Slack Tide

by George Harmon Coxe

  He grinned and said: “Like in Florida. I slept aboard and got my own breakfast, using stuff that Kingsley had to pay for, but I didn’t have to eat lunch or dinner there. I could eat wherever I wanted to, so long as I was reasonable about it, and it all went on the tab which he paid. I brought the boat back last month—damn near froze too—and I’ve been getting room, board, smokes, all the liquor I can drink, plus that four hundred a month. Now, when Ackerman settles the estate and sells the boat—which he probably will—I’m out of a job.”

  None of this seemed to add up to a motive so MacLaren said: “Did Kingsley give you any trouble?”

  “No,” said Danaher, “and I’ll tell you why. The guys he used to jump were mostly cream puffs he found in nightclub bars. He knew if he slugged me I’d slug back.”

  “I heard it a little differently,” MacLaren said.

  “Yeah?” Danaher’s brows climbed. “In what way?”

  “I heard it was that way in the beginning but that since Florida you’d been more polite to the boss. You did just what he said and always came up with that ‘yes sir’ when he spoke to you.”

  Danaher’s gaze narrowed slightly, but there was little resentment in his tone when he replied. “You must have been talking to Carla.”

  “Why Carla?”

  “Because she hates my guts. But at that, I’ve got to admit you have a point. I got in a little trouble in Florida,” he said. “A traffic case. Kingsley squared it. He did me a hell of a favor and we both knew it. He wanted a little something for the favor, like he always did, so I was polite. He still didn’t push me around too hard, but he was the boss. I didn’t want to get fired, and I didn’t want to quit. I liked that four hundred a month and it was piling up for me. I guess I told you why I want it.”

  “So you can buy a charter boat.”

  “Right. I already got it picked out. I got sort of an option on it. Fifteen grand and it’s all mine, and it don’t have to be all cash either. I think half down will swing it.”

  He sat up and swung his feet to the deck as interest kindled in his eyes and he warmed to this subject which was dearest to his heart.

  “A forty footer,” he said. “Only nine years old and boy, she’s got everything. A heavy transom, plenty of beam, twin Chryslers, a pulpit, and a flying bridge. Ship-to-shore, duplicate steering and engine controls, and a Sonar depth indicator. With that and a good mate,” he said, “I’m in business for good. With things the way they are now I figure to stay in Florida all year round. And with that kind of a boat it’ll be a cinch to get over to Bimini and Cat Cay whenever I get a party that has time and the dough for that sort of thing.”

  He seemed about to expand his subject still more when his glance slid beyond MacLaren and fastened there. With that he came to his feet, and MacLaren turned to find Ruth Kingsley heading their way, a small suitcase in her hand.

  “I can take her over,” he said to Danaher, and then he jumped down to the beach and was moving forward to take the bag. Danaher watched them go.

  By the time MacLaren had tied up at the floating dock he was ready to speak of a thought that had been fermenting slowly in the back of his mind. He approached the idea obliquely by asking if she was still going to have dinner with him.

  “Of course.”

  “But we don’t have to eat at the Inn, do we?”

  “No, but—”

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said when she hesitated. “Do you have a key to your town house?”

  “Why, yes.”

  His next question was the important one and it was not based entirely on hope. There had to be a good reason for Carla Lewis’s hurried trip to the city that afternoon, and the keys he had found in her bag were still in his pocket. He could only think of two logical places where she had gone. One was a bank; the other was the Kingsley house and the safe Ackerman had mentioned the night before.

  “Your husband had a safe in the town house, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you happen to know the combination?”

  “I think so. Unless he changed it during the last month or so.”

  “Then you had access to it whenever you wanted to open it?”

  “No. I could open the outer door, but he was the only one who had the keys to the inner compartment.” The green eyes were frowning now, as though she did not understand why the subject was so important to him. “It was a very special compartment,” she said. “It took two keys to open it—”

  “Like a safe deposit box?” MacLaren prompted.

  “Exactly. When we were first married and he wanted something out of it, he would ask me to open the combination lock, and then he would use the keys.”

  “What did he keep in it?”

  “Well—there were some stock certificates, and a few bonds, and his mother’s jewelry.”

  “Was it valuable?”

  “Very.” She hesitated. “At least the jewelry used to be there. I don’t know for sure just what is there now.”

  MacLaren took the keys from his pocket and held them out in his palm. “Did your husband’s keys look anything like these?”

  “Very much like them.” The frown deepened and her brows were warped. “But I don’t understand—”

  Again MacLaren interrupted. “I’d like to see if they fit,” he said. “I’m not going to tell you where I got them—yet, but if they fit I will.”

  He took a quick breath and went on hurriedly as some new excitement stirred in him. So far his hunch had been right, and he had also been lucky about other things. Now, because it was important that he sell the rest of the idea, he went on quickly as the confidence grew in him.

  “Would you be game to ride into the city with me?”

  “Oh—do you think we should?” she asked. “The police said I was to stay here.”

  “I know what they said, and I guess technically we’d be disobeying orders. But we could make it in less than two hours on the Turnpike. We could stop somewhere for dinner and probably be back here by eleven o’clock or before…. Please,” he said when she continued to hesitate. “I think it could be important.”

  “Well—” She hesitated, some of the doubt still there. When he realized this he gave her no chance to reconsider.

  “Good girl,” he said. “I’ll take you over to the Inn and be back for you around six.”

  He stepped to the dock with her bag and then gave her a hand. He said she was not to worry. If anyone asked her where she was going, all she had to do was say that she was going out for dinner.

  They turned off the Turnpike near the state line and had dinner at a place MacLaren knew, and it was just nine o’clock when he turned into this street in the east seventies and found a parking-space across from the house Ruth pointed out to him.

  The recessed door she unlocked a minute later had a heavy antique look and MacLaren closed it behind him while she snapped on the hall light. There was a closed door on the immediate right, and the hall itself led past a carpeted staircase that mounted along the left-hand wall. The doorway at the end stood open and MacLaren got a glimpse of a polished table and chair, suggesting that this was the dining-room, with the pantry and kitchen somewhere beyond.

  When he had followed her to the second-floor landing and she had turned on another light, he saw that this hall was divided. One part led to the stairs to the floor above; the other skirted the balustrade to lead to two rooms at the front of the house. Now, pointing to the open doorway at the rear, she said:

  “That’s the drawing-room. We go this way,” she added, starting for the rooms at the front. “That’s what we call the sitting-room”—she gestured toward the doorway at the left—“and this is the study.”

  She turned into this doorway and flicked a wall switch just inside. MacLaren was right behind her when she entered, and she stopped so suddenly that he almost ran into her. He heard her small gasp and saw her shoulders stiffen. Not understanding what had happened, his glance moved on and he got a quick pictu
re of a paneled room with its desk and leather chairs and the book shelves separating the two windows. He was about to ask what was the matter when he saw the mirror on the wall to the right.

  Normally this oblong mirror would have stood snug against the wall. Now it stood out at right angles, hanging from some hidden hinges to disclose the wall safe that had been recessed behind it.

  More important, the door of the safe had also been swung back. From where MacLaren stood it had a crooked look, and he stepped quickly round the girl, knowing now that it had been opened by force.

  The combination had been knocked off by some heavy instrument and lay near by on the rug. The gleaming steel door beyond had also been attacked. He saw the holes which had been drilled there, but when he realized that the door was still flush with its frame, he knew that the attempt to break in had not succeeded.

  “So they didn’t crack it after all,” he said half aloud.

  “Who?” The girl was at his shoulder now. “Why should anyone—”

  She stopped and the words hung there as she seemed to realize the futility of the question. She said no more and neither did MacLaren. Impatiently, and unwilling to think beyond the fact of his discovery, he pulled out the keys and tried them.

  The first one wouldn’t fit, but the second one did. The lock turned halfway and he pulled the key out and inserted the other one. This time the lock completed the revolution and when he pulled, the door swung open. A shelf bisected the squarish compartment and the bottom half seemed well filled with papers of one kind or another. On top of the shelf were three velvet-covered boxes, and as he remembered what Ruth had said about the Kingsley jewels, he reached for the first one. His fingers were no more than inches away when the lights went out.

  MacLaren never did touch that box. His arm froze in mid-air as his nerves jerked taut. Then, before he could move, or break the spell that gripped him, another light hit him.

  This was a different sort of light.

  It was much brighter and more concentrated, and he knew at once that it came from a flashlight as he saw the silhouette of his head and shoulders outlined against the wall. Again he heard the girl’s small startled cry of shock and surprise, and the voice that came from beyond her was blunt, commanding and hard.

  “Turn around!”

  MacLaren turned slowly and the light blinded him so that he had to squint against it. He realized one arm was still outstretched and let it fall to his side. He was vaguely aware that the girl stood no more than a foot or two away, and now he reached out and took her arm.

  “That’s good,” the voice said. “Just stay quiet and you won’t get hurt…. See this?”

  The beam of the flashlight moved slightly so that the rays were no longer directly in MacLaren’s eyes. Apparently it came from the man’s left hand because now the right was extended just far enough into the light beam to disclose the automatic. It looked heavy, and its bore seemed enormous. The hand that held it was big, too, and for a moment MacLaren thought it was covered with a white glove. A second look told him that only the middle finger had cloth around it. Before he could wonder why, the voice said:

  “See the gun, chum?”

  “I see it.”

  “So don’t get ideas…. Over this way.”

  The light began to circle toward the safe, and MacLaren understood that he was to move away from it. The girl’s arm was stiff in his grasp and he had to apply a little pressure to make her accompany him to the corner.

  The gun had disappeared now, but the light followed him. The beam was still directed at his face, but he heard other sounds now and was suddenly aware that someone else was in the room. He thought he could get a glimpse of another light beyond the first one. He could not be sure but he sensed that the gunman’s companion was now at the safe.

  The stiffness was still in his back as he stood there, and he could feel the perspiration start to leak from his armpits. He no longer felt any sense of fear because he seemed to understand that there would be no violence if orders were obeyed. Even so, he had to swallow twice to get the dryness from his throat, and when he felt the girl start to tremble, he spoke softly.

  “It’s okay…. Hurry it up, will you?” he called to the man with the gun.

  “We’re hurrying,” the voice came back. “Relax.”

  Over by the safe, a voice MacLaren had not heard said: “Okay. Let’s go. Get ’em in the closet.”

  For some reason he could not then explain, something stirred deep in MacLaren’s consciousness at the sound of that voice. It was low, hoarse, and rasping. Its accents seemed oddly distorted and although MacLaren could not recognize it he felt sure that he had heard it before. Before he could speculate further, the man with the gun took over.

  “Over here, chum,” he ordered. “Bring the doll with you.” He swiveled the flashlight beam to the open closet to indicate what he meant.

  MacLaren got the message. Again he pulled gently at the girl’s arm and now she was moving with him. When he saw that the closet was just to the right of the room door, he realized that the two men must have been working on the safe when they heard Ruth open the downstairs door. They had snapped off the room light, if indeed it had ever been on, and stepped into the closet to await developments. The rest had been even easier than they had bargained for, thanks to the keys MacLaren had taken from Carla Lewis.

  “In here,” the gunman said. “We’re gonna lock you in because we need a little head start, understand? But it ain’t a very strong-looking door, and a big boy like you should be able to break out before too long.”

  Because there was no alternative, MacLaren guided Ruth into the closet. He had time to see that it was not very large before the door slammed and the key turned. He could feel the girl’s shoulder against his chest as the darkness came, and he asked her if she was all right.

  “Yes, Donald. I’m all right now. Do—do you think we’ll get out all right?”

  “Sure,” MacLaren said, and, having thus committed himself, knew he had to make good.

  He tried slamming his heel against the lock first, and although he got a few reassuring cracks from the wood adjoining it, the lock continued to hold. When his foot began to get a little numb from the pounding, he tried the other way, and now he was glad that the closet was small.

  Planting his back and shoulders against the opposite wall, he put one foot against the door with his knee bent. By exerting the proper pressure he was able to bring the other foot up alongside the first and make a bridge of his body. After that it was just a question of muscle.

  He strained and heaved and grunted as he sought to straighten his legs and body, and the years in the boatyard paid off. He could feel the door start to give, and then it flew open and bounced back against the wall just as he hit on his buttocks. Seconds later he had scrambled to his feet and was groping for the light switch beside the door to the hall.

  12

  THE TWO DETECTIVES who came from the precinct in answer to MacLaren’s telephone call listened to a quick résumé of what had happened and then went over to examine the safe. They were careful not to touch the door or any of the surrounding area, but they inspected some of the papers inside and conversed in low tones.

  MacLaren sat in one of the leather chairs, Ruth Kingsley in the other. She had leaned back, her hands on the chair arms, her body slack like her face. It had not been an easy job for him to convince her that the police should be called at all. As far as she could tell, only the pieces of jewelry were missing, and this, she said, was no concern of hers. The thing to do was to get back to Surrey before the state police found out that they had come to the city.

  MacLaren had disagreed. The robbery might well have some connection with Kingsley’s death—he made no attempt to say how—and it would be wise to have the police working on that possibility. It was quite probable that some neighbor might have seen them enter the house, and it would be better to tell voluntarily what had happened, with reservations, than to be looked upon as
possible suspects.

  Reluctantly, then, she had agreed to play it his way, and they had gone over the story they would tell. There was one other thing she wanted to do before the police came, and she was quite frank in telling him what it was. She had gone to her bedroom on the floor above and brought back what she called the only two real presents that Oliver Kingsley had given her.

  One was her emerald-and-diamond engagement ring and the other was a stock certificate that had been given her for a wedding present. She was tucking it into her handbag as she re-entered the room and MacLaren, remembering the two stock certificates he had found in Carla Lewis’s bag, might have questioned her about it if the police had not picked that moment to ring the downstairs bell.

  There was nothing distinctive about the pair except a pseudo-casual manner and the unremitting watchfulness of their eyes. They wore business suits, and felt hats which they were polite enough to remove. They were medium-sized, one an inch or two taller than the other, and seemed to be in their middle or late thirties. The black-browed man’s name was McCarthy and his somewhat stockier companion was introduced as Detective Lynch. Now McCarthy went round the desk and eased into the chair while Lynch slid one thigh over the desk corner.

  “You’re sure you can’t describe them?”

  “I can’t,” Ruth said. “I’m not sure I could even if the lights had been on. I was too scared.”

  “They kept the light in our faces,” MacLaren said. “All I could see was the gun.”

  “As far as you know there’s nothing missing but the three pieces of jewelry,” McCarthy said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Describe them.”