickled. This was beginning to sound like a nasty one. “Isn’t he sitting with her?”

“He’s sitting in hell for all we know. He pulled out of our operation in Montana three years ago. We’ve been watching the woman ever since, waiting for him to get in touch. Last week she bought a ticket to Trinidad.”

Johnny turned. “Trinidad’s a jump-off. He could be in Central or South America.”

“I doubt it. She can’t go far past Trinidad without making contact. He cleaned out their bank account when he left, and she sold her old car to buy the ticket.”

“Considerate husband. Is he dangerous?”

“To the organization he’s poison. Knows too many names. To you...” The stocky man shrugged. “He hasn’t played in your league. Spent all his time on the gambling end. Started in Montana, was working in Havana when that caved in on us. They moved him back to Montana and he finally joined the bottle a day club. About the time we decided he wasn’t a good risk, he disappeared.”

“What about his wife? Didn’t he have enough sense to keep her out of it?”

“Until he left, yeah. But he must’ve got a message to her telling her where he is, and he might’ve told her some other things. I think you’d better hit her, too.”

Johnny’s jaw tightened. “I don’t give a damn what you think. What’re the orders?”

The stocky man scowled. “Just make sure she isn’t dangerous.”

Wonderful, thought Johnny. Ten more years and they’ll let me wipe my own nose. How do you make sure of someone unless they’re dead? “They have names, these two?”

“Howard and Norma McLain. But they’d probably change them. Here’s a photo.”

Johnny took the two-by-three studio portrait. The man had curly black hair and big moist eyes. Lush-type, thought Johnny, the kind who marries a woman because he wants a mother.

The woman took his breath for a second. Her pale eyes jumped from the photo and pierced him with sharp intelligence. The forward set of her jaw told Johnny she probably wore the pants in the family; the smooth, wide slope of her shoulders hinted that she’d fill them beautifully.

What a waste, he thought. What a helluva waste.

He shredded the photo and flushed it into the Atlantic. “You say you watched her for three years?”

“I helped.”

“She have a lot of friends?”

“Hell! She never even smiled at the butcher.”

Thoughtfully, Johnny unplugged his razor and returned it to the shaving kit. The job might be slightly interesting, after all. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. I get off in Burmuda and you’ll be the only one watching her. Don’t lean on her. If she gets scared, she won’t make contact.”

“Don’t be elementary.” He zipped up the shaving kit. “You better go now, before they start thinking we’re a pair of queens.”

The stocky man started out, then paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Oh. Cantino’s your contact in Trinidad. He’ll send a man to help you.”

Johnny frowned. “Everybody knows I work alone. What’s Cantino in for?”

“Orders.” The man’s thick smile appeared again as he backed out the door. “Somebody up there doesn’t trust you, Quill.”

The door closed, and a chill climbed Johnny’s spine. He thought of the money he’d been stuffing into the bank in Zurich for nearly two years. Tough, if they found that. The organization looked at secret bank accounts the way wardens look at hacksaws.

He was sure of one thing; he had to do this job by the book.

He left the lavatory and walked to the magazine rack at the rear of the plane. Norma McLain sat with her knees pressed together, small hands folded in her lap, staring out the window. As Johnny passed her seat, she rubbed her palms against her cheeks in a tired gesture, revealing the red crescents of her lower lids.

He took a copy of Country Life and returned to his seat. Norma McLain didn’t look like a wife bound for a joyous reunion with her husband. She reminded him of a rabbit with its foot in a trap.

And that’s two of us, doll, he thought.

Tailing a woman on an island-hopping flight had its own built-in problems, Johnny found.

In Bermuda, Norma McLain spent the twenty-minute layover in the ladies’ room, while Johnny chain-smoked in the waiting room and eyed everyone who came and went. Her ticket to Trinidad might be a red herring. She could meet her husband anywhere, even in a ladies’ room.

But she came out when the flight was called. She walked to the plane with her chin high, turning her head as though looking for someone. She still wore the brown wool skirt, though many of the women had changed to light summer clothing. Johnny wondered if she had anything else.

He followed her up the ladder. Skirts were short this fall, he thought, observing the rhythmic exposure of first one white thigh, then the other. Inside the plane, he noticed that her perfume smelled like violets.

He was edging past her when he heard her ask the stewardess about a short, bald man in a rumpled suit. He froze, realizing she meant his contact.

“That was Mr. Sentara,” said the stewardess. “He terminated at Bermuda.”

“Oh.” Relief was evident in her voice. “Thank you.”

Johnny walked to his seat and sat down heavily. Obviously she’d suspected the man. She had more brains than you’d expect to find in so fancy a package. He’d have to handle her like a thorn bush.

His resolution was strained during the thirty-minute stop in San Juan. The woman seemed bent on touring the entire vast terminal at a heel-clattering pace. Johnny followed, jostling adults, wading through streams of children, and beginning to understand the slob’s rumpled, sweaty condition. Norma McLain was a tough woman to tail.

She returned to the boarding gate when the flight was called. Not wanting to stand behind her a second time, Johnny left her powdering her nose in the line and hurried out behind the customs counter, ignoring the curious looks of the customs men.

He’d been in his seat two minutes when he smelled violets. “How’d you manage it?” she asked.

Johnny stiffened, then twisted to look up at her. “Manage what?”

She leaned forward slightly, her full breasts weighting the fabric of her blouse. Her voice was taut. “You were behind me in the boarding line. Now you’re here.”

With a sinking sensation, Johnny remembered she’d been powdering her nose. She’d caught him in the mirror, sure as hell. Too damn smart.

“I came through behind customs,” he said, forcing a smile. “They hardly ever shoot people.”

She didn’t move. Her face was blank, but her eyes kept sliding toward the corners. Scared, Johnny thought. If I don’t calm her down the whole operation will fold.

He widened his smile and took a card from his breast pocket. “I’m Johnny Quill. Management counselor. Chicago.”

She looked at the card without taking it. Johnny knew the business cover was good; he carried check stubs from a half-dozen small firms which fronted for the Organization; plus income tax receipts and cards to show he contributed to the United Fund like any solid businessman.

“I’m traveling alone,” he added. “If you’re not busy in Trinidad...”

That seemed to convince her. The taut lines of fear smoothed out, leaving her face beautiful. She smiled. “No thanks, Mr. Quill. But I’ll remember you if I need any management.”

She went to her seat and Johnny sank back weakly. He couldn’t risk having any more contact with her. There was an old saying: A man who kills one acquaintance is more likely to be caught than one who kills a dozen strangers. Getting caught in the West Indies meant there’d be no Organization lawyer at his cell next morning with a writ and a bundle of cash.

And that meant hanging.

In Barbados, he cabled Cantino to have his man at Piarco airport in Trinidad. During the last short hop, he kept his nose in Country Life and didn’t look at Norma McLain.

He was watching the Trinidad customs man probe the innards of his luggage when a voice sang out beside him. “Carry your bags, sir?” Without pausing the voice whispered: “Cantino sent me.”

Johnny turned to face a young man with straight black hair falling over his flat, Carib face. He wore a ruffled shirt open to the navel, Belafonte-style.

“Try the woman in the brown wool skirt,” said Johnny.

The young man flashed a white grin. “Saw her already, Chief. If you need a drink, try the slophouse across the street.”

He bounced down the counter to where Norma McLain was handing her suitcase to a cadaverous Indian porter. The kid shouldered the Indian aside and grabbed the handle. The Indian clung. The kid jabbed his elbow into the Indian’s stomach, and he doubled over, retching dryly.

The kid grinned at Norma, shouldered the bag, and walked toward the door. She hesitated a second, then followed, carrying her jacket over her arm. Her white blouse had pulled loose on the sides, and the small of her back showed a dark shadow of persperation. Johnny dreaded the time he’d have to see her again.

Johnny finished customs, checked his baggage, and found the sleazy rumshop the kid had mentioned. Choosing an isolated table in the corner, he drank one lime squash and then another, sensing the violence that seemed always to swirl about the island like an invisible, odorless gas.

An East Indian stood at the bar fondling the gold ring in his ear. A pigeon-chested man with tattoo-blackened forearms sat three tables away complaining in French to a shaven-headed man in a dirty t-shirt. Two bearded men across the room argued in the harsh accents of Caracas.

Johnny felt the pressure build up inside him, washing away the fatigue of the twelve-hour flight. He always felt it before a hit — a taste of pennies in his mouth, the quick, fluttering heartbeat and the stretching of the skin across his cheekbones.

He saw Cantino’s man pause in the door, dark eyes bouncing about the room like a little black balls in a glass. He walked over to Johnny’s table, leaned forward, and spoke in the soft Trinidad singsong.

“She’s in the airport hotel, room 114. She catches a Beewee flight north in two days.”

Johnny sipped his lime squash, feeling let down. The operation was dragging. “Who’s watching her now?”

“The desk man. I gave him five bucks. Beewee money.”

“What if she goes out the back?”

“No, man. The place is surrounded by a chain-link fence and three strands of barbed wire. One gate and the parking lot man watches that. I gave him five, too. If she walks out he sends a kid ahead to tell us. If she rides out, he delays her at the gate and sends a cab ahead for us. Good?”

Johnny nodded. The kid was sharp and eager to please. He reminded Johnny of himself at twenty, though he wondered if he’d been so obnoxiously bright.

“You were told to stay with me?”

“Yeah.”

“Sit down. What’s your name?”

The kid collapsed into a chair, adolescent-fashion. “Albert. I’ll take rum.”

“You’ll take lime squash or water when you work with me.” Johnny saw him look down, smiling at his hands. Albert would be hard to work with, he decided; too wild, too eager, too wise.

“What’s north of here?” he asked.

“More islands,” said Albert. “Her plane takes her to Grenada, but she asked the desk man about Laborie.”

Johnny waited, then said impatiently: “Don’t make me drag it out. How does she get to Laborie?”

“From Grenada she has to make other contacts. Maybe she gets a native schooner, or a freighter, or if she’s lucky she gets a deck ticket on one of Geest’s banana boats. That’ll take her to a smaller island, St. Vincent Then she has to hire a launch or a fishing boat for Laborie, twelve miles out.”

“You know the islands,” Johnny admitted. “What’s on Laborie?”

Albert looked pleased. “I’m the only man Cantino trusts out in the islands whether it’s rum, women, or dope. They’re like my back yard. Laborie?” He paused to give Johnny a sad look.

“It’s the end of the world, man. I never set foot on the island. We always unload onto native boats. About two thousand people live there. They fish, smuggle, raise some bananas, a little copra. No electricity. No roads. Mostly shingle shacks, some houses and rum-shops. One building they call a hotel...”

“Anyone in the hotel?”

“Rats, mostly. Some Canadian bought it two or three years ago and let it go to hell. They say he’s a rummy.”

Johnny felt the skin tighten on his face. Montana bordered on Canada; a man could slip over the line, take on a Canadian identity, then fly south. And the time checked. “You don’t know the guy’s name?”

“Mac something. Uhmmm... McLennon?”

“Close enough.” Johnny felt the pressure building up again. Finding the man was half the problem; now he wanted to finish it quickly. “Can you get us out tonight?”

“If you don’t mind the smell, I can get a boat.”

Johnny nodded. “And get me a gun. I had to travel clean.”

Albert looked down at his hands. “Cantino said you should make it look like a local job. We don’t use guns here.”

Johnny felt his nostrils burn with anger. “Why doesn’t Cantino mind his own business?”

Albert half-smiled, still looking at his hands. “I guess he’s got his orders.”

Johnny looked narrowly at the kid. Someone was twisting the screws — sending him weaponless to an island where he’d stand out like a naked bather in Grant Park, tying a wild kid on his back...

“Albert,” he said tightly. “You’re supposed to spy on me, aren’t you?”

Black eyes narrowed a split second, then flew wide. “Oh, no, man.”

“Don’t lie to me, kid. How do you report?”

Albert’s lips tightened, and he said nothing.

Johnny shot his foot out under the table, found the rung and kicked up and out with all his strength. The chair sailed backward and crashed to the floor. The kid landed on his back and slid halfway across the room.

The rumshop was silent as Albert rose, his face a dirty gray. He shot a scared look toward Johnny, who hadn’t moved. Then he brushed his hands over his white trousers, picked up the chair and carried it back to the table. By the time he was seated, the Indian was fondling his earring and the two Venezuelans had picked up their argument.

“I didn’t enjoy that,” said Johnny. “But I can’t work with a man I don’t trust. Now... give me the story or get out.”

“Okay.” Albert spoke in a low voice, looking down at his hands. “I report every day by telephone or cable. Where we are, where we plan to go. If I miss, they come looking. They figure you might run.”

Johnny’s fists tightened. “Why?”

“Cantino says you been ratholing cash. It’s a good sign.”

Johnny leaned back slowly, feeling trapped. They’d sweat him first, he decided. What they finally did would depend on how he handled this job. He’d be watched like a chain-smoker in a gunpowder plant.

“Okay,” he said. “The gun’s out. What do they use here?”

“Knife, electric cord. Best is a bicycle chain, then you dump the guy in the road and they call it hit-run. Happens all the time.”

“Except that Laborie has no roads.” He leaned across the table and drew Albert’s shirt apart. He’d noticed the scar when the kid fell; now it was revealed as a puckered furrow slashing across his chest from right shoulder to left rib cage. “How’d that happen?”

“A brawl down in San Fernando. Fella tried to give me a heart operation but he stood too far away. He didn’t get another swing.”

He sounds proud as a kid with a new car, thought Johnny. He’s hard for a kid — and the pratfall hadn’t bothered him at all.

“I meant the weapon, kid,” said Johnny.

“Oh. Cutlass.”

“They use ’em in Laborie?”

“It’s universal, man. The handy-dandy all purpose tool for cutting bamboo, cane, firewood, wives and other guys.”

“Okay. Here.” He drew his baggage check from his pocket. “Get my bags and a cab.”

Albert took the check and bobbed up. “What about the woman?” Cantino says you’ll have to take her out too.

“We’ll see. The man comes first.”

Albert nodded thoughtfully. “You take your time with her, huh?”

“Get the bags, kid.”

“Okay. But when the time comes...” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “Let me do it, huh?”

Johnny felt the hair prickle on the back of his neck. “Get the goddam bags. Now.”

He watched the kid go, feeling a faint sickness in his stomach. Everybody seemed to want the woman dead; now they even wanted to kill her for him.

In room 114, the telephone rang. It was the desk clerk again, asking Norma if she needed anything.

“No.” her voice rose. “I told you I’d call if I did.”

“Yes, madame.”

“Has anyone asked about me?”

“No, madame.”

“If they do, you’re not to tell them anything.”

“Yes, madame.”

She hung up, her nerves jumping. She wasn’t sure the five dollars she’d given him would buy his silence. She was beginning to hate Trinidad with its close, heavy air; its quick-moving people with their weird, sing-song English. Her skin crawled as she thought of the young porter who’d flaunted his horrible chest scar. In some strange way, he seemed to mutilate her body with his black, bouncing eyes.

She sagged into the chair at her dressing table and rubbed her eyes. Her lids felt gritty. She needed sleep, but she couldn’t unwind after twelve hours in the air. Leaning closer to her mirror, she could see tiny lines crossing and recrossing the skin below her eyes.

She stood and stripped off her blouse and skirt. The suit was unwearable now. Too bad her good summer things had worn out first. Those she’d bought were cheap and looked it. She thought of her furs and jewelry and furniture, sold for the sole purpose of staying alive. Sometimes even that had seemed a waste...

She lay down on the bed in her slip. The noisy air-conditioner blew cool air across her body. She debated spending the entire two days in her room; having her meals sent up, reading... It would distract her from the worry of seeing Howard again. You never knew what three years would do to a man, especially to Howard, with his leaps of enthusiasm and plunges of despair. Once he’d told her, “A dependable man would bore you, Norma.” And she’d answered, “Then please, Howard, bore me now and then.”

Was that before or after the nightclub? Somewhere in there; the nightclub was youth’s Big Dream, except that he’d lost money and a friendly guy had offered to help him if he opened up a little casino in back. From then on, the organization had owned him.

In the three years since he’d disappeared, she’d begun to wonder if they’d killed him. He’d always thought they would, eventually. Then a week ago she’d received a note with a West Indian postmark. The note had said: Laborie, B.W.I. Howard.

That was all. Now here she was, four thousand miles from home and nearly broke. She wasn’t even sure he meant for her to come. Oh, God... She sat up and lit a cigarette. If he sent her away, she’d divorce him. Thirty was too old to be alone.

Suddenly she had to know.

She lifted the phone and got the desk clerk on the line. “You remember I asked about Laborie? Is the airline the quickest way to get there?”

“No, madame. A Grumman float plane is available for charter during daylight hours only. It will deliver you to St. Vincent.”

“How much?”

“The fare is arranged with the pilot. I believe it usually runs something over two hundred dollars — Beewee.”

“Hold on.” She cradled the phone in the hollow of her shoulder and counted her money. Sixty — plus the refund^- on her return airline ticket. She could charter the plane and have enough left for cigarets and a meal or two. After that...

“Better be there, Howard,” she whispered, then said aloud; “I’d like to go tomorrow. Can you make arrangements?”

“The pilot cannot be reached until eight tomorrow. I’m off duty.”

“Oh. Well, call me at six in the morning.”

She hung up, stripped, showered, and slid naked between the cool, tingling sheets. As she switched off the light, her thoughts drifted to the tall man who’d gone behind customs in San Juan. He’d called himself a businessman, but there was something hard and exciting about him. She wondered what excitement he was finding in Trinidad.

The Zinia was built high, like a Mississippi river boat. Johnny shared the enclosed top deck with a dozen passengers, some barrels and boxes of cargo, and thick diesel fumes which boiled up from the engines below.

Within two hours he had a thumping headache. It wasn’t eased by the red-skinned man who sprawled on the wooden crate beside him and harangued Johnny about his tropical bird stuffing business. Between pulls on a quart of Mount Gay rum, the man tried to persuade Johnny to find him a stateside market for his birds. Johnny began to regret his businessman cover.

Albert, meanwhile, ranged the ship like a member of the crew, talking in their burbling French-African patois. It reminded Johnny of men talking with their heads under water. Around three a.m., Johnny had just fallen asleep with his head against a coil of rope when Albert shook him.

“Got something to show you, man.”

Johnny followed him down the ladder and onto the open bow of the ship. The open sea looked like crinkled tinfoil in the moonlight. The ship was plunging, and a southeast wind whipped Johnny’s shirt against his body. He watched Albert pull a long, broad-bladed knife-from between two crates. It curved backward like a cavalry saber.

“Here’s your cutlass, chief,” said Albert proudly, holding it out by the point.

Johnny grasped the blade and flipped it, feeling the handle smack into his palm. A spiral of black tape was wrapped around the handle. “Nice balance. Where’d you get it?”

Albert’s eyes gleamed with pleasure. “Found it in the crew’s quarters.”

Johnny felt a quiet anger rise inside him. He held out the cutlass, the point nearly touching Albert’s stomach. “Put it back.”

“Hell. No, man—.”

Johnny touched the point against Albert’s skin. The kid sucked in his belly and jumped back, clapping his hand to the spot. “Jesus!”

Johnny spoke softly: “Don’t go out on a limb without orders from me. How’d you expect to get that through St. Vincent customs?”

Albert, looking sheepish, lifted the cutlass from Johnny’s hand. “I guess I can learn things from you.”

Johnny felt a touch of pity for the kid. “You’d be better off learning to drive a taxi. Now take the cutlass back.”

At nine a.m. the Zinia anchored in the shallow harbor at Kingstown, St. Vincent. Johnny and Albert reached shore in a bathtub-sized boat. A ring of mountains trapped the air and a white, blazing sun brought it to oven-heat. By the time Johnny had been filtered through customs, sweat trickled down his back in a lukewarm stream.

“Can you run a launch?” he asked Albert.

“Anything that floats, I can handle,” grinned Albert. “If you want, I’ll have one at the long jetty in an hour.”

“Do that,” said Johnny, and walked out into the cobbled streets of Kingstown.

He bought ten cans of Argentine beef, a tin of ship’s biscuits, a half dozen cans of evaporated milk, and a pair of Japanese binoculars. If his plan worked, he’d go ashore in Laborie only once.

In a general merchandise store, he bought a cheap cardboard suitcase, a pair of black trousers, a black long-sleeved jersey, and a pair of black silk stockings. When night came, he hoped to be as invisible as the piano player in a strip-tease show.

“Wrap all this stuff together,” he told the clerk.

The Indian went to the rear of the store and Johnny carried the suitcase to a wooden rack containing a gross of cutlasses, fresh from Manchester and smelling of cosmoline. He looked around quickly, then jerked out a cutlass and slid it into the suitcase. Now he had one that couldn’t be traced.

Johnny walked back to the waterfront and found Albert pacing the deck of a thirty-foot ex-Navy launch which looked as though it had been caught in a crossfire at Leyte Gulf. Gray paint peeled off its sides and many of the cabin ports were broken.

“Best I could do, chief,” Albert said as Johnny came abroad. “Thirty bucks a day and skin-diving gear goes with it.”

“It’ll do. Get your cable sent?”

“Yeah.”

“Fine. So your skin is safe for another day.”

“Chief, I gotta—”

“I know.” Johnny stooped to enter the seven-by-twelve cabin. It was barely furnished: a wooden bench along each side, wheel and compass at the forward end; one-burner stove and water keg aft. He dumped his load on one of the benches. “Let’s go.”

The short-keeled craft rode the heavy sea like a cork. Albert, fighting the wheel, said the waves came from a hurricane somewhere out in the Atlantic. Johnny found a steel file, tried to put an edge on the cutlass, filed the skin off three knuckles, and quit.

The sea calmed when they entered the lee of Laborie. The island rose from the sea as a single steep ridge. Tall grass clothed its upper slope, combed and parted by the endless wind. On the shore, coconut palms and breadfruits brooded over black shingle shacks.

The boat nosed into a horseshoe bay fringed by a beach as white as salt; as empty as Death Valley. Johnny pointed to a weathered, two-story building which stood a quarter-mile from the village. “That the hotel?”

“Yeah.”

“Drop anchor.”

Johnny squatted on deck and raised the binoculars. The hotel seemed near enough to touch. A half-dozen rattan chairs stood empty on a wide gallery. A ping-pong net sagged on a table, and a copy of Reader’s Digest lay open on the floor.

The dreamy peace made Johnny’s chest ache. “The guy wasn’t all stupid,” he said. “He picked a great place.”

“A great place to die,” said Albert.

Johnny grimaced. The kid was a crepe-hanger, probably giggled at funerals.

For an hour the hotel stood as quiet as a bar on Election Day. Then a woman came out and walked across the narrow beach. Her features looked European, but she walked like a West Indian, with shoulders back and pelvis thrust forward. Beneath a white terrycloth robe her legs were a light toasted brown.

Johnny pegged her tentatively as a Creole from Martinique.

At the water she dropped the robe, stood for a moment while the sun bounced off her bright orange bikini, then ran into the surf with a squeal that reached Johnny as the squeak of a very small mouse. He wondered whether she lived in the hotel or only worked there; either way, she’d complicate the operation. He’d hoped to find the man alone.

Fifteen minutes later the woman came out, peeled off her bathing cap, and shook down a two-foot cascade of black hair. Johnny caught his breath as the peeling continued. The bra dropped to the sand; the pants joined them, following a downward jerk of her hands and a convulsion of her lips.

As she toweled herself with the robe, Johnny wondered why she’d even bothered with the bikini. Maybe bikinis were an island status symbol, as mink coats were at home. She was mighty go-to-hell about her nudity, the way she tossed the robe over one shoulder and sauntered up the steps into the hotel.

But there was no sign of the man he’d come to kill. Johnny ate his bully beef and biscuit without lowering the glasses. The day crawled into afternoon and the island curled up in the sun and slept.

Around two, Albert examined Johnny’s cutlass and said it would not cut an overripe mango. Johnny told him to sharpen it. For the next hour, the screech of the file slowly tied his nerves in a knot.

Finally he lowered the glasses. “I don’t aim to shave him, kid.”

“Man, you could.” Albert brushed the blade lightly over his forearm, leaving a patch bare of hair. He grinned. “Where you figure to cut him?”

Johnny raised the glasses. “You don’t plan that close, kid.”

“You wouldn’t let me...?”

“Hell, no. You’d louse it up.”

“Noooo, man—”

“Shut up.” A man in shorts had stepped out on the gallery. A bushy R.A.F. moustache curled back against hollow cheeks, and red blotches marred his features. But the large wet eyes and curly hair marked him as Howard McLain.

He slumped into a rattan chair, propped his feet on the railing, and raised a glass of something which looked like black Martinique rum. Johnny had drunk it once; nearly 150-proof, the stuff had gone down like velvet embedded with fishhooks. Howard McLain was drinking it like Pepsi-Cola.

Two more years, thought Johnny, and I wouldn’t have had to kill him.

The woman came out and sat down. She wore a red dress made of bandannas. Sitting beside McLain, she looked less European than she had on the beach. She lit a cigaret and held it out to McLain. He took a drag and returned it, absently caressing her leg. Their movements had a dreamy lassitude which to Johnny was unmistakeable; they’d, just gotten out of bed.

Well, that made it rough. No doubt they slept together at night. He felt a surge of sympathy for the dark-blonde woman coming four thousand miles to join her husband.

Johnny turned the glasses to the main village, marked by a wooden jetty which pointed a long finger into the bay. An unfinished schooner lay on the grassy savannah, its ribs bleaching in the sun like bones of a giant whale. Behind the savannah stood two stores, three rum-shops, and a square, concrete building which looked new.

A word above the door made Johnny’s heart stop: POLICE.

“Albert,” he said tightly, “why didn’t you say there were cops here?”

“What?” Albert grabbed the glasses and looked. “God, that’s something new. I swear, I don’t know.” He turned to Johnny, his face worried. “What does that mean? You can’t do the job?”

Johnny smiled grimly and took the glasses. “Means we have to be twice as careful, that’s all.”

A quarter-hour later, a young negro policeman left the little building and walked across the savannah. He wore a white pith helmet and a short-sleeved white jacket with corporal’s stripes on the sleeves. Near the unfinished schooner, he sat down on a fallen palm trunk, lit a cigaret and took off the helmet. Two of the workmen joined him and they talked, laughing often. The policeman unbuttoned his jacket.

“I think he’s the only one here,” said Johnny.

“How do you know?” asked Albert, who’d been breathing down his neck.

“No cop gets that friendly with the citizens unless he’s the only one in town.”

The corporal finished his cigaret and returned to his building. At five, he locked the door and walked down a sandy path toward the rear of the village. Johnny sighed. Now, if nothing happened to stir him up...

The sun dropped into the Caribbean. Darkness came like a blanket thrown over the island. Dim lights appeared in the rumshops and someone lit an oil lamp in the savannah.

Johnny watched the hotel, where Howard McLain and the creole woman sat playing cards across a bar of split bamboo. A Coleman lantern enclosed them in a cone of light. They didn’t talk; just laid down the cards and picked them up in pairs, counted the score and dealt again. The game, Johnny decided, was Concentration.

He hoped they’d go to bed before the moon came up. But he couldn’t wait much longer.

Albert came out with a plate of food and Johnny waved it away. He’d never been able to keep food on his stomach before a hit. I’ll get ulcers, he thought, if I stay in this business.

The two were still playing cards when the luminous dial of Johnny’s watch showed eight p.m. He went into the cabin and started pulling on his dark clothes. “I’ll swim to the hotel, Albert. Gotta make it before moonrise. Give me time to reach the beach, then go in and tie up at the jetty.”

“What? They’ll see me.”

“They’ve been seeing us, kid. Ten to one the cop’s got a description of the boat. If you stay out here, someone’s bound to remember we were here at the time of the killing. The cop’ll start looking for us. So you go in and mingle. Tell the people you’re working for an American businessman. Tell ’em I’m on board asleep, and we’re heading back to St. Vincent when I wake up.”

“Sounds good.”

“It stinks.” Johnny jerked off his shoes and socks. “Too damn many complications. I like to pick the time and the method. This time they did all that for me.”

The kid was silent as Johnny slid the cutlass into one of the black stockings. “Hey. How’ll you get back on the boat?”

“Swim. I’ll shed these clothes, so if I’m seen, I’ll just be taking a dip. Here. Tie this on.” He turned to let Albert tie the cutlass to his back. One thong went around his neck, the other around his waist. The blade lay flat along his spine.

“If it goes right,” said Johnny as he pulled the other stocking over his head, “we’ll be in St. Vincent before they find the body.”

“What about the guy’s wife?”

Johnny felt a twinge of annoyance. He didn’t want to think about the woman. “Don’t worry about her. We’ll be back in Trinidad before she catches her plane.”

He walked out on deck and eased himself over the side. In the water he paused, clinging to the splashboard. “We’ll make it, kid. Just keep doing as you’re told.”

He pushed off and swam toward the two dim squares of light which marked the hotel windows. After a minute, he noticed that the lights kept moving to the right. A powerful current was sweeping him toward the open sea. He altered course and aimed for a point halfway between the village and the hotel. He was not a strong swimmer and the clothes hampered his movement. He reached shore a hundred yards beyond the hotel, then dropped to the sand and drew in great gulps of air.

After a minute he untied the cutlass and walked toward the hotel, staying under the palms which fringed the beach. He could hear the launch moving toward the jetty. Albert was following orders.

He crept along the side of the hotel and found a window which gave him a view of the lobby. The pair were still playing cards. A sand crab scuttled across Johnny’s foot and he jumped. The cutlass ticked the building.

At the bar, McLain rolled his head. “Whazzat?”

“A manicou,” said the woman.

“Go look around the building.”

She closed her eyes a moment, then rose. Johnny crouched low as her bare feet slapped across the lobby. He reversed the cutlass and gripped it by the blade. He didn’t plan to kill the woman unless he had to.

A minute passed and the woman didn’t come. He straightened and saw the glow of her cigaret on the beach. She stood there smoking, looking out to sea. After a time she flipped away the cigaret, went back inside, and crawled up on her stool.

“A manicou,” she said, picking up her cards.

“You went all the way around?”

“Oui. As I do three times each night.”

McLain took a long drink. “Some night I’ll shoot that damn possum.”

The play continued. Between each hand, the woman filled McLain’s glass. He sagged lower in his stool and twice he dropped his cards. The third time he dropped them, the woman lifted the lantern off the hook, draped his arm over her shoulder, and struggled upstairs. The light reapeared in the third window from the front, then it dimmed slowly and went out.

Johnny stood up, feeling a tight band of pressure around his chest...

The woman screamed. A shrill note of terror descended abruptly to a choking gurgle.

Johnny dived under the gallery, his heart pounding. He heard bare feet cross the gallery. Then came a series of faint splashes as someone ran into the sea.

Ten minutes passed. Johnny heard only the sound of his own breathing and the soft whisper of the surf. He crawled from beneath the gallery, swearing under his breath. He found matches in the lobby and walked upstairs, knowing with a cold, certain anger what he’d find.

It was worse than he’d expected. He let one match burn down to his fingers and had to light another.

Howard McLain lay on the bed, arms and legs flung out in the posture of drunken sleep. His head lay several inches from his shoulders. The blade had passed through his neck and gashed deeply into the coconut straw mattress.

He found the woman on the other side of the bed. She’d just begun to undress; the red bandanna dress clung around her waist, glistening like wet soot in the matchlight. The cutlass had struck at the base of her neck and sliced down to the center of her chest. The taped handle still protruded from between her breasts.

It was the cutlass Albert had stolen from the deckhand.

Anger sickened Johnny. The stupid, kill-crazy kid. The man’s murder was messy, the woman’s was senseless. Both were needlessly brutal. Someone should hang for this, thought Johnny.

But he knew that if they caught Albert, they’d have a noose for him, too.

He walked slowly to the woman, careful not to step in the blood. He jerked the cutlass from her body and replaced it with the one he’d stolen in St. Vincent. He walked downstairs and out on the beach. He pulled the handkerchief off his head just in time.

When his violent retching ended, he swam twenty yards out in the water and dropped the cutlass. He swam further and discarded the jersey, the trousers, and the silk stocking.

He could see the faint light on the savanna. He swam toward it, but seemed to make no progress. No matter how hard he swam, the light moved away. Then he remembered the current. He shifted course and swam at right angles to it, not knowing where he’d hit the beach. Soon he didn’t care, just so he reached land.

It seemed an hour before his fingers touched sand and he pulled himself up on the beach. The darkness was absolute; he could barely see his feet. When he could walk, he made his way in the direction of the village by following the shifting, luminous line of the surf.

He knew he’d passed the hotel when he saw the light in the savanna, still nearly a quarter-mile away, but not visible from the hotel.

Suddenly he bumped into something warm and black. He threw out his hands and touched what felt like two large, soft breadfruits. A woman’s voice asked: “Ki sa chache, blanc?”

Johnny’s heart jumped, and he thought: She might have seen me leave the hotel. He slid his hands up to her bare shoulders toward her throat, and the woman laughed with the deep liquid sound of oil pouring from a jug.

“Man, you going the wrong way.”

Nearby someone else laughed. Another voice joined in, more distant. God, he couldn’t kill them all.

He dropped his arms and walked around the woman. “Pardon me,” he said.

“Parn’ me,” she repeated in a voice heavy with sarcasm.

A moment later he sidestepped another shape. “Vini, blanc.” said the woman. “Come.”

He walked on. The moon came out, revealing more people on the beach ahead of him. Never again would he wonder what people did at night on these small islands.

Then he thought: What the hell am I doing here? I must be in shock, walking around in a pair of shorts like it was Sunday afternoon at the beach.

He needed an alibi. And he suddenly wanted to know what the first woman had said in her broken French. It could have been something about the hotel.

He whirled and walked swiftly back. He found the woman sitting with her back against a coconut palm, her legs drawn up under a gray shapeless dress. In spite of the dress, Johnny decided she must be the one, because the beach was empty further on.

She didn’t look at him as he sat down beside her. But she moved her legs to make room.

“What was that you said before?” asked Johnny.

“I ask, ‘What you lookin’ for, white man?’ ” Her voice lacked the boldness of before. Johnny wondered if she was bold only in the darkness. Her round face looked almost adolescent in contrast to the obvious maturity of her body.

“Do you have the time?” he asked.

“No, ’sieur.”

He glanced at his watch and subtracted a half hour from its reading. “Nine o’clock. What’s your name?”

“Millicent.”

“And you wonder what I look for?”

She laughed softly. “I gave you a joke. I know why a man walks at night.” She stood up and pulled at her dress. “Come away from the beach. My small sister pass this way soon.”

An hour later Johnny strode onto the launch and pounded on the locked door of the cabin. Albert’s voice came from within, high and frightened. “Who is it?”

“Johnny.”

The door opened a crack. “Man, I began to wonder—”

Johnny kicked the door. Albert sprawled backward onto a bench, his mouth gaping. Johnny slammed the door and locked it. He turned to Albert and said softly, “I wondered too, kid.”

Albert looked at the locked door, then stared at Johnny’s face. His eyes were bright, his lips loose and wet. “I wanted to help, Chief. I thought you’d have trouble, so I swam out and sneaked in the back way and waited upstairs in the hall. When they came up I couldn’t stop—”

Johnny stepped forward and smashed his fist into Albert’s jaw. The kid fell sideways and lay like a bag of laundry. Johnny jerked him to his feet and hit him again. The kid sprawled face down on the floor.

“I want the truth, kid.” Johnny’s throat hurt as he tried to keep from shouting. He rolled the kid over with his foot. “The truth, kid.”

Albert twisted his head and spat a mouthful of blood on the deck. “Cantino said... make sure the job was done. I figured... do it myself...”

“You did a lousy job, kid,” said Johnny. “A sloppy, lousy job. You left me cold without an alibi. You killed two people, so they’ll look twice as hard. And you left a souvenir behind.”

“The cutlass?” The kid sat up, supporting himself with his hands. “Nobody saw that, Quill. I stuck it in my pants leg when we went through customs.”

“You figure the guy from the Zinia wouldn’t report it missing? You think they wouldn’t remember that you were in both places?”

Albert’s eyes widened in terror. “Jesus, you gotta cover for me, chief. You know if they get me, they’ll get you—!”

Johnny slapped him. His rage had faded, but the kid was getting too loud. “They won’t trace the cutlass to you, kid. Get up and clean up. We’ve got to get out of here before somebody finds the bodies.”

The kid had just finished mopping the deck when three loud knocks sounded on the cabin door.

“Who is it?” asked Johnny.

The answer rolled into the tiny cabin. “Police.”

Johnny caught his breath and whispered to Albert. “Anybody see you swim to the hotel?”

The kid’s face was the color of an oyster. “I don’t think—”

“You sure as hell don’t. Go to the wheel and be ready to move out.”

The pounding at the door was repeated. Johnny said peevishly: “I’m getting my pants on. What’s the trouble?”

“There’s been a murder, sir. I have to ask some questions.”

Johnny swore to himself and jerked on his trousers. How had the bodies been found so soon?

He slid the steel file into his pocket as he walked to the door. The cop had sounded polite. A cop isn’t polite to someone he’s about to arrest for murder, Johnny thought — but you couldn’t trust a cop.

He opened the door. The corporal stood bareheaded, his jacket unbuttoned. He stepped inside with a faint, apologetic smile.

“Sorry to disturb you,” he said in precise, unaccented English. “Someone killed our hotelkeeper, Mr. McLenno, and his... ummm, maid of all work, a woman named Lena.”

“Good Lord!” Johnny hoped he sounded shocked.

The corporal lowered himself to the edge of the bench. “The cutlass is a frightfully vicious thing, isn’t it?”

“I imagine so. Was that the weapon?” This cop is sharp, thought Johnny. I must remember to know only what he tells me about the killing.

The corporal nodded. He unzipped a plastic case and drew out a pad and pencil. “May I see your passports, please?”

Johnny took the green folder from his suitcase and gave it to him.

“I’ll also need your boatman’s.”

Albert came forward with his passport, keeping the battered side of his face turned away. The corporal made notes in his pad as he thumbed through the folders. Johnny thought he looked more like an insurance man filling out a questionnaire than a cop.

“Mr. Quill,” said the corporal as he handed back the passports. “Have either you or your boatman been ashore this evening?”

Johnny’s nerves tightened. “Albert hasn’t. I went for a swim and walked on the beach.”

The corporal made a note and regarded his pad thoughtfully. “I suppose I should ask now if you saw any suspicious individuals, but I’ve learned that all we islanders look suspicious to a stranger.” he smiled. “May I ask what time you took your walk?”

“Eight-thirty... until about ten.”

“You must have gone a good distance.”

“No, I... met a girl on the beach. I spent the time with her.” He paused, and the corporal waited with an expression of polite interest. “She said her name was Millicent.”

“Millicent Henry.” The corporal nodded. “Yes. You would naturally meet Millicent.” He made a note in the pad. “I’ll have to ask you not to leave the island.”

Johnny took a slow, deep breath, amazed that he was being trusted. He hoped Millicent had been too preoccupied to doubt his word about the time.

He watched the corporal zip up his plastic case and rise to his feet.

“Have you any leads?” asked Johnny.

The corporal frowned. “One theory so far. That it was a professional killer from the states.”

The words hit Johnny like a fist in the stomach. He wanted a wall to lean against.

“The theory,” added the corporal, “came from Mr. McLennon’s widow. She’s the one who found the bodies.”

Something pinged in Johnny’s mind. McLennon’s widow... that meant Norma McLain, his wife. The woman Johnny had left in Trinidad. How did she get here so soon?

With an effort, he brought his thoughts under control. “Do you think she’s right?”

“I can’t say. The woman was on the verge of hysteria — with good reason, certainly. She rode the Goose — that’s our seaplane — from Trinidad to Kingstown. Then had a devil of a time getting out here. Turned back twice by heavy sea, finally persuaded a fisherman to make the trip. Then, finding her husband decapitated...” He shrugged. “Now she says they’re after her.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Something to do with a letter her husband left for her. We found it under his mattress.”

Johnny caught his breath. He wanted to kick himself for not searching the place. Now he’d have to deal with Norma McLain whether he wanted to or not.

He watched the corporal open the door. “Where is the woman now?”

“With Mrs. Gantry.” The corporal turned, frowning. “Why do you ask?”

Johnny wondered if he seemed too interested in the woman. It couldn’t be helped. “I might be able to help her.”

The corporal looked thoughtful, then nodded. “Yes. It might soothe her to see a countryman, at that. Mrs. Gantry lives in the yellow house at the edge of the savanna.”

After he left, Johnny started pulling on his shirt.

“You gonna take care of her now?” asked Albert.

“On the island? Don’t be an idiot. I might as well do it in the police station.” He sat down and jerked on his shoes. “I’m going after the letter. If I get that, maybe I can scare her into keeping quiet.”

“That won’t satisfy Cantino.”

Johnny’s jaw set. “To hell with Cantino.” He rose and walked toward Albert. “And you, why didn’t you tell me about that seaplane?”

Albert blinked up at him. “I didn’t know, man, I—”

“Don’t lie, kid. You knew she was coming. You thought she’d be with her husband, and you’d get a chance to kill them both. Right?”

Albert looked down, his face set in sullen defiance. Johnny felt an overpowering urge to wrap his hands around the kid’s throat and see the bright, dancing eyes film over. But there were more urgent things to do.

“Listen, kid,” he said softly. He lifted Albert to his toes by the front of his shirt. “I plan to bring the woman back here. If you lay a finger on her, I’ll kill you.”

The yellow house was the kind of toy mansion they like to build in the Indies. Johnny crossed an ornate, pillared gallery in one step and stooped to go through double doors which had looked majestic from a distance.

Mrs. Gantry was a huge, light brown woman with a bald spot on her crown. Carrying a kerosene lamp, she led him down a tiny corridor and knocked on a door. When no answer came, she turned to Johnny and whispered; “The poor thing’s terrified. Hiding someplace, I should imagine.”

She pushed open the door. The tiny room had space for little more than the massive four-poster bed and a wooden washstand. The bed was rumpled, but empty.

Mrs. Gantry set the lamp on the washstand. “You wait. She’ll come out directly.”

Alone, Johnny browsed around, too nervous to sit. The bedsheet was still warm, smelling faintly of violets. On a rung of the washstand hung a bra, slip and panties, still damp from washing. Beneath it lay a flowered skirt and a cotton blouse, both stiff with dried salt brine. She’d had a rough trip.

Under the bed he found her cardboard suitcase. The letter would be there unless she’d taken it with her. He was reaching for it when he saw a curtain move on the opposite wall. He straightened.

“Mrs. McLennon?”

Her voice came through the curtain, low and taut. “Who are you?”

Johnny sat down on the bed and smiled toward the curtain. He had to play this cool. He couldn’t carry her down the street screaming and kicking. “I’m Johnny Quill, from Chicago. The corporal thought I might be able to help.”

The curtain parted and she stepped out. She wore a nightgown of white cotton which covered her body like a tent, leaving only her head visible. A loan from Mrs. Gantry, Johnny decided. Her grey eyes had looked tired on the plane; now they were haunted.

“You’re the one from the plane,” she said in a flat voice. “I never did believe you were a businessman.”

Johnny reached for his hip pocket. “I can prove—”

“Your papers don’t mean a thing. I know how the organization works.”

Her words were strong but her voice trembled. Johnny wished suddenly that he’d really come to help her.

“What is it you’re afraid of?” he asked gently. “You think I came to kill you?”

She drew a deep, shuddering breath and rubbed the skin under her eyes with the palm of one hand. “You came down from New York on my flight. You followed me in San Juan. Now we’re both on one tiny island, and my husband has just been killed. You expect me to believe that’s a coincidence?”

She isn’t sure, thought Johnny. She wants to be convinced. “Of course it’s a coincidence,” he said. “I know nothing about any organization.”

Seeing a flicker of doubt in her eyes, he stood up. “I came in through the front door. Does a killer do that?”

“Don’t come any closer!” She held out a chipped, rusty butcher knife. Johnny decided she must have borrowed it from Mrs. Gantry. The way she held it, the knife was about as dangerous as a broken stick.

Johnny laughed. “You really think I came to kill you?” he took a step toward her, then stopped less than an arm’s length away, his hands at his sides. “All right. Then you can kill me.”

She stood frozen. Beads of perspiration appeared on her forehead. The nightgown clung, moulding itself to the shape of her body. One thing was obvious, she couldn’t have the letter on her.

Johnny smiled. “If we’re just going to look at each other, I think I’m getting the best of the bargain.”

She dropped her eyes for an instant. Johnny gripped her wrist and took the knife from her lax fingers. He threw it on the bed.

She clawed at him with her free hand. He caught it and imprisoned it behind her. He held her right against him and looked into her wide, frightened eyes. “I could kill you now, couldn’t I?”

She nodded once, slowly. He bent his head and kissed her lightly. Her lips were hot, dry and lifeless. After a moment they moved, slowly at first, then hungrily. Her body pressed against him, warm and trembling.

He released her hands and she drew back. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright.

“Did you come for that, Mr. Quill?”

“No. But it makes the trip worthwhile.” He reached for the drawstring at the back of her neck.

Suddenly she twisted away. “No!” She looked at him with a dazed expression. “I don’t know what’s got into me. The... excitement, maybe. But I don’t want that.” She pressed her palms to her cheeks and ran her fingers through her hair. She plucked at her gown, erasing the sharp details of her body.

Then she looked at him, her eyes speculative. “You gave me a chance to kill you. I suppose that proves something.”

Johnny nodded. “I hope so.”

“I have to trust someone. Do you have a gun?”

“Only a speargun in the boat. Why?”

“I don’t feel safe here. Mrs. Gantry thinks I’m cracking up. So does that cop.”

“Hmmm... I suppose I could anchor out in the bay, away from the island somewhere...” He saw interest flicker in her eyes, but he couldn’t afford to appear eager. “It’d be uncomfortable. Nothing but wooden benches.”

“I wouldn’t care if I slept on nails.”

“There’s only two blankets. One for me and one for my boatman.”

“I’ll borrow one from Mrs. Gantry.” She raised her hands to the drawstring. “Turn around so I can dress.”

Johnny turned his back. “You’d better tell the corporal you’re going. I don’t want him to think I’m kidnapping you.”

“I’ll tell him.”

Johnny listened to the snap and rustle of her dressing. He wished he knew what he’d finally have to do with the woman. Whatever it was, it’d be a damn sight harder to do, now that she seemed to trust him.

Norma McLain snapped awake, her nerves jumping. She stared around the moonlit cabin. Johnny Quill lay on deck, his narrow face pointed at the ceiling. Albert lay on the opposite bench, his knees drawn up against his stomach.

One of them was faking. One of them had stood over her just a moment ago, looking down. He lay awake now, waiting for her to doze off. Which one?

She swung her feet to the floor and drew Mrs. Gantry’s blanket around her shoulders. She shivered. Albert? She didn’t trust him. After Trinidad, it had been a shock to find him here. Even with his eyes closed he made her flesh crawl. She thought Johnny felt the same way; certainly there was hostility between the two, and she felt sure the tall man had been responsible for the dark, swollen lump on Albert’s jaw.

Was it Johnny? She looked at him as he lay with his feet together, his hands crossed on his chest. He looked, she thought, like the carving on an Egyptian sarcophagus; at times he seemed almost as cold and remote. There was no question of trusting Johnny; she needed his strength. She was flat broke and four thousand miles from home. She didn’t trust him, but that meant little; she couldn’t trust anyone until she delivered Howard’s letter.

Her hand flew to her waist. She felt the envelope under her wool skirt, still tucked in the waistband of her slip, pregnant with her husband’s revenge.

Even after death, she thought, Howard leaves the dirty jobs for me. She pictured his tight scrawl across the bottom of the envelope; In the event of my death, please forward. And the letter itself:

The six-page letter had made her feel that she was gazing into a cesspool. Bombings, fires, bribes, murders, and nearly fifty names. Howard had a good memory for names. The letter would blow a gaping hole in the organization; it was like having a hand grenade tied to her stomach.

But it was Howard’s last request and she had to carry it out if she intended to live with herself. He was weak and erratic and unfaithful and maybe he’d deserved to die. Oh, God... Her mind recoiled from the horror she’d found in the hotel. It might have been her lying in that pool of blood instead of that poor girl of Howard’s...

She caught her breath as Albert moved. She watched him rise to his elbow, gaze at her for a moment, then drop his head. He began to snore.

She sat still for several minutes, waiting for her legs to stop trembling. Then she spread her blanket on the floor and lay down beside Johnny. She tried not to touch him but the gentle rocking of the boat kept pressing her against him. She couldn’t relax; it had been too long since she’d lain beside a man.

She jumped as his arm slid around her. “Please don’t.”

“Why did you come down here?” he asked.

“Your boatman watches me. He’s been watching me all night.”

She felt him turn. “Albert! Take your blanket and sleep out on deck.”

Oh, Lord, she thought, he’s jumped to the wrong conclusion. She lay tense as Albert stumbled out, swearing in patois.

“Better?” asked Johnny.

“Couldn’t you... push him overboard?” Her voice sounded strange and distant.

“A good boatman is hard to find.” He laughed gently. “Come here.”

Slowly, she gave in to the gentle pressure, of his arm and turned to face him. I must be the worst kind of bitch, she thought. This is only my first day as a widow...

Daylight pressed against her eyelids when she awoke. Her mouth was dry and her bones ached from sleeping on the deck. Inside, she felt a sweet relaxation which had been missing for three years.

She opened her eyes and saw Johnny working at the little stove, wearing a pair of green swim trunks.

“Where’s Albert?”

He answered without turning. “He took the dinghy to the village for supplies.”

“Oh.” She relaxed, feeling the prickle of the blanket against her skin. Oh, Lord, I’m naked. She put her hand to her stomach and caught her breath. The letter... She groped under the blanket and found the woolen suit wadded at her feet. The letter was crumpled in the side pocket.

She took a slow breath. Have to keep my head, she thought, and stop behaving like a love-starved widow...

She pushed down the blanket and stretched, forcing her fingers through tangled hair. “Johnny, could I have my suitcase?”

She watched him pull it from a compartment beneath the bench and thought: It’s nice to have a man around.

He set the suitcase beside her and she saw that his face was drawn, his lips tight.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

He’s lying, she thought. Maybe it was no good for him. She watched him set a basin, soap and towel on the bench. “Did I do something wrong?”

He shook his head. “You can wash up on deck. We’ll eat when you’re done.”

He went back to the stove. Troubled, she dressed in shorts and a blouse. She rolled up the letter and shoved it inside her bra.

On deck, she took a deep breath. The air smelled fresh; the dawn sky showed the fluttering streamers of a thousand state fairs. Goats bleated in the hills, and a fleet of pirogues pulled a net across the bay. The men were standing up, flailing the water with long, narrow oars. Even the hotel looked quaint and peaceful.

Norma wished she and Johnny were alone. She wished she’d never found the letter.

They were finishing a silent breakfast when Albert came aboard and dumped a bag of supplies on the bench. “Chief, the corporal says your alibi checks out. You’re free to go.”

“Okay. Get started.”

Norma stiffened, feeling a tremor of fear. She didn’t want to be left alone again. “Johnny, you aren’t leaving?”

He picked up the plates and carried them to the rear of the cabin. “We’re taking a little cruise down through the Grenadines. You come too. You’ll enjoy it.”

“But the murder—”

“Let the cop worry about it.”

She heard the engine start. Albert spoke behind her. “The corporal’s got a new slant, anyway. He says it was a love-killing.”

She whirled. “But I told him—!”

Albert grinned. His jaw bulged as though he’d stuffed his cheek with hard candy. “He says a professional would’ve used a gun. Not a cutlass. Too untidy.”

“The fool! They’re smart enough to make it look that way.”

Albert shrugged. “All I know, he’s rounding up all the guys who ever scored with the woman. Seems like there was several.”

“Oh!” She felt her cheeks burn with anger. “Turn around. I’m going to the village.”

Albert grinned his swollen grin.

She whirled. “Johnny!”

Johnny shook his head. “You gave him your story. You can’t do any more.”

“I can show him—” She caught herself. Her voice trembled as she said, “Will you take me to the village?”

“I’m sorry.” said Johnny. “You’ll have to stay with us.”

Panic seized her. She whirled and threw herself at the wheel. “Turn, damn you!”

Albert, still grinning, brushed her away with his arm. She whirled and ran past Johnny, out on the afterdeck. She screamed, but the fishermen with their paddles were between her and the village. Nobody could hear her.

She put her foot on the railing.

Strong hands gripped her arms and pinned them behind her back. “That’s a hard way to go,” said Johnny.

She kicked back with her foot and twisted. The buttons popped off her blouse and a strap broke. The letter fell out, struck the railing, then rolled off into the sea. She caught a glimpse of it swirling in the wake of the launch, then it was gone.

She heard Johnny’s voice in her ear. “They wouldn’t catch half the men your husband named, Norma. The rest would be after you.”

She stopped struggling. Her breath came in short, sobbing gasps. “Your name wasn’t in it, Johnny. I looked.”

His voice was flat. “Usually I call myself Aquila.”

Aquila. She remembered it. Havana, Miami, Chicago, Las Vegas, Oh God, so many, many murders...

Suddenly the strength drained from her body. The landscape tilted, and she felt herself falling...

After a long time, Albert’s voice filtered down through a cloud layer:

“Chief, we could slice her wrist and roll her overboard. The sharks wouldn’t leave even a fingernail.”

Sickness coiled in her stomach. Johnny’s voice grated like boots on gravel. “She lost the letter. We can scare her into keeping quiet. No need to kill her.”

Albert laughed. “Chief, there’s something they didn’t tell you. She’s been on the list all along. We just wanted to take her and her husband at the same time.”

Her muscles drew tight but she didn’t move. She felt the deck pressing against her back and heard the rush of water past the boat.

After a moment, Johnny spoke in a tight voice: “I thought you found her husband too easy. How long have you had him spotted?”

“Two years.” Pride sounded in Albert’s voice. “This way, neither one has time to scream to the cops. Clever?”

“So clever I want to throw up. Get back to the wheel.”

“In a minute, chief. I sent a message this morning. They know we’ve got her. I report from St. Vincent at midnight tonight. If she ain’t dead, you are.” He laughed. “You ain’t a big man with the outfit anymore, chief.”

Johnny’s voice was barely audible: “I’ll take care of her. Get back to the wheel.”

She heard Albert’s footsteps fade into the cabin.

She opened her eyes. Johnny sat on his heels beside her. His face was tired, and deep lines cut from his nose to the corner of his mouth. His eyes flicked over her. “You’ve been listening.”

She drew a deep, shuddering breath. “Could you do it, Johnny? Could you kill me?”

He looked out to sea, his lips tight. “I go into it like a mechanic. They aren’t people to me. Just machines I’ve got to turn off.”

“Even after you make love to them?”

He scowled down at his hands. “Maybe that was a mistake.”

She tasted bitterness in her throat. “I should’ve saved it. Maybe I’d have something to bargain with now.”

“Bargain with Albert?”

The thought gave her the sick shudders. Then she remembered: He doesn’t want to kill me. It’s Albert’s fault. She sat up, bracing her back against the cabin.

“Kill him.” She whispered. “Get rid of him and run.” She leaned forward, holding her blouse together. “I’ll go with you, Johnny, anywhere you want to go.”

His mouth twisted. “Albert’s insured. You must have heard that.”

“You know how they work. You could kill them as they come.”

He gripped her shoulders and pushed her gently back against the cabin. “Norma, listen. You think they’d stop after one try?”

“We’ll hide! You’re twice as smart as Howard.”

“They’d look ten times harder. Hell! They’ve got a hundred kids like Albert who’d bust a gut to be able to say they took out Johnny Quill. I’d be lucky to last a year.”

She knew she was losing, but she couldn’t give up. “We’d have a good year, Johnny.” She gripped his arms and dug in her fingers. “I’d make it good, Johnny. I’d make it the best year you ever had.”

Gently he removed her hands and placed them in her lap. “They’d make you regret every day you stayed alive. You think you’re safe, then one day somebody whispers in your ear in a crowd. You pack up and run like hell. A month later, somebody writes on your window with soap. You run again. You start getting phone calls at three in the morning, but there’s nobody there when you answer. You go nuts, Norma. Christ! You think your husband enjoyed his last two years?”

She set her jaw. “It’s better than dying.”

“I know a guy who didn’t think so. He tried to leave the organization and start over as a garage mechanic. A year later, a laundry truck ran over his oldest boy. The next month, his seven-year-old daughter drowned in a rain-filled excavation. He had a wife and two other kids. He shot himself to save them.”

“We wouldn’t have kids, Johnny.” It was a feeble, last-ditch try, and she knew it was no good.

“That wouldn’t matter. One guy fell in love with a model and ran away to Arizona. Six months later a man came through the neighborhood handing out samples of face cream. His wife tried it. Her face came off in chunks. The guy spent three months looking at a face like spoiled hamburger. Then they shut up the house and turned on the gas.”

She clapped her hands to her ears. “Don’t tell anymore! God, Howard was weak, but you... How did you get into this slimy mess?”

He sat back on his heels and studied his hands. “In Detroit a bright kid goes to work for General Motors. In Cicero, Illinois, he works for the mob. Simple. To climb out of a snake pit, you use the first ladder you see.” He raised his eyes to hers. “I’ve regretted it several times. Never so much as now.”

She wanted to cry, but her eyes felt hot and dry. “But you’re going to do it.”

“Would you rather Albert did?”

She shuddered. “Johnny, I don’t want him around when you... when it happens. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

She closed her eyes and leaned back against the cabin. There was no way out. She opened her eyes and saw a distant cloud brushing the sea with a long, curved feather of rain. The world was a wonderful place.

“Johnny, let me be alone for awhile. I’ll try to get used to the idea of... dying.”

It’s the right kind of day, thought Johnny. Spray beat against the cabin ports like felt-covered drumsticks. The sea looked like the Dakota badlands.

At the wheel beside him, Albert complained: “Noon already, chief. Don’t forget I report at midnight.”

“We’ll make it.”

“Hell, you’ve already passed up half the Grenadines. Why so choosy? You ain’t gonna build a house on the island.”

“What’s that one?” Johnny pointed to an isolated blob of land to the east.

“Tobago Cays.”

Johnny squinted and the blob resolved itself into five islands, none covering more than five acres. “Anybody live there?”

“No. No water. Too isolated. A millionaire brewer owns ’em.”

“Let’s take a look.”

Albert twisted the wheel and spoke cheerfully over his shoulder. “You gonna have a quiet place to die, baby.”

Johnny set his teeth. “I hope I’m along on your last ride, kid.”

“Man, I’ll sing all the way.”

Johnny walked back to Norma, who sat on the bench with Mrs. Gantry’s blanket around her shoulders. She swayed with the boat as though her body had no life of its own. He lit a cigaret and put it between her light, bloodless lips.

She spoke without looking up, her voice dead and flat. “Is this my last one?”

“Not yet.” She believes she’s going to die, thought Johnny. That was good; because it would help convince Albert. If Albert wasn’t convinced, then she’d be killed in spite of all he did to save her. By someone.

The cigaret fell from her fingers and smoldered on deck. He ground it out with his heel and strode forward.

One of the cays stood more than a mile from the main group. It was a low sliver of sand with a cover of bush and one solitary palm.

“Petit Tabac,” said Albert.

“People ever go there?”

“Every Friday. Fishermen dry their catch for the Grenada market.”

Friday. And this was Wednesday. “That’s the one,” said Johnny.

A vicious current ripped past Petit Tabac, its boundaries marked by a series of whirlpools. The sea rolled in upon the island like a carpet being shaken, tearing itself to pieces on a fringe reef of beige-colored coral.

Albert frowned as they dropped anchor. “This ain’t good holding ground, chief. The tide’ll shift in an hour and she’ll drag her anchor.”

“Take us ashore in the dinghy. You can come back and stay with the launch.”

Albert looked at him curiously. “Why don’t you do it here and throw her to the sharks? They’re all around.”

“I’m doing it my way.”

The kid hesitated, then grinned. “I get it. You want her alone on the island. When’s my turn?”

“You don’t touch her.”

Albert’s eyes narrowed. “You ain’t gonna stop me. Don’t forget I gotta report at midnight.”

Johnny spoke through stiff lips. “Two broken arms wouldn’t keep you from reporting. Now pull in the dinghy. I’ll get the woman.”

In the cabin, Johnny packed Norma’s suitcase. She was fingering the cloth of her blouse like someone counting a rosary. She didn’t look up, and that suited Johnny. He didn’t want her to ask why he was throwing in canned beef, water flasks, skin-diving gear and a roll of bills from his wallet.

As they stepped in the dinghy, Albert pointed to the suitcase. “What’s in there?”

“Her clothes, stupid. I bury them with her.”

Albert grinned. “No, man. You’re gonna maroon her and make me think you killed her.”

Johnny’s stomach tightened. “You think I’m crazy?”

“I think you’re too damn touchy about the woman. I won’t believe you’ve killed her until I see the body.”

Johnny forced himself to relax. This was serious. “Suppose you watched me kill her? And bury her?”

Albert looked confused. “You mean... from the launch?”

“Sure. Use the binoculars.”

He frowned, then nodded. “Okay. But don’t get outa sight.”

They had to jump out of the dinghy beyond the surf line. Johnny struggled through waist deep froth carrying the suitcase and dragging the woman. He climbed to the top of the sandpit which formed the western tip of the island.

“Sit down,” he told her. “Keep your back to the launch.”

He found a conch shell and dropped to his knees beside her. Using the flange of the shell, he began scraping out a trench at right angles to the launch. “Now listen. I’m going to put you in this hole—”

“Johnny, for God’s sake, don’t make me sit here and watch!”

“Shh. I forgot to tell you. I’m not going to kill you. Don’t turn!”

Her voice trembled. “I don’t understand. You told Albert...”

“I’ll just pretend to kill you.” As he talked, he kept enlarging the trench. “You’ll have a face mask and the snorkel tube when I bury you. You’ll be able to breathe. After we leave you can crawl out and...”

She began to make noises halfway between laughing and crying. Her shoulders jerked and a stream of tears ran down each cheek. He kept working, the sun hot on his back. After a couple of minutes her sobs tapered off.

“Here’s the rest of it,” he said. “I’ve put food and water and seven hundred dollars in your bag. You’ve got two days to wait for the fishermen.”

“What if they don’t come?”

Smart girl, he thought; already recovered enough to ask practical questions. He darted a glance at the launch; saw Albert on deck with binoculars trained on the island.

“They shouldn’t skip more than one week.” he told her. “You can stretch your food supply by living off the sea. At low tide you get whelks off the rocks just below the waterline. They look sorta like snails, only bigger and rounder. You can pick up white sea eggs too. Don’t mess with the black ones or they’ll stick a poison spine in you.”

“Water?”

“Go without until you’re damn sure you’ll die if you don’t get a drink in the next minute. Then wait another hour. If it looks squally, spread all your clothes out on the ground. When it rains, wring them out in the cans. If it doesn’t—”

“I die of thirst.”

“No.” He paused to swat at the sandflies which were making a meal of his leg. “Dig a hole in the beach back of the waterline. It’ll fill slowly with water. Then filter it through silk. It’ll taste like the runoff from a sewer but it’s wet. Any more questions?”

“Yes. The fishermen come and I go off with them. What happens then?”

Before-answering, he set aside the conch shell and lay the suitcase into one end of the trench. There was still room for her.

“Go to South America, Europe, anyplace. Let your hair grow long, bob your nose, get fat or skinny, whichever is easiest. But don’t come back to the States.”

“Oh Lord... Won’t I see you again?”

“Not unless you want us both dead. If this is to work, I have to stay with Albert and follow it through until he reports you dead. Then I’ve got to go back to work as though nothing had happened.”

“More killing...”

“It can’t be helped.” He turned, gripped her shoulders and pushed her gently back onto the sand. He leaned over her, speaking through stiff lips. “I’ll strangle you now. Kick and scratch and fight like hell. You won’t have to pretend, because I really have to hurt you.”

“Wait...” Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glistened. “Johnny, I wish...” She raised her hand slightly as though to touch his face, then let it fall to her side. “All right. I’m ready.”

She put up a convincing defense. Johnny was breathing hoarsely when he finally rolled her limp body in the blanket. The backs of his hands were raw and a long scratch burned on his shoulder.

He lay her in the trench, picked up the conch shell, and began to cover her with salt-white sand. He hid the trench with his body as he worked. Pelicans screeched at the tip of the sandspit and the surf thundered its age-old attempt to destroy the island.

When only her head remained uncovered, he opened the suitcase and took out the face mask and breathing tube. Then he paused, looking down at her.

Hair clung to her damp forehead. Sand encrusted her neck like sugar on a butter sandwich. Her mouth looked swollen and red as blood. He pressed the back of his hand against her lips and felt them move slightly.

“Remember to breathe through your mouth,” he said. His throat hurt when he spoke. “Give me... an hour to get Albert away.”

“All right.” Her eyes half-opened. “Goodbye, Johnny.”

He nodded once, unable to speak. With numb fingers, he put the mask on her face and inserted the breathing tube in her mouth. Covering her head was the hardest job he’d ever done. Sweat poured from his body as he leveled off the sand. He set the conch shell over the end of the breathing tube, hiding it from the launch.

For a minute he listened to the hollow, even sound of her breathing. She’d make it, he decided. She wasn’t the panicky type of woman.

He turned to walk to the water — and froze. Albert was pulling the dinghy onto the beach.

Johnny felt a vise clamp his chest. “What are you doing here?”

Albert grinned and shouted up to him, “Thought you’d want a ride, chief, after the fight she put up!”

Johnny walked toward him, his face stiff as sun-dried cowhide. “I could’ve swam.”

“Yeah. Well, I thought I oughta check the grave too.” He lifted a speargun from the dinghy.

Johnny felt something cold crawl up his hack. He stopped. “You saw me kill her. Isn’t that enough?”

“You don’t know Cantino, man.” Albert walked forward with the speargun cradled in his arm.

Johnny bent his knees, waiting tensely for Albert to get near enough. He’d have to kill him now; there was no other way to save the woman.

Ten feet away, Albert raised the speargun and pointed it at Johnny’s stomach. “Wait right there, chief. Just in case you pulled something I didn’t see.”

Johnny stared at the barbed shaft as Albert edged around him. The gun was set; the rubber tubes which could drive the shaft through a thirty-pound barracuda quivered gently in the wind. His stomach drew into a knot. He’d have to wait until the kid started digging; he’d rush him then regardless of the risk.

Albert stepped onto the grave and kicked away the conch shell. The breathing tube protruded from the sand like a miniature periscope. Albert’s jaw dropped. “Well I’ll be damned!”

He started laughing, sucking the air through his teeth. “Man, you oughta win a prize. You had me fooled.”

Still laughing, Albert aimed the gun at a point just below the breathing tube. Johnny’s breath stopped. He was afraid to rush the kid now; it might startle him into pulling the trigger. Three inches of sand wouldn’t keep the shaft from going through her neck.

“Albert! You only get one shot!”

Albert squinted at him. “So?”

Johnny took a step toward him. “After that I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”

Albert swung the gun back to him. “You want if for yourself, big man?”

Johnny took another step, feeling the sweat break out on his neck. “You still only get one shot.”

Albert’s lips pulled back from his teeth. “And you get it right in the belly, man!”

Johnny dropped to his knees on the last word. He didn’t hear the gun. He felt a knifing pain in his shoulder and saw a bright red stream flowing down his chest. The world went dark for an instant and he fell forward, catching himself with his hands. He squinted up at Albert, struggling to focus his eyes.

“That... was your last shot,” he croaked. “Now you’re a dead man.” He started crawling forward on his hands and knees.

Albert raised the speargun over his head. Suddenly the sand moved beneath his feet. He staggered backward, staring at a pair of small white hands emerging from the sand. He dropped the speargun and ran.

Johnny tried to push himself to his feet. The earth spun and he fell forward on the protruding end of the shaft. He saw a red splash of pain, then only blackness...

He awoke to feel warm sand against his back. He raised a hand to his shoulder and felt a hole just above his collarbone. The shaft was gone and the bleeding had stopped.

“Don’t touch it, Johnny.”

He opened his eyes. Norma was kneeling in front of him, tearing her white cotton blouse apart at the seams. Sand glistened in her hair.

“Albert... got away with the launch?”

“No. He upset the dinghy trying to get it through the surf. Then he tried to swim out.”

He winced as she dabbed at the wound. “Tried?”

She nodded, wrapping the bandage around his shoulder. “The sharks must have been waiting around the launch. He only screamed once.”

She finished and sat back on her heels, looking at him. “I’m afraid the launch is gone anyway.”

“Gone?” He struggled up on one elbow. He saw the launch squatting low in the water two hundred yards offshore. Foam swirled over her decks and around the cabin. He reconstructed the chain of events: The tide had changed and she’d dragged her anchor. The current had carried her onto a submerged reef. Now she looked as though she was there to stay.

“The dinghy was washed ashore,” said Norma. “I’ll row out and get your clothes.”

“No. Leave them.” Johnny leaned back and closed his eyes. Cantino’s men would come looking. They’d find the launch wrecked with his and Albert’s gear aboard, and they’d think both had been lost. He couldn’t have planned it better. He felt a wild hope his luck had turned.

He opened his eyes. “Would you still settle for a year?”

“Yes.” She said it quickly. “Or a month, if that’s all we get.”

He smiled. “We may have longer than that. There’s a larger island about six miles west of here. A few shacks. Cows on the hills. Could you row us there?”

“Yes.” Her eyes glistened and the tears made small paths in the grime on her face. “Oh yes, Johnny!”