“Blackmail?” Mace asked in his quiet voice.
Whitburn leaned forward in his chair, somewhat angered. “What did Mike tell you?”
“Mike? Oh, you mean— Nothing, Whitburn. You know how it is. He just acts as an agent. You know, like agents who book actors? He sends us where there’s work for us. You know that.”
“Why did you say blackmail?”
“You mentioned a man you don’t want coming around any more. I’ve found it’s almost always blackmail. Something else, a guy can run to the cops. Blackmail, a guy has something to hide, he can’t have the cops nosing around. Anyway, that’s what I’ve found. Don’t you agree?”
“You know the man?”
Mace spread his hands. “How would I? Brief me.”
Whitburn could hear the leaden thumping of his heart. That sense of anxiety would not leave him. If he could only be sure that there would be no slip up. Mace looked competent. All of Sargasso’s men were competent. Failure sealed their doom, there was no such thing as a second chance. But if something did go wrong and he was implicated, there would be small comfort in knowing that Mace would pay for his bungling. The good life would be gone, most likely lost forever.
“His name is Cullenbine, Earl Cullenbine,” Whitburn said. In his ears his voice sounded dull and flat. “He used to be a police reporter with underworld connections. Blackmail had always been a sideline with him. The last couple of years he’s been giving it his full time. He came up north last November to hunt deer and recognized me. At the time he didn’t let on but he came back this spring and hasn’t let me alone since.”
He looked down at his hands and saw that they were clenched tight. He forced them open and became aware that a trickle of sweat ran down each cheek. It was warm outside and some of the heat had penetrated into the cottage. Still he cursed silently and asked what had happened to his iron nerve?
He glanced at Mace and thought he caught the vanishing of a look of amusement on the man’s face. But it could have been only imagination. He was as jumpy as a wino after a month long binge.
“You want it on the island?” Mace asked.
“That’s as good a place as any. It’ll be night and there shouldn’t be anyone around. There’s no one living on the island, not even a shack. During the day sometimes fishermen pass by there but very seldom at night.”
“Fine,” Mace said, nodding. “Fine.”
“I don’t want you to think I’m trying to tell you how to do your job but would it be possible somehow to make it look like an accident?”
Mace smiled the amused smile. “I imagine it could be arranged.”
“I mean, without a weapon. That is, without something like a gun or a knife. It would be a dead giveaway otherwise. I don’t want you to think I’m trying to tell you just what to do but I don’t want to be connected with it in any way. You see, I’m alone at this end of the lake. If a weapon is used, naturally I’ll be questioned on whether I saw or heard something. Perhaps I might even come under suspicion. I don’t want that.”
He felt a little foolish talking like this. It was so strange for him to be the one saying these words.
“Relax,” Mace said, the smile still on his face. “I’ll fix it just the way you want it.”
“I suppose I better describe Cullenbine to you.”
“I’ve just thought of something better,” Mace said. “Why don’t you come to the island with me? You can make sure it’s Cullenbine then. No chance for a mistake that way.”
Whitburn was silent, unable to find anything to say. The feeling of anxiety was stronger than ever in him and he could not understand why it should be. Tension and suspense had never bothered him before.
Mace laughed softly. “If you’re squeamish, I’ll wait until you’ve left the island. After all, you do want to make sure it’s Cullenbine and not someone else I might mistake, don’t you? This way there’s no chance for error. Like I said, I’ll wait until after you’ve gone from the island. You won’t have to watch anything.”
Whitburn remained silent, thinking.
“You said you’re the only one at this end of the lake. So who’s to see you going to the island with me? You do want to make sure it’s Cullenbine, don’t you? Chances are he’ll be the only one to show up on the island tonight but you never can tell. I just thought, you worrying so much about something going wrong and all that, you’d want to be positive it’s Cullenbine.”
Whitburn sighed. “All right, Mace.”
Mace glanced at his wristwatch. “What time do you expect him on the island?”
“About ten.”
“Good. Is there a place I can catch some sleep here?...”
Frogs had their choral groups scattered along the shore of the lake and in the ponds in the nearby forest. Something flew past not far overhead on softly flapping wings. Stars glittered brightly. The surface of the lake looked black, like the underground river of the dead.
They got into the boat and Whitburn used an oar to push the craft away from the dock and into deeper water so that he could drop the outboard. The motor caught on the first try and he kept the throttle barely open, easing the boat toward the island with as little sound as he could manage.
“This how you make your payoffs?” Mace asked. “On the island?”
“Every Saturday night.”
“Didn’t your wife ever get suspicious?”
“Sometimes I’d fish off shore in the afternoon and then cruise around to the other side where she couldn’t see me go ashore. We had a place where I’d leave the money. Sometimes I’d come here at night, like now, and hand it to him in person. I’d vary it from time to time. Loretta never caught on.”
Saying her name put a tightness in Whitburn’s throat. For you, Loretta, he thought, I’m doing all this for you and the good life we have together. I’d never have got into this otherwise.
“Why didn’t you ever take care of Cullenbine yourself?”
“I— That’s not my line.”
Mace laughed, a sound barely heard above the purr of the outboard.
The island loomed dark and brooding in the starlight. An owl hooted softly. Whitburn eased the boat in to shore, cutting the motor and letting the craft drift the last few yards. The prow grated gently against gravel and he stepped out into several inches of water and with Mace’s help pulled the boat halfway up on the beach.
He stood for a few moments, staring out over the lake, wondering if anyone had seen him and Mace crossing to the island. Only the black water appeared. There were no sounds other than the glee-clubbing of the frogs and the soft lapping of the lake against the shore.
“He’ll be on the other side of the island,” Whitburn said to Mace and started walking.
He led the way with Mace several steps behind him. They took a roundabout route, following the shore line for this was easier going than plunging through the timber that was choked with thick underbrush. Even so, Mace, who was more accustomed to walking the uncluttered and smooth cement and asphalt of the cities, stumbled a couple of times over the uneven earth and spongelike ground littered with debris that had been washed ashore. His curses were angry and vicious.
Mace was breathing hard by the time they reached the southern end of the island. Whitburn’s breath, too, had quickened, from his exertions and a strange, uneasy excitement that he could not quite fathom. Mace caught up with Whitburn as he paused to study the darkness ahead. Finally Whitburn saw it, the faint, pink glow of a cigarette as the smoker inhaled on it.
He started ahead again, aware that Mace once more trailed him. He could understand Mace’s difficult progress for he himself tripped and all but fell over a piece of driftwood. Then he made out the tall shadow standing there, watching them approach.