“So I had a tough break.” Danaher shrugged one shoulder. “I’ll get by.”
“You held out on the police and now you’ve got to come clean. They’ll probably give you some trouble.”
“I’ll live.”
“I wonder. If you try to tell the state’s attorney that Carla pushed Kingsley off the dock, he’ll make a monkey out of you.”
“All right, all right. Maybe she didn’t push him. Maybe he fell off by himself when he started to come to.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“You forgot about the tide, Harry. Or maybe your mind was too warped right then to even think about it.”
Danaher tipped his head a half inch. An invisible curtain seemed to draw down over the amber eyes and a muscle twitched in the hinge of his jaw.
“What about the tide?”
“It was already moving in from the river when I saw Ruth,” MacLaren said. “Which means that if Kingsley was pushed—or fell—off the catwalk, his body would have been recovered farther upstream. Ed Chaney found it downstream on the other side.”
He hesitated, and said: “I got word this evening from the state police that Kingsley didn’t die from the blow on the head. He was drowned. He was alive when he went into the water and there must have been some buoyancy still in the body or in his clothes. He was found half submerged and jammed up against a piling, and there’s only one way that he could have been found downstream from the catwalk.”
“I’m listening,” Danaher said. “It’s your story.”
“I think he was towed, Harry,” MacLaren said. “Somebody put the line on him while he was still alive. They towed him downstream in the dinghy and then slipped the line.”
“And you’re saying I did this?”
“It sort of has to be you. I don’t think Carla could have handled a job like that alone, but you could, Harry. And you were the only other one there.”
Danaher laughed abruptly, a harsh derisive sound. “You know what I think?” he said. “I think you’re nuts.” He grunted again. “Why should I do a thing like that?”
“Because you wanted to be sure he was dead. You knew Carla had slugged him. You didn’t know how serious the injury was and you wanted to make sure. You towed the body out to deep water because you thought it would sink there and it would take awhile before the police recovered it. That would give you time to see which way the investigation was going.
“You knew about my fight with Kingsley. You knew what happened on the dock, and there was a good chance that we would get blamed for Kingsley’s death. But I don’t think you considered that until a little later, otherwise you would have taken care of the dinghy.”
“What about the dinghy?”
“After you released the body, you had to row back to the island. If you had figured on putting the blame on us first, you would have pushed the dinghy out immediately, knowing that it would eventually be found, knowing the police would assume that Kingsley was too badly hurt to pull himself back into it and reach the shore.”
He digressed to tell how Ruth Kingsley had left his apartment by the back stairs not long after he had gone to bed on the office cot. He glanced at the girl and she nodded her corroboration.
“She swam over here somewhere between ten and eleven, and the dinghy was here when she came ashore. Fifteen or twenty minutes later, when she came back with her clothes and her bag, the dinghy was gone. When she sneaked into the house by the back way, she looked into the living-room. Everyone was there except you and Kingsley.
“It must have been during those fifteen minutes that you finally decided the smart thing would be to put the dinghy adrift,” he said. “You took care of it while Ruth was changing her clothes and packing her bag. You must’ve just missed her.”
When he stopped to catch his breath, Danaher grunted.
“That’s quite a story, Mac,” he said, “but you’ll have one hell of a time proving it and so will the state’s attorney.”
There was quite a lot of truth in what Danaher said, and MacLaren had to admit it. He felt sure that his theory was the right one, but except for the discrepancy between the tide and the point at which Kingsley’s body was found, he had no concrete proof to support this theory.
“You could be right, Harry,” he said. “But it’s going to be different when they start working on you for what you did to Sam Willis tonight.”
“Sam Willis?” Danaher did a good job of looking surprised. “Who the hell is Sam Willis?”
MacLaren took his time speaking about Sam Willis and what he knew about the man. He could feel the pressure begin to build in the room now. It was having its effect on him too. A certain tension was working on his nerves and it came from the thought that he would, in some way, have to force the issue, that when he did there would be trouble. He kept his voice controlled when he spoke of Sam Willis. He took his time, and he directed his words not only to Danaher but to Carla and Ruth as well, because he wanted them to understand.
He spoke of Willis’s character as he knew it, his stubbornness, his independence, his irascibility, and his reputation for tightfistedness. He described the room where the man had been spending his days and nights the past several weeks, elaborated on his habit of using the two binoculars to keep an eye on the boatyard, the inlet, and the river. When he had re-created as best he could the conversations that he had had earlier with Willis, he said:
“Sam knew who was responsible for Kingsley’s death. If he had to, I think he would have told the police enough so that you and I”—he glanced at Ruth—“would be in the clear. Beyond that point, he wanted to collect for his silence. He made a date for eight o’clock this evening, and I happened to be close enough to hear the shots that killed him.”
He explained what had happened and what he had done, and then he glanced at Carla Lewis. “Where were you at eight o’clock?”
“I was here.”
“Doing what?”
“I was sitting in Neil Ackerman’s room looking out the window and waiting for Harry to get Ruth in the dinghy.”
“Did you see him at any time after you overheard the telephone call at seven forty-five until you saw him start for the dinghy around eight fifteen?”
“No.”
“You don’t know where he was?”
“No.”
He looked at Danaher and the man stared back at him. Instead of pursuing the subject, he turned again to Carla.
“I’ve got another question,” he said. “And you’d better tell the truth.” He reminded her of the conflicting stories she and Ackerman had told that first night when the police had rushed upstairs to find them both in Kingsley’s room struggling over the Woodsman. “You were in the room first, weren’t you? You took the keys to that safe in the town house. I know you had them because I stole them from your handbag the next afternoon.”
“Yes, I was there first. I wondered what happened to those keys.”
“You wanted to get those two stock certificates before they could become part of Kingsley’s estate.”
“Yes, I wanted them. They were mine. I’d earned them.”
“That steel drawer in Kingsley’s room was open when you went inside.”
“That’s right.”
“The keys were in the lock?”
“Yes.”
“Did you take them from Kingsley’s pocket after you slugged him? … Now don’t lie to me!” he added sharply.
“No, I didn’t take the keys. I never touched him after he fell.”
MacLaren turned to Danaher. “I guess that leaves you, Harry. I don’t know why you wanted to make sure that Kingsley was dead, but maybe I could make a guess.”
“I hear you.”
“I don’t know whether you knew about that ten thousand in new bills or not. Probably not. But there was something in that locked drawer you did want. You said you had a little traffic trouble in Florida last winter that Kingsley covered up for you. I guess it was more than
a little trouble, wasn’t it, Harry?”
When there was no reply, he said: “For a while after you started to work for Kingsley you were a pretty tough and independent character. But you changed, didn’t you? You knuckled down just like everyone else. Kingsley must have had a real good hold on you to make you jump when he spoke, without any argument. That burned you. You hated him, but you were scared of him too, and you must have had murder on your mind plenty of times. Carla gave you the chance and you grabbed it. If it hadn’t been for Sam Willis, you probably would have got away with it.”
“You said that before,” Danaher said scornfully. “I killed Kingsley and I killed Willis. Nuts! If I’d killed Willis at eight o’clock like you say, Carla would have seen me crossing over in the dinghy. Or maybe I went over by helicopter.”
“There’s another way, Harry,” MacLaren said. “An even quicker way.”
He was looking right at Danaher now, and he saw a sudden narrowness growing in the eyes.
“You used that old causeway, Harry,” he said. “Twice a day you can cross there. For an hour or two at slack tide you can make it. It was close to slack tide tonight when you went to Sam Willis’s place with a gun.”
Danaher grunted loudly, a disdainful sound. “You’ve been doing a lot of talking,” he said. “You’ve picked up a lot of crazy ideas but you haven’t said a thing yet that you can prove.”
“I don’t have to prove it, Harry.”
“Hunh?”
“That’s a job for the police, and I think they’ve got experts and equipment to tag you for what you did to Sam.”
He leaned forward to ease his muscles. The strain that had been building in him had made itself felt and he knew he had to keep crowding. He had to force a move while there was still time and, recalling what he had seen in Willis’s room, he made his words convincing.
“There was a piece of mud on the floor near Sam’s body,” he said. “It wasn’t quite dry when I noticed it. Where do you think it came from?”
“How would I know?”
“It hasn’t rained here in the last five days. But when the tide is out, those old rocks that made the causeway are muddy. If you crossed over there, Harry—and I say you did—you couldn’t make it without getting a little mud on your shoes. You’ve probably still got some there in the crack of the soles, or the instep.”
He could almost see Danaher start to glance down at his shoes and then pull his eyes back before he actually stooped. He knew he was right, but he had to make Danaher think so, too, and he said:
“It would only take a speck to make an analysis. There’s no mud on this island except when the tide is out. If the bit of mud that the police are going to find on your shoes matches the mud on the causeway—if that mud is the same as the mud that is now on the carpet of Sam’s bedroom, you’re through, Harry. You went up there with some of that ten thousand you took from Kingsley’s drawer, and you let Sam get his hands on it. You let him think it was all right before you pulled the gun. One of those fifty-dollar bills is still in his hand. It’s tucked up under his body where you didn’t see it. You didn’t have time to make sure because you heard me yell from outside, and you had to get out of there.
“Let’s get the police in on it now, Harry,” he said. “Maybe the fifty-dollar bill isn’t important as evidence, but the mud will be and you know it. You can still walk, can’t you? Let’s take a ride over to the dock. I can take the Woodsman along just in case you get any ideas—”
He glanced down to locate the gun that he had placed beside the ottoman. He was about to reach for it when he heard Ruth Kingsley cry out. In the same instant there was an audible gasp from Carla. When he glanced up, not yet touching the Woodsman, he stayed right where he was.
He had caught some of the movement from the corner of his eye, but Danaher had reacted with swiftness and precision. His good left hand had yanked out the proper drawer of the vanity. Fifty-dollar bills had spilled over the top and onto the floor, but the short-barreled .38 was now securely in his hand.
“Hold it, Mac! … Just take it easy,” he said. “That’s it,” he said as MacLaren straightened. “Now put your hands on your knees and make sure you keep them there.”
22
IT WAS Carla Lewis who broke the tight silence that followed. “I didn’t put it there,” she cried. “I never saw that money before.”
Danaher ignored her. He was watching MacLaren, and the gleam in his amber eyes was bright and dangerous.
“You couldn’t let it alone, could you?” he said viciously. “You couldn’t let the cops take it on. You had to stick your nose in.”
“Someone had to,” MacLaren said. “If I hadn’t given it a try, Carla would have taken the blame. You were all right on the Kingsley thing. You were all right until Sam Willis told you what he had seen that first night. You knew you had to take care of him. You figured you’d have a fair alibi, if no one saw you take the dinghy across the inlet. By using the causeway, you could make it just as quick, or maybe quicker, and you’d be back here in a few minutes. But that wasn’t good enough for you, was it? You wanted to give the police a ready-made victim.”
He glanced at Carla but continued to Danaher.
“You had her framed good, didn’t you? You could prove by her fingerprints that she swung the fire extinguisher that knocked Kingsley out. When the police searched this room and found the money and gun that would be it. You might even lie a little more and say that you saw Carla sneaking off toward the causeway. If you hadn’t panicked and reached for that gun, you might still have made your story stand up. But it’s no good now, Harry,” he said, “because you can’t explain how you knew the gun was in that drawer. Where was it before that? Did you bury it along with the money so the police wouldn’t know about it?”
He hesitated, but not for long. He had Danaher’s attention and he wanted to keep it. He could not be sure how this idea of his would end, but he knew that Lucille Baron was still in her room; Neil Ackerman and perhaps Earl Harwell would be along shortly, and the more people who were around the greater the margin of safety.
“You must have really hated Carla,” he said.
“You’ve got that much right,” Danaher said. “She’s never been anything but a high-priced tramp. I tried to be nice to her and she laughed at me. I wasn’t good enough for her. She thought I was dirt.”
“You still are,” Carla said bitterly.
Again Danaher ignored her and continued to MacLaren.
“You made some good guesses, Mac. All they’re going to get you is grief, but you did pretty good. Not about that fifty-dollar bill that Sam Willis has still got in his hand though,” he said, a frightening sort of pride in his tone. “I left that there on purpose. The number on that bill would tie in with the numbers on these and I figured that would be enough to take care of little Carla.”
“Not bad,” MacLaren said. Then, in the hope that he could keep the man talking, he said: “You took the keys from Kingsley’s pocket before you towed him down the inlet. Why? Not because you knew about the ten thousand. Did Kingsley have something on paper that you were afraid of? Was that traffic business in Florida you spoke about a hit-and-run thing?”
“Sort of,” Danaher said. “I was using Kingsley’s car, and I dipped a fellow. Later he died in the hospital and Kingsley helped me cover up. Not because he liked me, but because he needed me on the boat, and he knew he’d have me under his thumb for as long as he wanted me there. He said I had to sign a confession, otherwise he might be tagged with the accident.
“I had to sign,” he said, “and since then he’s been treating me like he owned me. A guy with a mind like his, I never could be sure when he might decide to use that piece of paper just for spite. I never dared to make a move before because I didn’t think I could get away with it, but when Carla did her little bit the other night I saw my chance and I took it.”
MacLaren understood this, just as he finally understood that the driving force which motivated th
is man was hatred. A deep-seated hatred that over a period of time had consumed him. A hatred for Carla because she had humiliated him by jeering at his attempts to make love to her. A hatred for Kingsley, who had forced a continuing subservience that he had never before given to anyone.
“Yes,” he said. “It was made to order for you, wasn’t it?”
“He was out cold when I found him,” Danaher said as though he had not heard. “It looked like he’d been hurt bad. I couldn’t tell how bad or whether he’d live or not, but I had to get that confession and I made up my mind. When I saw that ten grand in new bills in the drawer, I figured I might as well take them along too.”
MacLaren nodded. “You did pretty good, Harry,” he said. “If it hadn’t been for Sam Willis and his Navy binoculars—” He stopped abruptly as the words brought back the picture of death he had so recently left. A tightness began to work along the angles of his jaw and his gaze was dark and brooding.
“You went up there with murder on your mind.”
“No.”
“You took the gun.”
“Sure.” Danaher gave the revolver a glance and shifted it in his hand. “I had to have some insurance, because I didn’t know whether I could trust him or not. If the old fool had stuck to his word, he’d be alive right now.”
“How do you mean?”
“We made a deal this afternoon. For three thousand bucks he was going to forget what he saw. When I show up with the dough, he’d changed his mind. He said he’d had a talk with you and, whatever you said, he got the idea that unless he told the truth about me you’d always be under some suspicion even if the police couldn’t actually prove it. He said he owed you that much. He wouldn’t listen. When I threatened him, he grabbed the rifle and there wasn’t anything else I could do.”
The words had a curious effect on MacLaren as he understood what Sam Willis had done. Willis had been tempted and he had weakened because his love of the dollar was so strongly ingrained in his character. He had seen an easy way to add to his bank account, not understanding that by withholding such information he was tightening the veil of suspicion around MacLaren. Not until the facts had been spelled out for him late that afternoon did he realize that his silence could mark MacLaren’s reputation perhaps for life, or see that only the truth could clear him.
Slack Tide Page 17