Slack tide (21 page)

If she found anything odd in Harry Danaher's position on the floor and his bandaged arm, she took it in stride. She had but one thought in mind, and with no more than a glance at the others in the room, she said:

"Didn't you hear the bell ringing for the dinghy? It rang twice. . . . What's the matter with you, Harry? Aren't you going to get Neil?"

The remarks were so much in character yet so incongruous under the circumstances that MacLaren laughed. It was not a hearty laugh and it had a nervous quahty that was born of his reaction. But it served its purpose. It shattered the tension and quieted his mind, and his voice was persuasive as he turned to Carla and Ruth.

"You'd better go get Neil, Carla," he said. "You know how to start the motor. Are you the one who cut the telephone wires?"

"Yes." Carla dropped her glance and shook her head shghtly. "I must have been out of my mind. I guess I was, actually."

"All right," MacLaren said. "When you get over to the dock use that pay telephone and call the pofice."

She started to turn away, then stopped. She put her

hand on his arm and looked up at him, and now there was a mistiness in the dark eyes that he had never seen before. Her mouth was trembhng, and she made an obvious effort to still it before she spoke.

"Thanks, Don."

He knew what she meant and it embarrassed him. He patted her hand hghtly and managed a smile.

"Forget it," he said. "The poHce would probably have worked it out anyway."

"Not the way Harry had it planned. I wouldn't have had a chance. I just want you to know I'm grateful."

She turned quickly then and followed Lucille into the hall, and now MacLaren was aware that Ruth was watching him. Her eyes were shyly inquisitive as he looked into them and the curve of her mouth seemed softly content.

"Harry and I will sit it out until the police get here," he said gently, turning her toward the door. "Will you wait for me in the hving-room?"

"Yes, Donald."

He said he didn't think it would be too long and she said it didn't matter. His hand was still on her arm, and now she covered the hand with her own and pressed it warmly. For another second or two they stood that way, their eyes still steady and unwavering as they looked at each other. Then the moment passed and she was going through the door and he turned back to give his attention to Harry Danaher.

A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR

George Harmon Coxe was bom in Olean, New York, and spent his youth there and in near-by Elmira. After a year at Purdue and one at Cornell, he spent five years with newspapers in California, Florida, and New York, then did advertising for a New England printer for five years more. Since that time he has devoted himself entirely to writing—for two years with Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, the rest of the time as a free lance, selling numerous short stories, novelettes, and serials to magazines as well as to moving-picture, radio and television producers.

He is a past president of the Mystery Writers of America.