Slack Tide

by George Harmon Coxe

  “I guess that will be all for now,” he said. “Unless you have something else on your mind.”

  “Nothing that can’t wait,” Terry said. To MacLaren and the girl he added: “We want to get this on paper, so you’ll have to come down to the barracks with us. You can wait with the sergeant while we go over to the island and collect the crew over there.”

  “Will it take long?” MacLaren asked.

  “It’ll take awhile,” Terry said noncommittally. “It’ll depend on what we find out and what the state’s attorney wants to do after he has checked the statements.”

  “What I meant was,” MacLaren said, “should I call a lawyer?”

  “Do you think you need one?”

  He did not wait for an answer but started for the stairs, followed by Lunt. MacLaren, wondering if he had spoken out of turn, looked at the girl and said that he doubted if they would need a lawyer, but, in case they did, there was a local man he could get. He took her jacket and held it for her, and she smiled at him before she turned and slipped into it. To Wyre he said:

  “Is it okay if she rides with me?”

  Wyre put on his hat, considered the question, and shook his head.

  “Maybe it would be better if she rode with me,” he said. “You can follow in your own car if you like. Chances are some of you will be down there longer than others anyway.”

  He moved aside to let MacLaren and the girl go ahead of him. When they started down, he closed the door and followed.

  9

  THE SESSION with the state’s attorney was not as bad as MacLaren had expected. The station itself was a remodeled farmhouse, and the office of the lieutenant-in-charge was on the immediate right as he entered. Opposite this, and extending for half the depth of the building, was what looked not unlike a bank. There were counters and grills and windows behind which were several business machines and teletype equipment. Except for the fact that the men and women who worked there were in uniform, it might have been a commercial enterprise rather than a police station.

  In back of this was the radio room, and across the hall were three connecting rooms, the first being sort of a waiting room, while the other two were for interrogation, at least that morning.

  MacLaren was the first to be questioned, and a uniformed policewoman took down his statement. While it was being typed, the state’s attorney made it clear that he did not approve of MacLaren’s lack of co-operation the night before. He was told not to discuss the case with newspaper people, and it was intimated that certain charges might still be filed against him.

  He had no chance to be alone with Ruth Kingsley and the best that he could do was to draw her aside in the waiting room and ask if she intended to go back to the island or whether she would like a room at the Inn. When she said that she would prefer to stay at the Inn if they had room, he said he would make the reservation for her. Then, because he was not sure when he would see her again, he said:

  “I generally have dinner there. Couldn’t we do it together tonight?”

  The green eyes gave him a moment of serious regard before he saw the acquiescence in them. “I think I’d like that.”

  “Good,” he said. “I’ll call you.”

  He did not see her after that; neither could he get any idea as to how long she might have to remain here. When he had signed his statement, he was told that he could go back to the yard, and that is what he did after brushing aside four reporters who were waiting on the front steps.

  MacLaren got a room for Ruth Kingsley and brought her bag over from his apartment so she would have it when she arrived. He had lunch here and he took his time with it. When she still did not put in an appearance, he went reluctantly back to work.

  He kept busy until nearly four o’clock and he was on his way back to the main dock when he saw the car pull into the parking-space. Recognizing the occupants, he walked over to greet a couple from Springfield who rented one of the boat slips. He had put their cruiser in the water on Monday, and now he walked with them to the catwalk and went aboard briefly while they inspected his work and told of their plans to make some day cruises over the weekend. It was as he moved back along the bulkhead and looked at the Annabelle III that a new thought came to him. He stopped opposite the stern, brow furrowing as he asked himself why he had not considered the possibility before, and then a partial answer came to him. He had been too worried, too concerned with other matters, to remember that the cocky little skipper of the ancient craft might be a helpful witness.

  The man called Lew had gone fishing last night not too long before his light with Kingsley. MacLaren had not seen him return, but he suddenly realized that the man might have seen or heard something that would substantiate his contention that Kingsley had reached the island alive.

  He could not remember having seen either Lew or Nick that day, but his mind was busy now and he moved out on the catwalk. He could see that the deckhouse doors were closed. A tug at the knob told him that they were also locked. A deck hatch forward was dogged part-way open and he moved up to kneel and call down into the darkness below.

  Satisfied that no one was aboard, he straightened, still frowning. It seemed now that this idea of his should be passed along to Sergeant Wyre, but even as the thought occurred to him, his glance moved on beyond the point of the island and he saw what looked like a solitary sun bather on the beach facing the river.

  A second look told him that the bather was a woman and, forgetting Wyre for the moment, he obeyed the impulse that followed. Back at the floating dock, he pushed off in the skiff and cranked the motor, steering for the point and then briefly up-river before he swung the bow inshore. He tilted the motor and locked it as he cut the power. He took off his rubber soles and socks and called out, and now a blond head lifted to give him an over-the-shoulder look.

  “Could you stand a little company?” he asked.

  The answer came promptly when Lucille Baron recognized him. “I most certainly could.” She sat up and gave a hike to the top of her swim suit. She watched him pull the skiff onto the beach, and when he sat down, she said: “I was about to start talking to myself.”

  She had been lying on a beach mat and now she pushed her legs straight out and propped her torso upright on stiff arms. She was wearing a white one-piece suit that seemed a little short in the crotch and had a skin-tight look all the way to the top, and after a brief but comprehensive inspection, MacLaren revised somewhat his earlier estimate of her physical attributes. She was still a little thin for his taste, but there were some very nice curves here and there. Much attention had apparently been given to her long, slim legs, because the oil-anointed skin was glistening and flawless in the afternoon sun. Dark glasses obscured her eyes and most of the immaculately shaved and penciled brows, but he could tell she was making a thorough inspection of his face, and suddenly he was curious about this girl and wanted to know more about her.

  “When did the police let you out?” he said.

  “Not long after you left. I was back in time for lunch. I had a little nap, but it was such a nice day I decided to come down here and soak up a little sun.”

  “Where are the others?”

  She leaned forward a little to take the weight off her arms; then waved one arm toward the opposite end of the island.

  “Earl’s down there somewhere painting. I don’t know where Neil is; I haven’t seen him. Carla took the Mercedes into New York, but she said she’d be back before dinner.”

  MacLaren offered cigarettes and she took one, pulling her legs in so she was now sitting cross-legged. The top of the suit slipped a little as she leaned forward to accept a light, but she did not seem aware of this, and MacLaren had an idea that it would not have bothered her very much in any case.

  “Are you a model?” he asked.

  “How did you guess?” she said with a smile.

  “I don’t know.” MacLaren considered the tip of his cigarette a moment; then grinned at her. “I never knew a model, but you look like
I think a model ought to look.”

  “And how is that?”

  “Well—tall, slender, and very smooth.”

  “I think I like that. Especially that smooth bit.”

  “What do you model?”

  “I guess you’d put me in the high-fashion class. But I have done a little of everything. Underwear first, in the garment district. Then bathing-suits, cheap dresses, better dresses, suits, coats. My agent did a good job for me. Today, if you wanted me, it would cost you sixty dollars an hour.”

  MacLaren squinted at her to see if she was kidding and decided she was not.

  “Sixty dollars an hour? Wow!” He could see that she was pleased at his obvious surprise. “How many hours a week do you work?”

  “Oh—I can average three or four hundred dollars a week. Occasionally five.”

  She spoke matter-of-factly, but with some pride, and she was still watching him. When she stubbed her cigarette out in the sand, he saw the diamond glisten on her left hand and that diverted his thoughts in another channel.

  “How long had you known Kingsley?”

  “About two months. Actually I was a friend of Neil’s first. I mean—we’d been going around a bit together.”

  “But not seriously.”

  “Not really. I liked Neil all right. He was good fun and he knew the right restaurants and night clubs and when you were with him you didn’t have to look at the right side of the menu before you ordered. At that I doubt if I ever thought about marrying him. He never impressed me as being a heavyweight or having much backbone. He was just a little too elegant for my tastes. He was the one who introduced me to Oliver. After that, well”—she fllittered one hand—“Oliver just sort of took over.”

  “You didn’t know about Ruth?”

  “I most certainly did not.”

  “But you were ready and willing to marry him.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. Were you in love with him?”

  “Not wildly. I’d been married before. Quite a while ago. It didn’t last. But this was different. Oliver had a lot more to offer to anyone who could manage him. I thought maybe I could. I loved him with reservations, and I thought if things worked out I might be able to love him more.”

  She fluffed the ends of her tinted hair, and her brow was faintly furrowed with thought. She looked down at the front of her suit and gave the top of it a perfunctory hike.

  “I’m no different from any other girl,” she said. “I’d like a successful marriage, yes. I’d like children and a home too, and I know I won’t be young and slim forever. Neither will I get many chances to make a marriage like that one could have been.”

  “You knew his reputation, didn’t you?”

  “Certainly.”

  “You knew he slapped people around.”

  “He wouldn’t have slapped me,” she said decisively. “At least not more than once. I went over that very carefully with Oliver before we made any agreement.”

  She moistened her lips. “I have a brother who’s a detective with the New York police. When I told him I was going to marry Oliver, he went around to see him. He’s six foot one and weighs two hundred and ten pounds and he spelled it all out for Oliver. He said if Oliver ever knocked me around he’d wind up in an alley with a broken leg. My brother wouldn’t touch him himself, but he has friends that owe him favors. Tough friends. All he would ever have to do would be to pass the word and it wouldn’t make any difference how much money Oliver had.”

  She paused and said: “I think Oliver was very impressed. He told me about it one evening, and he was a little hurt to think that I could doubt him. He said he didn’t slap women around, only men. He’d had three marriages that didn’t work out, but he promised that this one would. He said his other wives took advantage of him, that all they ever wanted anyway was money. He made it sound pretty convincing, and I thought it was worth a try. Of course,” she added with some bitterness, “he was lying a little even then, because he’d told me that Ruth was already in Reno.”

  “Was there any pre-marital agreement?”

  She did not answer immediately. Instead she tipped her head. She gave him a moment of narrow-lidded regard, and an odd smile touched her red mouth.

  “You know something?” she said. “You’re a very nosy guy.”

  “Me?”

  “Always questions. Why this, why that? Where were you on the night of December twelfth?”

  MacLaren grinned at her and was suddenly aware of the basic truth of her statement. His questions were personal and prying. He wanted information and he wanted to know more about this girl, but he was unable to say why he took it for granted that he would be answered. What he did not know was that he had an engaging and friendly personality, plus some native and ingrown knack of talking to a woman—or a man for that matter—in such a way that she did not resent his curiosity but took it as a personal interest and was somehow flattered by his attention and his consideration of her problems. It was a wonderful approach because usually his interest was genuine rather than contrived, but he did not realize this; all he knew was that he liked people generally and seldom had trouble gaining their confidence. Now, because he could find no satisfactory response, he simply let his grin widen and persisted with calm good humor.

  “Was there?” he said.

  “Was there what?”

  “A settlement.”

  She took a long, even breath and shook her head. When she finally exhaled, there was resignation in the sound, but the glints of amusement still showed in her eyes.

  “Yes, if you have to know. At least there was going to be one. If I ever became his widow, naturally I’d inherit my share of the estate, but if there was a divorce, I was to get a flat one hundred thousand with him paying all attorney’s fees and expenses.”

  MacLaren had an idea that she would have had as good a chance as anyone to make a go of marriage with Kingsley. For she impressed him as a very self-reliant young woman who had a mind of her own and knew best how to get what she wanted. He did not know how old she was—his guess was about twenty-four or -five—but in many ways she seemed older and more experienced than the years would indicate. She was willing to gamble on marriage because, if successful, the rewards would probably be more than adequate. If she failed she would be well paid for her effort.

  “Well—you’ve still got the ring,” he said.

  She held her hand up and examined the solitaire with interest. “Yes,” she said, “that and a mink stole. I’m also upset, confused, annoyed, and resentful,” she added bluntly.

  “I still can’t believe it. It’s not that I feel like going into deep mourning. Maybe I didn’t know him well enough for that. Maybe it’s because I’m too frustrated to feel any other honest emotion,” she said. “I don’t know what happened to him or how or why; all I know is that I would like to get my hands on the one who did it.”

  MacLaren said he could understand her reaction, that he didn’t blame her for feeling like that. He stood up to brush the sand off his trousers; then his head cocked at the sound of an outboard motor coming to life from the direction of Kingsley’s cruiser. Apparently Danaher was about to meet someone on the dock, and MacLaren found himself hoping that it would be Carla Lewis because he wanted to talk to her too.

  “Will you be around for a while?” he said to Lucille.

  “I’ll be around,” she said. “By special request. A pointed suggestion was made to the effect that I stay around as a guest here until the state’s attorney gives me the word.”

  MacLaren said that he could think of worse things and if she got too bored why didn’t she come over and see him. “We might have a drink,” he said, “and talk some more.”

  She gave him a small salute as he pushed the skiff into the water and stepped aboard. She was smiling again now, and she said it might not be a bad idea and she would keep it in mind.

  10

  BY THE TIME MacLaren had rounded the point and come back into the in
let, the Kingsley dinghy was again tied up at the catwalk, and he came alongside and made the skiff fast. Hailing the cruiser and getting no answer, he started for the house. He was halfway there when he met Danaher carrying a can of beer.

  “Did you just bring someone over?” he asked.

  “Carla.”

  “Anyone else at the house?”

  “I didn’t see anybody.”

  The living-room was empty. So was the dining-room, and after a moment’s hesitation, MacLaren started up the stairs. He knew which room was Carla’s from the night before, and as he approached it, he saw that the door was slightly ajar.

  He knocked, stuck his head inside. His glance took in the spacious, feminine-looking room and found it momentarily empty. Another door at one side, apparently leading into the bathroom, also stood ajar, and when he heard someone moving beyond he called out.

  “Carla! … Hey, Carla!”

  The sound of running water stopped. The door opened another foot and Carla Lewis appeared in a figured robe. In his first glimpse MacLaren decided there was very little underneath the robe but Carla, and she closed the front of it just in time.

  “Oh, oh!” Her lower lip sagged in her surprise and her dark eyes blinked at him. “I thought I heard someone—”

  “Sorry,” MacLaren said. “Harry said he’d just brought you over and I wanted to talk to you. I—I’ll wait downstairs.”

  Carla, having mastered her surprise, smiled at him. “Why?”

  “Well—I thought—”

  “I just came back from the city and I need a shower. It won’t take me more than five minutes. Why don’t you go down and make us drinks? By the time you get back I should be ready. Scotch for me please, with soda.”

  MacLaren found the bar in one corner of the dining-room. A refrigerating-unit underneath yielded the ice that he needed, and a tap supplied him with water for his drink after he had added soda to Carla’s Scotch.