Slack Tide

by George Harmon Coxe

  He still did not know why she had fled, but he worried no more about his decision to wait until morning before telling the truth. Instead, his mind went back to the moment when the block of wood had hit Kingsley. He saw, in fancy, the man turn and dive over the dinghy, and surface to strike out after it. Kingsley had not been unconscious then, which meant that unless there had been some delayed reaction he must have suffered an additional blow to make the wound the medical examiner had mentioned. If this was so, it meant that Kingsley had safely reached the other shore and had been struck down by someone on the island. Not necessarily by someone who lived there—though this seemed most likely—but by some person who was on the island at the time.

  Having come this far in his hypothesis, it now followed that since Kingsley’s body had been found in the water, the blow must have been struck at, or near, the shoreline. If so, then he had either fallen in or he had been pushed.

  Unable to find any other alternative at the moment, MacLaren’s imagination moved on to consider the catwalk and the cruiser, and suddenly, his curiosity now too compelling to ignore, he rose and pulled his sweater back in place, took a flashlight from a drawer, and left the room.

  Downstairs the showroom was dark, and he left it that way as he let himself out the door. Standing a moment to let his eyes become accustomed to the semi-darkness left by the lopsided moon, he glanced at the house across the way. Light glowed from two, widely separated, upstairs windows, but the ground floor was dark, and this in itself was reassuring as he moved to the floating dock and stepped into the skiff. When he pushed off, he used the oars instead of the motor and there was no sound but the faint rasping of the rowlocks as he headed for the island.

  In the back of his mind was the thought that he might find the weapon that injured Kingsley on the catwalk or aboard the cruiser. Without knowing what manner of weapon this might be, he nevertheless constructed a hypothetical situation that seemed to fit the circumstances, and when he had tied up the skiff, he stepped up on the end of the catwalk.

  Two strides brought him opposite the stern of the cruiser, and he paused a moment to glance into the shadowy cockpit and inspect the closed door which led to the owner’s stateroom. Moving slowly forward, he came now to the deckhouse door. This stood open and he stepped aboard, one hand finding the grab rail. He could feel the craft rock slightly with his weight, and he ducked his head as he stepped inside.

  The interior seemed dark after the moonlight, but he did not want to use his flashlight until he could shield the lens in some way, so he turned left toward the wheel and the controls which stood to the right of the companionway leading to the forward stateroom. Then, before he could complete his first step, the overhead fell in on him.

  He had heard nothing, felt nothing, sensed nothing. His preoccupation with his thoughts had short-circuited such warning devices as instinct and intuition, and it simply had not occurred to him that anyone else might be aboard.

  The blow on the back of the head was not a severe one, but it was none the less effective. The impact stunned him momentarily, and because he was off balance he went down, the flashlight jarring from his fingers and rolling away from him.

  He landed on hands and knees and was at once aware of the sudden rush of movement behind him. When he felt the boat rock again he knew that someone had jumped from the outer deck to the catwalk. In spite of the pain radiating from the back of his head, his mind cleared quickly. He knew that whoever had struck him had a head start and, instead of springing to his feet and following blindly, he groped for the flashlight.

  This may have been a mistake, because he wasted two or three seconds locating it, and by the time he looked out the deckhouse door there was nothing to be seen, no sound to be heard. By then he seemed to understand that further pursuit would be useless, and he put down the desire to turn on the flashlight and spray its beam across the island. There was a chance he might pick out something in the distance, but in doing so the light might well attract attention from the house and this was something he wanted to avoid.

  For another few seconds he stood where he was, scanning the half-lit landscape, the resentment growing in him as he grudgingly accepted his failure. When he explored the back of his head, his fingers found a small swelling, but there was no blood and he could find no sign that the skin had been broken. This made him wonder what he had been hit with, and now his mind came back to the thought that had brought him here in the first place: he had come to see if he could find a weapon, so why not get at it?

  Moving over to the chart table, he took out his handkerchief and folded it twice before placing it across the lens of the flashlight. He found that it still worked, and the resulting glow seemed sufficiently diffused so that it would not be noticed from the house. It was then, before he could move away, that he heard the sound.

  Had it not been so still, MacLaren might not have heard it at all, but now, his nerves still tight and his instincts aroused, he was sure of it even though he could not identify it. All he knew was that it had come not from outside but from somewhere on the boat, a soft thudding noise that sounded as if someone had bumped against a bulkhead or the overhead.

  He had been aboard several times talking to Danaher, and he traced the layout in his mind before he moved. Starting with the stern, he visualized the cockpit, the owner’s cabin with its double and single berths, the head, and shower. A companionway ladder, under which was the generator and the motor for the electrical system, led to the deckhouse where he now stood. Forward, on the port side, another companionway led to a galley and a second head. Beyond was another double cabin and then a bulkhead which separated this from the crew’s quarters, which could be reached only from a deck hatch. Because the sound he had heard seemed to have come from below and somewhere toward the bow, MacLaren stepped round the chart table and went below. The galley was empty. The door enclosing the head was ajar, and he pushed it open to make sure no one was there. The door to the forward stateroom was also closed, and now, still holding the folded handkerchief over the flashlight, he turned the knob and eased the door open.

  The portside berth was empty and neatly made. It was as he craned his neck round the edge of the door that he saw her huddled in the corner made by the forward bulkhead and the boat’s side.

  In the first moment of his surprise, MacLaren saw only the white strained face and the fear-widened eyes that stared back at him. One hand covered her mouth as though she was afraid that without it some involuntary cry might escape her; the other was braced against the edge of the chest which separated the two berths. Not realizing that she had not yet recognized him, he stepped round the door, and this frightened her still more as she cringed in the corner.

  “It’s okay,” he said, when he could find his voice. “It’s me—MacLaren.”

  Even then there was no immediate reaction, no movement of her body. He still did not understand how she had got here or why she had remained, but he saw that she was dressed in a skirt and blouse. A light blanket which apparently had covered her had been kicked aside, and her legs were tucked up under her. Her shoes were on the deck. Her jacket had been folded on the chest and a small overnight case stood near by.

  When there was still no reaction, he put down the impulse to speak comfortingly, and his voice was blunt. “Pull yourself together,” he said. “Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

  Slowly then, he saw her start to respond. She lowered the hand which had covered her mouth and the marks of her fingers remained on the skin. She let go of the chest. He could see her swallow and her breasts rose as she took a slow labored breath.

  “Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know—I thought—” She swallowed and tried again, but this time MacLaren cut her off as he remembered what she had done to him.

  “You ran out on me,” he said. “Why?”

  “I had to.”

  MacLaren didn’t believe her. He said so. He reminded her that he had given her help when she needed it. He had provided a place for he
r to stay until morning, and he repeated his earlier statement that there were laws to protect a wife’s interests from an angry husband.

  Traces of shock still remained in the corners of her eyes, but he had her attention now, and she sat up and put her feet on the floor. When she had pulled her skirt down over her knees, she looked at him.

  “You just don’t understand Oliver,” she said. “You don’t know what money can do. He had a doctor examine me in New York. He told him a lot of things about me that weren’t true. He could find other doctors who might say that I should be committed to some institution. You just don’t know,” she said.

  MacLaren did not argue with her. He thought she was exaggerating, but he also knew that in her own mind she was speaking the truth. He knew he had to tell her what had happened to Kingsley, but there were other things that he wanted to find out first, and now he rose and pulled the curtains across the ports so that no light would show from the cabin.

  “All right,” he said. “How long have you been here?”

  “I—I don’t know. What time is it now?”

  “Nearly three. You sneaked down the back stairs. What time was that?”

  “I think it was about an hour after you left,” she said. “It could have been less. I’m not sure.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “I swam.”

  “You what?” MacLaren said in quick amazement.

  “I had to. It was the only way. I didn’t have any money or any clothes—”

  “Wait a minute.”

  MacLaren took a small breath and shook his head. He needed time to digest what he had just heard and to prepare himself for what was to follow. He sat down on the berth opposite her, and suddenly he remembered that the wet nightgown the girl had been wearing when he took her to his apartment had been missing when he went back to look for her. She had obviously put it back on again and— He let the thought hang and resorted once more to words.

  “You put that wet gown back on again. You swam over here. Why?”

  “I had to have clothes. I had to have money. I thought there was a good chance I could get them. If I had been able to get back to the village, I could have hired a car to take me to New Haven. From there I could have got to New York somehow, before Oliver knew where I was.”

  She leaned forward slightly, intent on making him understand.

  “I have a key to the town house,” she said. “There were some things I wanted to get. It wouldn’t have taken long, and then I could have got a plane—” She paused and said: “I have a brother in Texas. I knew that once I got there, there was nothing Oliver could do about it.”

  The fact that she was dressed now was proof enough that she had been partly successful, and MacLaren said: “How did you get in the house?”

  “The back stairs. I got to the house without being seen, and when I looked through the living-room windows, I could see Carla, and Neil, and Earl, and some blonde I had never seen before. They were playing bridge. I couldn’t see Oliver or Harry Danaher—”

  As she hesitated, MacLaren thought: You didn’t see Oliver because he was dead. And now it came to him, as he visualized the difficulties that had confronted her, that Ruth Kingsley had a lot of courage, as well as the determination to match it.

  “But there were no lights on the second floor, and I knew I had to take a chance,” she said. “I went up the back way and down the hall to the closet where they had put my clothes. I changed right in the closet and packed this bag”—she indicated the overnight case—“along with what little money I could find. I got out without being seen, but then when I got down here—”

  She stopped and lowered her head slightly, her gaze fastening on her hands, which lay at ease in her lap. When she did not continue, MacLaren said: “So, why didn’t you keep going?”

  “The dinghy was gone.”

  “But didn’t you know that when you swam over here?”

  “No, because it was here then. Right out by the catwalk.”

  MacLaren peered at her while the confusion grew in his mind.

  “The dinghy was here when you swam over. When you came back a few minutes later it was gone?”

  “That’s right.”

  MacLaren accepted the statement because there was no alternative. When he could find no answers to the questions that began to pile up in his mind, he said: “What’d you do then?”

  “I cried.” The green eyes came up slowly and the suggestion of a smile touched the corners of her mouth. “Maybe I swore a little. I was so sure everything would be all right, and then—” She shrugged and gave a small sigh of resignation.

  “So you came aboard here,” MacLaren said.

  “There was no place else to go. I knew that no one was ever down here around the boat at night, not even Harry. I was sure no one would look for me here, and I thought if I could get up early in the morning, the dinghy might be back, or if it wasn’t, I might be able to attract the attention of someone in the boatyard who could ferry me across.”

  “You came here,” MacLaren said, wanting to be sure he had everything straight. “You crawled up in that berth and went to sleep. You didn’t hear anything after that?”

  “Not until just now. I guess I was pretty exhausted.”

  MacLaren believed she was telling the truth; otherwise she would have heard him when he brought Terry and Lunt to the island and, later, returned them to the mainland.

  “I woke up with a start,” she said. “I thought I heard something fall.”

  “You did,” MacLaren said. “It was me.”

  “Oh? Well—it was pitch black in here and I forgot where I was. When I started to sit up I bumped my head. Then I suddenly realized that someone else had come aboard. I was petrified. I didn’t know what to do or—”

  MacLaren cut her off. “Sure,” he said. And then, because he knew he had to break the news, he said: “You won’t have to worry about your husband any more, Ruth. He’s dead.”

  He saw the growing horror in her face as the words penetrated, the sudden incredulity in her eyes. He gave her no chance to interrupt. Hunching forward, elbows on knees, he continued quickly, his voice controlled but intent as he told her what had happened. He spoke of Ed Chaney’s discovery and the circumstances surrounding it. He explained how Sergeant Wyre had come upon the scene, and related the highlights of the investigation that had followed. When he finished, he was out of breath, and only then did the girl speak.

  In a voice drained of all emotion, a voice so small he could hardly hear, she said: “Then I killed him.”

  “No.”

  She sighed and shook her head. She lifted her chin and looked right at him. “You don’t have to try to make it easier for me, Donald,” she said.

  She had never used his given name before and something about the sound of it, the quiet way she accepted her liability, shook him strangely, and it was no longer easy to keep his voice level.

  “I’m not making it easier for you,” he said. “What we did couldn’t have killed him.”

  “I hit him on the head,” she said, unpersuaded. “With a heavy piece of wood—”

  “It wasn’t heavy,” MacLaren argued. “It was a piece of two-by-four. It wasn’t more than six inches long, if that.”

  “The police aren’t going to believe that any more than I do,” she said. “They’re looking for me now, aren’t they?”

  “Sure they’re looking for you.”

  “And you haven’t told them about us? You didn’t tell them that you took me up to your apartment? That I ran away?”

  “I wanted to talk to you first.”

  “And I’m grateful. But there isn’t any point in my hiding now, is there?”

  MacLaren started to speak; then stopped as he sensed that this was not the time to try to argue.

  He rose abruptly and picked up her overnight case. “Put your shoes on,” he said flatly. “Grab your jacket. Let’s get out of here.”

  He led her topside, and she made no fur
ther comment as they got into the skiff and he pushed off. Neither spoke as he rowed across to the floating dock and tied up. Not until he led the way to the showroom door did she stop and put her hand on his arm.

  “I thought we were going to the police station or barracks, or wherever it is we go.”

  “In the morning.” MacLaren opened the door and motioned her inside. “Give me your hand,” he said, “so we won’t have to turn on a light down here.”

  When they were upstairs and the light was on, she said: “Isn’t this going to make it worse for you?”

  “We may be in a little trouble for not telling the truth in the first place,” MacLaren said, “but I don’t see how a few more hours is going to make much difference.”

  He carried her case into the bedroom and put it down. When she followed him, he stepped close to her and put his hands lightly on her elbows. He could feel the green eyes scanning his face, and when he met them, he saw that they were grave and concerned, like his own.

  “If you’re lucky you can get three or four hours sleep. There’s just one thing. Are you going to stay here this time until I come back, or do I lock both doors and take the keys with me?”

  The corners of her mouth moved as she stepped back, but her gaze was still forthright. “You can take the keys if you want to,” she said, “but you don’t have to. Now that I know what happened and what you did for me, I’ll never run again.”

  8

  BOATYARD SOUNDS—men’s voices, the creak and clank of the marine railway, the distant whine of a power saw—awakened MacLaren the next morning, and the minute he heard them he knew he had overslept. Not by much—his watch told him it was a quarter of eight—but this in itself was unusual, and it took him another few seconds to recall what had happened the night before. Until then, he had wanted to stay right where he was. Now, aware of the trouble that he would shortly have to face, he jumped from the cot and stepped into his trousers. With shoes, shirt, and sweater in hand, he left the office and crossed the showroom to the stairs.