lean, dark man of about forty, decked out this morning in a faded grey running suit. A successful magazine cartoonist, he lived a mile and three-quarters downhill from Ben. "Want to join me for the rest of my five-mile run?"
"No, actually I'd rather sit here and brood."
His friend studied him. "You look as though you've been up most of the night. Trouble plaguing you?"
Ben answered, "Plague is an apt word. Yeah, I feel pretty much like some great incurable pestilence has commenced sweeping across me."
"Can you give me the details in two minutes or less? I don't like to halt my running longer than that," said Sankowitz. "Or do you want to have lunch and tell me then?"
"By noon I'll be in Long Island."
"That bad, huh?" Sankowitz sat down beside him on the big rock. "Okay, so tell me now."
"It all began last night while I was in my kitchen contemplating chicken curry."
"I told you you ought to become a vegetarian."
"Anyhow, this is what happened . . ." He gave Sankowitz, one of the few friends he could confide just about anything to, a fairly thorough account of the unexpected reappearance of H.J. Mavity in his life, including what H.J. had told him about the death of Rick Dell, the dying message, the attempt to run them down with a Mercedes, and assorted other details.
Sankowitz stood up at the end of the account, massaging his left knee thoughtfully. Finally he said, "Do you want some advice?"
"I'm afraid it's too late for advice."
"Your first go-round with H.J.âten years that one lasted, right?âthat encounter caused you considerable grief," the cartoonist reminded him. "It's been my experienceâand keep in mind you're talking to a man who's on his third wife and his twenty-second or twenty-third mistressâit's been my experience that resuming relations with a lady who caused you grief in the past in almost always guaranteed to cause you grief in the present."
"Yeah, I've been thinking along similar lines, Joe. But the problem is that . . . Oops."
The front door of the house had opened and H.J., dressed in a sedate grey suit, appeared. She waved at them, pointed at her wristwatch, pantomimed that it was time for breakfast and then a trip across the Long Island Sound.
"A gifted mime," observed Sankowitz. "And she is sort of stunning." Smiling sympathetically at Ben, he resumed his running.
Chapter 6
Â
T he late-morning air was warm and clear, the husky white ferry boat was moving smoothly across the cairn blue waters of the Sound.
Ben and H.J. were sharing a white bench on the open upper deck of the boat. There were about forty or so other passengers on deck, some of them sitting on the rows of benches, others at the railings.
"How about that guy over there with the tweed cap?" asked H.J. close to his ear.
Casually he turned to take a look at the man at the nearby railing. "Naw, he's with that fat lady."
"He's been watching us. I was afraid he might be a thug."
"He's been watching you actually. Maybe you shouldn't sit with your legs crossed like that."
"Jesus, Ben, I look absolutely prim in this outfit."
"Prim yet stunning."
"I didn't write that halfwit newspaper story."
"I'm nearly certain," he told her, "nobody followed us from my place to Bridgeport, or onto this boat."
Shivering slightly, she took hold of his arm. "Maybe I am getting sort of paranoid over this mess. Seeing potential crooks everywhere."
"Crooks quit wearing tweed caps in about 1940."
She gave a small, fretful sigh. "I'm glad you didn't let me down," she said, tightening the pressure on his arm. "I really don't think I could have made this damn trip all on my own."
"Neither one of us has to go through with it, H.J. We can forget Buggsy, have lunch in Port Jefferson and catch the next boat back."
"No, I want to go at least as far as visiting McAuliffe and his dummy."
He leaned back, watching a scatter of bright white gulls circle high up in the morning sky.
H.J. inquired, "By the way, who was it that phoned
"No, actually I'd rather sit here and brood."
His friend studied him. "You look as though you've been up most of the night. Trouble plaguing you?"
Ben answered, "Plague is an apt word. Yeah, I feel pretty much like some great incurable pestilence has commenced sweeping across me."
"Can you give me the details in two minutes or less? I don't like to halt my running longer than that," said Sankowitz. "Or do you want to have lunch and tell me then?"
"By noon I'll be in Long Island."
"That bad, huh?" Sankowitz sat down beside him on the big rock. "Okay, so tell me now."
"It all began last night while I was in my kitchen contemplating chicken curry."
"I told you you ought to become a vegetarian."
"Anyhow, this is what happened . . ." He gave Sankowitz, one of the few friends he could confide just about anything to, a fairly thorough account of the unexpected reappearance of H.J. Mavity in his life, including what H.J. had told him about the death of Rick Dell, the dying message, the attempt to run them down with a Mercedes, and assorted other details.
Sankowitz stood up at the end of the account, massaging his left knee thoughtfully. Finally he said, "Do you want some advice?"
"I'm afraid it's too late for advice."
"Your first go-round with H.J.âten years that one lasted, right?âthat encounter caused you considerable grief," the cartoonist reminded him. "It's been my experienceâand keep in mind you're talking to a man who's on his third wife and his twenty-second or twenty-third mistressâit's been my experience that resuming relations with a lady who caused you grief in the past in almost always guaranteed to cause you grief in the present."
"Yeah, I've been thinking along similar lines, Joe. But the problem is that . . . Oops."
The front door of the house had opened and H.J., dressed in a sedate grey suit, appeared. She waved at them, pointed at her wristwatch, pantomimed that it was time for breakfast and then a trip across the Long Island Sound.
"A gifted mime," observed Sankowitz. "And she is sort of stunning." Smiling sympathetically at Ben, he resumed his running.
Chapter 6
Â
T he late-morning air was warm and clear, the husky white ferry boat was moving smoothly across the cairn blue waters of the Sound.
Ben and H.J. were sharing a white bench on the open upper deck of the boat. There were about forty or so other passengers on deck, some of them sitting on the rows of benches, others at the railings.
"How about that guy over there with the tweed cap?" asked H.J. close to his ear.
Casually he turned to take a look at the man at the nearby railing. "Naw, he's with that fat lady."
"He's been watching us. I was afraid he might be a thug."
"He's been watching you actually. Maybe you shouldn't sit with your legs crossed like that."
"Jesus, Ben, I look absolutely prim in this outfit."
"Prim yet stunning."
"I didn't write that halfwit newspaper story."
"I'm nearly certain," he told her, "nobody followed us from my place to Bridgeport, or onto this boat."
Shivering slightly, she took hold of his arm. "Maybe I am getting sort of paranoid over this mess. Seeing potential crooks everywhere."
"Crooks quit wearing tweed caps in about 1940."
She gave a small, fretful sigh. "I'm glad you didn't let me down," she said, tightening the pressure on his arm. "I really don't think I could have made this damn trip all on my own."
"Neither one of us has to go through with it, H.J. We can forget Buggsy, have lunch in Port Jefferson and catch the next boat back."
"No, I want to go at least as far as visiting McAuliffe and his dummy."
He leaned back, watching a scatter of bright white gulls circle high up in the morning sky.
H.J. inquired, "By the way, who was it that phoned
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