Slack tide

by Coxe, George Harmon, 1901-

  "A fracture and a concussion. Serious but not neces-

  sarily fatal. Anyway, Kingsley didn't die from that. He drowned."

  The eflFect of that statement on MacLaren was starthng. It was as though his mind spKt, with each part going off on its own tangent. His immediate reaction was one of re-hef because it seemed to confirm what he already had stoutly maintained—that neither he nor Ruth Kingsley had anything to do with Kingsley's death. But even as this thought came, a strange, unreasoning anger struck at him because this information had been so long delayed.

  "Drowned?" he yeUed. "You mean it took the medical examiner—or whoever did the job—two days to find out that a guy drowned? You told me this afternoon—"

  The sergeant cut him off. "Take it easy. I know what I told you, and it don't take two days to get a simple report."

  "Then-"

  "We knew what the score was yesterday morning but the brass decided to stall awhile. Don't ask me why. I don't run the outfit; I do what I'm told."

  "All right." MacLaren's anger calmed quickly when he understood the answer, and by then he also imderstood that he was wasting time. "AH right," he said again. "Now I've got something for you. I'm calling from my house. I was sitting on my front porch a few minutes ago when I heard some shots behind the house. I think they came from Sam Wilhs's place."

  "Shots?"

  "Three of them. I know Sam's got a .22 up in his room but two of those shots sounded heavier than that. I don't

  know what it's all about, and I'm not going up there and look, either, because I'm not going to get mixed up in this one. I just thought I'd teU you. You can do what you like."

  "Wait a minute—"

  MacLaren heard that much before he broke the connection. Then he was heading for the door, closing it behind him, and loping toward the boatyard dock with but one thought in mind: to find out why Ruth Kingsley had gone to the island with Harry Danaher.

  MacLaren did not turn cautious until he was actually in the skiff. The basis of his change in plans was probably a precautionary one, though he did not try to analyze his thoughts at the time. The lingering sickness that had started with his discovery of Sam WiUis's body was still working on him and he knew he must proceed on the as-simfiption that the killer was on the island.

  WiUis had seen too much, and he had made the mistake of trying to bargain with someone who had nothing more to lose. To MacLaren, who was aware of WiUis's avid grasping ways, this much was understandable. But WiUis was also a shrewd and cautious man, and even though shocked and upset by the other's duphcity, MacLaren could find no answer for the man's apparent carelessness in deahng with a killer.

  It was probably a combination of such thoughts that warned MacLaren to be both cautious and alert. It was quite dark now, and as he pushed off in the dinghy, he thought he saw a dim glow coming from one of the forward ports in Kingsley's cruiser. It seemed hkely that Danaher was aboard and quite possibly Ruth Kingsley was with him.

  This was something MacLaren would find out in time but right now he put aside the starter rope and unshipped the oars. The skiff moved easily on the still waters of slack tide, and instead of heading for the catwalk and thereby giving notice of his arrival, he headed upstream for a sloping, grass-covered bit of shorehne that was seventy or eighty yards removed from the cruiser.

  He drove the bow far enough on the beach to leap ashore with the small anchor. He got sand in his shoes, but he kept them dry, and as he stood a moment in knee-high grass to inspect the island, he decided to approach the house first.

  Reconnoitering from the outside long enough to see that the hghted hving-room was empty, he moved hghtly across the porch and eased the front door open. He had no definite plan of action. He was not even sure what he was trying to prove. But it seemed important to find out who was at home so he started up the stairs, coming presently to the second-floor landing. The doors of the two front rooms were closed, and because he had noticed that the windows were dark, he turned to one of the two rooms opposite.

  This, he knew, belonged to Carla Lewis. He found the hghts on when he opened the door, but there was no one here now. The other door on the same side of the hall was also closed, but this time, when he opened it, he found the occupant at home.

  A blonde vision sat on the vanity bench admiring herself in the glass. She wore nothing but brief panties and a brassiere, and her raised elbows were akimbo as her fingers worked on the tinted hair. Her eyes caught him in the

  mirror as he stepped inside. Her immediate reaction took the form of a word that sounded hke, "Eekl"

  MacLaren made no attempt to back out because he had something to say, and he was too disturbed inside to be embarrassed. Sorry.

  "Well—" The voice was tight with annoyance but not angry. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that it was impohte to open someone's door without knocking?" She pulled her arms down to fold them across her breasts and turned from the hips. "What's the idea?"

  "Have you seen Ruth?"

  "Ruth? No."

  "What about Carla?"

  "I haven't seen Carla either. In fact I haven't seen anyone this afternoon. The place is like a morgue. I took a late afternoon nap and then a shower. I'm supposed to have dinner with Neil Ackerman—if he ever shows up— and I'd hke to go on with my dressing if you have no objections."

  MacLaren could tell that she was not very embarrassed, nor was she really armoyed any more, now that the moment of astonishment was over. She was still surveying him with one brow arched when he backed out of the room and closed the door without another word.

  Returning to the landing, he turned down the side corridor. The door to the first room on the left, which faced the boatyard, was open and as he glanced inside he had a vague impression of an untidy room that seemed to be part bedroom and part studio. Shadowed racks of canvases

  Stood along one wall, and close to the large window was an easel holding a partly completed painting.

  By mentally counting windows that he had seen from outside, he knew that the next one should be the one that had showed a light.

  The door was closed. He opened it without knocking and the sight that met his eyes jarred him. In that first glance it seemed as if someone had taken the room apart piece by piece, and he stepped inside to inspect the chaos without trying to understand why it had happened. The character of the clothing that was strewn about and some of the personal effects that he saw on the floor told him that this must be Harry Danaher's room, but somehow and in some way he did not understand, the sight of this destruction scared him a httle. Before he could do anything about it, he heard the thumping on a door a few paces to his right.

  He turned toward it instantly and reached for the knob. He gave it a twist and a tug, and when the door resisted him, he turned the key and yanked again.

  Ruth Kingsley stared back at him, the green eyes blinking against the sudden glow of hght from the room. Her blond hair was tousled and awry, and her young face was pale and set. But she stood erect in her woolen dress, and he seemed to know at once that she was all right.

  FOR SEVERAL long seconds MacLaren stood mute and immobile, his glance moving from her frightened face down her body to the tangled blanket which partly covered her feet. The only thought he had at the moment was that for some reason Harry Danaher had locked her here, but he had no words just then and all he said was:

  "Ruth."

  The sound of his voice seemed to break the spell that gripped the girl. Her lashes bhnked again and he saw her mouth start to crumble. Then, as though her sudden feeling of relief had overwhelmed her, she gave a soft incoherent cry and stepped close to him.

  His arms went about her automatically and her body pressed against him. He could feel her trembling, heard the small muffled sob as she caught her breath. For another moment or so she was still in his arms and then he could feel her body start to relax. As though aware finally of what she had done, she put her hands hghtly against his chest, and now he eased the pressure of his arms an
d let her step back. When she looked up at him again, there was color in her cheeks and some new shyness or embarrassment in her eyes.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't know who it was and when I saw you I—I guess I sort of went to pieces."

  MacLaren backed up another step to glance once more

  around the littered room. Before he could reply she spoke again.

  "How did you know I was here?"

  "I didn't," he said. "I mean I didn't know you were here in the room. But I saw Harry Danaher bring you over here in the dinghy. I didn't know why, and maybe it wasn't any of my business, but it bothered me. I was worried about you," he said frankly, "and I decided to have a look around."

  "I'm awfully glad you did, Donald."

  "Did Harry lock you up here?"

  "No."

  "Then who did? Who tore up this room?"

  "I don't know."

  "But you—"

  "No, really." She had put her hands up and found her hair was mussed. She began to fix it. Her glance shd about the room and came back to him, and the wide appeahng look he found there told him that she was speaking the truth.

  "The room was like this when I stepped in," she said. "I didn't have a chance to wonder why. . . . Someone was behind the door," she added. "I thought I heard something, but by then it was too late. I started to turn, but that blanket came down over my head and someone grabbed me."

  She swallowed and said, a great earnestness in her voice now as she tried to make him understand:

  "Before I knew it my arms were trapped and I was off balance. Someone spun me into the closet, and when I

  fell, the door slammed." She gave her hair a final pat, and now, as her glance moved beyond him, she stepped past and knelt dovi^i to recover a small handbag that had been opened. "Whoever did it, snatched this too."

  She glanced into the bag and rummaged among its contents. "It's gone," she said.

  "What's gone?"

  She did not seem to hear him, or if she did she ignored the question.

  "I think it was a woman. For just an instant, when that blanket came over my head, I think I noticed a woman's smell."

  MacLaren, about to pursue the subject, closed his mouth and took her arm.

  "Come over here," he said, and led her to the bed and the box spring which had been uncovered. "Sit down a minute," he said.

  He looked directly at her until he had her complete attention. He spoke in a firm, no-nonsense tone.

  "Now—what's with you and Harry Danaher? And don't tell me it's none of my business, because I'm just as involved in this thing now as you are. What were you huddling with Harry for this noon? Why did you come over here tonight alone? What did he want, why did you come to his room, and why should anyone jump you and lock you in the closet?"

  She was still looking at him, but now she gave her head a little toss and the reaction to her recent scare apparently was complete because she answered with some spirit.

  "What am I supposed to answer first?" she demanded.

  Her challenge was disconcerting, and as MacLaren tried to get his thoughts in order, he saw the handbag and started there. "What's missing from your handbag?"

  "My stock certificate."

  "What stock certificate?"

  "The one I told you about last night. The four hundred shares of National Aluminum OHver gave me for a wedding present."

  As he considered this statement, MacLaren could find one logical reason why the girl had brought the stock with her, and having accepted this much, he could begin to understand why there might have been a reason for Ruth to meet Harry Danaher that noon.

  "Were you going to give it to Harry?" He watched her nod. "Why?"

  "He says he knows who killed Ohver. He said he wouldn't tell the police the truth unless he was paid. I didn't have enough money, but he knew about the stock and he said if I would endorse it he would go to the pohce and tell them what actually happened. He said he could prove it."

  MacLaren scowled at her, but there was no unfriendliness in his eyes as he tried to grasp the significance of what he had heard. He started to question her anew, but this time she cut him off, and he stood there in front of her and hstened to the story that Danaher had told her that noon.

  There would have been a great unreahty about that story had he not known something about Harry Danaher and his driving ambition to own his own charter boat. His

  own belief that the fire extinguisher in the cruiser's galley was a definite clue was now corroborated by Danaher's statement.

  This much he befieved, and while the thought of such attempted blackmail angered him, he could understand Ruth Kingsley's fears and her willingness to pay for any evidence, no matter what its source, in order to be free of suspicion.

  Now, as his mind pressed on, certain conclusions began to take shape. He reviewed them silently as the girl watched him.

  The recent information received from New York said that Kingsley had argued with a woman when he came back to the island that first night. It was Ruth's announced impression that a woman had grabbed her from behind when she entered this room. Assuming these two statements to be true, there was only one who might fit into the pattern and it was certainly not the blonde Lucille.

  "It was Carla," he said.

  "Carla?"

  He spoke quickly as he saw her eyes reject the statement. He told about the telephone call from New York and mentioned the missing stock certificate.

  "Did you telephone Danaher this evening?"

  "Yes. He told me to call him at a quarter of eight and he would tell me what to do next."

  "Did you mention the stock? Was anything said about fingerprints being on a fire extinguisher?"

  "He asked about the stock and I said I had it. I think

  something was said about the fire extinguisher, but I don't know whether either of us mentioned fingerprints."

  "Carla must have known about the stock or she wouldn't have snatched your bag. She must have wanted to be sure you couldn't pay off Danaher, and she wanted you out of the way." He reached down and took her hands in his and pulled her to her feet. "Come on," he said. "Let's have a look."

  He led her down the hall and past the staircase to Carla Lewis's room. When they were inside and he had closed the door, he said: "Let's see what we can find."

  "But—what are we supposed to be looking for?"

  "I'm not even sure myself," MacLaren said. "Maybe that stock certificate you lost. Maybe some money, preferably in new fifty-dollar bills."

  He turned to the low chest in front of the Chippendale mirror and Ruth moved over to the vanity table; then he had opened the top drawer and was pawing through handkerchiefs and scarves and gloves and a box that was filled with costume jewelry. The second drawer yielded underwear—bras and panties and slips and half slips—and he had about finished with this when he heard Ruth call to him.

  "Donald . . . Lookl"

  She was still at the vanity, her lips parted and three fingers of her left hand pressed against her cheek. He saw as he stepped to her side that the vanity had five drawers, a wide one in the center and two narrow but deeper drawers on either side. The drawer she was staring at was

  the bottom one on the right-hand side, and now MacLaren saw why.

  Neil Ackerman had said that there was a paper strap around the ten thousand dollars in new fifties that Kings-ley had picked up at the New York bank. There was no strap now, but the pile of bills was thick, and after a moment MacLaren reached for them.

  He started to withdraw them and then he stopped. He ran his fingers along the topmost bill and was instantly aware that it had an odd feeling of dampness about it. He tried the bill below that, and the one below that, and now an explanation came to him.

  The money had obviously been stolen the night Kingsley was killed. At least some of it had been taken to Sam Wilhs's room to pay for the man's silence. And since the state pohce had searched the house earher, it seemed safe to assume that the biUs had been buried in
the sand somewhere on the island. These things flashed through his mind as he hesitated, and now he withdrew the bundle. It was then that he saw the gun which had been hidden beneath them.

  He knew that Ruth had seen the gun, too, because he heard some murmured comment that seemed more luicon-scious than deliberate. He had read somewhere that it was diflBcult to get any worthwhile fingerprints from a gun, but because he did not want to add his own to any that might aheady be there, he used his handkerchief when he withdrew the short-barreled .38 revolver. Handhng it no more than he had to, he flipped out the cylinder and glanced at

  the six shells. He had put the gun back and was considering what his next move should be when he heard the shot.

  Ruth heard it too.

  She said: "What was that?" And he said: "It sounded Hke a shot."

  The sound was not loud, but it was distinctive. He was sure that it had come from somewhere outside the house. He also had an idea of its direction, but that was as far as his speculation went. He did not know why there should be a shot or what it meant, but one thing was clear: This was no time to be playing amateur detective. This was a police job. And the sooner they got here the better.

  "Where's the telephone?" he asked.

  "There's one in Oliver's room and one in the haU. There's a httle table just beyond the landing."

  MacLaren replaced the bills on top of the gun, closed the drawer. He asked the girl to wait here and said that he would only be a minute. Then he was moving across the room, and opening the door, and striding down the hall.

  He picked up the telephone, started to dial, and then stopped to wait for the dial tone. When he could not hear it, he jiggled the receiver arm and hstened again. There was no sound in his ear, but he tried once more before he replaced the instrument, certain now that the wires had been cut.

  He stood where he was, not wondering why anyone should cut the wires, but considering what he should do next. He was not worried about himself. The pressure of some new excitement had begun to work on him and he was tempted to find out more about that shot—until he