About thirty feet, he thought, gray, with a high sloping coaming guarding the generous cockpit. The superstructure was simple, a square-sided cabin too angular to be graceful, with rectangular sash in the forward end and a single rectangular port on each side, extending well forward so that there was very little deck at the bow.
Now, as they came alongside, he shipped his oars and stood up to look through the starboard port while Dunham held the skiff steady. He had to shade his eyes because the opposite port bothered him but he could make out the two berths and mattresses, drawers, lockers, two of them full height, a tiny galley.
“Anything?” Dunham asked.
“Not that I can see.”
“Let me have the key, I’ll make sure. There should be an electric torch inside.”
Ward handed over the key and Dunham pulled himself on deck and then into the cockpit. He unlocked the cabin door next to the wheel and Ward found a grab rail so he could steady himself and still look through the port. He saw Dunham take the flashlight from a shelf and now the interior was clearly visible.
Dunham glanced round and shook his head. He opened a full-length drawer under the port berth, picked out some pillows and life preservers, put them back. He tried the opposite drawer, opened the full-length vertical lockers, glanced in at the enclosed head, finally looked through the glass at Ward and shrugged. A moment later the light went out and he ducked back up the ladder, and now the feeling of numbness that Ward had been holding back began to creep over him once more, even though he told himself that he could hardly have expected any other result.
Dinner, such as it was, was served buffet style and Duncan Ward ate alone, if the listless picking at his food could be called eating. Osborne, it seemed, had been down earlier and Kate preferred the seclusion of her own bungalow, according to Oliver.
Ward thought about going to see her and then decided against it when he remembered how she felt about Alma. There were times when it was best to be alone. For Kate this was apparently one of those times, and presently the same idea came to him. That is why he went to his room and sat there in the thickening darkness while he applied his mind once more to the sort of thinking that education and practice had trained him to do.
He knew why the search was being discontinued until dawn. When he had telephoned Gilette to ask about this he had been told that to prowl the countryside at night with lights would only alarm the natives and do more harm than good. At dawn they could start again. The idea now was to get a good night’s sleep so one could be ready.
Ward thought about many things in the next few hours but sleep was not one of them. It was easier to concentrate here in the quiet darkness, and as his mind began again to explore the things that had happened the past days, certain forgotten details began to claim his attention. His lawyer’s mind began to probe, and test, and analyze, picking out a discrepancy here, working on an assumption there, struggling all the time to find a pattern he could accept. It was this persistent and unrelenting application that made him remember the tiny bit of glistening metal he had picked up a Melvin Tenney’s room the night before.
When he found it in his jacket pocket he brought it back to the chair and let his fingers explore its outlines in the darkness as his imagination began to work and his mind took hold. Now, for the first time, a nebulous feeling of encouragement began to work inside him, like a growth. The pattern remained hazy but he had the identification he wanted now; as remembered bits came back to him he worked by trial and error until he had a conclusion he could accept in part.
He could find no solution that was clearly convincing or wholly acceptable; there were discrepancies that, try as he might to explain them, remained insoluble. In the end he had to accept what he had, to work from there in the hope that if part of his hypothesis was right, the other half would fall in place when other facts came to light.
Two bits of evidence, one tangible and one intangible, impressed him, and because it seemed better to be grabbing at straws than to sit about doing nothing, he stood up and began to undress.
A glance at his watch told him it was just past midnight. He tried not to think about how very futile this thing he had in mind might be. For this was nothing he could dump into someone’s lap and say: “Here it is”; this thing he had in mind was no more than a hope, based on the evidence at hand, that the guilty one might make some further move tonight. If that move was made he, Ward, wanted to be on hand.
With this thought in mind he put on the darkest pair of slacks he had, a navy-blue sport shirt with long sleeves, his loafers. He did not bother with cigarettes because he knew he would be unable to smoke them but he did take his lighter. When he was ready he stepped through the window and tiptoed to the edge of the balcony. No light showed anywhere on the second floor but below a glow from the drawing-room windows and door spilled out on the grass like a subdued spotlight.
Taking off his loafers and tucking them inside his belt, he moved laterally until he reached the corner away from the lighted windows. He went over the rail, knelt, caught the edge of the roof as he lowered himself, and then dropped the remaining few feet. When he had put on his loafers, he moved diagonally across the slope, retreating to a point where he could see anyone who tried to leave either by the front or rear. He sat down on the grass, locked his arms about his knees and got ready to wait, telling himself meanwhile that nothing would happen before two or three in the morning, if at all, but knowing that there was nothing else he could do.
It pleased him that his estimate of the time was so close. For, after that first interminable hour, he played a game with himself to help pass the time and to keep from looking at his watch too often. He tried to estimate how long ten minutes was. By concentration and practice he got so that he became fairly accurate, and it was just twenty minutes of three when he sat up and watched the vague figure moving along the slope from the far side of the house.
He could not tell who it was in the darkness. He had already made up his mind about who, if anyone, might come forth in the night, but there was no way of telling now if he was right. All he knew was that someone was moving towards the path to the beach, coming, it seemed, from the far side of Kate’s bumgalow, nearing the shadow of the trees now, a dark-clad figure who had little size or shape but a definite reality.
Ward was in no great hurry. This was no chase like the other night. He told himself that this time would be different and he found he was breathing deeply and with a strange exultant relief now that he was able to get on with the job.
He moved more swiftly once the figure had disappeared, loping down the slope until he reached the beginning of the path, then slowing so he could continue soundlessly along its narrow aisle of blackness. Nearing the beach, he paused until he saw the figure move down the wet and sloping sand towards the water’s edge, and only then did he realize that the other was carrying something black and bulky and, by the way he leaned, quite heavy.
Ward stood motionless, breathing shallowly through his mouth and staying well back in the shadows. He had not known quite what to expect and it surprised him some when the figure continued to wade straight out, but he did not speculate, or lose any time in indecision. He unbuttoned his shirt, loosened his belt, and stepped out of his loafers and trousers. When the figure was waist deep, he moved lightly across the beach and down the slope to the water.
The breaking of the slight swell showed white against the sand and told him that the tide—whether ebbing or flooding he did not know—was about the halfway mark. The break of the small waves and the following swish as they spread across the sand made enough noise to make him feel secure in that respect, but as soon as the water reached his knees he squatted down and stretched out with only his head above the surface.
Because his eyes had become adjusted to darkness through his long vigil he found he could see surprisingly well. Each of the thousands of low-hanging stars gave a little light of its own and the cruiser stood out distinctly against the sky.
He was swimming now, dog-fashion, his legs trailing and well down so they would not break water. In the beginning he was perhaps a hundred feet behind his quarry but he reduced the distance steadily until no more than fifty feet separated the two when the other reached the side of the boat.
Ward stood up, crouching, with only his nose and eyes above the surface. He waited, peering straight ahead. The figure stood nearly chin deep now, no longer so distinct because he was in the shadow of the boat.
He seemed to be lifting the object he carried, and when Ward heard the metallic sound as it was placed on the narrow rim of deck he knew it was a gasoline can. When he saw the boat rock as the figure started to climb aboard he began to swim again, soundlessly, approaching from the bow where he could have the protection of the cabin. He stood up when he reached the side of the boat and the water came up to his armpits. Standing perfectly still, careful not to touch anything, he listened as a key scraped in a lock. He heard the click of the cabin door.
Again he began to move, half-crouched and his cheek almost against the planking so the overhang would hide him, the tension beginning to work on him as he inched his way aft. He could feel his heart hammering. He had trouble breathing and all the time there was the strain of keeping quiet, of making no mistake.
Yet, when he came to the stern undiscovered, the nervousness had left him and he felt poised and confident and ready. Now the hardest part was to contain his eagerness, to practice patience when what he wanted most was action.
His plan was simple. He knew where the gasoline intake was because he had noticed the circular plate in the deck aft of the cockpit when he had come out that afternoon. And presently the man would come aft—there was no longer any question in his mind as to his identity—and unscrew that plate.
It would take two hands to pour. That would be the time.
In his imagination he could visualize the detailed picture. The man stooped, his hands occupied. That would be the moment to spring, to grab a hand or ankle or whatever was handy. The way he felt now he knew the rest would be easy.
He waited, still crouched, the sand firm and hard beneath his toes. Then the boat began to rock and he could hear bare-footed steps coming aft.
“Okay, Ward,” he said to himself. “Let’s see you do your stuff.”
21
THE complete picture of what happened in the next thirty seconds did not come to Ward until later when he was able to assemble the progressive details. Now he was too occupied with the physical requirements to think beyond them.
He felt the boat settle slightly at the stem as the weight came aft. He pushed a foot or so to one side and slowly let his head come up so he located his man, and now the figure loomed above him, darkly clad and dripping, standing spread-legged on the narrow deck.
Then, unaccountably, the man cursed, a throaty, despairing sound. He straightened and the arm holding the can swung round. Again he cursed, a frustrated, bitter oath, and with that Ward moved. He saw the can swing and thought he must have been seen. He pushed off mightily from his crouch, legs stiffening to give him an upward thrust, his one idea to get close before the can crashed down on him.
He came out of the water hip-high and his face level with the deck, reaching one-handed for an ankle, finding it, clamping his fingers hard, then jerking as his weight fell back.
After that two or three things happened all at once. The can sailed well over his head to splash far beyond him. The man yelled, an open-mouthed frightened shout that split the night and ricocheted across the water. Then, before he went under, before he lost his grip on the ankle, Ward felt the man slip and saw him start to fall, arms waving and body sprawled in midair.
Ward tried to keep his head out of water, then tried to duck as the man fell directly towards him. He heard a loud, thumping sound as the other crashed down and skidded off the sternpiece. Then the water closed over him and there was this great weight holding him down and he was thrashing to get free, clearing himself, grabbing an arm, a shoulder, a head.
It was a brief, one-sided struggle. For in a matter of seconds Ward realized that there was no resistance. The man was limp in his grasp. In his fall he had apparently struck his head and now he was drowning.
The thought shocked Ward and the fury left him. He pulled the man’s head above water and stood there, trembling, his chest heaving as he gasped for air. He glanced at the limp and spraddled figure and then up at the cruiser; when he realized he could not lift the other over the side he got his arm under a shoulder and began to tow the man towards the beach two hundred feet away.
At first it was easy because the water supported the body and he had only to push his way shoreward, but for the last fifty feet it was more difficult and it was then that he saw someone run out on the sand and stand silhouetted against the trees.
“Who’s that?” Len Osborne called.
“Me,” Ward said.
“What goes on? Who was shouting?”
“Give me a hand,” Ward said. “This man is heavy.”
Osborne did not hesitate. He came splashing down in his pajamas, grabbed hold of the body and glanced at the face.
“Gordon!” he said with sudden incredulity. “What in God’s name happened. What was he—”
“Alma’s out on the cruiser.” Ward gulped air. “She has to be. I think he was going to head her out to sea and open the cocks.… Put him down here and help me get the skiff in.”
“The oars—”
“I don’t need oars. I can push it out.… Watch him!” he said when they had the skiff in the water. “Wait for me!”
The next two or three minutes remained a blank spot in Ward’s memory. He could not account for the time it took him to push the skiff out and make it fast to a cleat and stumble down into the cabin. He did not begin to think until he found the flashlight where Dunham had left it. Then, as he sprayed the beam about the empty cabin, the fear which had been building up in him struck hard.
He examined the drawers and lockers with feverish haste, his wet skin drying coldly. He stood back and looked bewilderedly about as the seeds of panic began to sprout. Faintly then, he heard a thumping sound, but he could not tell if it was real or only in his imagination. It came from the bow and he turned, and now the light picked out a loose-fitting panel forward beneath a narrowing shelf. He saw the hinge, the wooden catch which held it. He told himself it was too small—no more than three feet square—but he realized now that this had not been visible to him that afternoon, that Dunham had not explored this section, that this was a bow locker, small and tapering but—
He had the door open before he could finish the thought. After that he did not think; he only knew that she was here, cruelly huddled on a piece of dirty sailcloth, her face close to his where it had been pressed to the crack.
He touched her and the skin was hot and sweaty and he saw her lids blink against the sudden light. Then he was reaching for her, choked with relief when he tried to speak, but lifting her out and cradling her gently in his arms as he straightened to put her down on the bunk. For a moment her eyes opened wide and there was only horror and suspicion in their depths until he spoke.
“It’s all right, darling,” he said, his lips close. “It’s all right.”
He saw the recognition working in her gaze and spoke again, soft, comforting words that he was not even aware of. Then he saw the lids flutter and close, and he was grateful that she could faint because there were things he had to do.
He worked swiftly lest she regain consciousness. He unwound the tape from her ankles and legs and in the reflected glow from the flashlight he could tell that while the taping had been secure, it had not been tight enough to interfere with her circulation. It was hardest to remove the tape from her mouth and an odd, angry sickness came over him as he forced himself to the task.
Finally it was done and he spent a minute or so massaging and kneading her wrists and ankles before he realized that this was something that could be better done elsewhere.
Then he had her in his arms, carrying her to the cockpit and kneeling on the seat as he lowered her into the skiff.
Halfway to the beach he saw her move. She sat up and tried to speak to him, her voice no more than a husky whisper. “It was Gordon,” she said. “Gordon did it.”
“Yes,” he said. “Gordon.” And then a voice came floating out from the shore.
“Was she there? Is she all right?”
It was Kate Royce’s voice and now he saw her standing beside Osborne, and Dunham was on his knees, coughing and retching, his head down. Only when he grounded the skiff did he realize that Mike Fabyan was also standing by, and he had no time then to wonder about it.
He lifted the girl from the skiff and she whispered again. “I’m all right. I can stand.”
“Carry her up to my place,” Kate said, and he said he would and Alma was saying that she could walk. “It’s just that I’m so terribly thirsty.”
They were talking then, all of them. He answered questions, hardly knowing what he was saying, while they stood watching Dunham, listening to him cough. When Ward realized Alma could indeed stand he glanced down to find that he was clad only in his shorts, shivering in the still warm air and feeling weak and all used up. Then Alma proved that she could walk. She started off, Kate supporting her, and when Ward went over to his clothes he remembered something and called after them.
“Come over to the house when you can, Kate,” he said. “But please tell her about me first.”…
Everyone was dressed by three thirty, and the coffee and sandwiches Kate had ordered were brought into MacQuade’s study where Ward waited along with Osborne, Fabyan, and Dunham, who wore slacks and a sweater supplied by Osborne and now sat on the couch, his head in his hands. Major Gilette, who had driven up a few minutes earlier, came in presently with Kate and Alma, but for that first second or two Ward had eyes only for the girl.
The Man Who Died Twice Page 17