“Oh yes, she’s been invited.”

  “Then I’ll be glad to come.”

  “In about an hour then. I’ve reserved a big table in the alcove to the rear of the restaurant.”

  Chapter IV

  The dinner guests were a multifarious lot, with qualities ranging from Mortimer Archer’s finished elegance to the more elemental vigor of Ike O’Rourke, who wore a bushy yellow beard over his checkered mackinaw and who spoke knowingly of tundras and igloos and dog sleds.

  Miss Pickett, in a severe suit of black serge, was the last to appear. Coves introduced her to her new neighbors, starting with a portly gentleman with dewlaps and a balding pate, and his equally portly spouse.

  “Miss Pickett, Mr. and Mrs. Ottenbright.”

  Then: “Miss Pickett, Mr. Green.”

  “I have already met Mr. Green.” Miss Pickett’s voice rang with an iron vibration.

  Coves brought forward Ike O’Rourke. “Miss Pickett, may I present Mr. O’Rourke?”

  “Pleased to meetcha,” said Ike O’Rourke.

  Miss Pickett turned a look of accusation at Coves, whose forehead shone with little beads of sweat. Now Coves brought forward Mortimer Archer.

  “Miss Pickett, Mr. Archer.”

  Mr. Archer took her hand, smiling gently. “Miss Pickett.”

  A waiter signaled to Coves. “Dinner is served,” said Coves.

  Conversation during the meal was dominated jointly by Miss Pickett and Mr. Ottenbright. In the fruity baritone which had hypnotized a hundred juries, Mr. Ottenbright described a recent case, fixing Milo with humid blue eyes. Miss Pickett, at the other end of the table, engaged Mr. Archer with her theories of academic discipline.

  “It was a sorry spectacle,” said Mr. Ottenbright, tapping Milo’s wrist. “This popinjay Clevinger wouldn’t rest — the most witless excuse for an attorney I’ve ever seen. For two entire hours he argued and made an ass of himself, until the judge —”

  “— chewing gum I have never tolerated,” Miss Pickett impressed upon Mr. Archer. “It is my strict rule that whenever an instructor discovers a student engaging in the practice, he must direct her to paste the substance to her forehead and wear it till the end of the period —”

  “— I cited Snyder versus Crum Salvage. But Clevinger, in the same obstinate rut, contended the inapposition of —”

  “— I allow one dollar and twenty-five cents spending money per week. More than ample for —”

  Ike O’Rourke’s belch was like the bark of a seal. “This is good grub, Mr. Coves,” he said.

  Miss Pickett frowned. Mr. Ottenbright wiped his mouth with a flourish.

  “Well,” said Ike, “I been over to the island and I like it. Nice breeze blows in off the ocean, ideal climate for whales. I’m anxious to get my plant started.”

  “Whales?” Miss Pickett raised her eyebrows. “What ‘plant’ is this, Mr. O’Rourke?”

  “Renderin’ plant. I decided that besides herdin’ and raisin’ whales, I’d do my own slaughterin’ and renderin’.”

  Coves’ face became pale. “Surely —” he started, but Miss Pickett’s tones cut through.

  “Mr. O’Rourke, do you realize that such a course would be grossly unfair to those of us who depend upon public patronage for our living?”

  Ike’s face set into an expression of mulish obstinacy. “Don’t see why.”

  Mr. Ottenbright cleared his throat. “I fear, Mr. O’Rourke, that your project is not practical. Certain laws regulate such enterprises, and I believe that anyone situated in such a way that the wind blew from you to him could obtain a cease-and-desist injunction with a minimum of effort.”

  “The wind don’t blow all the time.”

  “Just the idea,” sniffed Miss Pickett, “would keep well-bred girls away from my academy.”

  “Well, if you’re being so dang fussy,” said Ike, “I guess I’ll just corral me a herd and sell them to the plant.”

  Milo said in an awed tone, “How do you go about catching a herd of whales, Mr. O’Rourke?”

  Ike winked. “It’s an old Eskimo trick, lad. They know lots of things up north they ain’t expected to know. They live good and they eat good … Why? Because they knows fish, they knows all about fish … I learned a lot, but I’ll never get the science of it like some of them old witch doctors.”

  “But where will you keep these whales after you’ve caught them?”

  “I got a nice cove right there on my property. I’ll sink some piles, string some cable across and there’ll be my pen. Then I’ll go out, lure me in ten or twelve whale, and all I got to do is wait, and maybe they’ll breed some young ’uns.”

  “Suppose they won’t cooperate?” suggested Celia mischievously.

  “Hah!” said Ike. “Don’t worry none about that, girl. I got what it takes to make ’em cooperate.”

  “Er, Mr. O’Rourke,” said Mr. Archer.

  “Yes sir?”

  “Won’t the whales starve? How will you feed them? I should imagine that the cove would soon be exhausted of fish.”

  “Whales don’t eat fish. They eats little floating stuff, and it don’t matter whether they swims for it or the tide brings it to ’em.”

  Miss Pickett snorted in disgust. “Whales! The very idea!”

  Coves said feebly, “I had no idea … I thought you were interested in fishing, Mr. O’Rourke.”

  “Well, whales is fish,” snapped Ike. He darted a bitter glance at Miss Pickett. “Mind you, I won’t allow any of your pesky gals a-comin’ over to ask silly questions, like how do I tell a mama from a papa, or why don’t whales eat seaweed!”

  “Your instructions are unnecessary,” snapped Miss Pickett. “My students will be forbidden to entertain even the idea.”

  “Come, come,” chided Mr. Ottenbright. “Ladies and gentlemen! I’m sure no one intends to be uncooperative in any way.”

  “Of course not,” said Mr. Archer.

  Coffee and dessert were served.

  “Have you decided on whether you’ll live out on the island, Mr. Archer?” inquired Miss Pickett.

  “It has occurred to me, Miss Pickett, that Bird Island, with its scenic beauties, is a subject that demands the recording eye of a camera. Perhaps I’ll establish a small studio and compile a portfolio of studies. During this time I’ll live out on the island.”

  Miss Pickett’s eye flicked past Milo as if he had been the bus boy. “And Mr. Ottenbright?”

  “Oh — our place will be just a week-end home, where we can come and rest once in a while.”

  Miss Pickett nodded, rested her eyes briefly on Ike O’Rourke, then turned a scathing glance on Coves.

  Coves avoided the gaze.

  After dinner Celia spoke to Milo in the lobby. “I can’t go with you tomorrow.”

  “Why not?”

  “Aunt Lydia is speaking at the Carmel Community Center tomorrow afternoon, and she wants me to drive her.”

  “Why doesn’t she drive herself?”

  “You’ll have to ask her.”

  Milo ran his fingers through his hair. “We could go in the morning and be back by noon.”

  She looked at him with a half-smile, and Milo wanted to lean forward and kiss her.

  “Are we actually going to look for treasure?”

  “Why not?”

  “But we don’t have any map, and we can’t dig up the whole beach.”

  “I can see you’ve a very practical mind.”

  “Somebody’s got to use their head. And you’re a poet.” Celia threw a glance over her shoulder. “Here comes Aunt Lydia. I don’t think she wants me to associate with you.”

  “Celia!” came a sharp voice.

  “See you tomorrow morning,” said Milo.

  Celia sat up with a jerk, brown curls tousled around her face. From the angular hulk of Miss Pickett came a groan. “What is it?” she asked hollowly.

  Celia leapt to the phone. “Hello?” she said in a guarded whisper.

  “Time to get up,” said Milo. “I’ll be waiting in the lobby.”

  “Who in the world is calling at this time of night?” rasped Miss Pickett.

  “Wrong number,” said Celia.

  Miss Pickett groaned once more, lapsed to the pillow.

  Celia went to her bed and sat shivering on the edge. What time was it? She peered through the window. Low at the horizon a vague glimmer of dawn had appeared.

  “That fool,” muttered Celia. “That fool …” Cautiously she gathered up her clothes and crept into the bathroom. She doused her face with cold water, brushed her teeth, combed her hair, dressed in blue jeans, a white blouse, a green pull-over. Quietly she left the bathroom.

  “Celia,” said a very wide-awake voice, “just what are you doing?”

  Celia put her hand on the doorknob. “Taking a walk, Auntie. You go back to sleep.” She passed out the door.

  Celia fled to the lobby, careless of the dressing-down she knew she would face later in the day. Milo was standing by the desk, talking with the night clerk.

  “Milo, you devil,” said Celia. “Let’s go before my aunt comes chasing down the stairs after me.”

  They raced out the big glass doors into the gray morning, turned down the street toward the harbor. The fog had vanished. The only sound was the slip-slap of waves against the sea wall and the scuff of their footsteps.

  As they hurried along, the pallid sky deepened to saffron and small chalky streaks of cloud took on the color of geranium petals. They descended the steps to the landing — “Oh hell,” said Milo, and his voice rang across the air.

  “What’s the trouble?”

  “Look,” said Milo. “That’s my boat out there at the mooring.”

  “How do we get out there?”

  Milo compressed his lips thoughtfully. “We’ll borrow one of these dinghies.”

  Celia looked at him sidelong. “No one has given us permission to use his boat.”

  “Come on!” He jumped down to the water’s edge, waved at her. “Here’s just the right boat for us.” He hauled a round-bottomed little dinghy into the landing.

  “I’m not coming,” said Celia, looking down at him. “I don’t want to be arrested.”

  Milo shrugged, bent over, untied the painter from the bow. He felt the boat lurch and when he looked up, Celia was settling herself in the stern.

  Milo cast off. He thought, If I hand her one of these paddles, from sheer contrariness she’ll refuse to touch it. Aloud he said, “You just sit still and enjoy the ride. I don’t want you to get your hands dirty.”

  Celia determinedly took up a paddle. “Nothing in the world could stop me from paddling.”

  Milo said nothing. Now the only sounds were the ripple of the bow, the drip-drip-drip from their paddles.

  They drew alongside Milo’s sloop, and Milo steadied the dinghy while Celia jumped aboard; then he followed. Ship the rudder, hoist the sail, drop the mooring. The sail pulled, the boat swung easily. They towed the dinghy back to the landing, then came about, set sail for Bird Island.

  They were quiet a while, with the water surging and bubbling at the bow and the wake pulling up astern. Celia laughed in sheer exhilaration.

  “This is wonderful, Milo … I’m glad you did get me up in the middle of the night. Even if I was mad at the time. And what if we actually do find the treasure!”

  Milo nodded. “It’s probably gold. Doubloons, louis d’or, crowns, pieces of eight. Treasure usually is gold.”

  Celia said, “Bootleggers wouldn’t bury pieces of eight … I’d prefer jewels, anyway.”

  Bird Island drew nearer.

  The boat slid alongside Miss Pickett’s dock. Milo let the halyard go and the sails rattled down the mast. Celia jumped to the dock and Milo tossed her a line which she made fast.

  “We must be alone on the island,” said Milo, joining her on the dock. “The academy and the hotel are both closed down and nobody’s around, except for maybe a caretaker or two.”

  “So much the better,” said Celia. “I hate crowds … Where do we look first?”

  “Let’s go up to where I’m building my house,” said Milo. “We’ll get our bearings from there.”

  They set out up the hill and the dawn became sunrise, and the sun came up into the world bit by bit, the same way it had sunk the night before, and the golden light shone on their backs as they scrambled up the rocks.

  “Here we are,” panted Milo. “Look at the Pacific out there …”

  “It’s beautiful,” gasped Celia, sitting on a stone and pushing her dark curls back. “Is this where you’re going to build?”

  “Right here on this very spot.”

  Celia looked down the slope of the hill, across the bay to the mainland. “Won’t it be expensive bringing all the material up here?”

  “We’ve got that angle licked,” said Milo. “The contractor will prefabricate everything possible at his yard and fly it out.”

  She turned her head to look at him. “Fly it out?”

  “Helicopter,” said Milo. “Freight-carrying helicopter. We’ll bring the whole house out in a day. Of course I’m planning to use a lot of this native rock —” He stopped short.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Celia.

  “Look,” said Milo. “Down there on Coves’ beach.”

  A man was walking slowly along the long white strand, casting a gaunt shadow in the low glare of the sunlight. His eyes were on the sand at the tidemark; he appeared to be searching for something. He stooped, picked up an object which glittered briefly, thrust it into a pouch he carried on his shoulder.

  “It’s Mr. Archer,” whispered Celia. “What on earth is he doing?”

  “I don’t know,” said Milo.

  “Let’s go down and find out.”

  They ran down the hill to the beach, jumped out on the crisp sand. Something glittered at Celia’s feet. She picked it up. It was a small bottle, tightly capped. Inside was a bit of paper with the number “82” plainly visible.

  Mr. Archer had seen them, and was coming across the sand, a curious expression on his face.

  “Good morning,” said Milo. “What brings you out this time of day?”

  “Early-morning constitutional, Mr. Green … Good morning, Miss Marlowe.”

  “What are you looking for?” Celia asked. “These glass bottles?” She displayed the one she had picked up.

  Archer’s face flickered. His mustache twitched, his cheek muscles quivered. “Well, I haven’t been exactly looking for them,” he said. “I’ve been picking up odds and ends — among them one or two of those bottles. I guess I’m a magpie at heart.”

  “Almost anything looks interesting on a beach,” said Milo. “Coves told me he gets the flotsam and jetsam of half the Pacific on his beach.”

  Celia examined the bottle. “I wonder what the number means.”

  Archer’s eyes fixed on the bottle. He put out his hand, but Celia appeared not to notice it. He turned away.

  “Milo,” said Celia, “let’s look for some more.” She gazed along the sand.

  Archer said, “I noticed something very interesting up the beach. A tremendous sea anemone. Purple and red, magnificent! Like a tiger lily. It’s worth looking at. I wish I had brought my camera.”

  “They’re dangerous,” said Celia. “They’ll sting you.”

  Archer watched the slim figure in blue jeans wandering up the beach. She bent, picked up another bottle, put it in her pocket. Mr. Archer breathed deeply.

  “Might as well join the fun,” he said and started up the beach after her.

  Milo squinted after him thoughtfully. “Oh, Mr. Archer!”

  Archer paused, turned his head. “What?”

  “Have you seen anyone else on the island this morning?”

  Archer turned all the way around. “What’s that?”

  “We thought we saw someone up on top of the hill,” said Milo soberly. “Whoever it was didn’t want anyone to see him.”

  Archer put his hand up to his face and glanced up the hillside. The shadows were dark under the wind-anguished cypress. Great rocks loomed and lowered.

  “I haven’t seen anyone,” he said.

  “It might have been a shadow, or a sheep,” said Milo.

  Archer nodded with his old assurance. “I rather doubt if anyone else is abroad so early. Only a few of us enjoy these morning hours.” He glanced toward Celia, who was bending again — and again. She was far up the beach.

  “I think I’ll be getting back,” said Mr. Archer. “Good morning, Mr. Green.”

  “See you later.”

  Milo watched the spare figure striding toward Coves’ dock, then turned and jogged down the beach toward Celia.

  “Look, Milo,” she said. “Six bottles. All numbered. Fourteen — eighty-seven — sixty-three — twenty-nine — twenty-two — and eighty-two.”

  “They evidently came in on the tide.”

  “But who’d put numbers in bottles in the first place?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  The sun shone fair and the ocean glittered. Celia, looking out to sea, said, “Milo?”

  “What?”

  “Let’s not look for treasure today. Let’s go back to your boat and sail out, way out into the ocean. It looks so peaceful and wide and sunny out there.”

  “Suits me,” said Milo.

  Surveyors squinted through transits, shouted, waved their arms. Chain-men plodded up and down hill, thumped stakes into the damp black earth. Bulldozers rooted into the crackling gorse, and mounds of ocher clay remained when they had gone. Carpenters strung lines; laborers dug trenches. Foundations were poured, joists placed, subfloors nailed, walls raised, sheathing laid on. Then rafters and roofs, and new houses existed on Bird Island.

  Milo’s house was low, flat-roofed, with walls of redwood and native stone, and unless one looked closely, it seemed a part of the crag, so low was its outline. Archer’s house was a plain white cottage, while the Ottenbrights had erected a pretentious ultra-contemporary beach house, with a wide flagged patio, big brick boxes planted with azaleas and begonias.

  The old Bird Island Hotel was lost in the new construction. Wings sprouted off at either side and the old steep-gabled roof now spread out in a modern silhouette. The creaking veranda had given way to a broad terrace running the length of the hotel, and a lavish bar opened off the lobby. For the terrace, Coves had bought two dozen wrought-iron and glass tables with chairs to match and two-dozen sun umbrellas in carnival colors. A tennis court and swimming pool occupied the meadow behind the hotel, and three new broad-beamed sailboats were tied to the dock for the convenience of nautically minded guests.