Slack tide Read online

  Kingsley tripped and went to one knee, cursing as he fell. He jumped up, furious, but this time MacLaren was ready, stepping inside a looping right as Kingsley charged, and hooking twice to the body. During the next minute or two he had no time for thoughts of the girl, no time for anything but Kingsley. He gave away height and weight, but he was in better condition and he had the advantage of a clearer head. He hated Kingsley at the moment and wanted to put him down, but he was not driven by the blind fury that had gripped his opponent.

  He was not sure how many blows he struck or how many times he was hit. He gave ground to the other's superior weight and sensed that the girl was still there as Kingsley wrestled him to the edge of the dock and tried to knee him.

  To protect himself, MacLaren slugged inside and they broke apart, both teetering at the edge of the planking. Then, before Kingsley could lunge forward, his wife took a hand.

  Beyond the gas and oil pumps and water hoses was the icehouse, which had been put there for the convenience of boat-owners and was fiUed daily in season. The odd pieces of wood left over from the remodeling job had been swept into a neat pile by Larry Keats, and now one of these came hinrtling through the night to bounce ofiF the back of Kingsley's head.

  MacLaren was as surprised as Kingsley, not so much at what the move accomphshed, but that it was made at all. He did not see Ruth Kingsley hurl it, but he imderstood that in her panic she was afraid that her husband would be the winner and this was her way of helping.

  MacLaren was never sure about that piece of wood; he only knew it was not large. At the time he thought it was a short length of two-by-four, and he saw it glance oflf Kingsley's head, saw the man stagger and try to glance round, more infuriated than hurt—or so MacLaren thought. For a second or two he teetered there on the stringpiece, arms waving as he lost his battle for equihb-rium. Finally, seeing he was going over anyway, he twisted and dived clear of the dinghy, surfacing thirty feet out in the stream.

  With that MacLaren acted instantly as the sudden desire to laugh aloud rose within him. Freeing the painter, he dropped to his knees, swung the bow of the dinghy toward Kingsley, and gave it a mighty shove. Only when he

  rose and stepped back did it occiir to him that the man might drown.

  "Is he a good swimmer?"

  "Oh, yes," the girl said from the darkness behind him.

  "You're sm"e?"

  "Positive."

  The tide was not yet strong and MacLaren saw a hand come up and grab the boat. It was too dark to see much else, but as the distance widened, he thought he saw Kingsley try to pull himself up over the side. Then as the night obliterated the scene, MacLaren called out:

  "Keep going and don't come backl . . . Come on," he said to the girl. "He's all right now."

  She came docilely, hke a person in shock as he took her by the arm and led her toward the showroom, her bare feet making no sounds and her arm cold and stiff in his grasp.

  "I've got an apartment over tlie oflBce," he said to reassure her. "When you get dried off I'll phone the Inn and get a room for you."

  Upstairs he turned on the Uving-room Hghts, and she went with him to the bedroom as unprotesting as a child. She stood mute and shivering, her face slack and apparently unaware that the soft curves of her young body were so intimately revealed by the thin wet gown. After his first glance, MacLaren turned away to produce a tiukish towel, clean pajamas, and his flannel robe. Because traces of fear and hysteria still lurked in the corners of her green eyes, he did aU this matter-of-factly, not looking at her directly again or wanting to embarrass her.

  "Give yourself a good rubdown and then put these on," he said. "I'm going to make some coflFee and call the Inn. Come out when you're ready."

  He put the water on for coffee and poured out a small brandy, but when he went to the telephone the word from the Inn was bad. The owner would hke to accommodate him and most hkely there would be something in the morning, but for tonight there was no room to be had.

  Ruth Kingsley had rolled up the sleeves of the pajamas and robe, but when she came out of the bedroom the overall effect of the trailing skirt was comic and she seemed to reahze it. What fear remained was deep inside her, and there was color in her cheeks where the towel had left its shine. She seemed now to have control of her emotions and she gave him a shy, tentative smile.

  "I don't know how to thank you," she said.

  "Drink this before you try." MacLaren handed her the brandy as an odd embarrassment began to work on him. He busied himself fixing a chair for her. He said coffee would be ready in a couple of minutes. Then, as she settled herself and sipped her brandy, he told her about the Inn. "So," he said, making it sound unimportant, "I guess you'U have to stay here for tonight."

  "Oh?" she said, her eyes wide and serious.

  "There's a cot dov^mstairs I can use. You can have this place to yourself."

  He saw the trouble stirring again in her gaze. She looked down at the glass and her shoulders sagged.

  "They'll come back," she said woodenly.

  "Who?"

  "Oliver and Harry Danaher. I had to hit Harry to get away."

  He accepted the last statement without comment and said he doubted if they would come back. "If they do," he said, "they won't get in. This is private property."

  He stood up to take the glass and pour the coffee. When he sat down again he had a chance to look at her and realize how different she was from the blonde he had seen that afternoon. The blonde had the stilted walk and haughty manner of a high-priced model. This girl seemed so entirely different that he wondered not only how a man with Kingsley's reputation had been attracted to her in the first place, but why, knowing his reputation, she had ever consented to marry him. Even without make-up she was as pretty as a model and just as young, but the prettiness had a wholesome, unassuming quahty that seemed as natural as the other girl's was affected.

  "I thought I knew everyone on the island," he said. "How long have you been there?"

  "I'm not sure—well, since Oliver moved in."

  "But that's nearly three weeks."

  He saw her nod and stared at her until, out of nowhere, came an answer that seemed almost too fantastic to accept. He remembered his increasing interest in the house on the island, his recent visit to Sam WiUis and the questions he had asked. Still looking at her, he finally put his thoughts into words.

  "Were you," he asked quietly, not yet ready to accept the picture his imagination was conjuring up, "in that shuttered room at the back?"

  "Locked in," she said simply.

  He stood another moment watching her, his tanned craggy face somber and the dark-blue eyes grave and resentful as he began to sense the possibihties which lay behind the girl's wild flight. He did not understand how or why such things could happen, but he did reahze that this was not the time to question her.

  "Okay," he said. "Don't worry about it tonight. They have laws in this state to take care of husbands who slap their wives around, so no one is going to bother you." He walked over to the door and nodded toward the bedroom. "That one's got a lock on it. If you want anything just come to the head of these stairs and yell."

  4

  MacLAREN was not sure how long he had been asleep. He knew he had been asleep because he had been dreaming about some silly operation that had to do with boats, a fuzzy sequence that had no point and made no sense. Now he found himself staring up through the darkness, still not knowing what had waked him until the noise was repeated. He knew what it was then, and rolled over on his cot, aware that someone was at the door.

  A glance at his watch told him it was twelve twenty. Beyond the office door he could see a Hght of some kind. As it spread across the showroom floor, he kicked off the

  blanket and sat up, reaching for his trousers. He stepped into them quickly, buckled them on, and put bare feet into his shoes, not bothering to lace them. He started for the door, then stopped as the things Ruth Kingsley had said and his own speculation on other things she
had not mentioned flashed through his brain. Turning to the roll-top desk, he opened a drawer and took out a .32 automatic. He was moving when the knock came again, making sure the safety was off as he balanced the gun in his hand.

  The thoughts of Oliver Kingsley and his reputation were still with him as he stepped into the showroom and crossed toward the door. Not knowing what to expect but ready now, he turned the key and pulled at the knob, stepping aside as he did so to keep away from the light.

  "Mac?"

  MacLaren grunted his reply, aware that there was but one man outside, that the voice belonged to no one on the island, but not yet recognizing it.

  "Ed Chaney," the man said. "Thought I better wake you."

  MacLaren felt his muscles relax, and he let his breath out slowly, feehng a httle embarrassed now and pocketing the gun before he stepped outside. Ed Chaney was an ancient townsman who Hved on a small pension, odd jobs, and fishing. Shad season was his busy time, but this was behind him now and apparently Ed had been out on the river to see what else was biting.

  "What's up, Ed? Trouble?"

  "Looks like. Weren't sure what I'd better do. . . . This way, Mac. I'll show you."

  They were crossing the planking then, anghng toward the small floating dock, Ed's hght showing the way. Beyond the hills on the far bank of the river a late, lopsided moon had risen to cast its glow over the inlet and the island. Lights showed in the lower-floor windows of the house but here the line of cruisers was dark, even the Annabelle 111, the shadows they cast looking black and impenetrable. Yet now, as MacLaren followed Chaney down the tilted catwalk to the dock, he saw something on the edge that seemed even blacker than the shadows, and suddenly a tension grew in him where none had been before.

  He followed Chaney across the dock. Then he stopped short when the flashhght focused on the body of a man that lay on its side, the dock canting somewhat so that the feet and ankles were not quite clear of the water.

  "Rolled him up the best I could," Ed said. "Guess the tide brought him in. I had turned in from the river and was coming along close by these sMps of yours, and then, right against that first piling"—he waved an arm to indicate the boat slip closest to the mouth of the inlet—"I saw this thing, most of it under water."

  He took a breath and said: "His shirt had snagged on a nail just below water level, and when I got him loose, I saw I couldn't heave him into the skiff alone, so I put a hne under his arms and towed him up here. ... I could see he was dead. Wasn't much else I could do."

  MacLaren had not moved since Chaney had begun to talk. Now, almost afraid to ask, he said: "Did you see a dinghy out there, Ed?"

  "There's a dinghy upstream now." Chaney swiveled his

  flashlight and at the far end of its beam, beyond the dock at which the yawl still was berthed, MacLaren could make out a dinghy that looked very much Hke Kingsley's.

  "Yeah," he said, and when Chaney swiveled his flashlight back to the dock, he made himself walk the remaining few feet until he could bend over the inert and sodden figure.

  "That Kingsley fella from the island, ain't it?" Ed said.

  He said other things, but MacLaren did not hear him. He was peering down into a once handsome face that was now vacant-looking and blue-white in the flashhght's rays. When he was sure, he rose stiffly, cold all over, not from the chill in the night air but from things that were con-geahng inside him.

  He kept teUing himself that this could not have been his fault, or the girl's. The blow from the stick she had thrown could not have been severe; he had seen Kingsley pull himself into the dinghy, though this, he knew, was not quite true. He had seen Kingsley try to pull himself over the side. Suppose he hadn't made it? Suppose he had slipped back into the water, more hurt than he, MacLaren, had suspected?

  He shook his head to clear it, the questions which seethed through his brain unanswered. He glanced at Chaney's gear-laden skifl^, at his own skiff with its plastic-covered outboard. He looked at Chaney's gnarled figure with its patched woolen trousers and hip boots folded to the knees, aware that the old man was eyeing him curiously.

  "What do you want to do, Donald?" he said.

  MacLaren knew what he wanted to do all right. He wanted to talk to Ruth Kingsley before he talked to the pohce. He wanted to be sure she was safe in bed. To give himself a Mttle time he said:

  "I can phone the police from the oflBce, Ed. I should think you could go home if you like. They'll want to question you but that can come later."

  It may or may not have been the right thing to do, but MacLaren never had a chance to find out. Because just then a car rolled past on the street above and beyond the parking-lot, the main town street which ran from the center to the community wharf and the Yacht Club. There was a sound of tires on asphalt as the brakes locked, and then a spotlight sprang to hfe, swiveled, and finally focused on them. A second later, the hght went out and the car backed up. It swung quickly into the lane leading to the parking-lot, rolled down the hill and made a wide sweep, the bright beam highlighting the upper half of their bodies before it passed on.

  A moment later the engine was cut and the hghts dimmed. A door slammed and they stood uimioving, peering into the darkness as a bulky figure took shape and heels pounded on the planking above. When MacLaren saw the distinct shape of the hat and knew that this was Sergeant Wyre, the resident state pohceman, he wondered if there was an alarm out for Kingsley or whether Wyre was just making his nightly rounds. Then, as the sergeant spoke, he knew it did not matter.

  "That you, Mac? Who's with you? ... Oh, hello, Ed,"

  Wyre said when Ed Chaney put the Hght on his face. "Thought I saw someone down here. What's up?"

  "You saved us a call," MacLaren said wearily. "We've got something for you."

  Wyre came down the sloping catwalk on the double when Chaney's hght angled on the body. He bent over it, asked for the light, whistled softly. After another moment he straightened up, his voice blunt and business-hke as he asked his questions and Chaney answered them.

  "When I saw what it was," Chaney said, "I thought I better roU him up here before the tide got hold of him again."

  "You did the right thing, Ed," Wyre said. "Wonder how the hell it happened. Looks like he's been dead quite a while too. . . . Well, I'll get on the radio and get the medical examiner over here. You two better stick around."

  He went quickly to his car and started the motor to activate the radio. They could hear his voice but the words were indistinct, and now MacLaren mounted to the main dock and was waiting there when Wyre came back. He had to find out about the girl, and he wanted to get rid of the pistol, which now made an uncomfortable pressure against his hip.

  "I guess this will probably take awhile. Sergeant," he said. "Is it okay if I get some socks on and a sweater?"

  "Sure," Wyre said. "Just don't take too long, hunh?"

  MacLaren crossed the darkened showroom and entered the oflBce to put the pistol away before he snapped on the light. He kicked off his shoes, put on his socks, and replaced the shoes, lacing them this time. He pulled oflF his

  pajama top and donned a shirt. When he had put on his sweater, he was ready to go upstairs.

  There was no answer when he knocked on the door at the top, so he went in and turned on the hght. He saw then that the room was empty, but the bedroom door stood open and this surprised him. He called the girl's name three times before he entered the darkened room, and somehow he knew even then that no one was there. When he turned on the light he saw that neither of the twin beds had been used. The pajamas and robe that he had lent the girl lay on the nearest one. Other than this there was no sign that anyone had been here at all.

  In the second or two that it took him to understand what must have happened, he stood there, the wonderment growing in him. Finally, as a partial answer came to him, he wheeled and strode through the living-room to the kitchen beyond. The back door stood at the opposite end of the room and the key was in the lock. When the knob turned and the door opened, h
e knew the key had been used, and he stood a moment staring down at the parking-lot, accepting the only possible conclusion but not yet be-heving it.

  He closed the door and locked it again. He went slowly back to the bedroom, his gaze absently scanning the room while he tried to bring some order to the confusion in his mind. He realized finally that the nightgown the girl had worn was missing, but since this did not make much sense he stepped to the oversized closet and opened the door. Yet even as he looked at the clothing which hung there he

  knew that he could not make an exact inventory. He could not possibly tell what, if anything, was missing.

  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 tlioughts came back to him.

  She had been locked in a shuttered 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 o£Bce 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. . . .