Saxon looked worried.
‘Don’t do anything because of me, Helen.’
‘Damn you, Tom Saxon! I’m doing it because of me.’
There was a break in her voice as she turned and slammed into the bathroom. Saxon hesitated, wondering whether to go after her. Instead, he decided to get dressed. By the time she came out of the bathroom, she had remade her face and was wearing a smile — a smile that was perhaps a little too fixed.
‘Ready? Or do you want breakfast first?’ she asked.
‘I hardly ever eat breakfast.’
‘Let’s go then.’
It came as a surprise to Saxon how quickly and pleasantly the day went. They hired a small dinghy with an outboard motor from a boat-hire place on Long Wharf. Helen acted as navigator. There were many imposing forts and old gun emplacements round the entrances to Portland harbour which had been built to protect it from raids by the British. Once, in 1775, a British naval squadron under Captain Henry Mowatt had levelled the town during a twelve-hour bombardment and during the subsequent War of Independence and the War of 1812 the people of Portland resolved to protect themselves against further incursions by a string of fortifications. Fort Gorges was the largest and most imposing of these, situated in the centre of the harbour. Although the fort was never attacked, its solid granite construction and intricate stonework made it a place of tourist pilgrimage.
After the visit to the fort, they lunched at a cafe which specialised in oyster dishes on Portland Pier and then Helen took Tom to Longfellow’s house in Congress Street, the boyhood home of the famous poet. After a tour of the house, inspecting its artifacts and furniture, Helen drove him through southern Portland out towards Cape Elizabeth.
She drove down through the tall pines of Crescent Beach State Park and halted the car on the lip of the long sandy beach looking out to the broad sweep of the grey Atlantic. Yet here the ocean swell was strangely tame, whispering its way up the sloping beach with a gentle insistence.
‘How about a swim?’ Helen asked.
Saxon paused.
‘No costume.’
Helen gestured to the empty expanse of beach and smiled mischievously.
‘So what? I’ve a towel in the back of the car anyway.’
Saxon answered her smile.
‘Alright,’ he said.
He took off his shoes, socks and jacket, leaving them in the car, and followed her across the broad strip of sand which was broken by a rocky section complete with tide pools. Helen halted and pointed.
‘Along there, beyond that freshwater marsh, is where most of the tourists go. There are picnic tables, parking spaces, restrooms and a regular bus service. Everyone goes there and no one comes here. I always swim here. Here you can smell the spruce and oak … you can pretend that civilisation is a million miles away.’
In spite of it being late afternoon, the sun still shone down fiercely. The sea hardly stirred and the gentle breeze kept the air a moderate temperature. It was a perfect sea for swimming. Saxon was suddenly glad that Helen had made the suggestion.
Without any self-consciousness, they both stripped and walked down the beach, plunging into the foamy waves. It was slightly cold, making then gasp momentarily. Then Saxon was swimming for a short distance with powerful strokes before turning on his back and floating. Helen came up and playfully splashed him. He grinned and made a half-hearted attempt to duck her. For a while they splashed happily before reluctantly leaving the water and making their way back to the spot where they had left their clothes.
Saxon flung himself down on his back.
Helen flopped down beside him, turning on her side to gaze at him. She noticed that his body was pale. It had obviously been a long time since he had lain in the sun. She remembered his deeply tanned, muscular body without an inch of surplus fat. Now there were strong indications of a paunch; she could tell that his body was soft, a little fatty and out of condition. He was breathing heavily from the exertion, a sure indication that he was no longer used to such physical exercise.
‘I haven’t been swimming in years,’ he said suddenly, as if reading her thoughts. ‘I suppose I’m out of condition.’
She smiled.
‘We’ll soon have you in condition here. There are some really great beaches.’
Saxon glanced at her and let his gaze wander over her body. It was as perfect as he remembered it. It was something of a shock to realise that he did remember it, in spite of his attempt to obliterate it from his mind. She lay there, allowing his eyes to wander over her body, happy and content at just being with him. He was thinking, a little surprised, how easily and pleasantly the day had passed; an entire day with Helen and not once had he thought of Jan or Tom Junior. The guilt feelings came back with a rush. Helen saw a cloud pass over his features.
‘What’s up, Tom?’
He shook his head and closed his eyes.
With a savage abruptness he realised that he still desired Helen, physically and mentally. He sat up suddenly.
‘It’s time we were getting back,’ he muttered, as he started to towel himself vigorously, trying to ignore the startled hurt in her eyes.
*
Harry Maclaren waited until his secretary, Jean, had left his office before giving Carson a quizzical glance.
‘One goddam problem after another, eh Garry? It isn’t enough to be sweating out my guts trying to get the Albatross off the ground but I have to contend with a bloody maniac who’s running round planting bombs in an effort to destroy the project. That’s two colossal problems. But d’you know what? Now I’m landed with the job of being a goddam schoolmaster!’
Carson reached for the coffee Jean had just brought in.
‘Okay, Harry, what’s the new problem and how does it concern me?’
‘Two problems!’ snapped Maclaren. ‘First, there’s Claire Ashton. Hell, Garry, if she weren’t Ashton’s daughter I’d have given her the bum’s rush out of here some time ago.’
Carson frowned.
‘Why? And why does it concern me?’
‘Why? I can’t have a woman going round offering herself as an easy screw to every goddam male over thirty — what’s more, she usually has a public screaming match with the guy after a couple of days.’
‘Is that a fact, or just local gossip?’ queried Carson. Anglo-American was such a tight-knit concern that he was well aware of the gossip about Claire Ashton.
Maclaren looked uncomfortable.
‘Well, I haven’t proof, if that’s what you mean. But there’s too many stories flying about for there not to be some basis.’
‘So why don’t you send her home?’
Maclaren raised his hands hopelessly.
‘Sir Ashley Ashton’s daughter? What do I tell her father who just happens to be our vice-president? What do I tell Badrick?’
‘How about the truth?’
‘Oh yeah; ’scuse me, Sir Ashley, I’m getting rid of your daughter on account she set herself up as the project’s number one unpaid whore and it’s upsetting some of the younger guys because she won’t screw with them, only men over thirty and preferably married.’
Carson clicked his tongue sympathetically.
‘It’s interesting — what you said. From the stories I’ve heard I gather Claire Ashton doesn’t go in for younger men.’
Maclaren’s brows met.
‘So what’s interesting? She just likes older men. Hell, I’ve got enough psychiatric mumbo-jumbo on my plate with Terrasino and his pet theories about our mad bomber.’
‘Anyway, what’s Claire Ashton to do with me?’ demanded Carson.
‘I was wondering whether you could ask Helen to have a word with the girl?’
‘Helen’s not a particular friend of hers,’ replied Carson. ‘She’s only spoken to her a couple of times.’
Maclaren sighed.
‘Well, who is friendly with the girl?’
‘She works with Samantha Hackerman.’
‘I’ve already spo
ken to Sam. She says that they are not that close.’
‘Well, I’ll have a word with Helen if you want me to.’
‘I’d be grateful, Garry,’ Maclaren paused. ‘That brings me to the second problem.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Tom Saxon.’
Carson looked uncomfortable. There was a pregnant pause before Maclaren spoke again.
‘How serious is his drinking, Garry?’
‘Serious?’
Maclaren waved an expressive hand.
‘I know Saxon is a damned fine pilot and his record and knowledge of dirigibles puts him into the Number Two spot, after you, on this project. But if he’s a lush then he’s about as much use to us as a looking-glass to a blind man. Come on, Garry, I pick up the local gossip as well as the next guy. I hear he’s always carrying a bottle. Is it true?’
Carson’s face was serious.
‘Harry,’ he said, considering his words, ‘the moment I think Tom Saxon is a liability to this project, I’ll boot his arse out of here myself.’
‘So you don’t think his drinking is serious?’
‘He’s a bloody good dirigible pilot.’
‘That’s not what I asked. I heard he fouled up on one of the simulator tests because of mis-judgment. Was that due to booze?’
Carson gave a sharp look.
‘Where did you hear that?’
Maclaren grimaced.
‘I wasn’t born yesterday, Garry. There’s also rumours going round about a drunk he went on in town. I gather you had to bail him out of jail and hush things from the press.’
‘He was rolled and robbed. Not his fault. Anyway, he’s not the first guy to be picked up from the gutter after a skinful.’
‘Not on my project, Garry; not among my pilots.’
‘I’ve had a word with him. He’s been having trouble adjusting since his wife and kid were killed. He tends to knock the booze back a bit. But I’ve warned him, Harry, and he knows that I’m watching him. As chief test pilot he’s my responsibility.’
‘A crew doesn’t like to fly with a lush.’
‘My crew is okay,’ Carson returned defensively. ‘Look, I’m not likely to put my neck on the line for a lush. But Saxon’s my pigeon and when I feel that he’s a danger to the project, then I’ll put the skids under him so fast that he won’t know what’s happening to him.’
Harry Maclaren sat back and toyed with his pen for several long seconds. Then he gave a deep sigh.
‘Okay, Garry. I have the utmost faith in you. He’s your pigeon. But for God’s sake try to kill those rumours.’
*
Agent Hayes threw a buff-coloured folder on the desk in front of Terrasino and dropped into the wicker chair by the security chief’s desk. The office had been hastily prepared for Terrasino in another block of the project site. It was littered with haphazardly placed cabinets and files. Terrasino made no attempt to pick up the folder.
‘The cause of the explosion which demolished the administration block was a carefully placed device,’ said Hayes. Terrasino smiled cynically.
‘Brilliant! I could have told you that without an investigation.’ Hayes was unperturbed.
‘Could you have told us that the explosive device was packed with home-made dynamite?’ he asked. ‘Or that it was placed in the men’s room on the second floor? The second floor happens to be where Oscar Van Kleef had his office. Coincidence?’ Terrasino pursed his lips and gave a soundless whistle. ‘Home-made explosive, you say?’
‘Yeah,’ Hayes confirmed, ‘that’s why the explosion was stronger than a normal charge. Its basis was nitroglycerine.’
‘How could anyone have manufactured that?’
‘I’m told it would be fairly simple for someone who knew about explosives. You need nitric acid, sulphuric acid and glycerine.’
‘But then what?’
‘Get a bath-tub, fill it full of ice, then pour a beakerful of nitric into it. Add the sulphuric and then add more ice. You get the temperature down to about ten degrees centigrade. The nitroglycerine will start forming on the top but you have to beware of the temperature rising above fifteen degrees. And if your hands tremble while you are taking off the nitro — pow! Instant detonation!’
Hayes paused.
‘The explosives seem to indicate that our mad bomber is a pro when it comes to knowledge about explosives.’
‘Yeah? Well, we can forget Van Kleef for a start,’ Terrasino’s voice was almost regretful.
‘Why? You were the one who was routing for him as Suspect Number One.’
‘I’ve discovered that he was attending an aeronautical engineering seminar in Ottawa when the Westbrooks were killed. That rules him out.’
Hayes tugged at his lower lip and exhaled deeply.
‘Well, we have a mad bomber who’s a top technician. First the Westbrooks and then Lane are killed and seven others injured. We’ve got to stop this madman before he goes for broke.’
Chapter Eight
The telephone woke Danny Macmillan from a deep sleep. He lay for fully half a minute listening to its buzz, lying in a semistupor and wondering first where he was and then what the time was. He groaned and finally reached out for the offending instrument, glancing at the luminous dial of the bedside clock. It was twenty minutes after two o’clock in the morning.
‘Danny? Danny Macmillan? This is Mike, Mike Pullen.’
The voice sounded worried.
Mike Pullen was the flight engineer in Art Stein’s back-up crew. Macmillan did not know him that well. They had shared a few drinks over the last week or so and talked about their common professional interest. Nothing else.
‘It’s late, Mike. What is it?’
‘I know. I know. But I just didn’t know who else to ring. I’m speaking from Claire’s apartment … Claire Ashton.’ Macmillan blinked in surprise.
‘What is it?’ he repeated.
‘Danny … she locked herself in the bathroom and threw back a bottle of pills on me! Jeeze! I got her out but she’s so goddam sleepy. I don’t know what to do.’
Macmillan was wide awake now.
‘Have you rung the hospital?’
‘Christ, Danny, I can’t do that. You know I’m married … I can’t let Diane know. What about my kids?’
‘You should have thought of that before,’ sneered Macmillan. ‘Aw come on, you know the score, Danny.’
Macmillan bit his lip. It was no time for a moral lecture. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Keep her walking up and down, try to keep her awake. I’ll be round there in five minutes.’
He was already throwing on his clothes as he slammed down the telephone. It did not take him long to make the five blocks from his apartment to Bay View where Claire Ashton lived. Mike Pullen, a florid-faced man, met him at the apartment door looking anxious.
‘Christ, Danny, nothing like this has ever happened to me before. How did I know that the stupid bitch was leading up to an overdose?’
Macmillan brushed him aside and looked round the apartment. Claire was lying on the couch in her silk robe. The way she was sprawled over the couch allowed the robe to fall so that she looked indecent.
‘Did you try to keep her awake?’
‘Yeah; but she keeps falling asleep.’
‘Where’s the bottle she took the pills from?’
Pullen gestured towards the bathroom.
Macmillan swept past the girl’s sprawled form. In the sink was a small empty bottle. He picked it up and glanced at the table. Scorbital. The name meant nothing to him but the instructions seemed to imply they were sleeping pills. He carried the bottle outside and showed it to Pullen.
‘Is this it?’
Pullen nodded.
‘Look, Danny, what the hell am I going to do?’
‘You can tell me what happened.’
‘We … Claire and I … we’ve been screwing a couple of days. You know what an easy lay she was. Christ! She almost raped one guy. We all knew the score. Well, tonight we had
a meal, bought a couple of bottles of bourbon and came back to her apartment. Apparently it was her birthday, ‘cos there was this card from her parents lying in the box. The next thing I know is that she starts getting upset. I reckon the girl is loco, has gone round the bend. Suddenly she locks herself in the john. When she doesn’t open up after a while I push in the door. She’s on the floor and the empty bottle is in the sink.’
‘So you wouldn’t know how many tablets she’s taken?’
‘Christ, no!’
Pullen looked helpless.
‘What am I to do, Danny?’ he repeated.
Macmillan looked at him bitterly.
‘I’d face up to paying for my fun and get myself a clean pair of pants.’
Pullen’s face almost puckered.
‘Christ, Danny, why take it out on me? I didn’t cause her to go round the bend, did I? I didn’t do anything. We all knew the score with her.’
‘You just took advantage of the poor bitch,’ Macmillan said sharply, then he glanced at his watch. ‘Get your things and get the hell out of here. I’m telephoning the hospital right away.’
Pullen shot Macmillan a look that was half hate and half gratitude and seemed to scuttle out of the apartment. Macmillan was already onto the Maine Medical Centre.
A cold impersonal voice informed him that a Paramedical Unit would be with him within ten minutes and that he should try to keep the OD moving.
‘OD?’ Macmillan was puzzled.
‘Overdosed person,’ came the laconic reply before the phone went dead.
Macmillan tried to haul Claire’s body into an upright position. She was a dead weight and looked deathly pale.
‘Poor bitch,’ he muttered compassionately. Then loudly: ‘Okay, Claire … okay … we are going for a little walk. Come on, move … move … ’
For ten minutes he walked up and down the room, cajoling, threatening, trying to keep her from slipping into a complete coma.
There was a bang on the door and suddenly two men in white coats, carrying some equipment, hurried into the room. They were followed by a policeman. The paramedics grabbed the girl and made a quick examination.
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