“What!” Miss Pickett cried. “Why, Mr. Coves, I can’t raise that amount of money. I was prepared to offer you ten thousand, but your price is out of all reason.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Coves. “Truly I am, and if I didn’t need the money so badly, I’d be glad to sell to you. But ten thousand dollars would help me very little. The ten acres to the south of you I’ve priced at eleven thousand, and I’ll gladly sell to you.”

  “I should think you would,” said Miss Pickett indignantly. “I’m sure, Mr. Coves, that your prices are — unrealistic.”

  Coves said with a trace of vigor, “I’m certain that I can get them, Miss Pickett.”

  There was a period of bitter silence. The grudging Miss Pickett said, “Well, if that is your price, Mr. Coves, I have no choice. It’s necessary that I provide as much privacy as possible for my school; I’ll buy the ten acres from you.”

  “Thank you,” said Coves.

  “As soon as you have the deed ready, please let me know and I’ll give you a check.”

  Coves hung up, breathed deeply, turned back to the desk. Waiting was a prosperous-looking gentleman — immaculately groomed, shaved, powdered and pomaded. He had luxuriant black hair, silver at the temples, a handsome face with a hint of a jowl, liquid brown eyes that begged to be believed and trusted. He laid his pigskin gloves on the desk, reached out his white hand.

  “My name is Archer, Mr. Coves — Mortimer Archer.”

  “How do you do?” said Coves.

  “I understand, Mr. Coves, that you’ve placed parts of the island up for sale.”

  “Why, yes.”

  “Well, I took the liberty of looking the island over, and it’s certainly a beautiful spot. Ideal, really.”

  “Ah, may I inquire the nature of your interest?”

  Mortimer Archer nodded. “Mr. Coves, I’m a retired businessman, and I dabble in photography. I’m looking for a place where I can build a little house and get out into the fresh air with my camera, lead a placid, secluded, relaxed existence.”

  “There’s some wonderful scenery out here,” said Coves. He reached under the desk, found the map. “I’ve sold Blocks One and Two just this morning. But these sections — Three, Four and Five — are still available.”

  Archer took a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles from his pocket, adjusted them to his nose. “Hm … Ah, yes, I see. What is the price on Three, Mr. Coves?”

  Coves coughed. “Well — that’s twenty-eight thousand dollars.”

  Archer blinked. “Did you say twenty-eight thousand?”

  “Er, yes … You see, there’s twenty-eight acres, and it has this stretch of beach, and all these trees and a great deal of level land — some wonderful building sites.”

  Archer’s mouth dropped at the corners.

  “I’m sure the price isn’t out of line,” said Coves defensively.

  Archer hesitated, touching his mustache, gazing absently across the lobby. Almost reluctantly, he reached into his breast pocket, brought forth a wallet. Slowly he counted five twenty-dollar bills down on the counter. “Here’s a hundred deposit, Mr. Coves. I’ll have a certified check for the balance as soon as I have a report on the title.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Coves. “It’s a clear title direct from the state and guaranteed by the state. I’ll write you a receipt.”

  Two hours later the telephone rang. “Bird Island Hotel,” said Coves. “Oh hello, Al! What can I do for you?”

  “Coves, a relative of mine just pulled in from Alaska — a sort of cousin, I guess. He likes it down here and thought he might buy some property where he can do a little fishing and settle down. I told him about Bird Island, took him around in the launch, and he likes it — especially that little cove at the south end in all the rocks. What’s the price on that?”

  Coves said, “Why, it’s twenty-four thousand dollars, Al. Ah, this cousin of yours, he’s — er, all right? I mean — well, you know …”

  “Oh, sure,” came Al Carper’s assurance. “He’s the salt of the earth. Just the kind of man you want out there. And he’ll pay you right now — in gold dust, if you want it.”

  “Oh no,” said Coves. “I’d rather have a check. I’ve got so much money out here I don’t know what to do with it all.”

  Carper said, “Just a minute, I’ll ask Ike if he wants the cove at twenty-four thousand. There’s about twenty acres of land, isn’t there?”

  “Twenty-four,” said Coves.

  He heard a mutter of voices. Then Carper returned to the phone.

  “He’ll take it. We’ll get a certified check and bring it out to you today.”

  Chapter III

  Milo Green was a likeable man and Miss Pickett a woman of unalloyed and unswerving virtue. But some personalities are incompatible, and perhaps the two were never fated for friendship.

  The initial incident occurred almost at once. Milo was sitting in the lobby of the Val d’Oro Inn in Monterey, where he had registered after finishing his business with Coves. Glancing across the room, he saw a very pretty girl in a brown suit approaching the desk.

  The girl was agreeable in every respect. She was slender, flexible. She had citron-tan skin, big solemn dark eyes, brown hair lustrous as Turkish coffee. She wore a brown skirt and jacket with touches of scarlet, and a pair of silly little bronze leather sandals.

  She took a key from the clerk, and a bellboy conducted her to the elevator. Milo crossed the lobby to the desk.

  “Excuse me,” he said to the clerk, “that girl who just registered … who is she?”

  The clerk’s expression was like a sly nudge with the elbow. “She registered ‘Miss Lydia Pickett and party’.”

  “Who’s the party?”

  The clerk shrugged. “Hasn’t showed yet.”

  Milo rubbed his chin. “She looks kind of young — for what she’s supposed to be.”

  The clerk shrugged. “Do I look like a hotel clerk?”

  Milo saw a gourd-shaped man of forty with a wispy mustache, large glistening teeth. “Why no … More like a — well, civil engineer.”

  The clerk teetered back and forth on his heels. “That’s the story right there. You can’t tell much by looks.”

  Milo, turning away, bumped into a tall, angular woman of indefinite age. She had cold eyes, a nose and chin like the working end of a pipe wrench.

  The contact caused the woman to drop her handbag. “Sorry,” said Milo. He bent to retrieve the article; she did the same. Their heads collided.

  “Umph,” said Milo. “Excuse me.”

  The woman straightened. “I’ll get it myself, thank you.”

  “As you please,” said Milo. The woman stooped and seized the bag. The clasp loosened and a tumble of pink lingerie, a long ivory comb, an ivory-backed brush, fell out. A can labeled ‘Xtra-Value Epsom Salts’ spread its contents.

  Milo bent forward. “May I help you?”

  “You will oblige me,” said the woman, “by getting yourself out of the way.”

  Milo marched back to his seat at the desk. The woman was shown to her room by a bellboy.

  Half an hour later, the girl in brown descended the stairs and pushed through the swinging door into the coffee shop.

  Milo gave his jacket a jerk, ran his hands through his hair, and followed briskly.

  The girl had settled at a booth and was surveying the menu. Milo slid into the seat opposite her. She glanced up inquiringly.

  “I’m Milo Green,” said Milo. “One of your neighbors on Bird Island, starting today.”

  The girl’s polite but cool glance became a trifle less guarded. “What part of the island is yours?”

  “Section One, the hill at the north end.”

  “You must have a wonderful view.”

  “You can see a thousand miles in all directions.”

  The girl said, “A good place for a television station.”

  “A better place for the house I’m going to build.”

  She nodded. “I suppose you’ll have big windows?”

  “That’s right. Windows everywhere.” Milo cleared his throat. “Pardon me, I suppose you’ve heard it a thousand times — but aren’t you rather young for what you’re doing?”

  “I’m twenty. Is that too young?”

  “Just right. But I expected something different. Something like the old carp I bumped into out in the lobby. Now she was more my idea of a schoolmistress. Face like a salt-water crocodile, ugly as sin. You’d have busted a stay when she poured her handbag all over the lobby.”

  “Celia,” came a rasping voice by his shoulder, “if you will move to another booth, I’ll join you.”

  Milo blinked and turned his head. Through a fog he heard the girl say, “Auntie, this is Mr. Green. He’s just bought part of Bird Island. Mr. Green, my aunt, Miss Pickett.”

  Milo stumbled to his feet. “Have my seat, Miss Pickett — I’ve got a phone call to make.”

  “Goodbye,” came Celia’s clear voice. “See you again.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Milo heard Miss Pickett say. “He’s an insolent young boor …” Her further remarks were cut off by the swinging doors.

  Milo returned to the desk, wiped his sweating palms. He cocked a vindictive eye at the clerk, who was talking to a man in a gray flannel suit. Milo saw the clerk nod in his direction, and the gentleman in gray flannel turned.

  “Mr. Green? My name is Archer, Mortimer Archer. I understand we’re to be neighbors on Bird Island.”

  Milo found himself held by the frankest and most lucid of brown eyes, in a face perfectly shaved and talcumed. It was a face of dignity and culture and sympathetic understanding.

  “Glad to meet you,” said Milo. “Where are you located?”

  “Section Three,” said Mr. Archer. “And you?”

  “Number One … I suppose you’re planning to build?”

  “Oh yes. Bird Island is the ideal place for my business.”

  Milo raised his eyebrows. “Business?”

  Archer laughed. “Oh, hardly a business. Photography. More a hobby at which I make an odd dollar once in a while.”

  Milo nodded. “I see.”

  Archer held out his hand. “Well, good day, Mr. Green. It’s been a pleasure. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other.”

  The fog was coming in — long, pale breaths, fleeing the ocean like frightened ghosts. It shrouded the harbor, the wharves, the fishing boats, and formed into banks that penetrated the streets, smelling of wetness and salt, tar and fish.

  Celia Marlowe, sauntering down Alvarado Street to Fisherman’s Wharf to see what Bird Island looked like, thought the total effect picturesque. As she crossed the street to the pier, she became aware of a diffident shape at her heels.

  Without even seeming to glance in his direction, she ascertained that the shape was Milo Green. She adjusted her profile to its best advantage.

  Milo drew abreast. “I suppose your aunt is annoyed with me?”

  Celia said, without turning her head, “You weren’t exactly polite to her.”

  Milo shoved his hands in his pockets. “I should be more careful … I’ll apologize when I see her.”

  “That would make it worse.” After a minute, she said, “I wouldn’t worry too much. She’ll forget all about you. She’s got so much on her mind. You can’t imagine how much work is involved in running a school.”

  Milo looked at her curiously. “Where do you fit in? Are you just visiting?”

  “Oh no,” said Celia. “I’m to teach.”

  “Teach! Teach what?”

  She shrugged. “Simple things. Elementary music. Badminton. Current events. I’ll probably correct papers and — well, just generally help.”

  Milo took her arm and steered her into a little seafood stand perched over the water on rickety black piles. “Let’s have a shrimp cocktail.”

  They sat at a table covered with a red checked cloth. Milo ordered, leaned back in his chair, scrutinized her with interest. “This is the first time you’ve been down here?”

  “Um-hmm. I’m just out of school.”

  “And right back into another one.”

  Celia laughed. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Plenty,” said Milo soberly. “It’s not psychologically healthy to lord it over students all your life. You get pushed behind a barrier, you lose contact; the first thing you know, you’re a has-been.”

  “Somebody’s got to do it.”

  “You’re nice the way you are.”

  “Thanks. But if you’re going out to live on a crag, you’re not living a normal life either.”

  “I’m different,” said Milo. “I’ve got a very good reason.”

  “You don’t look too happy about it.”

  “Well — I more or less bought the place on impulse. Now it’s occurred to me that I didn’t look far enough ahead.”

  Celia dipped into the shrimp cocktail. “How do you mean?”

  “About two months ago,” said Milo, “a bartender gave me a lottery ticket — the Mexican Grand National. It came in. After I paid the taxes I had twenty thousand.”

  “Why, Milo!” gasped Celia. “How wonderful!”

  He shrugged. “I just gave Coves ten thousand. And about an hour ago I signed a contract for a twenty-five thousand dollar house.”

  “Whew,” whistled Celia. “That’s a lot of house.”

  “I’m afraid I acted on impulse. I’ll have to pay the bank a hundred a month now. So instead of being twenty thousand to the good, I’m almost twenty thousand in the hole.”

  “But think of the wonderful house you’ll have!”

  “If it isn’t foreclosed in about a month and a half.”

  Celia said, “If you work hard, you can pay for it.”

  Milo sadly shook his head.

  “How did you support yourself before?”

  “I have a miserable faculty for doggerel which I sell to children’s magazines,” Milo said.

  Celia looked at him with new interest.

  “You must be very clever.”

  “I’m not clever. It’s just a knack.” He found a pencil, scribbled on a paper napkin. Celia reached out, and read what he had scribbled.

  Carnations are red,

  Delphiniums are blue,

  Maple-nut ice cream is delightful

  As are you.

  Celia giggled.

  “Well,” said Milo, “now you see what I mean.”

  “I think you’re very talented,” said Celia. “Have you anything with you that’s been published?”

  Milo rather shamefacedly produced a pair of clippings. “These appeared in last month’s Short Pants Review.”

  Celia laid them out on the table and bent her dark head.

  “That’s cute,” she said. She turned to the second, read it, looked up, inspected Milo soberly. “I think they’re good. Why, you could go out to Bird Island and very quickly sell enough poetry to pay for your house. Suppose you wrote a volume of poetry that became a children’s best seller?”

  “That’s not realistic,” said Milo. “I’d want to write a different kind of stuff.”

  “What, for instance?”

  “Oh …” Milo stared out across the harbor, where the fog had grayed the wharves and put an opalescence on the black water. “Something on a big scale. An epic maybe.”

  “Well,” said Celia doubtfully, “I don’t know.”

  Milo leaned back in his chair.

  “When do you start work?”

  “The spring term commences in a week.”

  “Is Miss Pickett going to pay you?”

  “Of course she’s going to pay me.”

  “Union scale?”

  Celia said, “I’m getting very valuable training. So Aunt Lydia says.”

  Milo snorted and looked out toward Bird Island, now hidden in the fog. “The place seems to be making money hand over fist.”

  “It’s one of the most successful schools in the state,” said Celia. “Aunt Lydia’s a good manager. Her fees are high, and she’s very strict.” There was a pause. Celia moved restlessly. “I’d better be getting back.”

  They walked out on the wharf, stood looking across the harbor. The water was black below and the fog was dank in their faces.

  “My, but it’s spooky,” said Celia. “I’ll bet there are ghosts in Monterey.”

  “I should think so,” said Milo. “It’s the oldest town in California.” He looked down at her. “Do you know there’s supposed to be treasure out on Bird Island?”

  “No … Is there?”

  “That’s right. The contractor was telling me. Nobody knows where it is, how much it is, anything about it. Just that Bird Island used to be owned by a gang of bootleggers, and that when they were put in jail, they left a lot of money on Bird Island.”

  Celia said with a grin, “If you find the treasure, you can pay off your bank.”

  Milo snapped his fingers. “I’ve got a good idea. Let’s look for the treasure tomorrow.”

  “How do we get there? Swim?”

  “I have a boat. It’s out there in the harbor now. You can’t see it in the fog.”

  “Well … all right. But we’ll have to keep it quiet from Aunt Lydia.”

  They returned to the Val d’Oro. Coves stood in the lobby reading a letter. He raised his hand affably. “Ah, Mr. Green.”

  “Hello, Mr. Coves.” Milo introduced Celia. “How’s business?”

  “I’ve sold everything,” said Coves.

  “My,” said Milo, “that’s quick work.”

  “It certainly was,” said Coves. “I’m starting alterations on the hotel tomorrow.”

  “And who are the other buyers?”

  “Well, let’s see … There’s you, of course, and Mr. Archer.” Coves tapped the names off his plump fingers. “Then Mr. — let’s see, Al Carper’s cousin — Mr. O’Rourke. And Mr. Ottenbright, a San Francisco lawyer. And Miss Pickett took the small section next to her school.” He looked at his watch. “Perhaps you’ll be my guests at dinner. I think practically all — if not all — of the new Bird Islanders will be there. It’ll be a nice occasion to get acquainted.”

  “Thanks,” said Milo. “I’d be delighted.”

  Celia hesitated. “My aunt …”