Slack Tide

by George Harmon Coxe

  More stunned and bewildered than hurt, she sat up and pulled the blanket off. Exploring hands told her that she was in a closet of some sort. She did not know why, or what it meant; she only knew that she was locked in and would have to stay here until someone came to release her.

  18

  DON MACLAREN left the Willis house the way he had come. He knew he should call the police, but he had no intention of waiting for them to arrive and then being further delayed by the investigation. He had touched nothing in Sam Willis’s room except the binoculars, and in his present state of mind it seemed best to use the telephone in his father’s house.

  He was unlocking his front door when he heard the ringing inside the living-room. He hurried then, not bothering to close the door as he plunged forward and grabbed the telephone. He heard the operator ask if this was Donald MacLaren, and he said yes, and then she spoke to someone on the other end telling him she had his party.

  “Hello,” said a voice he did not recognize. “MacLaren?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Lynch.”

  “Who?”

  “Detective Lynch in New York.”

  “Oh, yes,” MacLaren said, as recognition came to him, “what’s up?”

  “Nothing much. Just thought maybe I could repay a favor.”

  “Oh?”

  “Those two burglars talked a little. Not too much about the job they pulled, but you wanted me to ask Lew if he saw anything that night he went out fishing, so I did.”

  Anticipation triggered new hope inside MacLaren, and he quickly gave voice to the point which seemed most important to him.

  “Did he see Kingsley?”

  “He saw somebody. He don’t know who it was. It was too dark for him to see faces or even people and he played it mostly by ear. But he heard that rumble you had with Kingsley on the dock. After that he heard a splash and the sound of somebody swimming. He don’t think Kingsley actually pulled himself into the dinghy because he didn’t hear any motor or the sound of anybody rowing.”

  “What else?”

  “He thinks Kingsley pushed the dinghy ahead of him. You know, hanging on to the side and kicking with his feet until he reached the other side. Lew says he was pretty nearly down to the mouth of the inlet, and he’s not sure what happened after that, but he did hear an argument. He don’t know what it was about or what happened—or if he did he’s not saying—but he says one of the people doing the arguing was a woman…. Does that help any?”

  “It sure does,” MacLaren said. “It proves that Kingsley was alive enough to start another argument after he reached the island. Thanks a million. I appreciate it.”

  “Glad to do it,” Lynch said. “Also, we’ve got this much on paper in case the Connecticut people want to see the statement.”

  MacLaren hung up and started to evaluate the information he had heard. Then he stopped when he realized he was wasting time. He had to call the police and tell them about Sam Willis, but his first thought—that he would do this anonymously so as not to involve himself for the present—he discarded when he considered Sergeant Wyre. He had known the sergeant quite a while. He also knew that Wyre, being the resident state policeman, kept more or less regular hours, and he decided to try the man’s home first.

  A woman answered the ring and said that Wyre was in. “Just a minute, please.”

  “What about the autopsy report?” MacLaren asked when he heard the sergeant’s voice.

  “The second blow came from a blunt instrument,” Wyre said.

  “A rounded one?”

  “Probably. How did you guess?”

  “How much damage?”

  “A fracture and a concussion. Serious but not necessarily fatal. Anyway, Kingsley didn’t die from that. He drowned.”

  The effect of that statement on MacLaren was startling. It was as though his mind split, with each part going off on its own tangent. His immediate reaction was one of relief because it seemed to confirm what he already had stoutly maintained—that neither he nor Ruth Kingsley had anything to do with Kingsley’s death. But even as this thought came, a strange, unreasoning anger struck at him because this information had been so long delayed.

  “Drowned?” he yelled. “You mean it took the medical examiner—or whoever did the job—two days to find out that a guy drowned? You told me this afternoon—”

  The sergeant cut him off. “Take it easy. I know what I told you, and it don’t take two days to get a simple report.”

  “Then—”

  “We knew what the score was yesterday morning but the brass decided to stall awhile. Don’t ask me why. I don’t run the outlit; I do what I’m told.”

  “All right.” MacLaren’s anger calmed quickly when he understood the answer, and by then he also understood that he was wasting time. “All right,” he said again. “Now I’ve got something for you. I’m calling from my house. I was sitting on my front porch a few minutes ago when I heard some shots behind the house. I think they came from Sam Willis’s place.”

  “Shots?”

  “Three of them. I know Sam’s got a .22 up in his room but two of those shots sounded heavier than that. I don’t know what it’s all about, and I’m not going up there and look, either, because I’m not going to get mixed up in this one. I just thought I’d tell you. You can do what you like.”

  “Wait a minute—”

  MacLaren heard that much before he broke the connection. Then he was heading for the door, closing it behind him, and loping toward the boatyard dock with but one thought in mind: to find out why Ruth Kingsley had gone to the island with Harry Danaher.

  MacLaren did not turn cautious until he was actually in the skiff. The basis of his change in plans was probably a precautionary one, though he did not try to analyze his thoughts at the time. The fingering sickness that had started with his discovery of Sam Willis’s body was still working on him and he knew he must proceed on the assumption that the killer was on the island.

  Willis had seen too much, and he had made the mistake of trying to bargain with someone who had nothing more to lose. To MacLaren, who was aware of Willis’s avid grasping ways, this much was understandable. But Willis was also a shrewd and cautious man, and even though shocked and upset by the other’s duplicity, MacLaren could find no answer for the man’s apparent carelessness in dealing with a killer.

  It was probably a combination of such thoughts that warned MacLaren to be both cautious and alert. It was quite dark now, and as he pushed off in the dinghy, he thought he saw a dim glow coming from one of the forward ports in Kingsley’s cruiser. It seemed likely that Danaher was aboard and quite possibly Ruth Kingsley was with him. This was something MacLaren would find out in time but right now he put aside the starter rope and unshipped the oars. The skiff moved easily on the still waters of slack tide, and instead of heading for the catwalk and thereby giving notice of his arrival, he headed upstream for a sloping, grass-covered bit of shoreline that was seventy or eighty yards removed from the cruiser.

  He drove the bow far enough on the beach to leap ashore with the small anchor. He got sand in his shoes, but he kept them dry, and as he stood a moment in knee-high grass to inspect the island, he decided to approach the house first.

  Reconnoitering from the outside long enough to see that the lighted living-room was empty, he moved lightly across the porch and eased the front door open. He had no definite plan of action. He was not even sure what he was trying to prove. But it seemed important to find out who was at home so he started up the stairs, coming presently to the second-floor landing. The doors of the two front rooms were closed, and because he had noticed that the windows were dark, he turned to one of the two rooms opposite.

  This, he knew, belonged to Carla Lewis. He found the lights on when he opened the door, but there was no one here now. The other door on the same side of the hall was also closed, but this time, when he opened it, he found the occupant at home.

  A blonde vision sat on the vanity bench adm
iring herself in the glass. She wore nothing but brief panties and a brassière, and her raised elbows were akimbo as her fingers worked on the tinted hair. Her eyes caught him in the mirror as he stepped inside. Her immediate reaction took the form of a word that sounded like, “Eek!”

  MacLaren made no attempt to back out because he had something to say, and he was too disturbed inside to be embarrassed.

  “Sorry.”

  “Well—” The voice was tight with annoyance but not angry. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that it was impolite to open someone’s door without knocking?” She pulled her arms down to fold them across her breasts and turned from the hips. “What’s the idea?”

  “Have you seen Ruth?”

  “Ruth? No.”

  “What about Carla?”

  “I haven’t seen Carla either. In fact I haven’t seen anyone this afternoon. The place is like a morgue. I took a late afternoon nap and then a shower. I’m supposed to have dinner with Neil Ackerman—if he ever shows up—and I’d like to go on with my dressing if you have no objections.”

  MacLaren could tell that she was not very embarrassed, nor was she really annoyed any more, now that the moment of astonishment was over. She was still surveying him with one brow arched when he backed out of the room and closed the door without another word.

  Returning to the landing, he turned down the side corridor. The door to the first room on the left, which faced the boatyard, was open and as he glanced inside he had a vague impression of an untidy room that seemed to be part bedroom and part studio. Shadowed racks of canvases stood along one wall, and close to the large window was an easel holding a partly completed painting.

  By mentally counting windows that he had seen from outside, he knew that the next one should be the one that had showed a light.

  The door was closed. He opened it without knocking and the sight that met his eyes jarred him. In that first glance it seemed as if someone had taken the room apart piece by piece, and he stepped inside to inspect the chaos without trying to understand why it had happened. The character of the clothing that was strewn about and some of the personal effects that he saw on the floor told him that this must be Harry Danaher’s room, but somehow and in some way he did not understand, the sight of this destruction scared him a little. Before he could do anything about it, he heard the thumping on a door a few paces to his right.

  He turned toward it instantly and reached for the knob. He gave it a twist and a tug, and when the door resisted him, he turned the key and yanked again.

  Ruth Kingsley stared back at him, the green eyes blinking against the sudden glow of light from the room. Her blond hair was tousled and awry, and her young face was pale and set. But she stood erect in her woolen dress, and he seemed to know at once that she was all right.

  19

  FOR SEVERAL long seconds MacLaren stood mute and immobile, his glance moving from her frightened face down her body to the tangled blanket which partly covered her feet. The only thought he had at the moment was that for some reason Harry Danaher had locked her here, but he had no words just then and all he said was:

  “Ruth.”

  The sound of his voice seemed to break the spell that gripped the girl. Her lashes blinked again and he saw her mouth start to crumble. Then, as though her sudden feeling of relief had overwhelmed her, she gave a soft incoherent cry and stepped close to him.

  His arms went about her automatically and her body pressed against him. He could feel her trembling, heard the small muffled sob as she caught her breath. For another moment or so she was still in his arms and then he could feel her body start to relax. As though aware finally of what she had done, she put her hands lightly against his chest, and now he eased the pressure of his arms and let her step back. When she looked up at him again, there was color in her cheeks and some new shyness or embarrassment in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know who it was and when I saw you I—I guess I sort of went to pieces.”

  MacLaren backed up another step to glance once more around the littered room. Before he could reply she spoke again.

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “I didn’t,” he said. “I mean I didn’t know you were here in the room. But I saw Harry Danaher bring you over here in the dinghy. I didn’t know why, and maybe it wasn’t any of my business, but it bothered me. I was worried about you,” he said frankly, “and I decided to have a look around.”

  “I’m awfully glad you did, Donald.”

  “Did Harry lock you up here?”

  “No.”

  “Then who did? Who tore up this room?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you—”

  “No, really.” She had put her hands up and found her hair was mussed. She began to fix it. Her glance slid about the room and came back to him, and the wide appealing look he found there told him that she was speaking the truth.

  “The room was like this when I stepped in,” she said. “I didn’t have a chance to wonder why…. Someone was behind the door,” she added. “I thought I heard something, but by then it was too late. I started to turn, but that blanket came down over my head and someone grabbed me.”

  She swallowed and said, a great earnestness in her voice now as she tried to make him understand:

  “Before I knew it my arms were trapped and I was off balance. Someone spun me into the closet, and when I fell, the door slammed.” She gave her hair a final pat, and now, as her glance moved beyond him, she stepped past and knelt down to recover a small handbag that had been opened. “Whoever did it, snatched this too.”

  She glanced into the bag and rummaged among its contents. “It’s gone,” she said.

  “What’s gone?”

  She did not seem to hear him, or if she did she ignored the question.

  “I think it was a woman. For just an instant, when that blanket came over my head, I think I noticed a woman’s smell.”

  MacLaren, about to pursue the subject, closed his mouth and took her arm.

  “Come over here,” he said, and led her to the bed and the box spring which had been uncovered. “Sit down a minute,” he said.

  He looked directly at her until he had her complete attention. He spoke in a firm, no-nonsense tone.

  “Now—what’s with you and Harry Danaher? And don’t tell me it’s none of my business, because I’m just as involved in this thing now as you are. What were you huddling with Harry for this noon? Why did you come over here tonight alone? What did he want, why did you come to his room, and why should anyone jump you and lock you in the closet?”

  She was still looking at him, but now she gave her head a little toss and the reaction to her recent scare apparently was complete because she answered with some spirit.

  “What am I supposed to answer first?” she demanded.

  Her challenge was disconcerting, and as MacLaren tried to get his thoughts in order, he saw the handbag and started there. “What’s missing from your handbag?”

  “My stock certificate.”

  “What stock certificate?”

  “The one I told you about last night. The four hundred shares of National Aluminum Oliver gave me for a wedding present.”

  As he considered this statement, MacLaren could find one logical reason why the girl had brought the stock with her, and having accepted this much, he could begin to understand why there might have been a reason for Ruth to meet Harry Danaher that noon.

  “Were you going to give it to Harry?” He watched her nod. “Why?”

  “He says he knows who killed Oliver. He said he wouldn’t tell the police the truth unless he was paid. I didn’t have enough money, but he knew about the stock and he said if I would endorse it he would go to the police and tell them what actually happened. He said he could prove it.”

  MacLaren scowled at her, but there was no unfriendliness in his eyes as he tried to grasp the significance of what he had heard. He started to question her anew, but this ti
me she cut him off, and he stood there in front of her and listened to the story that Danaher had told her that noon.

  There would have been a great unreality about that story had he not known something about Harry Danaher and his driving ambition to own his own charter boat. His own belief that the fire extinguisher in the cruiser’s galley was a definite clue was now corroborated by Danaher’s statement.

  This much he believed, and while the thought of such attempted blackmail angered him, he could understand Ruth Kingsley’s fears and her willingness to pay for any evidence, no matter what its source, in order to be free of suspicion.

  Now, as his mind pressed on, certain conclusions began to take shape. He reviewed them silently as the girl watched him.

  The recent information received from New York said that Kingsley had argued with a woman when he came back to the island that first night. It was Ruth’s announced impression that a woman had grabbed her from behind when she entered this room. Assuming these two statements to be true, there was only one who might fit into the pattern and it was certainly not the blonde Lucille.

  “It was Carla,” he said.

  “Carla?”

  He spoke quickly as he saw her eyes reject the statement. He told about the telephone call from New York and mentioned the missing stock certificate.

  “Did you telephone Danaher this evening?”

  “Yes. He told me to call him at a quarter of eight and he would tell me what to do next.”

  “Did you mention the stock? Was anything said about fingerprints being on a fire extinguisher?”

  “He asked about the stock and I said I had it. I think something was said about the fire extinguisher, but I don’t know whether either of us mentioned fingerprints.”

  “Carla must have known about the stock or she wouldn’t have snatched your bag. She must have wanted to be sure you couldn’t pay off Danaher, and she wanted you out of the way.” He reached down and took her hands in his and pulled her to her feet. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s have a look.”