He heard the slug hit the side of the house a foot from his head before he heard the sound of it.
At no time did he see anything, and what he did was instinctive. He had been shot at before in Korea and his reflexes were good. Half expecting a second shot, he dropped instantly, and as he hit the ground, it came.
He heard the thud in the shingles above him, and he stayed right where he was, his nerves still tight but his mind working furiously. He tried to see along the path and could not. There may have been the sound of someone moving in the brush, but he could not be sure and he did not hear it again.
For another half minute he lay still, his ears sharply tuned, his eyes watchful. When he decided to get up, he did not tarry. One continuous movement brought him to his feet and wheeled him toward the door and then he was inside the kitchen. He could hear the thudding of his heart now. He could feel the moisture in his palms, and for a moment or two he tried to flex some of the stiffness from his muscles. All this was pure physical reaction and it took him awhile to activate his mind, to realize there had been no sound from the room upstairs.
In that same instant the odd fear struck at him again and he hurried to the narrow staircase and started up. The silence ahead of him served only to increase his apprehension, and he spoke once more as he reached the doorway.
“Sam!”
The stillness around him wiped out the word, and he moved in, seeing now that the light came from a gooseneck lamp in the corner. The easy chair near the window was empty, and it was only when he had taken one more step that he could see why Sam Willis had not made some reply.
MacLaren seemed to know as his glance focused that Sam would never make any reply. Even in the shadows cast by the chair and the magazine-littered table, and seeing at first only the profile of the gaunt, still face, he found the look of death in the crumpled body. Willis had fallen partly on his side and partly on his stomach, as if he had been trying to get out of the chair when the bullets hit him. The ankle with its dirty-white cast was drawn up at the knee. The .22 rifle lay within inches of one outstretched hand and the other was tucked beneath his stomach.
For another long second, surprise and shock held MacLaren motionless as his horrified gaze absorbed the picture. Then he was moving, stepping round the table and kneeling beside the still figure. He shook a limp shoulder. He reached for a hand that was as warm as his own, and even as his first two fingers slid up the bony wrist, he saw the moist dark stains on one side of the shirt.
The two tiny holes were perhaps six inches apart and the stains were still spreading. His fingers were damp and trembling as they explored the inside of the limp wrist, and he tried three different places before he understood that there was no pulse here, that Sam Willis was dead.
MacLaren was not sure how long he stayed there on his knees, looking down at the man who had taught him so much when he was a boy. Time no longer had any significance. His mind was still stunned and there was only sickness and despair churning in his stomach and polluting his mind.
Very gently, he released the wrist. He found his handkerchief and dried his hands, and gradually, as his brain began to function, his eyes grew watchful, and that is how he happened to notice the other half-hidden hand.
At first he had only this glimpse of something that did not seem to belong there. Leaning close now, and bending down still more so he could look beneath the twisted figure, he saw that the fingers were clenched around what seemed to be a greenish piece of paper. He did not remove this, but he loosened the fingers enough to realize that Sam Willis had died clutching a fifty-dollar bill.
It was a new-looking bill and MacLaren did not touch it. Instead he backed off and straightened, and his mind recaptured the scene in Oliver Kingsley’s bedroom. It was then that Neil Ackerman had remarked that Kingsley had brought ten thousand dollars in new fifty-dollar bills to the island, money which someone had apparently taken from the steel-lined drawer.
There was no relief for MacLaren when his mind began to speculate. The sickness still festered within him as he began to understand what must have happened here tonight. The basis of his understanding was his assessment of Sam Willis’s penny-pinching ways. Money had always been a dominant and motivating force in the man’s make-up. A killer had tempted him and Sam Willis had weakened. He had bartered his self-respect for a price, and it had cost him his life.
It was easy now to understand his stubborn silence that afternoon. The scratch pad on which he had doodled the series of figure eights was still on the table, and it seemed apparent now that he had already made this eight o’clock appointment before MacLaren had stopped in that afternoon. That Sam Willis had seen far more with his Navy binoculars than he would admit was now obvious. But he was a shrewd and calculating man, by nature suspicious, and as MacLaren wondered why he had not taken more precautions against a surprise attack, his glance touched the rifle.
Again he went to his knees and, not touching it, he leaned down far enough to sniff the muzzle. He knew at once that it had been fired recently, and a picture began to form in his mind as he tried to re-create the scene.
He could see Sam sitting in that easy chair, perhaps with the rifle in his hand. He must have felt that he was safe, and there was only one thing that MacLaren could think of that might put him off his guard: the sight of money.
Whether or not there had been some argument here was not important now. The killer may or may not have had murder in his mind when he came, but it seemed certain that he had come with the possibility in mind, otherwise he would not have brought a gun. He had come with a thick stack of new fifty-dollar bills. Perhaps he had fanned them out for Sam Willis’s inspection. Knowing Sam, it was even possible that the man had insisted on counting them first.
It seemed equally obvious that Willis had seen his danger, because MacLaren knew that the first small cracking sound he had heard had come from the .22. Willis had tried to use the rifle, had in fact fired it. He may have come to his feet and tried to struggle, but it had been too late then. For with the sound of the rifle had come the heavier sound of a revolver or pistol. The second shot had been added insurance, but even in death Sam Willis had managed to salvage something. He had fallen, one fifty-dollar bill in his hand, a hand hidden underneath him so that it had gone unnoticed by the one who had brought it here.
And even this, MacLaren realized, was not as careless as it now seemed. The fact that he had been sitting on his porch, that he appeared beneath the window not more than a few seconds later to call up and announce his presence, had given the killer no time to count the bills. Escape had been the paramount issue. Under the circumstances it was the natural reaction. As it was, he barely made it; he might still have been caught if he had not fired at his pursuer.
Still on his knees, MacLaren let his glance move on across the threadbare carpet. He saw the ejected shell from the automatic rifle and, just beyond, there was a brownish smear and a sliver of what could have been a bit of dried mud or dirt. He did not wonder about this at the time because his mind had moved on and when he rose he picked up the binoculars, finding them heavy but beautifully balanced as he moved to the window overlooking the inlet.
It was still not dark enough to make a fair test of the glasses and estimate their value, but he focused them on a buoy beyond the mouth of the inlet and adjusted the eyepiece. He took a look at Kingsley’s cruiser as it stood out clearly in the gathering dusk. He had started to lower the glasses when some bit of movement caught the corner of his eye. It was as he glanced toward the island house that he saw the moving figure.
He seemed to know that this was Harry Danaher, even before he used the glasses. Harry was walking toward the cruiser but when he drew level with it, he continued on to the dinghy. As he stopped to release the painter, MacLaren turned the glasses on his dock and saw the woman standing there. He knew at once that this was Ruth Kingsley, and as he saw Danaher push out in the dinghy, he realized that she must have rung the bell with its underwater cable
to summon him.
Why?
This was what MacLaren asked himself and in his brain there was no answer.
What reason would the girl have for going to the island at this hour? That something was worrying her had been apparent from the way she had acted when he found her with Danaher that noon. Now, with the doubt and uncertainty beginning to nag at him again, he knew what he had to do.
It had been his intention to call the police, for this was a police matter now. He could still call them, but not using this telephone. He could call just as well from his father’s house, and because it seemed important that he go at once to the island and find out why Ruth had gone back, he knew that he would have to make his call to the police an anonymous one.
It may have been his ragged nerves and the lingering shock that had come when he found Sam Willis’s body that helped him make up his mind. It may have been some intuitive pressure that warned him of trouble yet to come; whatever the reason, he gave in to the impulse to follow the girl. Later he could make his explanation to the police. Right now it seemed important that he make sure she was all right.
17
WHEN THE HANDS of her wristwatch pointed to seven forty-five, Ruth Kingsley pushed out of her chair and walked quickly to the wall telephone. This was the moment she had been waiting for, and though the pressures of doubt and uncertainty were still punishing her emotional system, there was a feeling of relief, too, now that the past interminable hours were behind her.
She had been waiting here in her room since five o’clock. She had not dared to go down to the lobby or the dining-room or the bar for fear that she would run into MacLaren. The look of hurt disappointment on his face when she had dismissed him that noon was still etched clearly in her mind and she could not risk meeting him again until this sordid business with Harry Danaher was safely behind her. She had considered having a dinner tray sent up, but when the time came she found she had no appetite. Because she knew she should eat something, she had ordered a sandwich and a pot of tea.
It had been hard work getting half of that sandwich down, but the hot tea had helped, and that awful emptiness at the pit of her stomach became less noticeable. It had been difficult to keep from chain smoking and she had disciplined herself by limiting her consumption to one every half hour. Now it was over, and she was asking for the number of the island house and wondering just what she would say if someone other than Harry answered the ring. In this she had worried herself needlessly, because she recognized his voice at once, and he came directly to the point.
“Harry?”
“Have you got the certificate?”
“Yes.”
“Did you endorse it? Did you get your signature guaranteed?”
“Yes.”
“Who by?”
“By a notary.”
“All right. Here’s what you do—”
This time she interrupted, and wondered where she had found the nerve to do so. “Do you have that fire extinguisher with the fingerprints on it?”
“I’ll have it when I need it.”
“And you’ll tell the police who hit Oliver?”
“I said I would. I said I’d put a little something in writing, didn’t I?”
She knew she had to accept his word. “All right,” she said.
“You be on MacLaren’s dock at, say, eight fifteen sharp. If you should run into him anywhere, stall him. If you should meet anybody else you know, give him the same treatment. You’re coming over to the island, and it’s nobody else’s business why … Okay?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll see you at the dock.”
She had a hard time sitting it out in the minutes that followed. She tried to think whether what she was about to do was right or wrong. The fact that the police had not questioned her that day meant nothing in itself because she understood they were awaiting final word on the autopsy, but in her present state of mind she dared not gamble that such a report would clear her.
The hardest thing of all was to be alone. What she needed most was someone to talk to, someone she could trust, whose advice she could count on. If MacLaren had not been equally involved, she might have gone to him. She had considered such a move at least a dozen times during the afternoon. Each time she was stopped by some intangible fear that he would argue with her; perhaps even try to handle Danaher in his own way, and in doing so spoil all chance of getting this evidence.
At five minutes after eight she picked up the stock certificate and examined it once more. She turned it over and looked again at her signature and the notary’s stamp and signature. She refolded it and tucked it into her handbag; then she was ready.
She saw no one she knew in the lobby as she left her key with the desk clerk. Outside, the night was cool and darkness was closing in fast. She shivered unconsciously against it, glad that she had worn the tailored woolen dress and wondering if perhaps she should have brought a coat. But it was too late now and she kept going, turning into the side road that led down to the boatyard.
When she reached the dock itself she hesitated a few moments while she wondered whether she should ring for the dinghy or simply wait until Danaher came. Because she was a minute or two early and alone on the dock, she decided to wait, and presently she became aware of someone moving toward the catwalk across the inlet. A half minute later the sound of a motor came to her and she could make out the dinghy curving toward her.
Danaher said nothing at all to her when she stepped into the little boat. She sat down in the stern, her knees close together and her skirt pulled down. When he had tied up at the catwalk piling, he gave her a hand, and as she stepped ashore he spoke.
“You want a piece of paper so you can be sure I don’t double cross you? Okay, I’ll write something for you. Go on up to the house. You can wait in my room and I’ll be there in less than five minutes.”
She turned toward the house, aware that he had stepped back aboard the cruiser, and then she was staring straight ahead while she noted the lights in the living-room and in two of the upstairs windows.
It was not until she stepped lightly onto the porch that she began to think about who else might be in the house. Until then it had not occurred to her that someone might interfere. Except for her trip into the center of the village when she went to find a notary public, she had not been away from the Inn. She had no idea who else might be here now, and suddenly her worry was concentrated not on the propriety of her transaction with Danaher, but on the possibility that something might happen to prevent it.
She could see no one through the front windows and a small unconscious sigh of relief escaped her as she opened the door and found the living-room empty. She closed the door quietly. She started for the stairs on tiptoe. A glance into the darkened dining-room told her that the table had not been set for dinner, but that in itself was not unusual. If anything, it was an indication that most of the household was absent.
She started up the stairs, still on tiptoe, although she did not know it. At the landing she glanced down the front hall, at the closed door which led to her husband’s room, at the door beyond, which should have been hers, at the one across the hall, which Carla Lewis occupied. She knew that Harry Danaher’s room was next to the shlittered one in which she had been imprisoned, and she turned that way, hurrying a little now lest someone step into the hall unexpectedly and ask what she was doing there.
She saw no one, heard nothing but the tap of her heels on the hall carpet. As she approached the door, she saw that it was ajar. She took the knob and started to open it, and then she stopped. Light from a shaded lamp in the corner of the room which was now visible gave an effect of high-lights and shadows to the interior, and it was not until she had taken another small, tentative step that she realized the room had been ransacked.
The drawers of the dresser had been pulled out to their limits and most of the contents scattered on the floor. A studio couch had been pulled away from the wall, the cushion of a club chair had been flung
aside, and the mattress of the bed had been doubled back to disclose the box spring underneath.
For another second or two she stood where she was, the door half open and her hand still on the knob. She had no idea why the room should have been torn apart like this. The sight of it was mildly shocking, but she sought no explanation at the moment, and it was not curiosity alone that made her continue. Harry Danaher had told her to wait in his room and his instructions remained in her mind as she pushed the door wide and stepped beyond it.
Because she had heard no sound it had not occurred to her that someone might still be in the room. The only warning she had was some whisper of movement that came from behind as she stepped clear of the door. By that time it was too late for a sluggish instinct to do its job.
She tried to turn and there was no time. Something soft brushed her shoulders. The light went out. At least that was what she thought in that first bewildering instant. And then, as the fear struck at her, she felt the fabric descend upon her head and face and shoulders.
Too startled to react effectively, she felt the arms encircle her. Her own arms were pinioned at her side. Her handbag was snatched from her fingers.
It was all over in two seconds but even so there was a definite progression to the brief and violent action.
She felt herself being jerked off balance, and the arms were still tight, guiding her, as she staggered a step or two backward. She was twisted to the right and yanked another step, and then, suddenly, the arms released her and she felt herself being flung aside.
Because there was only blackness in front of her eyes, she had but one thought, to regain her balance. Before she could do so, she bumped into a wall and bounced off into a second one. As she tried to free herself from the smothering hood that had covered her, her feet slipped out from under her, and she fell heavily. She tried to tear the hood from her head, knowing now that it was a blanket. Before she could do so, a door slammed against one foot and she heard the key turn an unseen lock.
Slack Tide Page 14
