"I'm not sure," said Andrews.

Calvin took a step toward me, and I backed up. Sch.e.l.l didn't need to call for Antony because he was already in the backyard.

"I brought my own," said Sch.e.l.l.

Calvin shifted his sights from me to focus on Antony. Andrews's son was big, but Antony dwarfed him.

"Put down the bat, sonny," he said.

There was a tense moment or two, and then Calvin grunted and ran at Antony, c.o.c.king the bat over his shoulder. The big man went into a sort of half-a.s.sed crouch, and when Calvin swung, Antony came up with his left hand and caught the fat end of the bat in midswing, stopping it with seemingly little effort. The right fist followed, catching Calvin on the temple and dropping him to his knees. Then Antony lifted his own knee and caught his attacker directly under the jaw. The young man, blood leaking from his nose and mouth, fell backward, flat out on the gra.s.s and leaves.

The old man started to stand up, but Sch.e.l.l leaned across the table and pushed down on his shoulder, returning him to his seat. "Ready to talk, Mr. Andrews?" he said.

"Go to the devil. I've got nothing to say." He trembled with anger, and I thought for a moment he was going to keel over.

"Blow his brains out," Sch.e.l.l said to Antony.

The big man dropped down to his knees, straddling Calvin. From within his jacket, he drew the Mauser out of a shoulder holster, c.o.c.ked the trigger, and lightly pressed the end of the long barrel against Calvin's closed right eyelid.

"Okay," said Andrews. "What do you want to know? Tell him to stop." Sch.e.l.l held his hand up, and Antony pulled the gun back a few inches. I breathed a sigh of relief. This was a side of Sch.e.l.l and Antony I'd never witnessed before. My stomach churned. I felt a little dizzy and walked over to take a seat next to Sch.e.l.l on the picnic bench.

"I need some information about the Klan," said Sch.e.l.l.

"You a cop or a reporter?" asked Andrews. He took a pack of cigarettes out of his sweater, his hand still shaking.

"Neither," said Sch.e.l.l. "And the information you give me stays with me."

"Okay, what do you want?" asked the old man, putting a cigarette to his lips. He brought up a silver lighter and sparked it.

"Back in the mid twenties, the Klan ran their own operations to stop bootleggers along the sh.o.r.e of Long Island."

Andrews blew smoke and nodded.

"You must have known who the money was behind the illegal imports," said Sch.e.l.l.

"Some of them," said Andrews. "We stopped a lot of it from coming in."

"Does the name Harold Barnes ring a bell?" asked Sch.e.l.l.

"Barnes," said the old man. "Yeah, Barnes and Parks. They had one of the biggest deals going. We tried to get the law on them, but they had too much money. We stopped their shipments more than once."

"Do you remember any particular vendetta against those two?"

"They were a couple of the worst. Some of my people got involved with some of their people in a shoot-out one night up by Matinec.o.c.k Point. They killed a constable who was part of our organization."

"You know Barnes's daughter was recently kidnapped and killed?" said Sch.e.l.l.

"I read about it," said Andrews. "But look, Mr.... what's your name?"

"Forget the names," said Sch.e.l.l.

"What happened that night they killed one of our own happened a long time ago. That murder was avenged pretty quickly. It's all ancient history. You can't pin this girl's death on us."

"Did you know that there was a Klan symbol found with the girl's body?"

"You don't know what you're talking about," said Andrews. "That's impossible."

"So you say," said Sch.e.l.l.

"Whatever theory you've got cooking is bulls.h.i.t, mister. The Klan's finished here on the island. Been finished for some time. You've got little groups here and there, glorified social clubs where the only thing burning is hot air. I'm not going to live much longer, and to tell you the truth, I don't mind. This country's going down the toilet. You've got all kinds of heathens mixing in here. The blood of our nation is corrupted to the point of being poisoned. That socialist dupe, FDR, is going to get into office, lift Prohibition, and then you'll see. Straight to the bottom."

Sch.e.l.l stood up. "Thanks for the hospitality, Mr. Andrews," he said. "It's been a pleasure."

"You better hope I never find out who you are," said the old man.

"I'm the Exalted Cyclops," said Antony, releasing the trigger of the gun. Calvin had come back to consciousness and was lying motionless, eyes wide with fear. The big man stood up, holstered the gun, and stepped away from him.

Once we were back in the car and driving away, Antony said, "Pleasant fella, that Andrews."

"You guys scared the h.e.l.l out of me back there," I said. "I almost puked."

"There's all kinds of cons," said Sch.e.l.l.

"Do you believe him?" I asked.

"I think so, which means whoever killed Charlotte Barnes is working their own scam. We'll see."

THIS CASE IS CLOSED.

After we'd gone to see Andrews, our pursuit of Charlotte Barnes's killer hit a stone wall. Sch.e.l.l judged the situation as still too hot to interview the other people on the list or go back to her father's estate to try to glean more clues, the Klan deal seemed to be a dead end, and Lydia Hush had melted like the snow queen she was.

Sch.e.l.l resumed his zombie act, drinking too much at night, and I tried to return to my studies. The days were beautiful and clear and the nights were long. All of our hours were underscored by the magisterial dirges the boss spun on his Victrola. Antony, proclaiming himself "bored s.h.i.tless," fled to the city to spend two days with Vonda, the Rubber Lady.

On the morning he returned on the early train, he entered the kitchen and threw a folded newspaper onto the breakfast table so that it landed faceup, the headline showing. He took his coat off, hung it on the back of his chair, and said, "According to the cops, this case is closed." He tossed his hat onto the counter and headed for the stove.

Sch.e.l.l and I, who had been wearily sipping coffee, sat up and focused on the words-"Arrest Made in Barnes Case." The big man returned to the table and sat down with his cup.

"What's the dope?" asked Sch.e.l.l. "My eyes aren't awake enough to read yet."

"They picked up a guy, Frederick Kern, a hophead, connections to the Klan, a record of minor burglaries-one for a.s.saulting an off-duty cop in a bar some years back. He's done some time, a couple of months here and there. The cops tell, I think for the first time, that the girl was found with that Klan rag. They say the cause of death was strangulation. The story they're telling is that Kern was a nut job on a lone mission to revive the local Klan. He picked on Barnes, because, as they put it in the article, back in the twenties it was falsely believed by the Klan that Barnes was behind a good deal of the rum-running on the North Sh.o.r.e. Of course, they go on to say that Barnes had been cleared of these false allegations a long time ago. I love what money can do."

"Do you buy it?" I asked.

Antony shook his head.

"Obviously a railroad job," said Sch.e.l.l. "No doubt Kern's a lowlife, probably not all that smart. They needed a quick arrest in this case, so they went through their files after finding out about the symbol, came up with this loser, and dragged him in. Case closed. Everybody looks good."

"I'd love for this to be over," said Antony, "but I have to agree with you, Boss. This reeks."

"Strangulation," said Sch.e.l.l. He looked over at me. "Do you remember any marks on the girl's neck when you found the body? There'd be bruises."

Now that some time had pa.s.sed, I was able to think back to the image of the body without feeling I was going to get the dry heaves. I steeled myself and let the image come into my mind. "The light wasn't good," I said, "but what I remember is that she was very pale and that was it. No marks, no bruises."

"I don't remember marks around the neck," said Antony. "But like I told you before, I was in a hurry to get out of there."

"Maybe we could take that fed badge and papers I lifted off that guy a few years ago in Penn Station and put it to good use here," said Sch.e.l.l. "We go visit the coroner and tell him there's an investigation going on above the level of the local cops and see if we can get him to spill something. If he can prove to me she was strangled, I'll reconsider and drop the whole thing."

"Not a bad..." Antony started to speak, but at that instant the phone in the office next to the kitchen rang. While Sch.e.l.l went to answer the phone, I asked Antony what Sch.e.l.l had meant when he'd referred to Penn Station.

"Oh, that," he said. "We were signed up to do a seance for this rich old hermit in the city. The guy's life was a real mystery, murder to find anything we could use when we did the job. Sch.e.l.l was desperate for information on the guy. We knew some people who could tell us a few things, but he'd paid them off really well or had scared them into keeping their mouths shut.

"Anyway, we decided we needed to pose as cops in order to get them to sing. We were in Penn Station talking about it, and right there, we spotted this guy. We knew he was a bull, undercover. I mean he was the flattest flatfoot you ever saw. Anyway, we worked out a plan. We pa.s.sed by the guy, arguing. I pushed Sch.e.l.l, he b.u.mped into the guy, apologized profusely, et cetera. The guy was going to say something but takes one look at me, and I give him my bear wrestling stare, and he lets it go. We walk away, and Sch.e.l.l, of course, has the guy's wallet. When we opened it later, we found out he wasn't a cop, though. He was a federal agent, FBI."

"What happened with the rich old hermit?" I asked.

"The f.u.c.king guy died before we could jerk his chain. If we were ever going to see him again, it would have to have been at someone else's seance."

"Have you used the FBI stuff since then?"

"No, it's not the kind of thing you want to play with if you don't have to. Posing as an agent carries a stiff sentence. If those guys catch wind of a scam, they'll find you by hook or by crook. We let it sit after that."

Sch.e.l.l came back into the kitchen. "Okay, gentlemen, let's move. Ten minutes, in the car. I've got a line on something good," he said. He'd already turned and started down the hall to his room to get dressed when I called after him, asking what it was.

"Lydia Hush," he called back.

No more than ten minutes later, Antony had the Cord rumbling at an idle, and Sch.e.l.l and I got in.

"Where to, Boss?" asked Antony.

"Head down toward Syosset," he said, "then take Berryhill Road to Eastwoods going west." Once we were on our way, I asked Sch.e.l.l if he'd spoken to Lydia Hush.

"No, not her. It was Tremaine. He just got back from a stint in Philadelphia."

"Who's Tremaine?" I asked.

"Abel Tremaine, King of the Cold Readers," said Antony. "The guy's a real pro, smoother than a gin s.h.i.t."

"He said he'd been meaning to call me for a while," said Sch.e.l.l, "but that it had slipped his mind, and then he had to take off for a job in Philly. Anyway, he just got back last night and he remembered. He said this guy in the business, Lester Brill, had called him a while ago and asked about us, wanted to know whether we could be trusted, etc. So Abel tells the guy he knows us and that we're trustworthy. Answers a few questions, you know, professional courtesy. Told him we had Diego working with us now and so on. You know how Tremaine likes to talk."

"So, you think this is how she found out about us?" asked Antony.

"More than likely," said Sch.e.l.l. "Tremaine said the guy told him he needed to check up on us because he was going to do a job with us. Later on, though, he realized that this guy is a lightweight, not bad for tea parties and rotary club gigs but not a real con. Then he started to thinking that it was highly unlikely we'd be working with him. By then, though, Tremaine was off to Philly, but he made a note to call us as soon as he got back in town just in case it wasn't on the up-and-up."

"Have you ever heard of him before?" I asked.

"No," said Sch.e.l.l. "You ever hear that name before?"

"Never heard of him, Boss," said Antony.

"We'll pay him a visit and find out why he's so interested in us," said Sch.e.l.l.

"I hope he doesn't have any kids who play baseball," said Antony. The address Tremaine had given to Sch.e.l.l turned out to be the Immaculate Redeemer Nursing Home, a sprawling one-story building set back from the road among scrub pine. As we pulled into the parking lot, Sch.e.l.l said to Antony, "I don't think you have to worry about a repeat of yesterday's drama."

"I don't lean on cripples or feebs," said Antony. "That's where I draw the line."

"Admirable," said Sch.e.l.l.

As it turned out, Lester Brill wasn't a cripple or a feeb but a sharp-looking older gentleman with silver hair, a trim goatee, and a cane. We found him in a dayroom, playing cards with some of the other residents. When Sch.e.l.l introduced himself, Brill seemed to know immediately why we were there and excused himself from the game. He led us to his room and, once we were inside, closed the door. As he seated himself in a rocking chair, he waved his hand at the bed and invited Sch.e.l.l and me to sit down.

"Sorry, Goliath," he said to Antony, "but I don't think my bed can handle the strain." Antony nodded, folded his arms, and leaned his back against the door.

"Mr. Brill, you called Abel Tremaine and told him you'd be working with us and asked for information concerning our operation. Why?"

"I love this young man's getup," said Brill, pointing his cane at me. "I bet that disarms the marks."

"Who was it that wanted to know about us?" asked Sch.e.l.l.

"I remember Tremaine telling me stories of your exploits," he said to Sch.e.l.l. "You're quite famous in the community." Brill spoke calmly, smiling as he went on, as if we were all old friends, but no matter how many times Sch.e.l.l tried to move the conversation back to his main question, the old man went off in another direction.

Finally Sch.e.l.l switched tactics, and I was surprised by his approach. "Miss Hush, the young woman you were helping out," he said, "is in some very deep trouble." Brill's composure cracked ever so slightly, a line of worry forming on his brow. Still he continued to smile. Then Sch.e.l.l launched into a protracted description of the entire Barnes case and our involvement in it. I'd never before witnessed him reveal so much about our methods and secrets.

When he was done, he said, "I'm taking a very big chance telling you all of this, Mr. Brill, but I have a reason. Miss Hush's life could be at stake, and if you care anything for her, you'll want us to find her before the people who killed Barnes's daughter do."

The old man began rocking in the chair, tapping his cane on the floor. He looked out the window once and then back at Sch.e.l.l. "Her name is Morgan Shaw," he said. "I'm the one who concocted the moniker Lydia Hush for her."

"Very effective name," said Sch.e.l.l, and Antony seconded this affirmation, as did I.

"She works here a few days a week as an aide," he said. "We became friends and I taught her cold reading so that she could make some extra money for herself. She's gotten very good. An excellent student. Please, Mr. Sch.e.l.l, don't let any harm come to her. She's like a daughter to me."

"We'll watch out for her," said Sch.e.l.l.

"I'm sorry I dropped a dime on you and your friends here, but she was desperate to work those Barnes people, and she was worried you'd outcla.s.s her and she'd lose the job. She thought if she got the jump on you, had a little edge, you'd be convinced of her skill. Actually, I suggested the tactic to her when she told me Barnes was bringing you in on it."

"It wasn't a bad strategy," said Sch.e.l.l. "Can I trust you to keep our secrets?"

"I'll make you a deal," he said. "If you treat Morgan well, what you've told me will stay in this room. If anything happens to her, I'll sing like a nightingale to the press about how you tried to dupe Barnes in his time of tragedy."

"Fair enough," said Sch.e.l.l. "Now, where does she live?"

CABIN NUMBER SIX.