The Tide Can't Wait

by Louis Trimble

  Suddenly she laughed. It was so petty. And she was hungry. A quick wash at the basin and she went downstairs to see what might be offered for lunch.

  The meal was good, and after eating, Lenny walked down to the beach and along it, taking advantage of the low tide.

  The headland was empty now except for a lone seagull. Two piles of driftwood and a half-overturned boat filled with sand made up the decorations of the beach. Lenny chose the larger group of driftwood and perched herself on a convenient piece to smoke a cigarette. A small sailboat came around from the east, poked its prow into the bay and went lazily away, its sail scarcely filled by the gentle breeze. Later, a sleek-looking launch gleaming with brass and mahogany peered in, swung about and cruised out of sight. Far off where the haze mingled with the horizon, she could see a liner sailing majestically along. Suddenly aware that the water was coming perilously close to her feet on the pebbly beach, she rose and started for the village.

  As she passed the inn, the landlord stepped into the open to enjoy a pipe in the sunshine. She waved and he nodded cheerily back. She walked on, a spring in her step.

  She was almost upon the little gray stone church pushing itself upward through a ring of trees when she noticed the woman again—Portia Sloane. She sat on a folding canvas campstool set at a distance from the side of the building. Her dark hair, cut in thick bangs across her forehead, fell forward as she bent over her work. She wore yellow slacks and a yellow turtle-neck sweater, making a bright splotch of color against the green and gray background of her surroundings.

  Lenny felt sudden panic. By the time she reached the front of the church, she was almost running. With an effort, she slowed to a decorous pace and walked inside the building. Cool dimness engulfed her, and she slipped into a pew, grateful for the protective peace of the place.

  The frantic squirrel cage of her mind slowed and stopped. She found that she was sweating and she daubed at her forehead with her sleeve. Her mind was sharp and steady now. She had wanted to flee, but she could not run away because there was nowhere to go. Wherever she might hide, whatever she might do to change herself, inside she would still be Lenny Corey, and Lenny Corey would always know the truth.

  “I did it,” she admitted softly, aloud. Because she had done it. Unwittingly, perhaps, but that was no real excuse. She was no child. She had believed Leon because she had wanted to believe him, just as she had refused to believe the man in the hotel room because she had not wanted to shatter her little world of illusions.

  Last night she had tried to find out more from Leon. She had left him knowing one thing for certain—Leon was all that the Chief had said he was, and more.

  And what had he said about those who wanted what he had brought to England? They were the ruthless ones, the truly clever ones.

  Knowing what she did, feeling her own dislike for Leon come so suddenly, so strongly, still she had gone willingly into his arms. There was no use continuing the make-believe that it was just part of the game, that she was lulling Leon into security. Being honest with herself, she had to admit the truth—she might despise Leon for what he was and for what he had done to her, but she still needed him.

  In the quiet of the pew, she saw the problem with true clarity for the first time. It was not Leon alone she needed to be afraid of. She also had to fear herself.

  Calmer now, she left the pew. She stepped outside into the sunlight and paused to light a cigarette.

  She was aware of Portia Sloane still sketching. She backed away from the church, moving this way and that, as though trying to get a perspective, and suddenly she turned as if realizing that she was in Portia Sloane’s line of vision.

  “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Stand where you like. I’m about fed up for today, anyway. I’ve done this so many times, I have every crack memorized.” She had a pleasantly husky voice.

  “I don’t blame you for being captivated,” Lenny said. “It’s wonderful.”

  Portia Sloane smiled, an amazingly childlike smile.

  And then Portia stood, and Lenny saw that she was shorter than she, almost chunky, her figure richly curved. She said, “I’m Portia Sloane, and one of the reasons I draw this place so much is that people are always wanting it for advertisements of Ye Olde Engelonde. I saw you this morning when you came to the Dragon’s Head.”

  Making Portia’s acquaintance was almost too simple. Lenny felt a little cheated. If this was espionage, she should at least have a run for her money. Within five minutes they had shared cigarettes and all the necessary data on each other. Portia ended by saying, “Come and have tea with me. I come down here because I get fed up with people and right away I’m lonesome for them. I’m not really cut out for a recluse.”

  They walked along the path that joined the garden gates of the three cottages. Portia’s place was at the end, a neat little cottage set in the neatest of gardens. Lenny was rather surprised. Portia did not seem overly concerned with her personal appearance—her yellow slacks and sweater were stained with bits of paint and charcoal and cigarette ash. She let her hair blow every which way with no apparent concern, and she made no effort to keep her figure within bounds. That figure, coupled with her gamin features, had given Lenny the picture of anything but an almost fussily tidy woman. And yet she could find no better word than fussiness to describe the house and garden.

  For a garden, Portia obviously believed in precise rows, neatly trimmed grass, and well-raked gravel pathways. Her house was the same, although Lenny found one false note—by the large sea-view window stood an easel with a disorderly pile of canvases scattered around it.

  Portia waved a hand. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll do something about tea.” Lenny surveyed the obviously expensive furniture, the bric-a-brac that represented a small fortune in museum pieces, and then walked about to study the art on the walls. Portia went in heavily for seascapes, English landscapes, and impressionistic nudes. Lenny found well-known names signed to most of the works. She decided that however Portia Sloane made her living, she did well at it.

  The tea was excellent, the sandwiches well-stuffed, the cake homemade and good. Portia talked as she ate, scattering crumbs without regard for the neatness of the little room.

  Lenny found herself relaxing in the comfortable atmosphere. Portia was so open and cheerful that Lenny began to wonder if she might not have the wrong woman.

  Portia was a Canadian, thirty years old, educated on the Continent, without relatives, and possessed of a small but ample income to bolster her not-inconsiderable earnings from commercial art work. By the time Lenny was ready to leave, she felt that she knew a good deal about Portia Sloane.

  By the time she had returned to the inn, she realized that she actually knew very little. Portia had been too loquacious really to give out much information.

  Turning up the collar of her jacket against coolness that came with the slanting sun, Lenny rounded the corner of the inn. The parking space that had been empty before now contained a not new but still very sleek Riley sedan.

  Inside, she saw a stranger at the bar, his back to her. He was idly drinking a whisky and at her entry he turned and surveyed her with an equally idle glance.

  Normally Lenny would have paid little attention to a strange man, or, for that matter, a strange woman. She was basically shy. But since her meeting with the Chief and then with Stark, she had found herself looking twice at everyone.

  Now, she returned the frank appraisal.

  He was a tall man, slender enough but with a heavy look because of the breadth of his shoulders and the bulky gray flannel suit that he wore. His hair was a curly mahogany-brown. His eyes were gray and steady, set wide on either side of a bold nose. As she looked back at him, he let the corners of his broad mouth turn up in a quick grin and then gave his attention again to his whisky. Lenny went on up the stairs.

  She lay on her bed thinking about Portia Sloane and then the man downstairs.

  When she rose, she change
d for dinner, choosing a white frock with green collar and cuffs. She went on down the stairs and stopped with one hand on the newel post. Portia Sloane was at a table in the bar, and with her, foreheads almost touching, was the stranger in the gray flannel suit. Portia still wore her yellow slacks and turtle-neck sweater.

  She looked up and saw Lenny, and her gamin smile broke through. She beckoned. “Come and meet another of our occasional residents. Miss Corey, a fellow writer, Rob Barr.”

  Barr was on his feet, smiling much as he had earlier, bowing slightly. “Portia tells me you write books, too.”

  “Rob writes stories,” Portia said. “Novels.”

  “I can’t compete,” Lenny protested. “I do boring articles about old church architecture.”

  “You’ve come to a good place,” Barr said. “Have you seen the old ruin just over the hill?”

  “She’s only been here since noon,” Portia said.

  Lenny sat down. Barr said, “I’m in the middle cottage. The one with the sloppy garden that gives Portia the horrors. That makes me almost a neighbor, so can I offer you a drink? Whisky or gin, of course. In case you haven’t quenched many thirsts in this country, whisky means Scotch. Not rye, not bourbon, not even Kentucky sour mash, just Scotch.”

  “I’ll take Scotch.” Lenny laughed, genuinely amused. He was being so brash and so American. And she felt that normally he was not the brash type. It did not fit him well, she thought, really no better than Stark’s drooping mustache did him.

  “Now that we’ve been adequately introduced,” Barr said when her drink had come, “may I suggest dinner?”

  “Not to me you don’t,” Portia answered. “I’d hate to dress and I’m much too lazy.” With a casual wave, she left them, not bothering to say good-bye. Barr’s glance followed her until she was through the door and out of sight.

  “A nice girl,” he said. “And very talented.”

  “I liked her from the first moment,” Lenny answered.

  Something was coming now, she thought. The introduction, the offer of dinner, everything had been done very smoothly, just as Portia had left them alone together smoothly. Lenny was very clearly aware of the pattern, just as she was aware that although Rob Barr was smiling, his eyes were not. They were on her face, watchful, waiting.

  CHAPTER V

  Lenny sat before her window and looked over the bright morning sparkling on the waters of the cove. Mrs. Doddsby had wakened her earlier than she liked—she had read until well past midnight—but the lavish breakfast had mollified her and now she relaxed by the window, finishing her tea and smoking a cigarette.

  She had slept hard and well.

  What had happened to her? Last night she had sat quite calmly with Rob Barr, sure that he was someone connected with this affair, listening to his casual chatter, and all the time feeling those watchful, waiting eyes on her. She discovered herself as afraid of him as she was of Leon, and yet after dinner she had been able to retire to her room, read a book sedately and then sleep as soundly as a small child.

  She sat looking at Portia Sloane’s cottage, now and then bending to one side so that she could see the front half of Barr’s place. She had watched it last night after lights had come on there. She had seen him leave, lighted by his momentarily opened doorway, disappear into darkness and then appear again, silhouetted against Portia’s windows as he crossed in front of them. She could not doubt his involvement, nor Portia’s. And yet she now found herself taking a strange pleasure in the whole affair.

  Even knowing that there was a deadly core at the center of it all, true danger in the frightening sense of the word, she did not want to change it.

  They had picked on her because she was involved with Leon—true. But they had also picked on her because they thought her what she appeared on the surface—a not too unattractive but rather quiet and shy schoolteacher, someone easy to handle. Well, she would show them. They wanted her as a—what was the word?—stooge. Yes, a fall guy.

  She was supposed to do the really dangerous work. The Chief had said so. And his men here could slip into her hotel room and give orders—unless Stark really was the Chief’s man, nothing made sense—and they could try to protect themselves by not telling her whether Portia Sloane worked for Leon or for them, because the less she knew, the more they thought they could count on her. And then they sent along a man like the one who called himself Rob Barr—he must be their man because she couldn’t connect his type with the sort of thing that Leon did….

  There was a knock at the door. Mrs. Doddsby called, “Miss Corey, there’s a young gentleman downstairs said to send his compliments and his name is Price.”

  Lenny said, “Damn!” and then louder, “Tell him to wait, Mrs. Doddsby. Tell him to have a pot of tea or something.”

  Lenny rose and closed the windows, getting ready to dress. Tommy, of all people. She said, “Damn!” again.

  How in heaven’s name had he found her? She had felt beastly when, leaving London, she had deliberately instructed the hotel not to tell anyone her forwarding address. It was not that she disliked Tommy—she really liked him a great deal and was very grateful for his having met her—but because of the situation, she felt it would be unfair to involve him in it. And, knowing Tommy, she was sure he would bumble about, either involving himself or causing her to make a hash of her own part.

  But now he had shown up again. Probably, she thought, filled with those idiotic ideas of how she should occupy her time—with the aid of Tommy Price.

  As she dressed, she tried to concentrate on the real problem. She felt a strong sense of urgency. There was no time to waste. She had to learn more about Portia and about Rob Barr and then she had to contact Leon and do something—maneuver him into a position where he would really tell her something. The procedure was obvious.

  But first, she had to do something about Tommy Price.

  • • •

  Barr was eating breakfast when there was a knock at the back door. Dropping a small gun into the pocket of the robe he wore over shirt and slacks, he went to answer it.

  “Yes?”

  “Milk delivery, Guv’ner.”

  “I didn’t order any …” He stopped, stepped forward, and snapped the latch. “Come on in.”

  An apparition appeared, nipped inside and shut the door swiftly. It was a small man, not much over five-six, wearing a pair of coveralls that smelled of sour milk and bad cheese and on his head a cloth cap pulled down so far that his ears stuck out sideways. A cigarette dangled from one corner of his mouth and in his hand he carried a rack with four pint bottles of milk. He had a beak of a nose between beady black eyes and a slit of a mouth that barely moved when he talked. This was Johnny Griggs.

  “Like my disguise, Guv’ner? Here, ‘ave a bottle of milk for yer tea.”

  Barr watched him put the milk in the icebox. “I thought you were in London, working.”

  Griggs took his cigarette from the corner of his mouth and dropped it into an ash tray. “Got another cup of that tea, Guv’ner? I am working. Johnny on the spot. Fits my nyme, see. ‘Ere, I’ll get my own cup.”

  Barr shook his head, always fascinated by the ebb and flow of the Griggs accent. Barr went into the living room, Johnny Griggs and a strong effluvia of cheese following him. “Sit down,” Barr said.

  He did not ask questions; experience had taught him that Griggs did everything in a hurry except answer questions. He had once explained to Barr that he had known so many policemen he was allergic to questions.

  A half-cup of tea and another cigarette disappeared. Then Griggs said, “No point in my watching poor old ‘Elgos no more, Guv.”

  Barr felt the familiar churning sensation in his stomach. “Dead?”

  “Clean. Eliminated. One shot with a silenced gun. The coppers’ll find ‘im when they get around to digging up a certain piece of woods north of London.”

  “You saw it?”

  “I wasn’t ten feet to the side. I watched every bloody spadeful of di
rt come up and go back down. Saw it with my own eyes.”

  “Who?” Barr asked.

  Griggs poured himself the remainder of the tea and helped himself to Barr’s box of cigarettes. “You said look for a rugged blond man, didn’t you? Yer very words, Guv’ner. And where did ‘Elgos go nipping about London on the tube like he had a tourist’s pass? Right into Mayfair, right to our chum’s flat, that’s where.” He sucked up the tea noisily. “’Elgos knocked our chum up about ten last night. By two this morning, ‘e was planted neat as you’d want.”

  Barr felt the churning come again and the adrenalin of excitement took him in long strides about the room. “Who, damn it?”

  “Now, don’t push a man. I got it all. American name of Price. Tom Price. Only ‘e ayn’t American. Just his passport is. ‘E’s down ‘ere right now at the Dragon’s Head Inn. I was there and saw ‘im tyking tea soft as you please.”

  “Here? What the devil is he doing here?”

  “Woman, what you think? ‘E asked the old lydy there to go and knock up someone called Lenore Corey. Seems like ‘e’s a special chum of ‘ers, the way ‘e talks.”

  Barr stood motionless. This was something he hadn’t counted on.

  • • •

  Lenny found Tommy Price standing at the closed bar, drinking a cup of tea and chatting with Doddsby, who was polishing glasses. Tommy set down his teacup and turned as she reached the bottom step.

  “Lenny, my love, you look ravishing. And clean, too.”

  Lenny had to laugh. Tommy was still Tommy, whether in San Francisco or England. Eluding his outstretched hands, she rose on tiptoe and gave him a brief kiss. It was a wholly spontaneous action; she had not realized that seeing him would make her feel so differently from the way she had only moments before.

  “Well,” he said, his pale eyes wide, “when they greet old T. Price with a kiss, it means they’re homesick already.”

  “I’m just glad to see you. How went business, and why didn’t you call me up?”