Amagansett

Twenty-One

They arrived at the Montauk Yacht Club at seven o’clock sharp, two chauffeur-driven cars pulling up near the clubhouse and disgorging their occupants.
Conrad made his way along the dock to greet them.
He recognized her father, brother and Justin Penrose from photos she’d once shown him at the house. Her sister, Gayle, was talking to a small woman with long dark hair tied back off her face. Her appearance fitted what Lillian had told him of the maid, Rosa. This was confirmed when Conrad drew closer to the group.
‘Help Rosa unload the food, will you,’ said George Wallace to one of the drivers.
Gayle effected the introductions and Conrad shook hands with father and son. George Wallace thanked him for recovering Lillian’s body from the ocean, and for arranging the charter boat. It didn’t seem to occur to him that there was anything odd about juxtaposing the two events in the same sentence, but at least he got them in the right order of priority.
Conrad made a point of gripping Manfred Wallace’s hand a little more firmly than was necessary, and of staring deep into his blue, almost aquamarine, eyes. He was rewarded with a satisfying flicker of unease.
Another man introduced himself as Richard Wakeley. They had spoken on the phone when Conrad first called Gayle to say he’d found a boat for them. Steering Conrad a little to one side, Wakeley peeled off the sum they’d agreed on from a wad of bills.
Conrad tucked the cash into his hip pocket. ‘Not coming with us?’ he asked, taking in Wakeley’s neatly pressed slacks and leather shoes.
‘I can’t stand the ocean.’
‘She’s a cruel mistress, old Mother Atlantic. As Lillian learned to her cost.’
The overfamiliar use of her Christian name was intentional.
‘Indeed,’ said Wakeley.
In all, there were seven in the party—the Wallaces, Justin Penrose and his father, another man, and an attractive brunette a little younger than Gayle, with dark pools for eyes.
They all seemed pleased with the boat, the Zephyr—a lowsided, beamy forty-four-footer. There was plenty of room around the two fighting chairs bolted to the aft deck, as well as a shaded eating area in the large open pilothouse, which had been vacated by the skipper for the running bridge above.
Conrad knew that Captain Whitman B. Chase wouldn’t disappoint, and he didn’t. His grizzled face was shaded beneath the long bill of his swordfisherman’s cap; and his gruff, almost dismissive, greeting of his customers as they clambered aboard was no less than they’d expected, or hoped for.
‘Stow your gear down below. There’s ice in the fish hold,’ he growled. ‘And shake a leg, else we’ll miss the ebb tide.’
They exchanged amused glances, delighted at being taken in hand by this grumpy old sea-dog.
As Conrad helped load the platters of food, the boxes of drink, crockery and cutlery, he sensed an unease in Rosa. She seemed to be doing her very best to avoid his gaze.
Taking a large dish of devilled chicken from her, he said pointedly, ‘Thanks, Rosa.’
There was no mistaking the alarm in her eyes.
She knew. Lillian had told her about them.
Turning away, he tried to assess the impact of this revelation, feeding the information into the equation. There was no way of knowing how it would affect his plan, if at all.
She certainly hadn’t told her employers, that much was clear from the way they were treating him. And if she hadn’t told them by now, then she was unlikely ever to do so. Lillian had probably sworn her to secrecy, and there was no reason for Rosa to break that trust, even now. Just to be sure, though, he kept a close watch on her until they were ready to leave.
Chase fired the engines and a great cloud of fumes billowed out of the stern.
‘Cast off,’ he called.
Rollo freed the lines, leaping aboard the Zephyr as she slid away from the dock and out into the basin of Montauk Lake.
‘Good luck,’ shouted Wakeley, waving them off.
Rosa stood beside him. She wasn’t waving.
They steamed out of the channel then ran east. The sea was glassy calm with a gentle ground swell running, and they bowled along at a steady clip, driven by the throaty GM diesel.
Rollo worked his way to the end of the narrow swordfish pulpit that extended some twenty feet clear of the stem. He stood there, his hands on the rail, facing into the rising sun, the wind whipping his hair, and Conrad wished for a moment that he had a camera with him.
‘Do you want some coffee?’
He turned to see that Gayle had joined him on the foredeck. She hadn’t found her sea legs yet, and probably never would, certainly not in those heels.
‘Thanks.’
He glanced up at the flying bridge where Chase was rolling a plug of tobacco around his mouth.
‘Hey, Cap, coffee?’
‘Makes me shit liquid.’
‘I think that’s a no,’ said Conrad. He nodded at Rollo riding the wind beyond the bow wave. ‘He’ll have some when he’s finished.’
‘What is that thing?’
‘A pulpit, for harpooning swordfish.’
‘Oh.’
Gayle started making her way around the pilothouse.
‘Best take those off.’ He nodded at her shoes. ‘One big swell and you’ll be swimming.’
She reached for him to steady herself, her fingers pale against his forearm. She was flirting with him, just as she had the other day when she showed up at his place. This time, though, he didn’t resent her quite so much for it. From what Hendrik had told him, it seemed unlikely she was involved.
‘Thanks,’ she said when she was done.
‘No problem,’ he replied, tearing his eyes away from her feet.
They could just as well have been Lillian’s.
The only experienced fisherman among the party was the gentleman who proved to be the father of the brunette. The older men called him Marshal; Manfred Wallace and Justin Penrose addressed him as ‘Senator’; to his daughter he was just plain ‘Pappy’.
The Senator had come armed with his own rod, its reel as big as a dinner plate, and he had every intention of telling the others how things were done. Depositing himself in one of the fighting chairs, his instructions were clearly secondary to the real purpose of the exercise: that of discussing his past exploits. For him, ‘the one that got away’ was a six-hundred-pound bluefin he’d hooked off the Outer Banks of North Carolina, an excellent winter tuna fishery known to few, he claimed.
‘I was in the chair for an hour before the first mate took over. When he folded, I put in another half-hour. That monster never tired, not once, kept running back and forth beneath the boat. We could have been there till nightfall and still not brought it to gaff. Yes, she earned her freedom, that one,’ he conceded magnanimously, through gritted teeth.
As the stories ran on, the others hanging on his every word, it was becoming increasingly clear that the trip had been organized primarily for the Senator’s benefit.
And that, thought Conrad, presented an opportunity for a bit of sport.
They were five miles south of Block Island when the order came down from the flying bridge to start trolling. Rollo took a couple of menhaden from the live well. They hooked the fish up to the lines and trailed them over the teakwood transom into the wake.
Chase slowed the Zephyr to six or seven knots. At this speed, the tuna would take the live baits for the real thing. Not that getting bluefin to strike was the problem. What you did with them once they had was the name of the game.
It had already been decided that Justin Penrose’s father should take the first turn in the other chair beside the Senator.
Conrad adjusted the drag on Penrose’s reel.
‘If you get a hit, don’t do anything. The skipper will throttle up to set the hook. I’ll talk you through it from there.’ He started strapping him into the harness.
‘Is that necessary?’ asked Penrose senior.
‘Never know what’s out there.’
‘You wouldn’t be the first to go over the side, Everett,’ chuckled the Senator.
‘That’s the truth,’ called Chase from the bridge. ‘Ask old Eric Doucette, he’ll tell you. If you can find him. No one’s seen him since.’
Penrose shifted nervously in his chair. ‘What happened?’
‘Worked a commercial boat out of Old Harbor on Block Island. Experienced bluefin man. Been fishing ‘em since ever, them Nova Scotians. Hooked a large giant out there in the mud hole, just last year it was. Anyhow, he fights it to the boat and it’s laying there in the water, dead as mutton, or so he thinks. He’s wiring it up when that fish comes to life, takes off straight down. Only thing is, Doucette’s got the wire looped round his arm. Gone in a flash. Straight over the side. Still down there probably, cruising around. Who knows, maybe it dropped him off back in Nova Scotia.’
‘That’s terrible,’ said Gayle Wallace.
‘That’s bluefin for you, don’t want to mess with ‘em.’
Chase was right. For sheer brutish power and endurance the bluefin had no equals among the big-game fish. For all their leaps and fancy acrobatics, marlin and sailfish tired quickly, and it was often said that once you’d hooked a giant bluefin nothing else would do.
Conrad rested a reassuring hand on Penrose’s shoulder. ‘You’ll be okay. Just keep the rod butt in the gimbal and your hands away from the reel.’
He turned his attention to the Senator, whose eyes were fixed on his bait some thirty yards astern of the boat.
‘What line are you carrying?’ asked Conrad.
‘Hundred pound.’
‘Won’t be much fun if we hit some thirty-pound schoolies.’
‘A fish is a fish,’ said the Senator.
A*shole, thought Conrad.
‘What’s the record this year in these waters?’ asked the Senator.
‘Cap, what’s the record this year?’ called Conrad to the bridge.
‘Seven hundred and thirty-six pounds,’ came back the reply.
‘Sweet Jesus.’
‘Pappy!’
‘A third of a ton,’ muttered the Senator. More than enough to put the demon of that giant North Carolina bluefin to rest. He adjusted himself in his chair and waited.
And waited.
Half an hour later they were still trolling back and forth on the offshore grounds, the only consolation being that none of the other boats they could see appeared to be hooked up.
The girls had lost interest by now and had retreated to the shade where they were chatting and flipping through magazines. The men, all five of them, were smoking cigars and talking about Yale. Rollo had climbed to the masthead where he was perched on the old automobile seat that served as a lookout. He was scouring the ocean for telltale signs—a surface break, or a darkened patch, like the shadow of a cloud, indicating a school of baitfish.
‘What do you say we anchor up and try chunking them?’ called the Senator to the bridge.
They’d come prepared with a tub of mashed menhaden chum, but Chase wasn’t ready to start heaving it over the side.
‘They’re out there, I can smell ‘em. And the troll bite’s been holdin’ up good all season.’
‘Did he say he can smell them?’ asked Penrose senior.
Manfred Wallace blew out his cigar smoke. ‘He doesn’t mean it literally.’
‘Don’t be so sure,’ said Conrad.
Manfred Wallace didn’t appreciate the comment, or the tone. It rankled him, though not enough to warrant a response.
‘I don’t know,’ called the Senator to the bridge. ‘My guess is they’re settled in.’
Chase didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. The fish did the talking for him. The water just behind the Senator’s bait erupted in a blur of blue and bronze.
‘Holy shit…’
The Senator’s reel came to life, whirring to a mist as the tuna made a blistering run to starboard. Chase eased the throttle forward to set the hook, then spun the wheel hard and opened it up.
Conrad seized the back of the Senator’s chair, turning it to keep the fish lined up. The others gathered round, staring, mesmerized by the sheer speed of the fish—a hundred yards, two hundred…
‘Look at it go,’ said Manfred.
‘It’s not going anywhere,’ said the Senator.
The bluefin stripped two hundred and fifty yards off the reel before sounding.
‘You get a look at it?’ asked the Senator. ‘All I saw was the hole it left.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Conrad. ‘Not a giant. Maybe fifty pounds.’
‘Seventy,’ called Chase.
Either way, the Senator was right—it wasn’t going anywhere, not attached to a hundred-pound test line. It was simply a matter of cranking it in, something the Senator was clearly quite capable of doing. Twice Conrad spotted him back off the drag on his reel, allowing the fish to make another rush. This was done for the benefit of the spectators, to make him look good—man and fish locked in battle.
It was all over in ten minutes, the fish alongside the boat. Conrad gaffed it under the chin and Rollo secured a strap around its tail. Together they hauled it up over the gunwale. It flopped on to the deck, its flanks flashing iridescent blue in the sunlight, grading through bronze to the silver of its belly.
‘Poor thing,’ said Gayle Wallace.
‘It’s your daddy I’m after,’ said the Senator.
‘Bait off the port bow,’ called Chase.
Conrad hurried aloft. In the distance, birds were flocking, with more arriving by the second.
‘Big school of bait comin’ up fast.’
‘What do you think’s driving them?’
‘Well, it ain’t lobsters,’ grinned Chase, edging the throttle forward.
As they drew closer Conrad said, ‘Jesus.’
‘Even he couldn’t walk on that lot,’ muttered Chase.
The surface of the ocean was churning with life. And death. Gannets and gulls swooped and slammed on to the water from above, snapping up sparkling baitfish, while hundreds of frenzied school tuna flashed to and fro, their distinctive sickle fins scything through the chop. Every now and then one would break clear of the water in its eagerness to kill, jaws snapping at the silver mist of baitfish leaping before it. There were other fish present too, striped bass and bluefish, both fearsome hunters, and also ready to take to the air for their prey, but no match for a speeding bluefin. A couple of sharks lazily patrolled the fringes of the melee, biding their time, allowing the tuna to tire themselves out.
It was as if two invisible hands had corralled all living creatures from the surrounding waters into five acres of ocean and ordered them to fight it out amongst themselves. Conrad had once seen a school of large stripers rip through a pod of menhaden—and a shocking spectacle it had been—but he had never witnessed anything on this scale, the whole savage cycle of life in the ocean laid bare for human eyes.
And in that moment, staring down from the flying bridge, Conrad saw himself reflected back: blind, raging, unmerciful. Inhuman, but not unfeeling. That was the worst of it, what marked men out, their curse—the clean, sweet taste of vengeance, the deaths of those you had known atoned for on the altar of the battlefield, their lives memorialized in the letting of yet more innocent blood.
‘Well?’ said Chase.
‘Huh?’
‘I said best go ready them rods.’ He spat a stream of tobacco on to the boards at his feet. ‘And the idiots what’s holdin’ ‘em.’
The Zephyr edged into the fray and they took their place in the upper orders of the food chain. It was merely a matter of dropping a live bait over the side; the hit would happen within a matter of moments.
Chase nosed the boat back and forth through the seething waters, glancing over his shoulder every so often, swinging the wheel to keep the lines from tangling. By the time the other charter boats arrived on the scene, each member of the party had hooked and boated a tuna, including the girls.
It wasn’t enough, though. They wanted more. And they got them. For almost an hour they got them. They were small fish, in the thirty—to fifty-pound range, but after hooking a half-dozen of them even the Senator was ready to vacate his chair.
The bite dropped off when the sharks moved in, scattering the tuna. The chop gradually subsided. Apart from a few gulls swooping for scraps, there was little evidence of the carnage they’d witnessed, and shared in.
Conrad dropped the tuna into the hold, piling ice around them, while Rollo swabbed the deck, slick from the blood of the throats they’d cut.
The Wallaces and their guests celebrated with Champagne, faces flush from exertion and exhilaration, talking excitedly. Glasses were raised to the skipper and his crew, though not offered to them, and when the table was laid for lunch Conrad and Rollo withdrew to the flying bridge.
Rollo had come armed with sandwiches made for him by his mother, which he insisted on eating at the end of the swordfish pulpit, legs dangling either side of the narrow gangplank. He was more withdrawn than usual, and had been all day. Conrad observed him, concerned.
‘He’s a good boy,’ said Chase. ‘Not the sharpest chisel in the tool box, but a good boy.’ He proceeded to give an account of his association with the Kemps over the years, and his rags-to-riches rise from Jersey plumber to Montauk charter-boat captain.
Chase enjoyed the sound of his own voice, which was fine by Conrad; it allowed him to keep one ear on the conversation rising up from below. The talk shifted from the economic regeneration of Europe, to communists, then to politics and presidents. Manfred Wallace said it was unfair to expect the nation to choose between an ex-haberdasher and a man who resembled one of those little grooms on top of a wedding cake. This was the cause of much amusement, with the Senator laughing the loudest. The discussion then turned to Manfred, to upcoming elections, to his candidacy. There was talk of the State Senate and of District 26, of the New York City Tax Commissioner and of other favors that could be called in.
Conrad felt the bile rise in his gullet. Thinking that the heat was getting to him, Chase suggested that he put on his cap. The clatter of crockery gave way to the smell of coffee, and Conrad pictured the scene, pictured himself heading below, what he would do, how easy it would be.
‘Conrad!’
It was Rollo at the end of the pulpit, pointing towards the southeast.
‘You see ‘em? Swordfish!’
Chase was on his feet now, squinting. ‘Well, damned if they ain’t,’ he said.
Some half a mile away two swordfish were finning, lazing on the surface.
‘You want to break out the gear?’ asked Conrad.
‘You’re kidding me.’
‘I crewed for Jake Minton back in ‘39.’
‘He still owe you money?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Damn right he does. Tightest sonofabitch that ever lived. You know what he said once, to his own brother? Ed’s broke, busted flat, needs to borrow a bit, but Jake says he can’t help out, says he’s got this deal with the bank, an agreement, says the bank won’t go into fishing if he don’t go into lending money! You believe that!?’
‘What about it?’ said Conrad.
It was the opportunity he’d been waiting for, the scene already playing itself out in his head.
‘Swordfishin’,’ muttered Chase. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘The boat gets to keep the fish and there’s another fifty in it for you.’
‘Let’s go swordfishin’.’
Heading below, Conrad addressed himself directly to the Senator so the outcome would be assured.
‘Senator, you ever harpoon a swordfish?’
‘No.’
‘Want to give it a shot?’
‘Damn right I do.’
What else could he say? He hadn’t hooked the giant fish he was after, and he wasn’t going to now, the tuna bite being pretty much played out by noon.
‘There’s a couple finning nearby.’
‘Show me,’ said the Senator with swagger, laying aside his glass of Cognac.
As they all made their way to the foredeck, Conrad collared the Wallaces.
‘The Captain’s asking for an extra hundred.’
‘A hundred dollars!?’ said Manfred.
‘Not a problem,’ said his father.
It was a twelve-foot harpoon, light and well balanced. Conrad demonstrated how to hold it. He showed them how the little bronze dart at the end came free at the moment of the strike, twisting as it did so, lodging itself in the flesh. The dart was attached to a wooden keg by several hundred feet of manila line, neatly coiled down in a tub. The keg was tossed over the side as the line ran out. After that, it was simply a question of tracking the keg, waiting for the fish to tire itself out or to die from the wound.
It was a perfect day for swordfishing—a dead calm sea and a searing, windless heat. They would find other fish, and Conrad could afford to take the first turn on the pulpit. He removed his overshirt before doing so, and regretted it almost immediately.
‘Regimental tattoo?’ asked the Senator.
The red arrowhead was clearly visible just beneath the arm hem of his T-shirt.
‘Yeah,’ replied Conrad, busying himself with the harpoon, clearing the line, hoping that was the end of it.
‘Did you see action? My boy saw action—Guadalcanal. He didn’t make it back.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
Conrad made his way to the end of the pulpit, terminating the conversation. They were bearing down on the swordfish now with the sun astern to keep the glare from blinding Conrad. It was a large fish that looked likely to tip the balance at around four hundred pounds.
‘Keep her off half a point,’ called Conrad.
‘You tellin’ me my business?’ growled Chase.
‘Sorry, Cap.’
Chase put him directly over the fish and Conrad threw his full weight behind the harpoon, thrusting down into the dark, lacquered body, ironing the creature in the thick muscle right behind the dorsal fin.
The ocean erupted, the swordfish making a scorching run to starboard, the line burning out of the tub, singing. Rollo hove the keg over the side. A second later the line snapped taut and the keg tore across the slick surface. They set off in pursuit.
With the lily firmly set, the rest was a formality. They trailed the keg for half an hour until it finally bobbed to a halt, inert.
‘Reckon he’s about drowned out,’ said Chase.
They hooked the keg aboard and dragged the swordfish up from the depths. It had no fight left in it; in fact, no life at all. It had expired from the wound Conrad had inflicted. It was best to be sure, though. Taking up the lance, he turned to the girls.
‘You might want to turn away.’
But they didn’t, and he thrust the lance into the gills. They fastened a strap round the tail and hoisted the fish inboard using a block and fall, laying it on the deck.
Everyone stared in mute wonder at the beauty and the enormity of the creature.
The Senator ran the toe of his shoe along the sword. ‘My God.’
‘Are you still game?’ asked Conrad.
‘Are you joking?’
Conrad turned to Manfred Wallace. ‘You want to tend the warp and keg for the Senator?’
‘Sure.’
It was another ten minutes—time enough to cut out the lily and recoil the line—before Rollo hollered from the masthead, ‘Fish on the lee beam!’
There were two of them, finning close together this time. Keeping the sun at their backs meant coming at them head-on. Conrad accompanied the Senator to the end of the pulpit and handed him the harpoon.
‘They may flare off at the last second, but you’ll still get a shot. Here…’ He adjusted the Senator’s grip on the pole. ‘Remember, just behind the dorsal fin else you’ll bone the dart. And don’t look them in the eye.’
‘Why not?’
‘They’ll freeze you with their stare.’
‘Really?’
‘Trust me.’
The Senator nodded gravely and Conrad made his way back to the stem of the boat where the others were gathered.
‘Good luck, Pappy!’ called the Senator’s daughter, all a-fluster.
Conrad wandered aft, picked up an ax, then returned to the foredeck. He let the ax hang inconspicuously against his thigh.
What the Senator lacked in style he more than made up for in determination. He almost disappeared over the pulpit rail in his bid to stick the fish, but it was a clean hit.
‘I got him!’ he yelled in triumph, raising the harpoon high above his head.
The swordfish took off at a breathtaking clip, heading directly astern of the boat. Conrad couldn’t have asked for more. Everyone turned instinctively to observe its passage, including Manfred Wallace, which meant he took his eyes off the tub.
Conrad glanced down at it, the manila line hissing out, the wooden rim starting to smoke.
‘The keg!’ he shouted, when he judged it was just too late.
To Manfred’s credit, he didn’t freeze. Spinning back, he lunged at the keg, only to see it snatched from his fingertips.
It flew across the foredeck, upending Penrose senior and scattering the others, before crashing into the starboard rail, ripping out one whole section as it continued its journey aft. Conrad leapt forward, swinging the ax, severing the line.
Chase hauled back on the throttle lever. ‘You stupid sonofabitch!’ he yelled. ‘The one thing you had to do—toss the goddamn keg!’
‘I—’ stammered Manfred.
‘No excuses,’ said Conrad. ‘You screwed up.’
Manfred turned his gaze on him, and for the briefest of moments, deep in his crystalline eyes, Conrad caught a glimmer of what Manfred was capable of.
‘Look at my goddamn boat!’
‘We’ll cover it,’ said George Wallace. ‘Whatever it costs.’
‘Damn right you will,’ said Chase, beginning to soften, the prospect of padding out the costs already dampening his anger.
Mr Penrose was helped to his feet. He hopped around and rubbed his shin and declared himself to be okay. The Senator looked far from okay.
‘Did I stick her right?’ he asked Conrad.
‘You stuck her right.’
‘I’d have had her.’
‘Oh, you’d have had her.’
Manfred Wallace felt the full force of the Senator’s glare. Assuming, as you certainly could, that the Senator had grossly exaggerated the size of the North Carolina bluefin that got away, then he’d just lost the biggest fish of his life, and through no fault of his own.
Only when he caught Rollo looking at him did Conrad realize he was wearing an expression of deep satisfaction. He didn’t care that Rollo had seen him laid bare. He didn’t care that someone could have been far more seriously injured by the keg, or that somewhere out there a four-hundred-pound swordfish was being driven mad with the agony of a bronze dart buried in its back. He didn’t care, because he knew this was as close as he was ever likely to come to witnessing the humiliation of Manfred Wallace.
It was a dismal end to a perfect day for the Wallaces and their guests. As the Zephyr pressed towards home the conversation was muted, with Gayle doing her best to lighten the mood. Manfred was silent, suitably chastened, and by the time they reached the breakwaters at Montauk Harbor he’d been forgiven.
The Senator mock-punched him on the jaw and laughed as he recalled the spectacle of Penrose senior going ass-over-elbow. The swordfish might have given him the slip, but he had a far more entertaining tale to tell because of it, and that realization was just beginning to dawn on him.
The late-afternoon buzz at the Montauk Yacht Club swept aside the last vestiges of the incident, the dockside thronging with people eager to view the catches of the returning boats. Their swordfish was hoisted on to the scales at the end of the dock. At four hundred and forty pounds it wasn’t large enough to cause a real stir, but the number of tuna they’d hooked, stacked up on the dock like so much cordwood, was impressive by any standards. It made Chase look good, it made his party look good, and the moment was trapped for posterity by a photographer.
Conrad cleaned and dressed a couple of tuna and packed them in ice for the Wallaces. The rest were sold to the same buyer who took the swordfish off Chase’s hands.
Manfred announced he was off to phone home, to let the drivers know they were back. Conrad slipped away, tailing him towards the clubhouse.
‘There’s the extra hundred for the swordfishing,’ he called.
Manfred stopped and turned. ‘I thought I’d just add it to the cost of the repairs.’
‘I’ll take it now, if that’s okay with you.’
It was twice as much as he’d promised Chase, but he doubted any tips would be forthcoming after what he was about to say. He didn’t care for himself, but there was no reason Rollo should be denied his dues.
Manfred handed him the cash, and Conrad stuffed it into his hip pocket without looking at it.
‘Whose idea was it?’
‘Excuse me?’ said Manfred.
‘Going fishing, your sister still warm in her grave.’
Manfred didn’t respond immediately, unsure if he had heard correctly. ‘How dare you,’ he flared.
Conrad took a step towards him.
‘I know about Lizzie Jencks.’
Manfred recovered quickly, but not quickly enough. His eyes had betrayed him.
‘Lizzie who?’
‘And that’s not all I know.’
‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,’ said Manfred with way too much indignation.
Conrad smiled. ‘I’ll be seeing you.’
He stood his ground, obliging Manfred to walk away first. But he didn’t.
‘Who the hell do you think you are, hurling accusations around?’
‘Accusations?’ said Conrad. ‘I thought you’d never heard of Lizzie Jencks.’