The Tide Can't Wait

by Louis Trimble

  “All right?”

  She could barely see him in the darkness. Then as the light swept across the outer face of the protecting rocks, reflected light showed her the pain twisting his face.

  “You’re hurt.”

  “Just a little shot,” he said with grim humor. The light went away and his voice came to her eerily out of blackness. “We’ll have to get out of here before our friend up above figures out he can shoot down at us.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I can guess,” Barr said. “Whoever he is, you got him a good one with that last shot-put of yours. He lost his rifle and started using a revolver. That’s probably why the boys in the launch opened up on us. They heard the noise and figured out they’d better get it over with. Gunshots attract people in these parts.”

  “If we can hold out until the police arrive …”

  “We’re sitting ducks,” Barr said. “They’ll figure out soon enough where we went.”

  The putting of the launch grew louder and finally held steady. It was very close. “They have it figured out,” Barr said in a tight voice. “Come on.”

  He was peeling off his coat. Thrusting it into a crevasse in the rock face of the wall at their backs, he went to work on his shirt and tie. Lenny realized that he meant to swim for it. She was a good swimmer, but the thought of the inky-black water all about and death lying in wait brought a cold knot of fear to her stomach.

  Barr continued undressing and she followed suit, working out of her sodden dress and slip and hose, putting them with his clothing.

  He said, “That was a damned fool thing you did up there, you know.” His voice was tight and through the unspoken thanks in it, she heard the first tremor of weakness.

  She did not answer him. She was thinking, I have to get him to a doctor. I have to get him out of here.

  Barr said, “When you have to surface, come up on your back. Try and fix it so that just your nose is out of water.”

  “All right.” She swallowed. “I’m scared.”

  “So am I,” Barr said. The launch was still putting softly close by. Only the shallowness of the water kept it from coming up to the rocks. The light flared up and she saw Barr’s wound now, a dark spot high on the left shoulder.

  “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  “Make for the driftwood when we hit the beach,” he ordered. “You go first.”

  She filled her lungs and went under, feeling for the opening in the rocks. It seemed an agony of time before she found it and worked her way through, and only an instant before she had to surface for air.

  The putting of the launch was a dull vibration in her ears, so close that she had the feeling eyes were watching her. She took all the air she could and went down again. And she knew that as she did so, they must have seen her.

  Barr passed her. Deliberately she held herself back, letting him stay ahead in case his wound should give him more trouble than he expected. She could not explain why she felt such concern for him except that somehow his salvation was tied up with hers.

  Swim and surface; suck in air, go down again. She did not let herself think about them waiting out there, the light ready, guns ready. Before she expected it, she felt the bottom and she knew she was in the shallows.

  She felt the wash of soft waves and she flattened out and crawled. She wanted to look back, but she forced herself forward until finally the cold wash of air told her she was wholly exposed, that there was no more protection to be had from the dark water.

  The beach lay just ahead, the first pile of driftwood slightly to her left. She saw Barr kick up from the water a dozen feet from her. He splashed to the beach and ran at an awkward, stumbling weave across the shingle. She looked back and saw the launch again. Moonlight glinted on metal and she made out a man standing in the bow, a rifle in his hands.

  She leaped up and began to run, looking over her shoulder, curiously afraid to turn wholly away from the gunman.

  She could see him hesitate and half-turn at her sudden appearance. Off to her left there came the sound of someone running along the headland and she began to weave as she had seen Barr do.

  The few seconds’ diversion gave Barr the needed time to make the temporary safety of the driftwood. And then she realized she was alone—the single clear target.

  She sprinted, scarcely aware of the sharp pebbles jabbing into her bare feet. Breath sobbing, she raced for the driftwood, forgetting to weave, forgetting everything but the desire for safety.

  She heard the shot and felt the spray of chipped rock against her ankle. The wood was close, very close. Another shot and splinters of water-logged wood flew up almost in her face.

  She dived the last few feet. Something soft broke her fall, caught her, and dragged her deeper into shadow. It was Barr and she could only lie as she had fallen, against his chest, his arm about her, while she sucked in great gulps of air.

  “You’re a double-damned fool,” he said.

  The tension built up in her wanted release in tears. She fought to hold them back. She couldn’t cry now. They weren’t safe yet.

  She became aware that Barr had left her. He was peering over the driftwood. “It takes a real marksman to come as close to a moving target as that boy on the boat did,” he murmured. “And there’s our pal on the headland. He could decide to come down here.”

  She had breath now. “Why doesn’t someone come?”

  Only the inn showed life behind them—light screened away by drawn curtains. She glanced toward the inhabited headland. Darkness was there except for the lone light from Portia’s cottage. On the tip of the headland, that light could be seen well out to sea.

  “I don’t know,” Barr said in answer to her question. “They might think it’s smugglers out here playing games with the government. And no self-respecting Britisher would think of interfering with a jolly bit of smuggling.”

  He looked over the driftwood. “If we go for the inn, we’ll make perfect targets in this moonlight. If we wait here, they’ll come for us sooner or later.”

  She felt the cold air as her body heat, whipped up by her running, began to drain. A brassiere and panties were small protection against the damp night air. She said, “We might try for that next pile of driftwood and then for that old boat. Beyond that there’s shadow. We could make it to your cottage.”

  Barr studied the idea. “It’s not much of a chance,” he said. “But it’s the only one we have.” He was shivering, too, clad only in shorts. “Damn it, since when did Roget get an organization to work for him?”

  For all Lenny knew, Leon might own an army.

  Barr said, “Unless this means the boys who want to buy what he has to sell have come.”

  “Then he could sell and go with them,” Lenny said.

  Barr shrugged. “Unless he’s afraid to go meet them personally right now. We have him pretty well watched.”

  He had scarcely finished speaking when he was gone, sprinting for the next pile of driftwood. Without thinking, she raced after him. He was obviously in pain from his wound and she caught and passed him.

  She did not hear a single shot by the time she and Barr reached the second pile of wood. He lay on his stomach, panting, and when he had his breath, said, “That was being too much of a damned fool.”

  “I make a smaller target than you.”

  “And a whiter one,” he commented dryly.

  The sprint to the boat was a good thirty yards, all in full moonlight. Her feet seemed to her to be flying, skimming over the hard shingle. Yet she thought she would never reach her goal.

  She heard the shot, a single rifle, but if the bullet struck close she was unaware of it. Then there was the blessed shadow of the upturned sand-filled boat. Almost at once, Barr was beside her. This time he lay for a longer time and when he rose, he did so slowly. His strength was nearly gone.

  “We can make it now,” she said. “If we keep out of Portia’s light, we’ll be in shadow all the way.”

  “Sure
,” Barr said. He rose and she followed. They went slowly. She wanted to run, but she stayed close behind him in case he should fall. She did not even think that she might not be able to handle his weight if he did collapse.

  There was no sound from behind them but the putting of the launch. It was still there but, momentarily, the danger from it was stilled.

  At the top of the path, Barr dropped low and crawled in a semicircle past the little puddle of light from Portia’s window. He said softly over his shoulder, “Only a couple hundred yards more.”

  It sounded like miles, she thought dully. Then the light was behind them and she started to rise. Barr had paused, kneeling, with his head hanging. While she watched, horrified, he began to move, sliding forward, sprawling, until he lay stretched out, motionless.

  “Rob?”

  He did not stir. Panic rose in her and she grabbed his shoulder to turn him over, to get his face out of the dirt. Her hand touched blood, warm and sticky, and she jerked back.

  From the darkness a husky voice said, “Can I help?”

  Lenny felt sickness clamp down in her stomach. Portia Sloane stood there. And Lenny could not doubt that she had signaled the launch with her light, that she was on Leon’s side.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Slowly Lenny rose to her feet and looked past Portia at the moonlit cove. The launch was moving now, swinging about and going away. In the near distance she heard a car motor start up. They were all going. They were leaving it to Portia.

  She said, “He’s shot,” her voice dulled by the hopelessness that filled her. “They shot him.” She stepped forward so that she stood astraddle Barr’s recumbent body. I’m bigger than she, Lenny thought. I won’t give up now.

  But the cold air against her wet body, the weariness, the near exhaustion, all closed in about her suddenly and she could only stand and shake, her teeth chattering.

  “For God’s sake,” Portia said. “Here. Give me a hand with him or you’ll both be dead of pneumonia.”

  Portia was blocking Lenny’s view of the cove now, but Lenny could hear the putting of the launch and it seemed to her that it was returning. “They’ll come back,” she said. “They’ll shoot him again.”

  Portia’s hand caught her bare arm, bruising it. “Stop that! Come and help me!”

  The sharp pain from the grip broke through to Lenny’s consciousness. She backed away from Barr’s body and Portia bent, catching Barr under the armpits. Lenny followed suit, taking the ankles.

  Barr was incredibly heavy and awkward, completely limp, and Lenny had to dig her fingers into his ankles to keep her grip. Her knuckles and the tendons in her wrists began to ache with the pressure. But she dared not turn him loose.

  They went through the kitchen into the snug warmth of Portia’s little house. They laid Barr on Portia’s low, wide bed. He was inert, his eyes closed, a pallor over his normally tanned skin. His breathing was regular and shallow and his chest lifted and fell rhythmically to the strong pulse of his heart.

  Despite the warmth of the room, Lenny was shivering. “The police …”

  Portia caught her shoulder and pushed her toward the bathroom. “Get yourself under a hot shower. Forget the police. He wouldn’t thank you for calling them.”

  Lenny remembered then. “A doctor?”

  “For this? He’s had worse and survived. A doctor has to report a gunshot wound. Now go on.”

  Lenny did as she was told, standing under the shower, letting the hot water sluice over her. And then the warmth began to reach down into her.

  She did not know how long she stood there, but the water was growing cool when Portia came in. Turning off the water, Portia wrapped Lenny in a great soft towel and led her through the bedroom to the divan. On her way past the bed, Lenny saw that Barr’s shoulder was neatly bandaged, and she thought, His color is better. But at the moment it meant little to her.

  Portia rubbed Lenny briskly with the big towel and used another on her head. “Your hair’s a mess,” she said cheerfully. “You haven’t any curl left. If you intend to mess around this way, wear it short and straight.”

  Lenny said groggily, “Like yours?”

  Portia laughed softly, “That could be a nasty remark, but I don’t think so.”

  “It was supposed to be,” Lenny said.

  Giving her an odd look, Portia laughed again and left her. She returned in a few moments with a cup of tea, dark, hot, and strong, and well-laced with rum. Lenny drank the tea and smoked a cigarette Portia lighted and put in her hand. The tea began to warm her inside, thawing the places the hot shower had not been able to reach. She could feel the heat flowing outward from her stomach through all of her. It was wonderful.

  She said obstinately, “They’ll be back. I want to get the police …”

  “The police be damned,” Portia answered. “They won’t be back.”

  Lenny felt that she was being very clever. “How do you know?” she asked slyly.

  Portia sounded almost impatient. “Because I shot at them. I know that kind. They run when you turn on them. They come back, but they aren’t the type to come out in the open. I hit their boat and they ran. Now forget it.”

  It didn’t make sense. Portia had shot at them, at the men in the boat. But it didn’t really matter. The rum-laced tea had done its job; Lenny wanted only to sleep. She half felt Portia take the cigarette from her fingers, lift her legs onto the couch, and drop a blanket over her. When the light was turned off, she was totally unaware of it.

  • • •

  Lenny awakened slowly. She moved and pains shot the length of her legs and through her thighs. She lay for some time before awareness came to her and she remembered why she should be so stiff. She saw that gray morning light was coming through a side window. All the others were covered by draperies.

  She threw the blanket from her and made an effort to stand. She managed and, swaying slightly, essayed a step. It hurt. Slowly she hobbled to the window, each step paining her a little less. Drawing the drapery, she started back for the divan in the darkness. She stopped as she heard the soft murmur of voices. Portia was talking to someone.

  Carefully she walked through the gloom. When she reached the closed bedroom door, she stood motionless, listening. She was not really fully awake; her mind was fastened on Portia Sloane.

  Portia was saying, “Rob, where would Leon get money enough to buy an organization like that? Gunmen don’t come cheap in England.”

  Barr’s voice was lazy, fuzzy. “I doubt if he paid for it. He probably got a message to them, warning them I was on the move. Let’s hope Stark was clever enough to follow the message. Maybe we’ve learned something.”

  “At the cost of a bullet wound.”

  “A cheap price to pay,” he said.

  “Lenny might not have thought so if she’d been the one to get shot.”

  Barr said, “They weren’t shooting at her. She had my topcoat on, remember. By the way, how is she?”

  “Asleep,” Portia said. “She was worn out—shock. She kept insisting on the police. She thinks they may come back.”

  “They may,” Barr said.

  “No,” Portia told him. “I shot at them.” He made a surprised sound and her voice rose. “I know I told you I was out of it, but do you think I wanted to let them come and finish you?”

  “Sorry,” Barr said. “I still can’t think straight. Anyway, I’m glad you took care of Lenny. Thanks.”

  “I can see why you’re glad,” Portia said. “She’s quite something in that pseudo-bathing suit she was wearing.”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  Silence.

  Portia said, “Do you know where she stands yet, Rob?”

  “Lenny? No. She told Price everything. Before that, I thought I knew where she stood. Now I’m not sure.”

  Lenny stifled a gasp. She had told Barr no such thing. She …

  Portia sounded puzzled. “She admitted that to you?”

  “She denied it.”

&
nbsp; “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. She’s never really been in a fight before. And next time there won’t be any warning.”

  Portia said, “You can’t turn her loose. Not now.”

  “Of course not. I want Roget. I don’t want her hurt or myself hurt, but I’ll risk both to get his contact this time.”

  “She can’t stay at the inn,” Portia said thoughtfully. “Now that they know definitely she’s with you.”

  “No,” he agreed. “We’re in this—Lenny and I.” He sounded faintly resigned. “She could move in with me, I suppose.”

  Portia said, “I could help, Rob, if I knew what was going on.”

  He mocked her almost savagely: “You don’t, Portia?”

  “I told you …”

  Lenny felt as though she were trespassing. There was a good deal of emotion in both their voices. Whatever else she had learned by listening, she had found out that there was a good deal of intimacy between these two. It was in the way they spoke to each other. Barr did not trust Portia, but he was in love with her.

  Lenny turned and tiptoed back to the divan. She lay awake for some time. The voices had ceased. At first, what Barr had said about her hurt a little. Then it angered her. And finally it became amusing. So the only safe way would be to have her move in with him!

  Then she remembered that this was no game. Barr might not trust her, nor even like her, but he was willing to risk himself to protect her.

  She lay for some time, letting the entire situation unfold in her mind, adding up Leon and what had happened last night.

  She thought of Tommy Price and now she regretted having brought him into this at all. She realized that she had invited Tommy to share a very real danger. And not just from Leon and those others, but possibly from Barr as well.

  He had said that he would be down today. Drowsily, she thought, I’ll send him away. Tell him it was a mistake.

  She fell asleep.

  • • •

  Lenny awakened to sunshine bright in her eyes and the smell of coffee and bacon frying in her nostrils. She yawned and sat up. Portia appeared, looking fresh and wide-awake. She wore a yellow housecoat and held a spatula in one hand. Lenny could not help smiling.