can of beer. Carrying them into the living-room, I loaded the gramophone with arias from Eugene Onegin and Boris Godunov. The house was too quiet. After a while I switched it off and went upstairs. I took a shower and lay down naked on the bed. Her note was still pinned to the pillow. I crumpled it and threw it on the dresser, wishing she would come back. A fight would be better than this intense silence. I switched off the light. The moon had come up now and its soft light was slanting in under the honeysuckle about the window.
It hit me without warning. I rolled my face down into the pillow and locked my arms around it, shaking and sick and trying not to make any sound. The picture was a long time going away. There was something stark and forever lost and terrible about it, the boat lying motionless there in the moonlight between the dark walls of the trees as if it were waiting for him to come back and get it.
I sat up and lit a cigarette. It was all right. Conscience was no avenging lion; it was a jackal. It circled you like any other carrion-eating vermin, knowing it had no chance when you were on guard and waiting for the precise moment you were waking up or going to sleep. A couple of bad moments a day were no exorbitant price to pay tor a hundred thousand dollars. Fade, brother. We’ve done this routine before, and I always outlasted you. Remember?
I awoke once during the night, drenched with sweat and tangled in the sheet as if I had been threshing wildly about. In the morning, when my eyes first opened to the gray coolness of dawn, it was a minute or two before it came back, and when it did it was with a rush of freezing and overwhelming terror. They would catch me; I’d go to the electric chair. Then reason took hold again and it disappeared.
Catch me? There wasn’t a chance in the world. How could they? It was absolutely impregnable from every angle. In the first place, Cliffords had merely drowned. An autopsy would prove that, and an examination of his boat would tell them how it happened. And, secondly, I didn’t even know him, and had never been to his place.
I shaved and dressed and drove downtown for some breakfast. While I was sitting at the counter in Joey’s eating half a melon, Ramsey came in and sat down two stools away.
He nodded and smiled. “How are you tins morning, Mr. Godwin?”
”Fine, thanks,” I said. “are you having any luck?” It was a waste of rime, I knew, even if I weren’t already aware he wasn’t having any luck. None of them would tell you what day it was.
Hmmmm, not much,” he replied. He gave his order to the waitress. Then he looked around at me again. “How is the fishing in this area? I understand you’re quite an authority.”
“I know it pretty well,” I said. “It’s part of the job, and then I fish a lot myself. You thinking of trying it?”
“I thought I might, when my vacation comes up. What do you think of Sumner Lake?”
I took a sip of my coffee. “Well, it’s usually a good bet.”
“Have you been up there recently?”
“Yes,” I said. “Just a few days ago, in fact. For once, though, it let me down. August is a bad month.”
“Oh? Well, I was thinking of early October. Thanks a lot. If I do make it, I’ll stop by and talk to you.”
“Sure,” I said. “Any time. Be glad to help.”
The canteloup tasted like asbestos pipe-insulation, but I went ahead and forced it down. I paid the bill and drove over to the store. What was he after, anyway? Was he checking on me? For some reason I couldn’t determine, I suddenly thought of that Russian policeman—what was his name?— who haunted Raskolnikov at every turn.
Nuts, it was merely a coincidence. He just happened to want to go fishing; that’s all.
Otis had already opened up and was sweeping down the showroom. He came over and leaned the broom against the showcase to light a cigarette.
“Little trick I picked up in the army,” he said. “You watch till you see some brass coming and then grab a broom and sweep like hell.”
“Anything happen yesterday?” I asked. “Anybody force his way in and buy something before you could stop him?”
“Oh, sure. Matter of fact, I kept