Slack Tide

by George Harmon Coxe

  She could have borrowed a pair of slacks, belting the waistband tightly and turning up the cuffs. She could have taken a jacket and turned up the sleeves. She could have borrowed a shirt from the chest and he would never miss it.

  Money?

  How could he tell? Cash that had been taken in from the dock was locked in the desk downstairs. And his wallet was still in his pocket.

  “She must be nuts,” he said half aloud, and with those words remembered thoughts came back to him.

  She had been locked in a shlittered room for over two weeks. According to Kingsley, she had escaped from that room by slugging Harry Danaher. And Danaher was a pretty rugged character. How could she have slugged him? With what?

  The thought of the girl creeping stealthily down the back stairs while he was sleeping in the office shocked him strangely because he had trusted her, had taken her story at face value. What was she trying to prove? Where was she now? Out on the highway trying to thumb a ride? Hiding in one of the cruisers that lay empty in their slips?

  The sound of a car pulling to a stop in the parking-place below put an end to his speculations. Understanding that there were no answers for him here, he turned out the light and left the room….

  The car MacLaren had heard proved to be an ambulance. Its rear door stood open, and the driver and attendant were sitting on the stringpiece having a cigarette when he came out on the dock. They were, it seemed, waiting for the medical examiner, and presently he came. Not wasting much time on the floating dock, he took a quick look at the body and then ordered it carried to the main dock. MacLaren asked if floodlights would help and the doctor said yes. The glare that came when he flipped the switch seemed to make things worse for him, but it gave him a chance to get a good look at the two men who came a few minutes later.

  One was a county detective by the name of Lunt, a compact, round-bellied man who might have been in his middle forties. MacLaren had never met him and did not know exactly what his job was. It was only later that he discovered that he was the state’s attorney’s man and as such had rather important duties in cases of this kind. The other officer was Lieutenant Terry of the state police. Attached to special services, he was a tall, thick-haired man who wore dark-rimmed glasses. MacLaren asked if they would like to use his office and Terry said no, that this was all right here, and what exactly did MacLaren know about this.

  MacLaren said: “Ed found him.” And then he waited while Chaney repeated the story he had already heard.

  MacLaren filled in the rest of it, but he made no mention of the girl or his earlier light with Kingsley. He still did not believe that either of them had anything to do with the man’s death. He knew that in the end he would probably have to tell the truth, but he wanted to find out what the medical examiner had to say before he offered any information about the incident. He was aware that he might later be charged with complicity. But he did not see how this could change anything. For all he knew, Kingsley might have suffered a heart attack and drowned. If so, it might be said that the light induced this condition. If this was true, there was nothing MacLaren could do about it, nor could he see how he had much to lose by remaining silent.

  “We might have a look at that dinghy, Sergeant,” Terry said. “Do you think you could bring it in?”

  Wyre turned to MacLaren. “Okay to use your skiff, Mac?”

  “I’ll get it if you like,” MacLaren said.

  “All right,” Wyre said. “I’ll go with you.”

  MacLaren removed the plastic cover from the outboard and Wyre pushed off. The motor caught at once and it took them no more than two or three minutes to tow the Kingsley dinghy back to the dock. Lunt and Terry spent perhaps five minutes going over it with flashlights, and by the time they had finished the medical examiner was ready. He signaled to the ambulance men, and as the body was lifted to the stretcher, he turned to the officers.

  “What do you say, Doc?” Lunt asked.

  “Not much.”

  “Any signs of violence?”

  “He suffered a blow on the back of the head,” the doctor said. “I have an idea it might have been severe. How severe we won’t know until we do the p.m.”

  “Could he have drowned?” Terry asked.

  “Could have.”

  “When will you know?”

  The doctor shrugged expressively. “Well, you know we don’t do post mortems around here. We’ll have to ship him up to Capitol City and they’re likely to be pretty busy.”

  “Well, when?” Lunt said.

  “If you’re lucky, the day after tomorrow.” The doctor put on his hat. “But I wouldn’t count on it.”

  MacLaren had watched all this silently, vaguely aware that he felt cold and stiff and sick at heart, but thinking mostly of the things he knew and of the girl who had crept out into the night. He watched the doctor drive off, and then the ambulance, and now Lieutenant Terry was telling Ed Chaney that he would have to make a statement for the coroner and the state’s attorney in the morning but that for now he could go home.

  When Chaney pushed off in his skiff, Terry drew Wyre to one side and spoke softly. Wyre nodded and said: “Yes, sir,” and headed for his car. Then Terry and Lunt came over to MacLaren.

  “We’re going over to the island and break the news,” Lunt said. “If you want to ferry us across you can sit in.”

  MacLaren said he’d be glad to ferry them over. He said he could introduce them if they wanted him to.

  5

  THE FRONT ROOM of the island house was an oasis of light. The hall door stood open, and when Terry knocked on the screen, someone yelled: “Come in.” At a silent gesture from Terry, MacLaren led the advance upon the room.

  There were five people here, four round a bridge table—two men and two women—and the fifth in a corner chair. A near-by coffee table was littered with bottles, glasses, and an ice bucket, and beside the man in the chair were three beer bottles, two of them empty and one nearly so. The sight of the trio suspended the bridge game, and while MacLaren made the introductions he counted the roll.

  Neil Ackerman, looking as elegant as ever with his fawn-colored slacks and blue blazer, was dummy. His partner was Carla Lewis, a striking-looking brunette in a sweater and skirt who, from what MacLaren had been able to gather, served as Kingsley’s secretary and girl-Friday. The truculent-faced youth with the butch cut was an artist named Earl Harwell—though MacLaren did not understand his position in the household—and the other woman was the willowy blonde who had arrived that afternoon. Over in the corner with the beer bottles was Harry Danaher.

  Ackerman was the first to recover his surprise when MacLaren had concluded his introductions. “You’re from the police?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Ackerman,” Terry said.

  “And is this an official visit?” he continued with a smile that looked forced.

  “It is.”

  Lunt, who had been looking the room over carefully, said: “Are you people all Mr. Kingsley’s guests?”

  Carla Lewis smiled. “Hardly. You might call us his entourage. We work for him—all except Lucille.” She indicated the blonde.

  “In what capacity?” said Lunt, in a tone that suggested he found the statement a little hard to believe.

  “I skipper his cruiser,” Danaher said.

  “And I am his personal lawyer,” Ackerman said.

  “What do you mean, personal lawyer?”

  Ackerman tipped one hand. “He has a firm in New York that takes care of most of his business affairs, but there are times when—”

  “I remember one,” Terry said dryly. “Last summer in Saybrook he slapped some guy around and we threw him in the can. You bailed him out, as I remember. The guy lost a couple of teeth, but you got to him in the morning with some grease and he dropped the complaint. Is that right?”

  “Approximately.”

  “And you, Miss Lewis?” Lunt said.

  Carla Lewis was about MacLaren’s age, neither tall nor bulky, but deep br
easted and strongly made, a black-haired woman with dark eyes and a smooth sun-tanned skin. Now she smiled at Lunt, and it was a very nice smile, and her voice when she spoke was low pitched, with a throaty quality that was both pleasant and intriguing.

  “I’m the odd-job girl,” she said. “I’m very versatile—secretary, companion, nurse, hostess, mistress of ceremonies.”

  “And you?” Lunt looked at Harwell.

  “I’m an artist.”

  “But you work for Kingsley?”

  “He subsidizes me.”

  MacLaren, who had glanced at Ackerman, saw a gradual darkening of the thin face. Until now the lawyer had contained himself with admirable restraint, but apparently he had had enough.

  “Why all the questions?” he demanded. “You’re police officers and you didn’t come here on a social visit, so what do you want?”

  “Bear with us a little longer,” Lunt said. “Let me ask you a couple more questions. What time did Kingsley leave here tonight?”

  “Oh—around nine.” Carla glanced round for collaboration. “Maybe a little before. We’ve been waiting for him ever since. That’s why we’re all up.”

  “Where was he going?”

  “He went off in the dinghy. You saw him, Harry.”

  “I heard the motor,” Danaher said by way of correction.

  “I mean what was he going for?” Lunt said. “Just a trip or an errand or—”

  He let the sentence hang, and MacLaren, knowing why Kingsley had left, understood that they were lying and saw the confused embarrassment in their faces. It also seemed that they must have known about Ruth Kingsley.

  “I still want to know what you’re driving at,” Ackerman said with some annoyance. “Is he in some trouble?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, my God!” Ackerman sighed and stood up. Then, because he was used to such problems and knew how to deal with them, he added: “Where are you holding him?”

  “And what about Ruth?” Carla said.

  The two officers eyed her with interest. “Who’s Ruth?”

  “His wife. That’s why—I mean she ran away and we all thought Oliver went after her. Harry heard the motor and—”

  “We’ll get back to Ruth in a minute,” Lunt said. “I doubt if you’re going to be any help to him this time,” he added to Ackerman.

  “Why the hell not?”

  “He’s dead. Pulled out of the river by a fisherman less than an hour ago.”

  MacLaren watched the others as Lunt and Terry told the story. They worked very well together, speaking succinctly and without embellishment, one taking up the narration as soon as the other paused. He saw the surprise and consternation on the faces of the others and knew it was the obvious reaction under the circumstances. But there was nothing to indicate that any one of them was any more surprised or disturbed or shocked than anyone else. He heard someone say: “My God,” and someone else: “I don’t believe it,” but the rest was just a wordless murmur of their reactions as the statement made itself felt.

  Through all of this Harry Danaher had not moved. Now, as Lunt finished, he sat up, his eyes busy, his flat voice cadenced with the accents of the city.

  “You think he was slugged first?”

  “We don’t know,” Lunt said, “and the medical examiner isn’t saying. At least not yet.” He paused to look them over again. “Now what’s this about Mrs. Kingsley? How come she ran away?”

  MacLaren watched them exchange glances, and in some silent way they decided that Ackerman was to be the spokesman.

  “It’s sort of a long story,” he said without embarrassment. “Kingsley’s third wife worked out no better than his other two. It was his opinion that a recent breakdown had unbalanced Ruth. He intended to divorce her, but he was also afraid he might have to have her committed to some sanitarium. He thought if he kept her quiet here for a while that it might not be necessary.”

  “Did he call the doctor?”

  “In New York, yes. Not here.”

  “So what did he do?”

  “He kept her locked upstairs in a corner bedroom.”

  Lunt started to speak and then stopped, his gaze incredulous as he looked at Ackerman and then back at Terry. The lieutenant reacted in kind. His face was grim and his mouth tightened as he glanced from one to the other in the room. He took his time about it, and when he spoke, his disgust was apparent in his voice.

  “Locked her up, hunh?” he said. “Just like that. For how long?”

  “Since we brought her here,” Danaher said.

  “Who’s we?”

  “Kingsley, Carla, and me,” Danaher said, and MacLaren, remembering what Sam Willis had told him, realized this must be true.

  “And how long was that?” Terry asked, persisting.

  “Two weeks ago Monday, I guess it was,” Danaher said.

  “Locked up, hunh?” Lunt said. “Twenty-four hours a day?” His inflection made this a question but he did not expect an answer and he said, his voice accusing: “You all knew it and yet—”

  “I didn’t.” Lucille Baron stood up and stuck her chest out, such as it was. In the lamplight her hair was a questionable shade, and her voice was as haughty as her manner. “I was engaged to him.” She thrust out a hand and MacLaren could see the sparkle of an oversized diamond from where he stood. “He told me his wife had gone to Reno. We were going to be married, and I came up here for the weekend because I believed him, and all the time his wife was here and I—” She splittered to a stop in her indignation, and took a breath. “If I could have gotten a train out of here tonight, I would have taken it.”

  Lunt accepted the explanation without comment and continued to the others: “Locked up ever since you’ve been here,” he said, still disgusted, “and that was okay with you. You didn’t even feel sorry for her.”

  “Certainly we felt sorry for her,” Carla said.

  “But not very.”

  “I did,” Harwell said. “I tried to talk to Oliver but—”

  Danaher cut him off. “It didn’t do much good to argue with Mr. Kingsley,” he said bluntly. “What he said you did—if you wanted to stay…. I was the warden,” he added. “The keeper of the keys.”

  Lunt eyed him coldly. “Didn’t she try to get out?”

  “She tried hammering the door for a while,” Danaher said. “She kicked out the glass in the bathroom window, but when she found the shutters were barred, she quit.”

  Ackerman cleared his throat. “I doubt if a court would hold that there was anything unlawful about it. Mr. Kingsley didn’t abuse her—physically, that is. In fact, he seldom went into her room.” He shrugged. “As Harry says, when you worked for Mr. Kingsley you didn’t argue with him.”

  “Just kept her locked up,” Terry said. “How’d she get out?”

  “She slugged me,” Danaher said. “There’s one of those old brass beds up there with knobs on the four posts. She unscrewed one of those knobs, slipped it inside a pillow, and took a swing at me when I went to get her dinner tray.”

  “Good for her,” Lunt said.

  As he hesitated, Carla Lewis rose and went to the coffee table to fix a fresh highball. She looked at the two officers. “Could I get you something? … What about you, Donald?” she asked when they shook their heads.

  “If you please,” MacLaren said, deciding he could use one. “Bourbon, if you have it.”

  Carla made the drink with practiced efficiency. She handed it to MacLaren, and he took a long pull on it before he sat down. Carla went back to her seat at the bridge table and lit a cigarette. Meanwhile, at some silent signal which had passed between them, Lunt and Terry withdrew to the doorway, and now their heads were together as they discussed some problem known only to them. They spoke in low tones, the words inaudible, and except for this the room was strangely quiet.

  Danaher remained in the corner, his squarish, weathered face expressionless as he poured the last of the beer into his glass. Harwell had leaned back in his bridge chair, his a
rms folded and his gaze fixed on some point halfway up the opposite wall. Lucille’s pretty face was set and her red mouth was tight, so that she had the look of a woman who had recently been jilted and was determined to keep her thoughts and emotions under control no matter what the cost. Only Ackerman seemed at ease. He had turned in the chair, his knees crossed. A cigarette dangled from one corner of his mouth and his head was tipped to keep the smoke from irritating his eyes. His attention seemed centered on the two officers and presently the huddle broke up. When they came to confront their audience once more, Terry was the spokesman.

  “We’re going to need complete statements from all of you in the morning,” he said. “Well probably want you to come down to the state-police barracks, and we can furnish the transportation if you need it. I guess that’s all for now,” he said. “You can go to your rooms if you like—all except you, Mr. Danaher. There are a couple of points we’d like to go over with you again.”

  The announcement had the same effect as that of a teacher telling a class it was dismissed. Chairs scraped and the bridge-players rose in a body. Each one seemed to be making an effort not to look at anyone else, and the blonde Lucille led the parade to the stairs.

  Danaher drained the last of his beer from the glass and put it down, watching with mild interest as Terry and Lunt approached. Lunt swung one of the bridge chairs around and sat down. Terry remained standing, and MacLaren stretched his legs out and sipped idly at his highball while he got ready to listen.

  This time when Lunt began his questioning, he omitted the Mr., as though he understood that such deference was no longer called for. “How long have you been with him, Danaher?” he asked.

  “Since September.”

  “What did you do before that?”

  “Oh, this and that. Mostly around boats. Before that I was in the army.”