Scorpion Reef

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Authors: Charles Williams
again. The two cars were falling back as I picked up speed. “I’m still trying to get it straight in my mind,” I said. “Legally, I’m guilty. Morally, I don’t feel guilty at all; I don’t think I’m any more responsible than if he’d been killed in an unavoidable traffic accident. And I don’t intend to go to prison or get myself killed by Barclay’s gang for something I couldn’t help—”
    “Of course not,” she said simply.
    “All right. Listen,” I said. I told her what I was going to do. “There’s only one catch to it,” I finished. “You’ll have to give me the money for that boat with no guarantee you’ll ever hear from me again. The word of a man you’ve known for one day isn’t much of a receipt.”
    “It’s good enough for me,” she said quietly. “If I hadn’t trusted you I would never have opened the subject in the first place. How much shall I make the check?”
    “Fifteen thousand,” I said. “The boat is going to be at least ten, and there’s a lot of stuff to buy. When we get aboard I’ll give you an itemized statement and return what’s left.”
    “All right,” she said.
    I looked back. The lights of the other two cars were far behind us. They disappeared momentarily behind some dunes. I slowed abruptly and swung away from the beach, coming to a stop some fifty yards from the roadway. We were in the edge of the dunes with the low silhouette of a line of salt cedars before us, well out of range of passing headlights. I snapped off my own lights before we had even stopped rolling.
    It occurred to me suddenly that I’d done a very foolish thing in coming out here at all. We should have stayed downtown on a lighted street. If they were following her, all they’d seen was a quick transfer from her own car to one they didn’t recognize. I might even be Macaulay for all they knew.
    She started to light a cigarette. “Not yet,” I said. One of the cars went by, and then the other. Their red taillights began to recede down the beach.
    When they were gone, I said, “All right,” and lit her cigarette. She took the checkbook out of her bag and held it open on her thigh. I snapped the lighter again so she could see.
    “Pick a name,” I said. “How about Burton? Harold E. Burton.”
    She wrote out the check. I held it until it dried, and put it in my wallet. “Now. What’s your address?”
    “One-oh-six Fontaine Drive.”
    “All right,” I said, talking fast. “I should be back here early the third day. This is Tuesday now, so that’ll be Thursday morning. The minute the purchase of the boat goes through and I’m aboard I’ll mail you an anniversary greeting in a plain envelope, just one of those dime-store cards. I don’t see how they could get at your mail, but there’s no use taking chances. Other than that I won’t get in touch with you. I’ll be down there at the boat yard all the time. It’s in another part of the city, and I won’t come into town at all. I’ve only been around Sanport for about six months, but still there are a few people I know and I might bump into one of them. I’ll already have everything bought and with me except the stores, and I’ll order them through a ship chandler’s runner—”
    “But,” she interrupted, “how are we going to arrange getting him aboard?”
    “I’m coming to that,” I said. “After you get the card, you can get in touch with me, from a pay phone. It’s Michaelson’s Boat Yard; the name of the sloop is Ballerina —”
    “That’s a pretty name,” she said.
    “It’s a pretty boat,” I replied. “I’m just hoping I can get her. She was still for sale last night. But if something happens and she’s already sold by the time I get back I’ll make that card a birth announcement instead of an anniversary greeting, and give you the name of the one I actually do buy. There are several down there. All straight?”
    “Yes,” she said. She turned a little on the seat and I could see the blur

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