Slack tide (4 page)

"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, he 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. . . .

The car MacLaren had heard proved to be an ambulance. Its rear door stood open, and the driver and attend-

ant were sitting on the stringpiece having a cigarette when he came out on the dock. They were, it seemed, waiting for the medical examiner, and presently he came. Not wasting much time on the floating dock, he took a quick look at the body and then ordered it carried to the main dock. MacLaren asked if floodhghts would help and the doctor said yes. The glare that came when he flipped the switch seemed to make things worse for him, but it gave him a chance to get a good look at the two men who came a few minutes later.

One was a county detective by the name of Lunt, a compact, round-beUied man who might have been in his middle forties. MacLaren had never met him and did not know exactly what his job was. It was only later that he discovered that he was the state's attorney's man and as such had rather important duties in cases of this kind. The other ofiBcer was Lieutenant Terry of the state police. Attached to special services, he was a tall, thick-haired man who wore dark-rimmed glasses. MacLaren asked if they would hke to use his oflBce and Terry said no, that this was all right here, and what exactly did MacLaren know about this.

MacLaren said: "Ed found him." And then he waited while Chancy repeated the story he had aheady heard.

MacLaren filled in the rest of it, but he made no mention of the girl or his earher fight vdth Kingsley. He still did not believe that either of them had anything to do with the man's death. He knew that in the end he would probably have to tell the truth, but he wanted to find out what the medical examiner had to say before he offered any in-

formation about the incident. He was aware that he might later be charged with comphcity. But he did not see how this could change anything. For all he knew, Kingsley might have sufiFered a heart attack and drowned. If so, it might be said that the fight induced this condition. If this was true, there was nothing MacLaren could do about it, nor could he see how he had much to lose by remaining silent.

"We might have a look at that dinghy, Sergeant," Terry said. "Do you think you could bring it in?"