He brought it out of the water, though he knew what it was. He examined it repugnantly in the moon’s light—a beer bottle, a stubby one, smooth and cold and darkly glistening. He felt like throwing it as far as he could, but he didn’t. He waited until his breathing was regular again, checked his position with the flashing buoy and the rocky formation on shore. He moved four feet parallel to the end of the pier and dived again.
When his hands touched the bottom he let go of the bottle and started sweeping. He pawed through a tangle of slimy plant growth, and then a second heavier piece. Five seconds later the edge of his hand hit a hard, angular object. He grabbed it. Then, heart thumping, but not from lack of air, he surfaced again and this time he had something that made some sense—a gun, a revolver.
He paddled over to the ladder next to the hinged and vertically fastened landing-float, thinking hard as his excitement mounted and clinging there to one of the ladder rungs with his body trailing out behind and swinging shoreward with the faint movement of the tide. He glanced up at the pier, the moon’s light behind him, and let go of the ladder a moment while he clamped the gun’s trigger guard to a clenched finger.
He kicked once, reaching now for the ladder. Suddenly, where there had been no sound but those of his movements, he heard a quick metallic noise above him, a sharply rasping sound. When he glanced up the square, black, ponderous bulk of the landing-float was falling toward him, blotting out the sky.
Holland knew instantly that there was no escape. Already the top of the hinged platform was swinging down with savage swiftness. Had he kept one hand on the ladder he might have pulled most of his body clear, but now he had no support, nothing at all to help him but his own water-retarded agility.
It wasn’t enough, but he tried. He could think, too, in the second that was left to him. He knew what the metallic, rasping sound was—the scrape of hook and eye as someone bent on murder had freed the platform that would crush him.
He rolled desperately, legs thrashing as he felt the quick compression of air above him. He held his breath while he fought the paralysis of his fear. He kept twisting, trying to get his head and neck below the surface. Then the float crashed down on him and there was only pain and darkness and oblivion.
Water in his nose and mouth told Holland he was still alive and conscious. When the spinning stopped inside his head he could feel the pain in his shoulder, and he thought he must be drowning because the pressure on his skull was hard and unyielding.
He choked, turning, and suddenly his nose was out of water. He opened his eyes and they were out of water too, though there was nothing in front of them but darkness. He brought his hands up a little frantically, exploring. Only then did he realize why he was still among the living.
For the float found much of its buoyancy in three long canlike pontoons, eighteen inches or more in diameter. It was to these that the wooden platform had been secured and, with no weight on the topside, there remained a six-inch air space between the water and the bottom of the float.
Had the float been flat, if either of the three pontoons had struck solidly, he would most certainly be dead. As it was, the pontoons had cushioned the shock as the platform slammed down upon him, but it was luck and his own blind effort to twist away that enabled him to get his head and body into the zone of safety. Only the edge of one shoulder had been struck a glancing blow, and thinking of this now he felt a little sick.
Reaching out, he pulled himself between the pontoons, keeping most of his body submerged and then rolling on his back. Above him the sky looked wonderful. He gazed at the moon as if he’d never seen it before. He began to breathe again.
Then he remembered the gun.
He flexed his fingers and there was nothing but water about them. He let his feet down and found he could just touch bottom. He started to feel around with his toes and then he heard a faint vibration move through the pier. With it there came the sound of someone running, a soft, light sound that stopped above him. As he glanced up, there was a flurry of movement and a voice called out.
“Is anyone down there?”
It was a woman’s voice, breathless and uncertain.
“I am,” he said. “Holland.”
Then, over the edge of the stringpiece, he saw a white face outlined against the sky, enormous eyes, thinly clad shoulders that loomed up as Frances Erskine knelt and leaned forward.
“Johnnie!” she breathed. “What is it? I heard the crash and wondered if—” She hesitated, her voice quickly concerned. “Are you hurt?”
“Not much.”
“Wait,” she said, and stood up. “I’ll come down and help you.”
“No,” Holland said. “No. I’m all right. Just wait there a minute.” He watched her stand there as he continued to grope with his toes and in the full moonlight she stood tall and slender in her thin pajamas and filmy robe, blond hair stirring in the faint breeze.
He found the gun presently and ducked under for it. When he climbed the ladder she stood aside, peering up at him to see what his face had to say, then noticing the darker blotch on his shoulder.
“You are hurt,” she said. “Let me help you.”
“It’s all right.” He drew away as she reached for him. “You’ll get all wet. Come on,” he said. “Let’s get back to the house.”
She made no reply to this and when he moved off she walked with him, holding his arm in her hand, like a boy scout helping an old lady across the street. He made no further protest and they continued on like that until they reached the front porch.
thirteen
JOHN HOLLAND’S MIND was busy with many things as he let Frances open the screen door and guide him inside. Questions were battling with his thoughts for priority as he tried to keep them in an ordered sequence, and because he wanted more time he kept silent, seeing now the outline of the stairs mounting toward the night light in the hall above but nothing at all beyond them.
“This way,” she whispered, putting pressure on his arm. “In the kitchen—and watch out for the chairs.”
He let her lead him through the dining-room, through the swinging door of the pantry beyond, and past another door. When she told him to wait he stopped. Presently there was a click and light glared overhead, splashing brightly upon the white walls and ceiling of the kitchen.
“Where were you when you heard the crash?” he asked.
“In the dining-room. I’d come down to get something to eat.” She waved a hand toward the sink. An empty milk bottle and a glass stood there, filled now with water from the faucet, and on the drainboard was a crumb-littered plate. “I had some cake and milk and I was on my way back when I heard it.”
Holland was trying to figure out some time element, but before he could say anything more he saw her staring at his hand. Only then did he think about the gun.
He looked at it. He found a roll of paper towels and began to dry it, aware that she was still staring fixedly, her face still and mouth parted.
“Johnnie!” she breathed when he went on with his task. “Where—where did that come from?”
“Off the end of the pier. That’s why I was out there.”
“But—”
She could not seem to put words to that which was in her mind and he paid her no attention then because once again the excitement was kindling in him as his mind went back. For this was a blue-steel revolver with a tip-up action. It was about the right size; of that he was sure. When he broke the gun he saw there were no shells in the chamber. Finally he snapped it shut and held it up so she could see it.
“Recognize it? Ever see it before?”
Her eyes came up, as though the question surprised her. “Why—no.”
“Tell me what you did when you came downstairs.”
“All right,” she said, and now that she had accepted the presence of the gun, she moved with purpose, disclosing no uncertainty either in her movements or in her voice. The ever-present restless energy that was the core of her make-up asserted itself and
the first thing she did was move a leather-topped stool in front of the sink. “But first,” she said, “we’ll look at that shoulder. Sit down. Right here.”
She wheeled as she spoke and marched across the room to a door which opened on a lavatory. There was a medicine cabinet here and when she had rummaged through it she came back with cotton, gauze, adhesive tape, a bottle of alcohol. She found some medium-sized shears in a drawer and when she was ready she put her hands on his shoulder and made him turn so the light fell where she wanted it to.
“I was hungry,” she said as though there had been no interruption. “I came downstairs.”
“You didn’t turn on any light.”
“Not until I got here. Because I’ve made the trip a million times. I found some cake—the last piece—and some milk. When I finished I rinsed the bottle and glass and turned out the light. I heard the crash just after the pantry door swung shut.”
“Then what? Give me the rest of it in five-second installments.”
“For two or three of those seconds I just stood there wondering what I’d heard.” She hesitated, brow puckering. “I crossed the room to the hall and went to the front door—because I knew the crash came from that direction—and looked out through the screen.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“No.”
Holland was trying to count seconds himself. He realized that a man could run the length of that pier in no time at all and once ashore could turn either way and be lost a moment later in the shadows.
“All right,” he said, indicating that she was to continue.
“I went out on the porch and when I looked along the pier I remembered the float should have been up where the painter left it. Only it wasn’t. I thought I heard a faint splashing in the water so I ran out to see and you were there and you scared me.”
“It scared me, too,” Holland said dryly.
“This will sting,” she said, as she applied cotton soaked in alcohol. “And will you tell me about the gun?”
Holland felt the stinging as she scrubbed gently across the bruised shoulder. When he did not say anything she said, “It’s not as bad as I thought. Some of that red I thought was blood is old paint. I’ll clean it up a little and then wash it with warm water.”
“I was going to take a swim,” Holland said. “I did take a swim. I’d just come out of the water when I saw this figure on the pier.”
“Don’t you know who it was?” she asked when he told her what he had seen.
“The moon was on the wrong side. It was shining in my eyes and this guy was hardly more than a silhouette.”
“Even a silhouette has size and shape.”
“It does when you get it up against a clear background. From where I was the silhouette merged with the Saybrook shore.” He thought a moment, trying to remember something more definite. Finally he shook his head. “All I know for sure is that he wore dark pants and was in a hurry.”
He let her bathe the shoulder and she told him it looked pretty good. She said it might be sore tomorrow, but it was only scraped and not too deep.
“I’ll put some gauze over it,” she said.
He tried to pull away but her hands were strong and warm against his skin. “Just a little,” she said. “To keep the dirt out. I can fasten it with tape. You know,” she said after a three-second pause, “I can’t understand that float falling. It never has before. Are you sure you didn’t jar it, or fall against it when you climbed the ladder?”
“I didn’t climb the ladder. I didn’t get a chance. I was stretched out under that float and I heard a rasping sound above me and down it came.”
Her hands grew still on his shoulder. When he glanced up at her he could see things happening in her blue eyes; they looked shocked and incredulous.
“Johnnie,” she said, quiet now. “You don’t think someone was waiting there, that he deliberately unhooked the float. Why that would—”
When she let the sentence dangle, still not moving, he spoke harshly.
“How else can you figure it?”
She straightened, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. She gave a tug at the sash of her robe, a pale-yellow job with a lot of skirt and long full sleeves. The tug didn’t do much to close the gap in the front because he had a generous view of tanned skin and mannish white silk pajamas, very thin, with buttons down the front, the top two of which were unfastened. The result was perhaps more revealing than she realized, for she showed no concern either then or later.
“The one who threw the gun in?” she asked finally.
“Who else?”
“Would he have time? I mean, while you were diving?”
“Sure.” Holland spoke before he considered the matter properly, but when he did the answer was the same. “When he got up on the lawn the first time he must have looked back. If he did he could have seen me start to swim in that direction. I didn’t think of that. I thought he’d gone.”
He spread one hand and said, “If he saw me—and it must have been that way—then he knew why I was swimming toward the pier. I doubt if he knew who I was, but he must have known what could happen. I think he ran back on the pier—I was too busy diving to pay attention to anything else—and when I came up with the gun he squatted down by the ladder waiting for me.”
“That’s why you wanted to know about the time,” she said slowly, “and if I’d seen anyone. Only I didn’t. All I know is no one came up the steps, or into the back hall while I was there.” She took a breath and her eyelids moved as if at that moment her thoughts had come back to the present. “You’re cold, Johnnie,” she said. “You ought to have something around you. You ought to go to bed.”
Holland had other plans. He said no. “I want to talk to you first.”
“Then let me get you a drink.”
“I had a robe and a towel,” he said. “I left them on the beach. You wait here and—”
“No,” she said, moving away. “Sit still. I’ll get them; I’ll bring a bottle, too.”
She was gone before he could protest again, and when she came back she had the robe and towel and slippers wrapped under one arm, a bottle of whisky in her hand. She looked flushed, a little breathless, triumphant. The pajama cuffs kicked about her tanned ankles as she unburdened herself and shook out the robe.
“There,” she said when she had slipped it over his shoulder. “Now for a drink.”
Holland said he didn’t need a drink. “I’d just as soon have milk,” he said.
“You shall have both,” she announced, and then she set about making a milk punch, looking like a little girl in her eagerness at finding something to do.
She wouldn’t let him stir from the stool. She got ice, milk, sugar, and a shaker. She found nutmeg. She put in plenty of whisky, announcing that she was making enough for two.
“Try this for size,” she said when she had poured the yellowish, frothy mixture into two large glasses and sprinkled nutmeg on the top.
Holland tasted his drink and pronounced it excellent. That pleased her. She dragged up another chair and sat down, holding her glass in both hands and wedging it between her thighs. It was about the first time that Holland had ever seen her relaxed and at ease. He realized that she had a very nice smile when she gave it a chance. Her angular, high-cheekboned face, softened in repose, brought with it a new attractiveness that to Holland was much more appealing than the offhand brittle manner she so often presented.
“Yesterday morning on the pier you told me that when you were younger you always thought Tracy was the lucky one,” he said.
“Oh, I did.” She nodded quickly. “Not when we were real young but about the time we went away to school. You see, Dad was determined that Tracy was to have every bit as much as I had even though I was a year older. He never considered her as a stepdaughter, nor did I—because I was brought up not to.”
An absent smile came about her mouth and she said, “He wanted everything to be equal. We had the same privileges, the same lessons in tennis,
and golf and riding, kept the same hours and wore practically identical clothes. In fact if we had looked a little more alike one would have thought we were twins. I’ve always liked most forms of athletics,” she said. “And I was really quite good at the things I liked.”
Holland considered again her slender, well-proportioned body, only half-hidden by pajamas and robe; he remembered the easy grace with which she moved and knew that this was so.
“I had an idea you might be,” he said.
“Yes. But what you might not know is that Tracy was every bit as good as I was. She hasn’t done much in recent years but we used to be a stand-off in golf and tennis. She could swim a little faster and I think I might have been better on a horse. We went out for all such things in school and we always made the same team. We were great rivals in those days even though we were different. She was likable and easygoing. I was always rushing around and doing something. Too much energy, I guess. I couldn’t sit still—I can’t now for very long—and also I was a very outspoken brat, a characteristic I must have inherited from Nana.”
She shrugged and said, “Even so, we were both popular. If Tracy was captain of this, I’d be manager of that. My one compensation was that while she was more popular with the girls, I got more attention from the boys. I danced better and I knew how to talk to them. She wasn’t exactly a wallflower but—”
She gestured with her glass, and Holland nodded to show he understood what she meant. She became aware of the glass and took some of her drink, shook the froth up, and took some more.
“That was when we were around fifteen or sixteen,” she said. “Later it was different. The one man I thought I loved Tracy took away from me—but you don’t want to hear about that.”
“Oh, yes, I do.”
“Do you really?” She looked right at him, curiously at first, before deciding that he meant what he said. “Well, it was right after the war. His name was Jeff Travis and he was a flyer, a major, though he was only twenty-three, with a lot of ribbons on his chest. I met him in Washington and I thought, ‘This is for me.’ He must have thought so, too, because we saw each other every day for two weeks, until it was time for me to come home.” She finished her drink and put the glass aside.
The Frightened Fianc?e Page 11
