The Tide Can't Wait

by Louis Trimble

  She lowered her eyes. “I’d rather not, but if I must, I will.”

  “Lenore. When he comes, tell him of my visit. Tell him that you have my confidence. Tell him everything that was said here—up to a point, of course. I leave the judgment with you. And when you are absolutely sure of him, tell him of my contact.”

  “Your contact?”

  “Yes, that is what he wants. He wants to know my contacts. So we shall give him one.” He took a scrap of paper from his pocket and drew a rough map on it. “Tomorrow night at eleven. Here, see. This is where you tell him to go.”

  He was sketching Oxford Street, Shaftesbury Avenue, Charing Cross Road, and Wardour Street, and then a crisscross of apparently less important thoroughfares as he did not name them. “This, in here, is Soho. And the place—here, in this little buttery. That is where I meet my contact. You will tell Barr this. He will come after me. And I shall be there.”

  “Leon!”

  He smiled triumphantly. “Yes, I will be there in the back, waiting for him. Waiting to laugh at him. Because, my dear, you will be making the genuine contact. And you will be but two blocks away!”

  “I?”

  “Yes, here. You must walk along this block slowly. There will be other women walking, too—so. Keep moving. Otherwise, you will be charged with soliciting. You must wear your black dress, the one I admire so. If it is cold, a loose wrap. But let the dress and your figure be seen. And remember to keep walking.”

  “Leon!”

  “Is it not clever, Lenore? Men may approach you. Ignore them—all but the one who comes to you and speaks in French. This one will say, ‘You are that rare type, a blonde Latin American.’ To no one else do you pay attention. It will be happening about eleven. While I am sitting in the buttery and laughing at Barr.”

  “And then what must I do?”

  “You take this man—let me show you. Note carefully. This building. Here is the address, so. Here you have a room. In the room you will receive money, a great deal of money. And a letter. And brief instructions. If they do not make sense, do not worry. I shall understand.”

  “And what do I give for this money, Leon?”

  “The microfilm. It will be in the top dresser drawer. A small packet of sachet such as women keep in their dresser drawers will be in the right-hand corner. You exchange this for the money and the letter and the information. He will go. You must remain in the room until eleven-thirty. At that time you walk to Shaftesbury Avenue and take a taxicab to the airport. There is a night plane for Lisbon. We shall meet there.” He spread his hands. “Voilà!”

  “Leon, it’s brilliant.” It was fiendishly clever. She said, “But, Leon, the risk to you …?”

  “Barr does not want me. It is my contact he seeks. And I shall give him one—a little insignificant man with whom he can do as he wishes. As he did with Helgos.”

  She remembered Helgos, the man who had been sent by Leon to kill Barr. Leon would deny that he had anything to do with the affair, of course.

  She said, “The way they persecute you—us—is horrible.”

  “Ah, but soon.” He rose, thrusting the crude map he had sketched into her hand. “Memorize this. Then destroy it. I must go now.” He smiled and then broke into a delighted laugh. “I can hardly wait until tomorrow night.”

  Lenny rose and went with him to the door. “Wait, Leon.” She made him stand aside while she opened the door. The rain had stopped and the sun shone again. She made a show of peering out. “All right, go quickly, Leon.” She caught him to her, kissing him briefly. “In Lisbon, my darling.”

  “In Lisbon,” he whispered. He flashed her a smile and was gone. She shut the door and glanced out. He was nowhere in sight.

  She sat down, trembling. She had won all right—but what had she won?

  CHAPTER X

  Lenny sat for some time waiting to hear a car drive away, indicating that Leon had gone. But she could hear nothing except the soft sound of the breeze under the eaves of the cottage. The storm had passed as it had come, swiftly, leaving a bright, sparkling day outside.

  She was shaking again, not from fear, from exultation. She realized that she held a tremendous advantage over both Leon and Barr. She had it in her power to defeat either of them.

  She rose, smiling, and paced the room slowly. The smile became a frown as she realized the magnitude of the problem. Just having this knowledge was not enough. She would have to put herself in a position where she could protect it—and Lenore Corey. And staying with Barr would not give her that position.

  Whatever she did, she must do quickly; Leon had arranged for his plan to take effect tomorrow night. It left her little time. She must leave here, she decided, and get to London. And she must go in such a way that neither Leon—if he was having her watched—nor Barr could suspect anything.

  She thought of Tommy. He had said that he would come to see her today. She laughed softly. Tommy was sweet. She wondered if he had been right—that her feelings for him were only a rebound from Leon.

  She decided not. If it had been simply a matter of rebound, certainly she would have felt herself attracted more to Barr, a man who had more natural charm for women, who exuded—she sought for the word—sex appeal. No, it was not rebound. Tommy was—well, sweet.

  She realized that she was talking herself into becoming more than fond of Tommy. She did not care. The more she thought of the problem of protecting herself, the more she realized that it was not something she could handle alone.

  She decided to call Tommy, and found the telephone in a far corner of the room. She had the receiver up when she realized that to make a trunk call from here would be foolish; Barr could find out about it too easily.

  Deciding that even though she had not heard a car, Leon must have gone, she stepped out into the sunshine. As the sound of the closing door faded behind her, she thought she heard the opening of another. She stood at the edge of the porch, listening. There was no further sound. She turned and went back inside, standing in the open doorway, her head cocked. Nothing.

  She went to the rear of the cottage where the road from the village passed. There was a turnoff into Barr’s small garage which stood with its doors open. It was empty. There was no sign of fresh car tracks in the slightly muddied gravel. That meant Leon had not driven up here but must have parked at a distance.

  She walked along the road, passing the third cottage. On her right as she neared the village was a copse of woodland with a narrow road, scarcely more than a track, leading into it. She made out the tire marks of a car. There were two sets, the first light, that on top deeper in the dirt. She read their meaning easily: Leon had driven in while the road was dry and had come out after the rain. She smiled, pleased with herself over such a simple deduction. She continued on toward the village.

  Once past the third cottage and its garden, she could look down on the inn and the cove. In the sunlight everything seemed very peaceful; there was no sign there of the horror that had gripped her the night before. There was only sun-bathed peace.

  How deceptive was peace, she thought, and turned to find a telephone. It was then she saw the Bentley, long and gleaming, parked by the inn. Tommy had come. She broke into a half-run toward the inn.

  She did not look back, and so missed seeing the man who stepped carefully around the corner of Barr’s cottage, glanced along the road, and then set off at a rapid pace, turning right to disappear into the woods. Nor, had she seen him, would she have recognized Leon at that distance. She was at the inn when a car motor was started up.

  Lenny forced herself to slow down before she stepped into the inn. It was empty except for Doddsby, fussing at his bar. She smiled at him.

  “I’m terribly sorry I deserted you, Mr. Doddsby, but Miss Sloane was so kind as to …” She left it hanging, not quite sure what Portia had told him.

  “Quite all right, Miss Corey. You seem over your mishap.”

  “I only ruined my hair and my temper.” She glanced around. “I
thought I saw Mr. Price’s car outside.”

  “The American?” He nodded and, as if to distinguish Tommy from Barr, added, “The blond one. He’s stepped out.”

  She had expected Tommy’s usual ebullient greeting and the lack of it gave her a flat feeling. As she opened the door to leave, she glanced up toward Portia’s cottage, wondering if she should go there and wait for Tommy to return or make herself look rather absurd and hunt for him.

  The decision was made for her. A man and woman were standing in Portia’s garden, the man close to the gate. Bright yellow slacks told her that the woman was Portia; size and general shape told her the man was Tommy. Behind her, Doddsby said, “I told Mr. Price you’d gone to Miss Sloane’s place. He might be there.”

  Lenny said, “Oh!” and the suspicion she had felt at the sight of Portia and Tommy together drained away. She said, “Thank you,” and started walking toward Tommy who was coming down the path to the inn now. He saw her and waved, and she waved back. He started to run toward her and she, unaware of what she did, began to run, too.

  They met at the edge of the beach, Lenny out of breath, Tommy grinning like a fool. He caught her hands.

  “I never thought I’d see Lenny Corey chasing old T. Price!”

  She found herself holding to him, her head buried against his big chest, and she was laughing and half-crying at the same time.

  “Tommy! Tommy!”

  He patted her gently and then held her away so that he could look into her face. “Good Lord, girl, what’s come over you?”

  She had control of herself now. “Tommy, I missed you.”

  “I believe you really did,” he said with a touch of awe in his voice. A handkerchief came out and he dabbed at her eyes and then held it to her nose. “It’s clean. Blow.”

  She blew. “I—I guess I’m still upset about last night.”

  He looked puzzled. Lenny squeezed his hand. “I did miss you, Tommy. I mean, I’m being idiotic because … Oh, damn!”

  He laughed at her. “You mean you let your feelings show and now you’re embarrassed.”

  “Sort of.”

  “Good,” he said. “You’ll get over the embarrassment. Don’t get over the other.”

  Lenny had herself under control again. She said, “Tommy, I want to talk to you. Seriously.”

  “Ah, more skulduggery?”

  “Tommy, be serious. What did Portia tell you about last night?”

  They started along the beach, Lenny holding to the firm solidity of his big hand. He said, “Portia?”

  “Portia Sloane. The girl you were just with.”

  “Oh, her.” He grinned down at her. “Cute, isn’t she. Like a chubby doll in a china shop. Why, she told me you took a walk on the headland and went in the water and had to swim for it. Two dunkings, one after the other. You’re getting positively pathological about water, Lenny.”

  She squeezed Tommy’s hand, grateful to him. Somehow the way he treated matters made them seem less horrible, gave them a perspective that she could bear. She did not speak now, but led him on up the path to the headland. They sat on the rock where she and Barr had sat last night.

  “It was here, Tommy,” she began. He looked about and then at her, his eyebrows raised. She went on, “Rob Barr and I were sitting here talking. There was a launch putting around at the edge of the cove. Then someone started shooting at us.”

  By the time she had finished, he was standing, frowning angrily. She had never seen him angry before; he was really quite frightening.

  “That’s too much!” he exploded. “Too damned much!” Swinging about, he caught her hands and drew her to her feet. “To hell with Barr, with everything. I’ll take you somewhere, far off. To hell with them all.”

  “Tommy, please. I just can’t say to hell with it.” She liked his protective fierceness. She only wished that she could succumb to it, envelop herself in it, forget Barr and Leon, and all the ugliness that went with them. But—“I can’t, Tommy.”

  He started to speak and she put a hand over his mouth. “Listen to me. I saw Leon today.” Now he was paying attention. She told him what Portia had said about Leon—being careful not to incriminate Portia with Leon—and how she had taken her bag to Barr’s and found Leon there. And she detailed Leon’s plan and her decision.

  “It’s too dangerous, Lenny. You’re working against professionals. You’d never pull it off.”

  “Why not? I have information Barr wants. Once he agrees to give me my freedom, I’ll hand him the information and he can do as he likes. I won’t even have to be there.”

  He threw down his cigarette and stamped on it. “I suppose,” he said, still half-angry. He got up and sat down. “But aren’t you putting a little too much trust in Rob Barr, Lenny?”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Tommy. I need to protect myself before I do anything.”

  He rubbed his knuckles lightly against the side of her head. “All solved. We go to London and make a night of it.”

  “Tommy!” She could not keep the disappointment from her voice.

  “No arguments.” He looked down at her with a mock-frown. “If you do as you originally planned, as Leon wants you to—then you’re with Barr, where he can get at you. What kind of guy is he really? What would Leon do if the situation were reversed and he wanted vital information you had?”

  She began to see what he was driving at. She said, “Leon is a fanatic, Tommy. He’d do—anything.”

  “And Barr? Isn’t Barr a fanatic for his side?”

  She recalled Barr’s words, his flat statements, his expression. Not a fanatic in the same sense, perhaps, but a man dedicated. A man to whom the job and the results came first. Portia had said that; Portia should know.

  “In his own way,” she admitted.

  “Then,” Tommy said, “don’t be where Barr can get at you easily. Make him come to you. Right?”

  She began to see. “I wanted to go to London,” she admitted, “but I didn’t know what to do after I got there. You’re right, Tommy.”

  “And you’ll have old T. Price in the background to protect you.”

  She shook her head firmly. “No, Tommy. You’re my escort and that’s all. Please, nothing more than that.”

  “Sure,” he said amiably. “I’ll amble about with you and when things get tough, I’ll crawl under the nearest table and bark.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Maybe there won’t be any trouble. Let’s leave it there for now, shall we?”

  “All right, Tommy. Thanks.”

  They rose and started down the path toward the inn. When they reached it, he said, “We’ll collect your luggage and take off. But have you figured out how to let Barr know where you are? He can’t just hunt all over London for you.”

  Lenny said, “I’ll scribble a note to Portia. She can tell him.”

  “Make it good and cryptic,” he said. “Let Barr stew over it.”

  “I will not,” she retorted. “I want him to know how urgent the whole matter is.”

  She took a sheet of paper and sat at the writing desk provided by Doddsby. She wrote:

  Portia, I changed my mind and am going to London with Tommy Price to do the night clubs. Please tell Rob for me. Also tell him that Leon was waiting at his cottage. He talked a good deal to me about his plans, which are maturing rapidly.

  That was enough, she decided. She let Tommy read it, and he grinned in satisfaction.

  “That should bring him on the run. Now for the big city.”

  From the Bentley, Lenny watched the village recede and for a moment she felt an emptiness and then fear. It had promised so much peace, so much quiet. And there was the little church which she really hadn’t had a chance to study.

  She said, “Tommy, promise I can come back again.”

  He took a hand from the wheel and dropped it casually over hers. “Guaranteed.”

  • • •

  At eleven o’clock that morning, Barr was crossing Westminister Bridge. He had stoppe
d on the south side of the Thames to call Johnny Griggs, and when he left the telephone booth, he was both pleased and puzzled.

  He was pleased because Griggs told him that Tommy Price was getting ready to leave his flat and go somewhere; he was puzzled because, according to Griggs, Price had not reached the ocean last night until after two in the morning. And yet Barr had been willing to swear that the man on the bluff with the silenced rifle had been Price.

  Last night, Griggs had trailed Price into London and had followed him to Soho, Golder’s Green, and to Hammersmith, Price in a state of obvious excitement. That made no more sense to Barr than did the fact that at two o’clock, Price had returned to the ocean and had gone to Portia’s cottage, peered through the windows and then returned to his car and his flat in London.

  Barr drove slowly to give Price a chance to leave his flat. When he arrived at the address—parking a block away—he found the garage empty. The street was quiet, with two small children playing with a dog some distance down and a lone woman walking in the other direction. There were no other signs of life. Barr stepped to the door and rang the bell underneath the neatly lettered card: t. price.

  There was no answer to his ring, nor any other sound but the faint echo of door chimes from above. Barr took a ring of keys from his pocket. The third one appeared to have possibilities and he gave a sharp twist. He swore softly. The lock had given way with a snap. He had broken Price’s lock.

  He went on up a flight of stairs to a landing where he met a second locked door. This yielded and he got inside without damage. Satisfied that it was empty, he shut the door behind him and looked around.

  Even with draperies drawn against the daylight, Barr had no trouble seeing that he was in an expensively and somewhat ornately furnished flat. The furniture was heavy, showing a good deal of polished wood. With the exception of the painting over the fireplace mantel, the entire motif was plainly Spanish Colonial. Barr spent some time before the painting, lips pursed in a whistle of surprise.

  He made a quick survey of the flat—bedroom, kitchen, bath, and study. He stopped in the latter and studied the books which filled the floor-to-ceiling bookcases that covered one wall. The books were mostly reference works, fine editions, and rare items. The large desk in the center of the room was inundated by papers which seemed to contain reference notes. The contents of the papers did not amaze Barr, but the amount of them did. Price had not struck him as either old enough or diligent enough to have gathered together so much research material.