Slack Tide

by George Harmon Coxe

  He still wanted to search the cruiser, even though common sense told him that it was probably much too late to hope to find the weapon that had struck down Kingsley. But Danaher was working topside, so he knew any such search would again have to be postponed. Then, as his eyes moved on, he saw someone on the far side of the island and, on impulse, he went down to the skiff and cast off.

  Earl Harwell had a canvas on his easel and he sat on a camp stool, facing the mainland across the narrow strip of water separating this from the island. To the right of where the causeway had once been was an abandoned barn with a sagging roof and what remained of a split-rail fence. Harwell was trying to get this on canvas, and as MacLaren stood glancing over his shoulder, it seemed to him that the artist was doing a pretty fair job. He said “Good morning” and Harwell said “Hi,” and when there was nothing more, MacLaren squatted down beside him and gave voice to his curiosity.

  “What happens to your contract now, Earl?” he said.

  “What contract?”

  “The one that says you had to stick to serious art for two years.”

  “What business is it of yours?”

  “None. Except that I’ve been trying to figure out why anyone would sign a contract like that anyway.”

  Harwell put down his brush. He was wearing sneakers, slacks, and a paint-stained T-shirt. When he turned, his eyes were hostile behind the metal-rimmed spectacles. His customary truculence showed in his rounded face, and his voice was mildly sardonic when he replied.

  “That’s easy enough,” he said. “Did you ever hear of starving in an attic or garret? … Well, it’s not so hard to do,” he said when MacLaren nodded, “even in these times. If it hadn’t been for a dishwashing job in a restaurant that gave me three meals a day, I’d have had to quit long ago.”

  “I understand you met Kingsley at one of those sidewalk shows in the Village.”

  “For the first time, yes. He bought a street scene of mine for fifty bucks.”

  He paused, the distance growing in his eyes and a reminiscent quality beginning to show in his voice. “We had quite a talk,” he said, “and I guess he remembered it. He invited me to a party later along with a lot of other artists and would-be artists, and once he asked me to go to a Fifty-seventh Street gallery for an auction with him. After it was over we went to his place for drinks and that’s when he made the proposition.”

  He grunted softly. “I thought he was kidding. I didn’t believe it. At the time I thought it was too good to be true. I didn’t understand until later that he wasn’t actually doing this for me personally. He didn’t care a damn about me. This was just another way of indulging that colossal ego of his. Maybe I had a little talent, and if something good happened, he could take the credit. If not it didn’t make any difference to him and, meanwhile, he could pull the strings, like I was a puppet or something, and make me paint whatever happened to suit him.”

  He spat at the sand at one side of the camp stool, as though he had a bad taste in his mouth. “So the other night the odds caught up with him. Whatever happened, he had it coming. He was overdue and someone paid him off.”

  “But not you?”

  “Not me.”

  “If you knew who did it, would you tell the police?”

  “Probably not.”

  MacLaren believed this much, but because there were other things he wanted to know about Harwell, he asked another question.

  “When did you decide you wanted to be an illustrator?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. I tried it before, but I wasn’t very good at it. I figured that this other kind of painting would improve my brush work and technique but I really wasn’t set on anything at the time—I was just sort of groping.”

  “Something changed your mind?”

  Harwell looked at him then. His eyes focused and something that might have been a smile began to twist one corner of his mouth. “Something did,” he said. “A girl.”

  “Oh?”

  “To get married and do the job right, I needed the money that was due me on the contract. I also knew if I didn’t get some preliminary work done and some contacts established it might be a long haul before I could make a living as an illustrator.”

  “Kingsley found out you were cheating,” MacLaren said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Danaher told me what happened the other morning.”

  “I could have killed him,” Harwell said, with a quiet vehemence that was surprising. Then, as the impact of his statement came home to him, he said with some defiance: “But I didn’t.”

  MacLaren had other questions he wanted to ask, but when he heard footsteps in the sand and turned to see Neil Ackerman approaching, he knew they would have to be postponed.

  Ackerman wore a light-gray flannel suit, a white shirt, and a regimental striped tie. His sparse black hair that was graying at the temples was neatly combed, and the pointed mustache looked as if it had had some recent attention. In spite of his elegance, his narrow face was grim, and when he spoke his voice was abrupt.

  “If you’re going in town with me, Earl,” he said, “you’d better get with it. I’ve got a date with Lucille around eight thirty this evening and I want to get back.”

  “Sure.” Harwell stood up and started to gather his things. “Give me about fifteen minutes.”

  MacLaren said he would give Harwell a hand and he carried the collapsed easel and the camp stool to the front porch of the house. As he put them down and Harwell disappeared inside, he started for the catwalk. It was then that Ackerman stopped him.

  “MacLaren!” he said, his tone pre-emptory. “I want to talk to you…. You had one hell of a nerve snooping around that town house last night.”

  “Did I?”

  “You had no right to break in and—”

  “I didn’t break in,” MacLaren said evenly. “I went there as Mrs. Kingsley’s guest. She had a right to be there. She had a key…. Have you talked to the police?”

  “Certainly I’ve talked to the police. And if it hadn’t been for a bit of fantastic luck, those pieces would have been gone forever.”

  “If you had been on the job, you would have collected the jewelry and the other things in that safe yesterday.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you’re the co-executor aren’t you?”

  “Yes, and because of that I had other things to do. I had to talk to the bank people here. I had to go to New Haven and go over certain matters with a Connecticut law firm. I have no license to practice here, and I had to get someone to represent me. But what I want to know,” he said, his mouth tight, “is where you got the keys to that safe?”

  “Didn’t the police tell you?”

  “The police told me, all right, but I don’t believe it for one minute. If you say Ruth found those keys in the highboy in Oliver’s dressing-room, you’re a liar.”

  MacLaren’s craggy face was at ease and his dark-blue gaze was steady. He accepted the lawyer’s words with a studied calm and decided to pry a little more.

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Because I know where Oliver usually kept those keys when he was up here. In the steel drawer in his desk.”

  “Did he?”

  “If either of you had them last night, then one of you stole them.”

  “How?” MacLaren said. “When? The only time I was ever in that room was last night after you and Carla had been rowing with a gun. When I got there the drawer was open. Remember?”

  When Ackerman had digested the words and realized what they meant, some of the bluster went out of him. He could draw certain inferences from MacLaren’s logic, but he dared not put them into words. To do so would be admitting that either he or Carla had taken the keys, and in this instance he knew he was not guilty. He must have understood then that Carla had taken them, but before he could dwell on the thought, the door opened and Harwell came out, slipping on his jacket.

  “Ready?” he said. “Let’s go.”

>   MacLaren walked along with them. Nothing more was said until they reached the catwalk, and when he offered to ferry them across, they accepted.

  14

  HARRY DANAHER and Carla Lewis came across from the island a few minutes before noon. MacLaren, who was on his way back from the upstream boat shed, saw them separate at the parking-lot, Harry starting up toward the main street, and Carla getting into the station wagon.

  She gave him a smile and a wave as she turned up the hill, and he waved back before continuing up to his apartment to wash and comb his hair. After he had slipped into a jacket, he started for the Inn with one thought uppermost in his mind: that Ruth Kingsley would be there, and that she would also have lunch with him.

  The desk clerk told him that he thought Mrs. Kingsley was in the bar, and MacLaren walked through the lobby and made the proper turn. The barroom was unique in that it had never been remodeled. The heavy bar and the back bar were just as they were when they had been put in originally. The paneling was the same, though much darker now, and the wide board floors were warped and springy. It was always a dim room even at midday, and it took MacLaren a moment to see the girl. Even so, it was not until he was halfway to the corner table that he realized she had company.

  Harry Danaher sat opposite her. He was leaning over the table, his back to MacLaren, and neither of them saw him until he stopped at their elbows.

  For MacLaren, this was a terrific letdown. He did not know why this should be, nor could he explain the sudden resentment he felt for Danaher. He saw the girl’s eyes widen as she glanced up, and it seemed to him that there was both dismay and uncertainty in their depths.

  “Oh—hello,” she said.

  MacLaren said hello and for just an instant he thought he saw annoyance in Danaher’s blocky face. Then a smile came, and he was haled with a voice that seemed too hearty under the circumstances.

  “Well, well,” Danaher said. “Hi—pull up a chair. What’ll you have?”

  MacLaren had no intention of joining them. He could not understand why a girl like Ruth—at least the girl he had assumed her to be—could be having a noontime drink with Harry Danaher. He was bothered and resentful, and at the same time he knew he must try not to show it. Even though he could no longer sustain the enthusiasm that had brought him here, he nevertheless went on with his original thought.

  “No thanks, Harry.” He looked at the girl and tried to smile. “I thought we might have lunch.”

  It took her a moment to reply. She glanced at Danaher and then back at MacLaren. Dismay was still there on her face, and there was a genuine reluctance in her voice as she sighed and said:

  “I’m sorry, Donald. I’m afraid I can’t.”

  “Well,” MacLaren said, still stubborn. “Maybe you’d like to take a little ride on the river later.”

  She shook her head as he finished. She gave him a smile, but it was a fixed smile and seemed strange and artificial. This time when she replied, her voice was light, brittle, and patently humorous.

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” she said. “After drinks and lunch I always get sleepy. I think a nap would be more in order…. Sorry,” she said, and this time it sounded as if she meant it.

  She watched him move away, and in that moment it took a definite effort on her part to keep from bursting into tears. She had seen the look of hurt on his face, had watched it turn to disappointment as he reacted to her rebuff. She would never forget what he had done for her and the trouble she had caused him. It had been a long time since she had been so attracted to a man, and she wanted very much to run after him and tell him she hadn’t meant what she said.

  But she had no choice. She had to get rid of him. She couldn’t have him sitting down and joining them for a drink with all this turmoil in her mind and the fear still working on her.

  She could not have been more surprised when Harry Danaher called her a half hour before and said that he had to see her. She had never particularly liked Harry, and the days of imprisonment in the shuttered room had done nothing to improve her opinion of the man. She had told him frankly that she would rather not see him, but he had been insistent and, looking back on it, a little threatening. Something in his voice and its overtones set up an odd intuitive reaction within her, and in the end she had agreed to meet him here.

  He was waiting at this corner table when she came into the room, an empty cocktail glass in front of him. He ordered another Martini when she sat down and asked what she would have. At the moment she did not want a drink, but for some reason she was reluctant to refuse, and so she told the waiter she would have one too, but to pour it on the rocks.

  Now, fifteen minutes later, her drink untouched, and upset by the things she had seen in MacLaren’s face, she still found it hard to comprehend the proposition Danaher had made. She felt sure that what he said was true, but she was emotionally shaken by the cold-blooded way he had stated his case.

  “I know about that business on the dock the night you ran away,” he had said, “and I know that right now the cops are trying to pin the job on you.”

  “I didn’t kill Oliver,” she had said, with a positiveness she did not feel.

  “You mean you hope you didn’t kill him. So how much would it be worth to you to be sure?”

  She had stared at him then, unable to guess just what he was trying to say. She saw the sly gleam in his eyes and had listened with growing concern as he continued.

  “You say you didn’t kill him. If I say you didn’t—and I think I can prove it if I have to—you’ll be in the clear for good.”

  “But if you knew,” she had said, her voice rising before she could control it, “why didn’t you tell the police?”

  “What difference does it make now? Maybe I’ve got a bad memory. Maybe I was thinking about being out of a job, and wondering where I’d get the stake I need to buy my charter boat.”

  She finally understood exactly what he meant, but she had to hear him say it.

  “You want to get paid for telling the truth.”

  “Now you’ve got the message.”

  “If you don’t get paid, you’re ready to let me be arrested for murder—even though you know I’m innocent.”

  He must have seen the look of loathing in her face, because the sly gleam went away, and she could see his features harden as his brows came down.

  “And don’t think it will do you any good running to the cops and telling them I propositioned you. I’ll deny it, and you’ll sound pretty silly after you have to admit that Kingsley told everybody you had stripped your gears, that he was going to send you away for mental treatment.”

  They had gone that far when MacLaren had appeared. Now Danaher was at ease again. He asked if she was going to drink her Martini and when she said no, he reached for it.

  “You were talking about standing trial for murder,” he said. “And if it was a question of going to the chair that would be one thing.” He grinned at her. “You’re too nice a kid for that. But they can never make this anything more than manslaughter, and with MacLaren in the act you’d probably beat the rap. The thing is, the trial might be messy. People might talk for a long, long time. I’m giving you a chance to get clean.”

  She knew then that he meant exactly what he said. She also knew that if there was no other way out she would pay—if she could.

  “All right,” she said, “how much do you want?”

  “I was thinking maybe fifteen thousand.”

  “And where would I get it?”

  “You’ll have a wad when the estate is settled.”

  “I haven’t got it now.”

  “Didn’t Kingsley give you some stock for a wedding present?”

  This, she saw, was the solution, and she was grateful now that MacLaren had insisted on going to the city last night.

  “I have four hundred shares of National Aluminum. It’s quoted somewhere around forty.”

  “Sixteen thousand?” Danaher’s eyes brightened and he gulped a swallow of his dr
ink. “Perfect. Is it in your name? Can you get your hands on it?”

  “I have it now.”

  “With you?”

  “No, but I can get it.”

  “Okay. So you endorse the certificate and have your signature witnessed either by the bank or a notary public. That way it’s as good as cash as far as I’m concerned.” He hesitated and there was an edge in his voice when she made no reply. “Well, is it a deal, or not?”

  Again she hesitated, not because she did not want to pay him, but because she did not trust him.

  “How do I know you’re not just making this up?” she asked. “How can I be sure you know what really happened?”

  “I’ll tell you. I was aboard the cruiser when Kingsley came back. Somebody met him and there was an argument. I couldn’t see much but I could hear and I know who it was. I know somebody reached into the cockpit and grabbed the fire extinguisher from the bracket. I could hear a blow and then somebody fell and a few seconds later there was a splash. I don’t know if Kingsley fell off the catwalk or whether he was pushed, but a little later, when I came out of the deckhouse, he was gone.

  “Sometime before morning,” he said, “the guy must have thought about that extinguisher. I think he went back aboard and threw it into the inlet but by that time it was too late. He threw the wrong one because I’d already taken care of the one that did the job and put it somewhere else. I don’t see any of this, you understand?” he said. “But that extinguisher was missing in the morning and that’s how it has to be.”

  “And you can prove this?”

  “I was in the CID for a while when I was in the army. I took some courses in criminology. I think there are fingerprints on that extinguisher and if there are they belong—at least some of them belong—to the person who slugged your husband, because I cleaned the extinguisher earlier in the day. There’s a brown stain on one end with a couple of hairs stuck in it, and any good police laboratory can not only lift the prints but prove the stain is the same blood type as your husband’s.”