She glanced at him quickly and buried her face in her hands. The boat ran on through the darkness steadily. The girl at the wheel did not look around. Her short red hair and the blue stripes of her jersey looked equally black in the meager illumination. Dr. Henshaw had seated himself on the settee to port, the gun on his knee; a big man, but bald and a little paunchy, wearing, under the gabardine topcoat, the worn brown suit with the sagging pockets that was his badge of frugal respectability. There was something rather terrifying about the sight of this unimportant man, a relative failure in his own world, who had managed viciously to change that world in such a way as to make himself, at least for tonight, important and powerful. It made you, Young thought, wonder fearfully how many others there were like this — not the dupes and the suckers, not the misguided, fanatic idealists, but the nasty little men and women indulging in secret treachery against the society in which they lived, in the hope of replacing it with one in which they would be a little bigger, one in which the people they envied would be a little smaller.
What’s it to you, junior? You won’t be there to see it, Young thought, and he could not help letting his glance touch, briefly, the red can inside the cabin door. The sight of it made his stomach knot up inside him with the knowledge of what was coming.
The doctor rose and moved forward to check the course over Bonita Decker’s shoulder. The red-haired girl spoke, startling them all. Her voice sounded young and clear, only a little too strong, as if she had had to nerve herself to break the silence.
“Dr. Henshaw?”
“Yes, Miss Decker.”
“Dr. Henshaw, what the hell is this all about?”
“Don’t you know? You and Wilson spent a whole summer trying to find out.” After a moment, the doctor went on, clearly pleased to explain: “Do you remember the Japanese sampans that operated in Pacific waters before the last war? Little ocean-going fishing craft that had a habit of casually turning up in the neighborhood of important naval maneuvers, commanded by surprisingly well-educated officers who always seemed to own expensive cameras? Well,” Henshaw said, “it occurred to, er, certain people, of whom I was one, that the Japanese idea could be improved upon. Instead of a fishing boat of foreign registry, substitute a small, obviously American, pleasure craft complete with patent water-closet and suntan lotion. Oh, not the gold-plated luxury yacht with captain and stewards, but the kind of battered third- and fourth-hand little family cruiser or auxiliary that makes the Coast Guard work overtime, the kind that’s always running aground, or breaking down, or getting innocently lost in prohibited waters.
“Naturally, these boats had to be given places to file their reports, places where they could also pick up messages to be delivered, say, to passing freighters offshore. Such a station might be a boatyard where a workman had seen the light, or a dockside store, or perhaps even a cove on a pleasant waterfront estate where the maid or houseboy or gardener, or even the lady of the house, could be persuaded to develop the romantic habit of strolling along the beach at night. If the lady of the house was unhappy and dissatisfied and resentful because of certain unfulfilled social ambitions, it might not be difficult—”
Elizabeth Wilson stirred beside Young, but did not speak.
“—it might not be difficult,” Henshaw said, “for a respectable, middle-aged professional man — an innocuous sort of person, really, and rather a failure in his profession — to suggest a way in which she might get back at all these people who had snubbed and humiliated her, by discovering a passion for night air on certain nights in the week. A little hard on expensive slippers, perhaps, but very soothing for the frustrated bitterness of a lonely young woman. And there was nothing to it, really. After all, the old goat was too crazy about her to let anything happen to her; and he really demanded very little, and could be put off with even less, with practically nothing, in fact, except a little co-operation with his silly messages.”
The boat ran on through the night. Elizabeth Wilson did not lift her face from her hands. Henshaw cleared his throat and turned to look at the compass dial over the shoulder of the girl at the wheel.
“East southeast, Miss Decker,” he said softly. “You seem to be working westward. I may not be a crackerjack yachtsman like you — I never had time to learn, my family lost all its money, you’ll recall — but I’m quite aware that Harness Point Shoal is off to starboard. Let’s stay clear of it, if you don’t mind.”
Without warning, he rapped the girl smartly above her ear with the barrel of the revolver. Young saw Bonita Decker sway dizzily from the blow, clinging to the wheel to keep from falling. The boat ran off course and straightened out again.
It wasn’t as if the man were crazy, Young thought, any more than anybody who had ever suppressed a vicious or brutal impulse. The doctor had just left his suppressor at home tonight. He was just on a little jag of doing what he damn well pleased. Elizabeth’s condition was evidence enough of what form his pleasure was apt to take; now it was the younger girl’s turn.
There was pain in Bonita Decker’s voice when she spoke again. “And Larry?” she gasped. “Why did Larry have to die?”
“Because he had a list of boats that you had helped him to accumulate, Miss Decker,” the doctor said, rather maliciously. “Boats that had called in the cove during the previous summer. Of course, it’s a popular spot among yachtsman — that was one of its advantages, in a way, although we also found it a little inconvenient at times — and of course we curtailed our operations here when it seemed, from her husband’s being refused security clearance in Washington, that Mrs. Wilson had somehow come under suspicion. We knew, of course, that there was no reason for him to be mistrusted except for his connection with her. His subsequent activities — and yours, Miss Decker — confirmed our guess; naturally we did not overlook your childish maneuvers of last summer. We knew you were keeping the cove under observation.”
“Then why —?”
“Why did we let our boats come through at all?” Henshaw supplied the question. “Why, because we wished to give everyone the impression that we were relatively unalarmed. To have entirely ceased operations here would have brought the authorities down immediately to make arrests. As long as they thought they could learn more about our activities and membership they let us continue to function in an unimportant way, feeling that they could pick us up whenever they wanted us. In this way, we could keep the apparatus intact for a single bold operation right under their noses: one final, important transmission” — Henshaw patted a bulk in his topcoat — “like that which is going through tonight.”
“And what’s that?” the girl asked skeptically. “A pocket-model atom bomb?”
Henshaw chuckled. “Even if I knew the details of what I am carrying,” he said, “which I do not, I would hardly share them with you. But I am merely a courier. I can assure you, however, that a great many people will take the matter more seriously than you seem to.”
Bonita Decker said, “Okay, it’s important. What about Larry?”
There was a kind of strained impatience in her voice that caught Young’s attention, a preoccupied note that said that she was not really interested in this conversation, that she was maintaining it only for purposes of her own. Young felt a faint touch of hope; apparently the kid had something in mind... Dr. Henshaw did not seem to notice that he did not have his audience’s full attention.
“Larry?” he said. “Well, I confess that was an unfortunate mistake in judgment on my part. Certain considerations made me select, for tonight’s mission, a boat called the Marbeth, which happened to be one of those on Wilson’s list. I am afraid I did not take that list quite seriously enough. Since I was assuming, anyway, that we were all under official suspicion, it seemed unnecessary to take additional precautions against amateur interference. I did not, frankly, give Wilson credit for enough persistence; I thought, to be honest about it, that he must have given up his project. After all, he must have had over a hundred names to sift through, mostly o
f vessels belonging to quite innocent and patriotic yachtsmen. Yet somehow he managed to eliminate most of these, paring his list down to half a dozen or so. Not all of these were ours, and he had eliminated some that were, but unfortunately one of those that remained happened to be the Marbeth; and unfortunately it had been necessary for me to be in communication with the operator of the boat, making arrangements for tonight’s mission.” The doctor hesitated and cleared his throat. “Precisely what happened must remain a matter for conjecture. In a capitalist society, the concentration of wealth in the hands of private individuals gives them a certain power—”
Bonita Decker said, “In other words, one of your boys wasn’t above taking a little money under the table.”
“Perhaps,” the doctor said. “In any case, the operator of the Marbeth and his assistant are paying their debt to the organization tonight... As for Wilson, he had learned what he wanted: the identity of the man who, in his opinion, was responsible for his troubles, myself. He not only had the information, he had proof, bought and paid for. If he had taken it to the proper quarters, our plans would have been wrecked, of course; but he chose to visit his wife first. He confronted her with the evidence. He said that he loved her and wanted to help her, and that they should go together and lay this information before the authorities. He wanted her to make a full confession, and said he would hire the best lawyers in the country to defend her... She is not a very level-headed young woman. She could only see the evidence, lying there on the table. In a panic, she conceived the idea of taking it from him and destroying it. She says that when she produced the gun, he laughed.” Henshaw moved his shoulders briefly. “When I came there, at her summons, he was quite dead.”
Elizabeth stirred. “I didn’t mean —” she whispered. “I declare, I didn’t mean—”
No one spoke for a while, and there was no sound but the steady sound of the boat’s progress.
“No,” Henshaw said at last, “I think we will grant you that, Elizabeth. You probably did not mean to kill him. But he was dead, nevertheless... We disposed of the body,” he said in a different tone. “The bullet hole, of course, made it impossible to feign any kind of plausible accident; it was not likely that anyone would believe that, visiting the wife he had not seen for six months, in the middle of the night, he had immediately sat down to clean a gun. So we disposed of the body, and then we had to get rid of the car in such a way as to indicate, if possible, that Wilson had never been near the house that night. I drove the coupé and Elizabeth followed in the station wagon. It occurred to me that if I could establish Wilson’s presence on the highway to Washington it would be evidence in our favor. I therefore stopped at a filling station and acted in such a way as to call attention to myself without really showing my face in the light. A few miles farther I came upon a Naval officer hitchhiking. I assumed he was on his way to Washington and decided he would make an excellent witness. I made a point, as Lieutenant Young will doubtless now recall, to make certain Larry Wilson would be remembered by the Lieutenant, and as a Communist suspect. At the time I wondered if I hadn’t slightly overplayed my little deception, fearing that the Lieutenant would think it strange that a man should so bare his personal life to a stranger. And, of course, I spoke in the somewhat brash manner of Larry Wilson, although it seemed unlikely that I would ever see my companion again. I was disappointed to learn that he was joining his ship in Norfolk, with the probability that he would not be available as a witness. Then I noticed that he was a big man, not too different in build and coloring from Larry Wilson. It occurred to me that it might still be possible to arrange an accident, with a body that carried no bullet wound—”
Bonita Decker said, “Only you muffed it.” She laughed sharply. “It’s a hell of a doctor that can’t even kill a man properly!”
There was a desperate edge to her voice now, as if she were reaching the end of her resources. Young heard her gasp as the doctor, angered, brought the revolver barrel down across her shoulder. He saw her clutch at the bruised place and look around, and her eyes touched him briefly before finding Henshaw’s face.
“Don’t cripple your crew, Doc,” she said. “You might have to steer the damn bucket yourself.”
“Keep a civil tongue,” Henshaw said. “And don’t call me Doc... Mind your course, now!”
“Okay, Doc.”
Young heard the interchange as if from a great distance, the brash, nagging voice of the girl stimulating the man to further anger; he heard the sound of another blow, the boat veered crazily, and he felt the sweat come out on the palms of his hands. It was clear now what she was doing, what she was waiting for. She had been holding Henshaw’s attention, first feeding the man’s vanity with questions, now pricking his arrogance with insults — she had been doing this deliberately, with one purpose in mind: she had been doing it to give him, Young, a chance to act.
The boat rushed on through the darkness, fast enough to pound a little against the light southeasterly chop; speed was a relative thing and twelve knots here could seem as fast as seventy miles per hour on a smooth highway. The voices forward had ceased; when Bonita Decker turned her head slightly to look to starboard, he saw a dark trickle of blood make its way down her cheek. She brushed at this, smearing it, glanced at the back of her hand, and rubbed it clean against her hip. She did not look around again. Henshaw stood over her, occasionally checking the course by the compass, occasionally crouching a little to confirm their position by a glance through the deckhouse windows. A lighted buoy swept past to port and was gone astern.
He did not know when the idea came to him; nor was he aware of having made the decision until his foot crept out to the can by the doorway and drew it gently toward him. It made a scraping sound that seemed to scream for attention but the doctor did not look around at once, and when he did so, it was with the same leisurely, checking-up movement he had used before. Young’s mouth was dry, and his fingers were moist as he reached down into the darkness and found the cap, greasy and slippery to the touch. You can’t do it, he told himself. You can’t do it. Don’t be a damn fool; she’ll blow sky-high when it hits the cylinders! Then the doctor moved. It was too late for concealment, and he wrenched, and the cap came off in his hand.
Henshaw had turned and was plunging toward him. “What are you—?”
The sharp gasoline smell was in Young’s nostrils, sickening him; he gave the can a convulsive kick away from him and heard the first burping gurgle as the liquid flooded out over the deckhouse floor. He heard himself shout something unintelligible to the girl at the wheel as he threw himself forward. She put the boat into a tight right turn that added to his momentum at the same time that it threw the doctor back against the settee to port. He landed on top of the older man hard, reaching for the gun.
Henshaw threw him off to the floor and kicked him in the chest. Young felt the pain blaze through him. For a moment he could not move, but he was aware of the doctor starting aft toward the can that had already half emptied itself. The cabin was full of the dizzying odor of gasoline. Young could feel it in his mouth and nose and eyes. He was conscious of the racket of the engine directly below him, and in his mind was a clear picture of at least six spark-plugs firing steadily while the volatile, explosive fuel dripped down through the cracks onto the hot cylinders.
The girl at the wheel cut the switch and the engine stopped. The sudden cessation of sound was like a blow; it was a moment before the lesser boat-and-water noises could make themelves heard. Young crawled to his feet clumsily.
“Red,” he gasped. “Out the forward hatch, over the side, and start swimming. You can make shore from here?”
“Yes, but—”
“Tell them... You know what to tell them. Damn it, get the lead out, sister! Pay no attention to that cap-gun. If he fires it, he’ll blow himself to kingdom come with the rest of us, and that’s no part of his plans.” He felt a little drunk and rather dizzy. He put himself in Henshaw’s way as the doctor came forward. “On your
way, Red!” he said over his shoulder.
Behind him he heard the girl disappear into the forward part of the boat. Henshaw feinted with the gun barrel as if to strike at his head, then drove a left smartly into Young’s ribs instead, knowing the weakness there. Young, trying to shield himself, tripped over Elizabeth’s legs and was thrown aside; he grasped the older man’s coat, and the gun came down across his wrist. There were footsteps forward, running, and a splash.
Henshaw stopped in the companionway, listening for a moment; then he turned and cocked the big revolver in his hand. His face was white and ugly in the dim light.
“Come here, Lieutenant. Start the motor. Head after her.”
Young shook his head. “There’s a gallon of gas in the bilge, Doc. One spark will set it off; and that goes for that gun of yours, too. We stay right here, unless you like to travel in little pieces.”
He felt Elizabeth’s hand on his arm and he glanced down at her and caught the strange fixed expression of her face. She was looking at Henshaw. He followed the direction of her look and saw the gun steadying for the shot; too late, he realized that the older man did not believe in the danger or, perhaps, was too angry to understand what he had been told. Young took a step backward toward the cabin door, drawing the girl with him; he felt her press his arm quickly with some message he did not understand. Then she threw herself forward and in front of him, and the gun discharged, and he thought he saw her body jerk with the impact of the bullet; but the muzzle-flame of the revolver seemed to grow and grow, with a swelling rush of sound that carried him back and up....
Chapter Twenty
The fire seemed to pursue him as he swam. The water came up to strangle him. He fought himself to the surface again. Even while he struggled to keep afloat there was a part of him constantly aware of the leaping flames behind him, waiting for the tanks to go....
A boat’s bow almost ran him down and he had to go under again to keep from being knocked unconscious by a heavy life-ring thrown at him from above. A water-light went off in his face as he surfaced. He grasped at the ring and tried to keep the sputtering light — attached to it by a lanyard — away from him. The boat made another pass at him. It seemed as if all on board were doing their damndest to beat him to death with boathooks. There seemed to be something wrong with his arm, and when they twisted it, he fainted....
Night Walker Page 16
