Archer stood looking after him.

  “Just goes to show,” he muttered to himself, “you never can tell.” He shook his head. “Good Lord! Two-fifty, three-fifty a poem! Two, three, four a day! If he ever took a notion to go to work, he could pay for his place in a week.”

  Milo strode up the tiled walk of the Ottenbright beach house and rang the bell. The door was opened by a blonde young woman in a striking dress of phosphorescent green, vermilion, firefly blue. Milo blinked.

  “Good morning,” he said. “I was looking for Mr. or Mrs. Ottenbright.”

  “Jimmy,” called the blonde, “man here to see you.”

  From within came a hushed sound of protest, then Mr. Ottenbright appeared looking round and rosy in a yellow bathrobe.

  “Oh, it’s Mr. Green … glad to see you. We just got here. Mildred, this is Mr. Green from up on the hill. My stenographer, Mr. Green. We — ah, that is — there are a couple of very important briefs I have to get out and I came over here to work undisturbed.” Mr. Ottenbright’s slightly protuberant eyes rested on Milo’s face uneasily.

  “You say you just arrived?”

  “Why, yes,” said Mr. Ottenbright belligerently. “Don’t you believe me?”

  “Certainly, of course I do.” And Milo explained the nature of his visit.

  Mr. Ottenbright licked his lips. “No, Mr. Green, we — that is, I didn’t see anyone. As I said, we didn’t arrive till this morning.”

  Thanking Mr. Ottenbright for his help and nodding to the blonde, Milo departed.

  He found Ike tinkering with the motor in his launch, the sleeves of his underwear turned gingerly back over his wrists. Beyond Ike and the launch spread the surface of the lagoon, hummocked and swirled by the lazing, black-glinting whales.

  Milo’s footsteps aroused Ike. He sprang erect, leveled his shotgun, glared a long instant along the barrel; then he lowered the weapon and gave Milo a wave of the hand.

  “Hi there,” he called. “Glad to see you. I’ll tell the ol’ woman to put another plate on the table for lunch.”

  “No,” said Milo. “Thank you very much. I really stepped over for some — well, information.”

  “Information?” Ike was puzzled. “I don’t know much for certain. I know lots about whales. Look at ’em out there.”

  Together they surveyed the cove.

  “I went out, caught me six more last week. The buyer’s comin’ down in a few days, and I wouldn’t be surprised … Well, no use blowin’ my horn yet, I guess. But there’s a nice mess of whale, all full-grown and fat, too, except for a couple of calves — and that pore ol’ critter driftin’ around by hisself.”

  Ike’s wife came to the door of the shack. “Yoo-hoo,” she sang. “Irkham, dear, luncheon will be ready in ten minutes. Wash your hands now.”

  Ike snorted. “You hear that? Wants me to wash and polish and shine, clean my nails — why I ’spect the woman would tog me out like a dude if I’d give her half a chance! Me, I don’t pay no attention to her.”

  Milo looked at him closely. “That’s a new suit of underwear, isn’t it?”

  Ike glared at him.

  “Well — yes. She got me out o’ my good ol’ flannels that had lots o’ wear in ’em yet. I tell you, son, once a woman starts takin’ over, a man’s got no more chance than a — Well , I shouldn’t talk her down, I reckon. She’s a good cook, and smart with the dogs. I just wisht she’d get rid o’ them high-falutin’ notions.”

  “Yoo-hoo,” called the former Mrs. Sipe musically. “Did you hear me, Irkham, dear?”

  “Yes, I hear you!” barked Ike. “I’m a-comin’ pretty soon.” He turned to Milo. “Now what was it you was wantin’ to know?”

  “It’s like this,” said Milo. “Last night someone hit me over the head, and I’m trying to get to the bottom of it.”

  Ike scratched his chin, and his oily fingers left mottled streaks in his whiskers. “You think I done it, son?”

  Milo looked out across the cove. “No, not exactly. The truth is, I’m suspicious of anyone and everyone.”

  Ike shifted the quid in his cheek, spat to leeward through a gap in his whiskers. “Yeah. Do you mean you think I whacked you? Or you don’t? I can’t seem to figger it out.”

  Milo shook his head. “No. I’m pretty sure you’re innocent.” He remembered Mortimer Archer’s bottle of L’Odorant Prince.

  Ike looked suspiciously at him. “How come you’re so sartin sure? Maybe it was me.”

  “No.” Milo was more positive than ever as the wind took a sudden veer. “But still — were you home last evening?”

  “I was not!” snapped Ike. “I was out with ol’ Barber here.” He patted the stock of his shotgun. “A-scoutin’ for the varmint that’s been sneakin’ around the corral. An’ what’s more,” he added savagely, “I tangled with him.”

  Milo stood stiffly. “Tangled with him?”

  “Yup. I jumped him over yonder at the point. I didn’t get a chance for a shot, but I sure plugged him one in the eye before he took off.” Ike displayed a gnarled fist. “Yup, sure got him a juicy one.” He turned his gaze across the cove. “Next time,” he said reflectively, “maybe I’ll get a few shot in his hide.”

  The door to the cabin opened, and Mrs. O’Rourke emerged with a broom. Ike eyed her truculently, then with increasing trepidation. “Now looka here, woman —”

  “Get in to your lunch, you worthless old varmint!” cried Mrs. O’Rourke. “I love you to distraction,” she raised the broom threateningly, “but I can’t be blinded to your imperfections.”

  Ike broke into an awkward trot toward the house. Mrs. Winslow Denstrie Sipe O’Rourke bowed to Milo. “Good day, Mr. Green. Isn’t it lovely out?”

  Milo said yes, indeed it was.

  Chapter XIII

  Milo pushed open the lobby door and glanced around. Coves stood behind the desk listening to a man whom Milo recognized as Fougasse, Coves’ chef, and Coves’ face wore a harried expression. Milo took a seat.

  The life of the hotel flowed past and around him. The bellhop ran here and there with Martinis, highballs, old-fashioneds, an occasional brandy for the Reverend Dowbrett, from time to time a gin pahit for Mr. Craintree Bezemer, the explorer. Passionate words from the direction of the desk reached his ears: “… the ortolans? … blackguards, scoundrels …”

  At last Coves appeared to be free, and Milo approached the desk.

  “Why, good afternoon, Mr. Green,” said Coves.

  “Good afternoon,” said Milo. He cleared his throat, leaned forward. “Mr. Coves, offhand, have you noticed anything suspicious here at the hotel?”

  Coves’ mouth sagged. “What’s all this, Mr. Green?”

  Milo told his story. Coves listened and took the gravest view of the situation. “It’s unthinkable, Mr. Green!”

  “You,” suggested Milo casually, “were in bed last night between twelve and two?”

  “Why certainly, Mr. Green. I never left the hotel! You don’t think — you certainly wouldn’t suspect that —”

  A dark precise little man, Mr. Emmett Tharp, came up to the desk, asked for his mail.

  “Did you enjoy the movie in Monterey last night, Mr. Coves?” Mr. Tharp asked.

  Coves blushed poinsettia-red. “Why, indeed, yes,” he stammered. “Entertaining, very entertaining.”

  Mr. Tharp nodded and departed.

  “How strange,” blurted Coves to the silent Milo. “I utterly overlooked going ashore last night.”

  Milo said stonily, “Do you use L’Odorant Prince upon your person, Mr. Coves?”

  “Indeed not,” Coves assured him.

  Cecil Lissacutt approached the desk. “Mr. Coves, do you stock any toilet water besides Eau de Fou and Demoralizing? Seems to me there was some L’Odorant Prince in the case the other day.”

  “Oh, that! L’Odorant Prince! I thought you said — I thought … No, Mr. Lissacutt, nothing else.”

  Milo left the hotel, crossed the saddle which separated Coves’ meadow from that of Miss Pickett. He strode up the gravel walk, entered the academy like a man venturing into a haunted cave.

  A girl in the somber academy uniform passed him in the hall, looked back curiously over her shoulder.

  “Where can I find Miss Marlowe?” inquired Milo.

  “She’s in the office,” said the girl, pointing the door out to him.

  “Thank you.” Milo crossed the hall, knocked.

  “Come in,” said a voice. “Oh,” said Celia, “Milo.” She rose to her feet. “What are you doing here? Aunt Lydia will skin you alive if she catches you.”

  “Celia,” said Milo sternly, “what were you doing at midnight last night?”

  “Why,” said the nonplussed Celia, “I was in bed.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “Just what do you mean, Milo Green?”

  “I got hit on the head last night, and I’m checking alibis of everyone on the island.”

  Her mouth fell open. “Do you think I hit you on the head?”

  “No, I don’t,” said Milo. “But I wanted to be systematic.”

  “Systematic? You’re batty as a bedbug.” She laughed. “Who have you — investigated so far?”

  “Mr. Archer, Mr. Ottenbright, Ike O’Rourke, Coves — and now you and Miss Pickett.”

  “I suppose everyone has alibis but us?”

  “No,” said Milo. “No one has. And everybody seems to have seen the man that hit me. He gave Archer a black eye, and Ike O’Rourke gave him a black eye.”

  “Milo,” said Celia, “you’re an idiot. You probably jibbed your boat, and the boom hit you.”

  “I was on the dock.”

  “What did you go ashore for in the first place? And who were you boozing with?”

  “I went ashore to get my mail,” said Milo with quiet dignity. “And I merely had a beer or two with a friend.”

  “Hm. The post office closes at six, you reel home at two A.M. How you must have nursed those two beers.”

  “The wind died on me,” said Milo.

  Celia reached out and patted his cheek. “How’s the writing coming, Milo?”

  “Fairly well.”

  “Is it the same thing you were telling me about?”

  “No,” said Milo. “I’ve decided to publish a monthly magazine —”

  Celia stood back, put her hands on her hips. “Oh, Milo, why don’t you try something else besides writing? You’ll never pay for your house the way you’re going about it. There are other ways to make money, you know.”

  “How?” Milo asked sullenly.

  “Well — there’s farming.”

  He snorted. “Where could I farm? There’s nothing but hills on my section.”

  “They grow rice on hills. In Siam and China and the Philippine Islands. I’ve seen pictures. They build a lot of terraces and then flood the ground and plant rice. Or you could plant ginseng. There’s all kinds of money in that.”

  Milo gaped at her. “Ginseng? What’s that?”

  “I saw an advertisement just yesterday in a magazine. It says you can make five thousand dollars an acre. I think it’s the roots that are valuable. Wait, I’ll get you the magazine.”

  She returned a minute later and thumbed through the magazine till she found the advertisement. It read:

  GROW GINSENG ROOT! ! !

  MAKE $5,000 AN ACRE PLANTED WITH OUR SEED!!!

  This medicinally valuable herb grows anywhere.

  WE BUY YOUR CROP! ! !

  One dollar brings you seed for an entire acre.

  ACT TODAY! ! !

  The illustration depicted a large man in a straw hat and overalls, a ranch house in the background.

  “Here,” said Celia, “we’ll send for some seed right away.” She tore out the advertisement, pasted it on a card, and wrote Milo’s address at the bottom.

  “I haven’t a dollar with me,” said Milo.

  “I’ll lend you a dollar,” said Celia, “and we’ll send the letter air-mail special delivery. Now you go home and start digging up an acre of ground.”

  Milo seized her hands. “Celia.”

  “Yes, Milo?”

  “I love you.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes. Can’t we go somewhere more secluded? There’s a prickly feeling at my shoulder blades — almost as if your aunt were staring at my neck.”

  “She is,” came a voice over his shoulder. Milo leapt about to face Miss Pickett.

  “What is your business here, Mr. Green? You must know you’re not welcome.”

  “Exactly,” said Milo coldly. “I merely wish to inquire: Did you hit me with a stick last night? Over the head, a stick about two feet long, fairly hard wood?”

  “I did not. Is that all you wish?”

  “That’s all — except that maybe it’s my duty to warn you that someone on this island will do the wildest deed that comes to his mind — apparently from sheer viciousness. He might even set fire to the academy!”

  Miss Pickett’s jaw dropped. “Have you any proof of this?”

  “The proof,” said Milo, “resides in a scar on my scalp and in Mr. Archer’s black eye — both resulting from blows received on Bird Island. You, Miss Pickett, may be next.”

  She gasped, clutched her neck with a gaunt, long-fingered hand. “Do you actually believe —”

  “I do,” said Milo. “The man — if it is a man — will stop at nothing.”

  “But what can we do?” quavered Miss Pickett.

  Milo cleared his throat. “I’ll look in once in a while, to see if you’re all right.”

  “Oh, Mr. Green, that would be so gracious of you,” said Miss Pickett. “I wonder if we should call in the police?”

  Milo shrugged. “How would that help? When the constable is at hand, the criminal lies low. When the coast is clear, he’s here and there, slugging people, prowling, lurking …”

  “Oh, dear!” exclaimed Miss Pickett.

  “Well,” said Milo, “I’ll be running along.”

  “I’ll walk with you a little way,” said Celia, slipping from behind the desk.

  Miss Pickett stiffened. “Celia.”

  Celia slunk back behind the desk. “I guess I’d better finish this chart.”

  Milo took a diffident leave, turning his back on Miss Pickett with reluctance.

  The packet of ginseng seed arrived. Milo pawed through the parcel for planting directions, without result. So he strewed the seed in rows down the acre of soil he had turned, tamped the dirt firmly, watered the acre well, and went indoors to wait developments.

  $5,000 an acre — did that mean $5,000 per acre per year? If so, thought Milo, it might be wise to plant a few more acres. He wondered why the retailers bothered with selling seed; surely there would be greater profits if they planted the seed themselves?

  The doorbell rang. He glanced at his watch — 10:00 P.M.

  Two furtive figures stood outside in the dark.

  “Yes? What is it?”

  The figures came forward, and Milo relaxed when he saw Coves. The other man was Mr. Turk, the house detective at the hotel.

  “We’re sorry to disturb you, Mr. Green,” said Coves, glancing back over his shoulder into the windy darkness. “But Mr. Turk was making his rounds outside the hotel and saw a dark figure. When he approached, the figure fled — Mr. Turk thinks in this direction. We were wondering …” He left the sentence dangling.

  “No,” said Milo. “I’ve seen no one. But then I’ve been in my study all evening.” He snapped his fingers. “It must be the same fellow that slugged me. Just a moment, I’ll put on a sweater and come with you.”

  He ran to a cabinet, pulled a dark blue sweater over his head, returned to the two silent figures at the door.

  Milo closed the door behind, and the three started down the road, feeling their way through the night — for a high fog held back the starlight. A wind off the ocean blew dampness into their faces, bit their necks and hands. As their eyes became accustomed to the dark, the ridge and central heights loomed solid black on the near-black of the sky. The sea was lost entirely.

  Milo led the way down his road as far as he had graded.

  “He’s probably got away now,” Coves muttered hoarsely. “There’s no use running around catching our death of cold —”

  “Hark!” hissed Mr. Turk. They all heard a rock rattling down the side of the hill, about a hundred feet ahead of them.

  “Let’s separate,” said Milo. “Surround him.”

  “Right!” said Mr. Turk. “Mr. Coves, you wait here; Mr. Green, you work down to the right; I’ll take the left. When I whistle, we close in.”

  Coves found himself alone.

  Solitary in the windy night, black sky above him, black ground below, nothingness to either side. He wished he hadn’t come on this expedition; he turned his back into the wind and stood huddled, waiting for sight or sound.

  A shrill whistle from below cut the blackness. The figure crouched, scuttled toward Coves.

  “Halt!” cried Coves in a reedy voice. The figure halted, seemed to crouch, then scurried back down the hill.

  The retreat released a barbaric flood inside Coves, filled him with a heady exaltation. He sprang forward, yelled “Halt!” again, in a far more assured voice.

  “Hah!” he heard Mr. Turk bellow. “No you don’t! I’ve got you!”

  Coves ignited his cigarette lighter. The three of them bent, and looked upon a pallid youth of seventeen or so, wearing a red sweater with a white S.

  “Umph,” cried Mr. Turk. “Stanford, eh? What are you doing, sneaking around in the dark?”

  “Yes,” echoed Coves, “just what are you up to, you young scoundrel?”

  “I haven’t done nothing,” protested the youth. “Leave me alone!”

  “What’s in that bag?” asked Milo suddenly. He stooped, picked up a paper sack. The captive gave a plaintive cry. “Hey, don’t! Don’t mix ’em up! I’ve got thirteen varieties; I only need two more —”

  “Thirteen varieties of what?” threatened Mr. Turk.

  “Bird manure,” said the youth abjectly.

  “Bird manure! What do you want with thirteen different kinds of bird manure?”

  “Fifteen different kinds,” said the youth. “Then I get initiated into Tri-Omicron fraternity. Now lemme up, I ain’t no criminal.”