The Tide Can't Wait

by Louis Trimble

  Sitting down, he began a systematic search of the material on the desk. After scanning a pair of treatises, he found something and began to read carefully. The more he read, the wider grew his grin. Finally he laid down the paper.

  “I’ll be damned,” he murmured. It was good to know where you stood when you faced an adversary with the brains and imagination obviously possessed by Tommy Price.

  He spent more time going through the desk drawers and the lone filing cabinet. All that Barr could conclude was that T. Price was genuinely a student of English Literature and that he specialized in W. H. Hudson and other fictionalized biography. Hudson, as Barr recalled, had been an Englishman raised in South America and his writings had been almost wholly about that continent.

  Barr returned to his car and drove the few blocks to his own flat. Here he used the telephone. He rustled up a quick lunch and was washing it down with a bottle of beer when there was a skipping knock on his door.

  He opened up to find Stark there, a broad grin beneath his drooping yellow mustache. “I got your message and brought you a present.” He stepped aside to reveal a short, nervous-looking man with a face almost blank behind a pair of thick-lensed glasses.

  “Snyder!”

  “I smell beer,” Snyder said by way of greeting.

  They went in, Stark heading for the refrigerator where he located a half-dozen bottles of beer. He returned to the living room. “This one walked in last night as calm as you please.”

  “And where did he go?” Barr asked curiously. “On vacation?”

  “You might say,” Snyder agreed. He took a bottle of beer as Stark snapped off the cap. “I’ve been on the Continent. You won’t believe this, but you told me to go there.”

  “I told you what?”

  “That’s what he keeps telling me,” Stark said sourly. “That the night you ran Helgos across the Irish Sea, you called him up and sent him to the Italian Riviera.”

  “You did,” Snyder said stubbornly. “Just before I was going to the plane, you rang me up. You gave me the signal, name, number, code—and it was your voice.” He answered Barr’s look with a glare. “Damn it, how long have we worked together?”

  “Okay,” Barr said. “And what did I tell you to do?”

  “Contact Sandra Croyer—you remember that little redhead Leon used when he was in France. You said to contact her and wait for instructions. So I did. But no instructions. Things smelled like they were getting warm and I hopped it back to see what was going on.”

  Barr drank some beer. “Sounds like more of Price’s work,” he said to Stark. “He puts Helgos on me and gets Snyder out of the way. Then when we release Helgos, Price kills him. If he wanted Snyder out of the way so badly, why not kill him, too?”

  “Sounds like a cute fellow,” Stark commented. “Who is he?”

  “From the same tribe as Roget.” Barr told them what Griggs had reported to him and what he had learned just that morning. “Along with writing articles and taking notes, he’s compiled a wonderful file of information on their precious country.” He had to laugh, remembering. “He even does fictionalized biography in the style of W. H. Hudson in which he incorporates all of this information. That way he has access to it and at the same time protects it from prying eyes.”

  “Unless they happen to be prying ones like yours,” Stark remarked.

  Barr grinned in mock-modesty. “Just luck that I studied the same field. Anyway, I get the feeling that Price has probably been out of the country since he was a small child. Although,” he added thoughtfully, “it could be family-engendered patriotism. He’s just about the age to have been born when the big exile took place. At any rate, he’s got enough information in the one article I read to blow that part of Latin America to the moon and back.”

  Stark and Snyder had stopped grinning. Barr went on: “I piece it out this way—Price’s family went to the United States, as Roget’s went to France—and took American names just as Roget’s took French names. When Roget needed help in the States he went to where Price was teaching school. Lenny Corey shows up and they see a real plum ripe for the picking. Price steers her onto Roget and lets nature take its course, and they get an unwitting ally.

  “When we step in, Roget realizes she can’t be trusted. But by then she’s over here, thanks to us. So Price steps in as the old Stateside friend and squires her around. Apparently she’s just as simple as she was back in San Francisco—she’s busy telling Price everything she knows.”

  “For God’s sake,” Stark said. “Can’t you stop her?”

  “If I could trust her, yes,” Barr said. “She practically saved my neck last night but I still can’t be sure.” He told them about it.

  “If I warn her and she trots to Price, then he’ll know we’re tipped off about him. As it stands, I think he figures he’s in the clear with us. Get it—Roget is expendable because here’s Price all ready to move in. Hell, Roget may even be a blind when the contact comes. We chase him and Price moves in and makes the exchange. We lose the contact again—and we’re no better off than before and one hell of a lot closer to having hell break loose down south.”

  Stark said hopefully, “I know we can’t up and shoot this Price just on Johnny Griggs’ evidence, but I know someone who can.”

  “And scare Roget away?”

  “I suppose so. Then it looks as if we’ll have to split ourselves in halves to make enough of us to do all the work.”

  “Nope,” Snyder said. He sucked on his beer, eyes twinkling behind his thick glasses. “Now where I was, I had beautiful weather and lots of interesting information.”

  “Sandra Croyer!” Barr said, remembering. “Well?”

  “We spent some time together,” Snyder said in a reminiscent tone. “You know how close-mouthed the girl is—still carrying a hot place in her heart for Roget. Money couldn’t buy me anything, but some expensive and illegal absinthe did. That and my charm, of course.”

  “Of course,” Barr agreed. He was thinking that if Snyder didn’t have anything concrete, he didn’t know where they were going to go. He couldn’t think of a way to handle all the alternate possibilities Price’s coming into the affair presented.

  “The contact is to be made tomorrow night,” Snyder said in soft triumph. “Here in London.”

  “Tomorrow! Where? Who?”

  “She didn’t know.” He burped beer. “And what you were telling me about the characters in the launch has rung a bell. From something Sandra said, I gather that those three were sent by the contact. That launch came over here from the Continent with orders to get you. I heard that last night, and that’s one of the reasons I’m here.”

  “They missed,” Barr said sourly. He was turning this over in his mind. Neat, he thought, so neat. If they had got him, then one of their opposition was eliminated. Since they hadn’t, he was supposed to figure that someone else besides Roget was in the deal because he knew—as everyone did—that Roget couldn’t hire any men.

  Barr put it into words. “And while I yap around after this someone else, the contact is made and Roget goes off.”

  “Could be,” Snyder agreed. “All I know is that the boys on the launch have made more than one trip. I even had a look at them between times—courtesy of Sandra.”

  “Well?”

  “Three French citizens,” Snyder said. “Boys who’ve been running things across the Mediterranean since the war. One of them is a famous modern pirate, I gathered—a big blond, originally Dutch. The other two are probably just crew.”

  “One could be the contact,” Barr said hopefully.

  “Could be,” Snyder agreed, “except that it’s a risky way for him to travel. Or maybe he’s here under our noses, waiting for the right moment.”

  “Which is tomorrow night,” Stark reminded them.

  Barr rubbed his knuckles reflectively. “A big blond. No wonder I thought I was fighting with Price.”

  Stark mulled this over. “Just how do you know it was Price who got S
nyder out of the way and put Helgos in Roget’s place? Maybe it was this other blond.”

  “No,” Barr said. “Griggs told me about Helgos—he went straight to Price’s place when we turned him loose. As for the other—I found our serial numbers, code numbers, and signal all in Price’s notes.”

  “Then we change it,” Stark said.

  “No,” Barr answered. “If we do and are being tapped, then they’ll be tipped off that we know about them. The fact that Price thinks he’s in the clear is one of our few assets. Let’s keep it that way.”

  The telephone rang. It was Johnny Griggs. “Guv-'ner? I’m at the village. Price and the Corey girl are leaving.”

  “Go on.”

  “He came straight ‘ere, parked at the inn, and went up to see Miss Sloane.”

  Barr swallowed. He’d been afraid of that. Damn Portia. The next time he saw her, he’d …

  Griggs said, “About that time, Roget comes out of your place an’ ducks into a woods. Later ‘e comes back an’ slips into your rear door. Meanwhile, the Corey girl comes out of your place an’ goes to the inn. She sees Price an’ runs for ‘im like—like … well, Guv’ner, she’s got it bad.”

  “Yes,” Barr said. His mouth was dry.

  “They go up on the ‘eadland an’ talk, real close, ‘olding ‘ands an’ all. Then they go to the inn an’ drive off. I’m following.”

  “Thanks, Johnny.” Barr dropped the receiver into place, lifted it again and dialed, placing a call to Portia. He sat waiting, his eyes fixed on nothing. Neither of the other men spoke.

  He heard Portia’s voice. “Hullo?”

  “Portia?”

  “Rob—I was going to call you. I just received a message from your Lenny Corey.”

  “She isn’t mine. What kind of message?”

  “Handwritten,” she said. “That’s what you meant, isn’t it?”

  “Stop playing. What did she say?”

  She read it in a flat voice and added, “Night-clubbing with Tommy Price, Leon’s plans maturing.”

  Barr said savagely, “Put on something fancy and meet me here as soon as you can.”

  “Another picnic?”

  “Yes,” Barr said, “in night clubs this time. Only now I don’t think Lenny will want to be rescued.”

  • • •

  Barr nursed his drink and looked across at Portia seated on his divan. “Tell me the truth—about Price visiting you today.”

  She said in a patient voice, “I did. He drove down to get Lenny. Doddsby told him she was at my place. He came up to find her. That’s all.”

  Barr smoldered. What was the use. Even if she didn’t lie to him, he wouldn’t believe her. He didn’t know what to say and he was glad when the telephone rang. It was Johnny Griggs.

  “Guv’ner, they’re at the club.” He coughed. “Is it getting tight, Guv’ner?”

  “Damn tight,” Barr admitted.

  Griggs sounded hesitant. “’Ow about a few quid then? I mean, you might not be about afterwards—always that chance. No bad luck, Guv’ner, but I got a good one I want to take a flyer on tomorrow.”

  “Can do,” Barr said. Hanging up, he nodded to Portia and got his hat.

  CHAPTER XI

  When Lenny arrived at Price’s flat, he sent her to his bedroom to take a nap. She awoke to find dusk beyond the windows and the soft, uneven pecking of Tommy at his typewriter coming from his study. She lay for a moment, warm in a feeling of security and peace.

  Reluctantly she drew herself out of it and slipped from the bed. A quick, cool shower washed away the last of the sleep from her mind, and when she returned to the bedroom, the fears and doubts began to come again.

  She had put it all into Tommy’s hands, she told herself harshly; she should let him handle the matter then. But somehow there wasn’t the reassurance any more, even though she knew that there was really nothing bumbling about Tommy.

  The typing had stopped. She heard his footstep and then a light tap on the door. Enveloped in a large terry-cloth beach robe she had found on the bathroom door, she called for him to come in.

  A grinning face peered around the door at her. “Ah, Sleeping Beauty awakes. Do you know that it’s going on eight?”

  “I didn’t, but my stomach tells me you’re right,” Lenny said.

  “Reservation for dinner all made,” he answered. “Come into the living room and share strong drink with me before you get beautified for the evening.” His head disappeared.

  Smiling, Lenny ran a comb through her hair and then padded into the living room. She could hear him in the kitchen and so she took a moment to have her first good look at the decor of the room.

  Tommy’s taste was solid, as she had found him really to be. Then her eyes caught the one false note and she went slowly toward the fireplace and looked at the painting above the mantel. It was a water color, a seascape showing a bit of headland in the foreground, a curve of cove, and barren headland with grass and rocks to the right as she faced the picture.

  She felt the coldness inside her, the rise of suspicion. She thought angrily, “Don’t be a fool, Lenny!”

  But it was Portia’s picture. Her signature was bold in the corner. Lenny turned away and saw Tommy coming toward her with two glasses in his hand.

  She took one automatically. “Tommy, where did you get that water color?”

  He followed her gaze. “Oh, the Sloane. It’s very good, don’t you think? Do you know, dope that I am, I didn’t even recognize the place until I was at the lady’s cottage today and saw the same perspective. I hope you like it. I paid pounds and pounds for it to a Bond Street gallery.”

  Lenny sat down. Idiot, she told herself. Anyone with the price could buy Portia’s things.

  He came forward. “Lenny, are you all right? Why so pale? Here.” He took her glass and raised it.

  She dutifully took a sip, set down the glass, and began to cry. She couldn’t help herself. Tommy was beside her at once, sitting on the arm of her chair, holding her head against his side, uttering useless and meaningless words.

  Her voice muffled against his jacket, she said, “I’m an awful little beast, Tommy.”

  “You’re an adorable one,” he said. “Now stop it and tell me why this sudden burst of self-recrimination.”

  Lenny felt ashamed now; she didn’t want to tell him. But she heard herself saying, “When I saw that picture, I was suspicious of you and Portia. I felt the same way this morning when I saw you leaving her place.”

  “Sloane and I? You mean, jealous?” Putting both large hands on her shoulders, he held her away from him.

  “No, suspicious.” She accepted his handkerchief and wiped at her cheeks. “Because Portia knows Leon, and Barr doesn’t trust her and—I didn’t know what to think.”

  “You are wound up! Did you really believe that I, old T. Price, the musty scholar, was pattering about spying on you?”

  “Oh, Tommy!” He made her sound so frightful.

  “I’d prefer you’d been jealous,” he said lightly. “Ah, well.”

  She thought, I’ve hurt him awfully this time. “Maybe I am and don’t know it,” she said, trying to make up to him.

  “That’s a subject we’ll take up later,” he said. “Now drink your drink and get dressed.”

  Later, fixing her hair, she realized too vaguely to really comprehend that Tommy had not denied her half-made accusation.

  • • •

  They went to a place Tommy called The Club. On the way out, he spent a moment fussing with the door. “Someone broke my lock today,” he remarked quietly. “Remind me to have it fixed. I’d hate for some snoopy scholar to come up and crib my latest work.”

  “Broke your lock?” She thought of Barr. But Tommy was so casual that any ideas that might have developed ebbed from her mind.

  “Probably the cleaning woman,” he said. “She has a sticky key.”

  She thought of the broken lock again later in the evening when, from their position on a terrace above
the dance floor, she saw Barr and Portia Sloane eating quietly below. Up to that moment the evening had been a lovely one—she and Tommy had eaten well, drunk just enough, and discovered that this evening, at any rate, they danced together very well.

  “Tommy,” she said, “Barr is down below.”

  “I saw him,” Tommy said quietly. “He’s been watching us for some time. Shall we invite him and the Sloane over?”

  “Damn him! Haven’t I a right even to a good time?”

  “Perhaps not according to his lights. But let’s invite them over and have fun.”

  “Fun!”

  He grinned a grin almost as wolfish as Barr’s. “We’ll take turns putting spokes in his wheel. And isn’t it about time you put a ring in his nose about Leon?”

  She said, “It is, I suppose.”

  “Good. Do a good job on him.” He signaled a waiter.

  When they came, Lenny successfully hid her anger at Barr. He helped by being very pleasant. Portia was her usual self, seeming no different in a black evening gown that clung to her ripe figure from the way she had been in paint-smeared slacks. She was still Portia, her hair not quite under control, her smile quick and childlike, her eyes darting everywhere, judging everything as though she were wondering if it might be worth sketching.

  They talked about art after Tommy told how he had just recognized the scene of the painting he owned; they talked casually of a little bit of everything. Barr asked Lenny to dance.

  She felt rebellious. “I’m not up to dancing at the moment,” she said, “but maybe Portia would like some exercise.”

  Tommy took the hint, grinned, and led Portia away. Lenny looked coldly at Barr. “Go ahead and say what you came to say.”

  “You’re an idiot,” he told her bluntly. “What’s the idea of running out on me at a time like this?”