Эллери Куин: The Killer Touch

He walked back to the beach and dove into the surf. He swam past the breakers, rolled over and floated on his back. Gannets dive-bombed the water around him; pelicans swooped along the rollers, dragging their feet only inches above the water. Burt felt a curious mixture of dread and euphoria; such peace was too delicious to last.

He left the water, showered, shaved, walked to the club and downed three rum punches while waiting for Joss to wake up from her afternoon nap and start her customary evening drinking. The sun sank into a rosy haze, and darkness came down like a purple curtain. Godfrey set a table for two and suspended a Coleman lantern from a beam. Joss appeared at last, and Burt saw why she’d been delayed. She’d put on a dress, something she usually wore only for trips to St. Vincent or further. Rarer still, she wore a necklace and earrings, and a scent of violets had replaced her usual aura of saltwater, fish and rum.

They ate langouste tail by candlelight and washed it down with French wine. Joss talked with sparkling gaiety, and for a time Burt was in love with her. The white light of the Coleman lantern glowed on her bare shoulders and descended into the valley of her bosom; the surf thumped and rumbled; the breeze carried the smell of the sea into the club. Burt felt primitive and extremely male. It occurred to him that Joss had been without a husband for nearly a year, and that he himself was now free of ties. The pounding sea ringed the island and made it a private world.

He looked up as Godfrey shuffled out of the night carrying an empty tray. “Mrs. Keener’s?”

Joss answered with a trace of sarcasm, “Your lady friend is too delicate to eat in the presence of others.”

Burt smiled. “You’d rather she joined us?”

“Hell, I don’t care.” She waved her hand impatiently. “No, that’s wrong. I’d just as soon leave her alone. Her husband’s letter mentioned a nervous breakdown, said his wife needed rest and quiet and no disturbance.” She frowned. “He said he’d been here before, but I can’t remember.” She leaned forward confidentially. “I’ll tell you a secret, Burt. I don’t remember people. A week after they leave they get lost in a sea of faces. People think it’s my poor eyesight when I don’t recognize them again. I let ’em think it. One of the tricks of the trade.”

Joss started on rum, and soon her cheeks were flushed and her voice low and husky. Burt drank with her, more than he should, in an attempt to recapture his earlier romantic glow. But it only saddened him. Finally, Joss put her warm hand on his knee.

“Burt, there’s something you learn on an island, to accept your own nature. Don’t worry about the boy you shot.”

Burt felt himself tense. “What’s that got to do with my nature?”

“You’re a cop, you did your job—”

“Maybe that’s the problem.”

“Burt, if you weren’t a cop you’d be on the other side: You’ve got a violent nature. It shows in your eyes, like smoke behind a window. You’re a rough, hard man—”

“A killer, the newspapers said.”

She pushed away her glass. “Oh, hell, I goofed. I wanted to cheer you up, but I got you mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Don’t kid me, Burt. You talk soft and you move slow, but it shows. Your body changes. You turn into sharp edges and brutal bone. I had a boy friend once—” She stopped and drew a deep breath. She got up suddenly, and stood swaying, her eyes bright. She spoke in a husky voice: “I’m stoned, Burt. Take me up to bed.”

He helped her up the crumbling stone steps behind the beach club and into her one-room cabin. She sat heavily on the bed. “Don’t light the lamp, Burt.”

“No.”

He walked silently to the door. Behind him came the faint rustle and snap of clothing.

“Come here, Burt, and help me with this damn hook.”

“No, Joss,” he said, opening the door. “I don’t think we will.”

He was groping his way down the steps when he heard her voice behind him. “Burt, where are you going?”

“Good night, Joss.”

The door slammed, hard, and Burt smiled to himself. Joss would have only a vague recollection tomorrow, just enough to look at him uneasily and wonder exactly what she’d said and done. Maybe she’d eliminate him as a candidate for husband number seven or eight, whichever it was.

His head felt light. Not so straight yourself, March. Better take a walk, sober up, avoid tomorrow’s hangover. He left the path and walked between cabins three and four to the beach. He walked on the sand and let the spray blow in his face. The surf thundered; the fumaroles moaned. He decided to put on his trunks and take a swim. As he passed cabin two, he saw the yellow glow of lamplight in the window. Strange woman, up late and alone...

There was a warning as he opened his cabin door — perhaps a pressure in the air, a smell, or a mental message. Someone else was in the room. He whirled, wasting a precious second in reaching for his absent shoulder holster. Something struck his right shoulder so hard it numbed his arm and sent pain shooting to his fingertips. Burt had no idea who his attacker might be; he didn’t even think about it. Here was hostility, and questions would have to wait. He swung his fist at a shadowy bulk and struck a glancing blow somewhere high on the face. There was a sound strangely like a laugh. Could it be? Burt saw the pale blob of a face, and a vivid whiteness where the mouth should be. Lord, he was smiling, white teeth flashing. Burt swung again, discovered too late that he’d put his weight on his bad leg. Fool ... too much booze . He missed, staggered forward, and clutched at the other man. The man moved back, quick as a cat, and Burt realized he was going to fall. He didn’t feel himself hit the floor; something struck the back of his neck and all the light went out of his mind.

Joss’s voice sliced through a shrieking whistle in his brain.

“You’ve made a mistake, Mr. Keener, this is a guest, Burt March.”

“Yes?” said a calm, cultured male voice. “What was he doing in my cabin?”

“He... I said he could use it. Until you came.”

Her voice seemed to come from a great distance, but Burt could tell she was still muddled from drink. Slowly he extended his senses; he smelled Joss’s perfume, felt a soft fabric beneath his neck. Under that was firm flesh. He opened one eye a slit and saw that he lay on the floor with his head across Joss’s thighs. Looking up beyond the curving shelf of her bosom (she wore the robe he’d given her; beneath that there seemed to be only Joss) Burt saw the faintly pouched underside of her chin. Without moving his head he traced her gaze to a man seated on the bed. His legs were crossed negligently, and he was cleaning his nails with a penknife. In the glow of the kerosene lamp, the man looked very tall, with wax-blond hair, blue eyes, and a neat blond mustache. He could have been made up for a part in a Hollywood yachting movie; blue jacket, white linen scarf, white trousers, and white canvas shoes. Burt saw a reddened swelling high on his cheek; it looked incongruous on the porcelain serenity of the face, like a wart on a Dresden doll.

Burt groaned and sat up, blinking his eyes. “What happened?”

“Burt! I was telling Mr. Keener—”

“I’ll explain,” said the man, and without halting his nail-cleaning operation, regarding his hands from time to time in the lamplight, he introduced himself as Rolf Keener. He’d rented a power-launch in St. Vincent and piloted himself to the island. The surf must have covered the sound of his arrival, since nobody had met him at the jetty. However, since he remembered the island from his last visit, he’d gone directly to his own cabin. He’d just arrived when he heard a prowler outside. Nervous in a strange land, he’d waited behind the door. When the prowler attacked, he’d simply defended himself.