The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK™: 23 Classic Mystery Stories

I took my gaze from her and looked ahead again. “If you don’t get rid of him, how are we going to marry?”

“Oh, I intend to get rid of him,” she said softly.

“By paying him off?”

“There’s a much simpler way, Dan. Who would suspect anything if a brand-new groom fell overboard and was lost at sea on his honeymoon? The wife might be suspected after a ten-year marriage or even after a year — but not after just a week. Dan.”

A sudden chill doused the warmth I still felt from having her in my arms. “Murder?” I said shakily.

“There wouldn’t be a chance of suspicion. Who could suspect a love triangle when I’m on my honeymoon and you and I have only known each other a few days? It’s even incredible to me that we’re in love. How could the thought ever enter the heads of the police?”

The logic of what she said was penetrating my mind even as I was rejecting the thought. Under the circumstances, who could possibly suspect? My throat was suddenly so dry I had to clear it.

“There would be some suspicion after we announced our marriage.”

“Why? No one knows you’re only a temporary employee. I’ll simply keep you on in some permanent capacity — say as my social secretary. I’m the only woman in my set who has never had one, and it’s about time I acquired one. You’ll show sympathy for my bereavement, and I’ll show appreciation for your sympathy. Gradually, your sympathy and my appreciation can ripen into love. It won’t be the first time a sympathetic male friend has ended up marrying a grieving widow. I think it would be safe at the end of as little as two months.”

Again her argument was so logical I had no answer, except that it takes more than mere certainty that you won’t be caught to condition your mind to murder.

“It has to be that way or not at all,” she said in a suddenly definite tone. “I’ll leave you to think it over.” She turned and left the pilothouse.

I was still thinking it over when it came time for the noon mess. By then, we were passing through Northwest Providence Channel. I had deliberately kept to the center of the channel, and land was barely visible on the horizon on both sides. The water was calm, with only a slight roll, and the sun was shining brightly. There wasn’t another vessel in sight.

Arden Trader had emerged from below in swim trunks about eleven o’clock, and both he and Peggy were lying on the inflated mats at the stern, deepening their already rich tans. I yelled for Trader to come take the wheel while I prepared mess. He rolled off his mat, leaned over Peggy, and gave her a long kiss. Jealousy raged through me so hotly I had to turn my back to get control of myself. When he came into the wheelhouse, it was an effort to keep my voice calm while I gave him his bearing.

The sight of his kissing Peggy had brought me to a decision. Peggy came into the galley only a moment after I got there and stood looking at me expressionlessly. “All right,” I said.

Her nostrils flared. “When?”

“Right now if you want.”

“How?”

“Why don’t you go out and suggest a swim before lunch? The water’s calm enough. I’ll do the rest.”

Without a word, she turned and left the galley. I waited a moment, then followed, pausing astern while she climbed to the pilothouse. A moment after she entered, Trader cut the engine, then they both emerged.

“Okay, Dan,” Peggy called. “You can throw out the sea anchor.”

I was already standing next to it. I tossed it over-board and let down the wooden-runged ladder strung with rope so that swimmers could more easily get back aboard ship. “Think I’ll have a dip with you,” I said. “I’ll put on my trunks.”

When I came back out on deck, Trader and Peggy were already in the water. Trader was floating on his back about four feet from the boat, his arms outstretched and his eyes closed. Peggy was treading water near the rope ladder. I motioned her aboard. Quietly, she climbed up on deck. Trader opened his eyes and looked up at her.

“Be right back, honey,” she said, and ran below.

Trader closed his eyes again.

It had been my intention to swim up behind him and give him a judo chop, but his outstretched position made him vulnerable to a safer form of attack. Taking a running jump, I launched myself feet first at his stomach, bringing my knees to my chest and snapping them straight again with terrific force just as I landed. The air whooshed out of him, and he was driven deeply under water in a doubled-up position.

I must have caught him in the solar plexus with one heel, temporarily paralyzing him, because when I reversed myself and dove after him to grab his shoulders and push him even deeper, he barely struggled. I forced him down and down until my own lungs were nearly bursting, then reversed again, got my feet against him, and gave a final shove which drove him deeper and shot me toward the surface.

I made it only a microsecond before I would have had to breathe in water myself. Starting under with no air in him, I was sure Trader couldn’t possibly survive. But when I recovered my breath and had climbed aboard, I crouched at the rail and studied the water for a good ten minutes just to make absolutely certain. Then I called Peggy from below.