His voice trailed off to end the monologue. His head tipped forward and then rolled slightly as Scott hit a curve and began to skirt the open, tree-bordered expanse of the Savannah.
Over on the opposite side and vaguely outlined against the night sky was the grandstand, for it was here that the local racing took place three times a year. At other times it was a place for nursemaids, their carriages and their charges, though on Saturdays or Sundays they had to share it with the cricket match which seemed always to be in progress. For this was an island-wide sport that ranged from the professional to what, in the States, would be called sand-lot teams.
Obeying the stop sign as he came to the main highway, he turned right past the old fort overlooking Carlyle Bay, modernized now in spots and serving as a barracks and training ground for the local regiment. As they started downgrade, Lambert’s head jerked back and his eyes opened. Then, as though there had been but an instant’s interruption, he said:
“Where was I? Oh, yes. Well, by fall Julia decided I’d told the truth about my income. Bored with me, bored with Barbados. Said she’d get a divorce but wanted money. I didn’t have much but I had some jewelry my grandmother left me. Bracelets, some pins, a ring or two. Julia said she’d take that, and she did. Went to Reno. Very convenient for me but now she says there isn’t any divorce. So I’m going to talk to her. Tonight. First time I ever had the courage and I’m not going to waste the opportunity. Can’t make you row me out but I can swim it if I have to. Sorry to be sticky about it but that’s the way it has to be.”
Scott tried to think of some answer as he slowed down to approach the Yacht Club. The precaution was fortunate because as he swung round the curve he very nearly collided with another car.
It was all over in two seconds and he was never sure whether the car had been parked in the road with the lights off, or whether it had just turned out from the club. He saw the sudden glare of the headlights as the car angled in front of him and as he braked sharply he noticed that part of one lens was missing. As the car whipped past, gears grinding, he had the impression that it was an old model, and then it was gone and he was coasting in under the trees and cutting the motor, his thoughts reverting to the more important problem of his companion. He made one more attempt at persuasion.
“I don’t blame you for wanting to tell her off,” he said, “but it would be better if you waited until morn-mg.
“I agree,” Lambert said. “Much better. Unfortunately by morning I will no longer have this false courage I now possess. In the morning I will be my usual self: hungover, silent, spineless, a worm. No”—he opened the door and staggered out—”now is the time, old boy.”
Rowing out in the dinghy Scott had one more thought predicated on the idea that in Lambert’s present condition, another drink might finish him. He made the suggestion as soon as they were aboard. Why not, he asked, have one quiet drink before waking Julia.
Lambert examined him with half-closed eyes. He nodded and smiled crookedly. “Splendid,” he said. “It will bolster my oozing courage.”
When Scott returned with the drinks Lambert was leaning back on the starboard bunk, chin on chest and eyes closed. He opened them when Scott spoke to him, accepted the glass with thanks and took a swallow. Very carefully then he put the glass aside and closed his eyes again. A minute or so later he tipped slowly down on his side, lips parted and snoring faintly.
Scott sat where he was for a few seconds, then he took the two glasses and tiptoed into the galley, making no sound and feeling highly pleased with his strategy. When he came back he removed Lambert’s oxfords, loosened his tie and carefully removed his jacket. He lifted his legs to straighten him out and that was when he saw the pocketbook.
It had slipped nearly out of sight between the cushions and as he retrieved it he recognized it as Julia’s. For a moment or two he considered the woman but he had no intention of going to her cabin tonight. The whisky he’d had was working on him too and so he put the bag in a drawer of the sideboard, went to the galley to turn on the small, low-watt bulb there in case Lambert awoke and became confused in the unfamiliar darkness. Snapping off the overhead light he crept back through the cabin and along the deck to the forward hatch and down the ladder to his quarters. . . .
CHAPTER 5
IN HER compact little Aquatic Club apartment—one of a row standing diagonally behind the Club itself—Sally Reeves sat huddled in the wicker chair by the window overlooking an angle of the sea. The Farrows had arranged for the apartment prior to her arrival because the spare upstairs rooms in their house were being painted. Later, when they were ready for her, Sally had become so pleased with the apartment and the feeling of privacy and independence it gave her that she had asked if they would mind too much if she stayed where she was. She spoke of its centralness and convenience. She said it would be much simpler for all concerned and although Vivian’s reaction suggested the idea was pure nonsense, she did not argue when she saw Sally was in earnest.
Now, recalling that discussion, she understood that her decision had very nearly been a fatal one, and as her mind went on she realized that she was no longer quite so cold. The goose pimples that seemed for so long to have covered her whole body were mostly gone. Her breathing was even and regular once more and when she slid her hand inside her robe she could feel the strong, unhurried beat of her heart.
The chill which had seized her so relentlessly came not from her swim, nor from the air, which was still and warm; the chill was born of fear which even now remained stark and vivid in her mind.
She did not know what time it was nor how long she had been sitting here fighting off that fear. She did not know just when she went swimming or how long it had been after Keith Lambert had said good night. What she had done then had been motivated by her sleeplessness and as her mind went back she could remember getting ready for bed, and lying down, then staring wide-eyed in the darkness while she thought about Alan Scott and Keith and Julia and the nightmarish episode on the schooner.
At the time she did not speculate on what might happen tomorrow, She did not know whether there would be a cruise or not and she did not care much except for the Farrows’ sake. She understood now why Vivian had cabled her. She recalled how it had been delivered to her office and how surprised she had been. Even then she had not questioned the request because she alone knew how much she owed her step-sister. Vivian needed help of some kind and had she, Sally, been unable to get leave she would have resigned because this was the first and only time that Vivian had ever asked a favor of her.
She knew now how important the island venture was to the Farrows and how Keith Lambert’s participation was essential to the future success of the venture, but she did not think about such things now; what she did think about was Alan, because she had been thinking of him rather constantly ever since she met him and wondering what had happened to change him so.
She had been oddly attracted to him from the very first. She was not sure why. She had known handsomer men, men who were, superficially at least, more charming. Perhaps it was because it was so obvious to her that he was so strongly impressed. She could tell by the way he looked at her, the way he smiled; by the reflection in his blue eyes and the way she could glance up sometimes to find him watching her while pretending he was otherwise occupied. They had their work in common, the background of New York and advertising, and the same things seemed to amuse them at the same time and it was nice to have him near her. That was the way it had been until the day they took the afternoon sail; since then something had happened that she did not understand. There was a strange politeness and reserve in his solicitude and it seemed almost as if he tried to avoid being alone with her.
Because such thoughts had left her wide awake she rose suddenly and reached for her bathing suit, the rest lessness working on her as she tugged it on and found her cap, robe, and a towel. Not bothering with slippers she had gone along the gallery and down the stairs, continuing up the beach in the starlit dar
kness.
The water, at first touch cold, was warmly refreshing as she felt it cover her. Its startling clearness, a deep blue in the daytime, seemed faintly phosphorescent now. It had an almost sensuous quality and she swam straight out for a minute or two before turning over on her back to float and think how much nicer it would be had she dared to leave her suit behind. It was when she rolled over that she noticed the yellow glow showing dimly through the Griselda s port lights. She wondered about this, not knowing what time it was, and then, surprisingly, she saw the dinghy move out from the schooner’s shadow and start shoreward.
She watched it a moment, thinking it was Alan and wondering why he should be going ashore at this hour. Secretly pleased at the thought of surprising him she swam diagonally to intercept the dinghy. When she was about fifty feet away she stopped to tread water and hailed it softly.
“Ahoy, the dinghy!” she called, and waved one arm.
Seconds later she saw one oar dig in and the bow come round. There was hardly a sound as the little boat approached her and she waited happily until it was almost upon her before kicking off to one side.
It was well that she did, for what happened then came without warning. She never knew who the oarsman was. Darkness clothed him and he did not rise, so that the upward angle of her vision was blocked by the dinghy’s hull. She heard a thudding sound as one oar was shipped and then she was staring in shocked incredulity as the other oar was raised straight up above her head.
It may have been instinct that saved her; more likely it was luck. Still not believing her eyes she saw the oar start to descend and sensed that the blow was deliberate. Then, panic striking at her and closing her throat, she kicked hard again and tried to duck under.
Somehow she did duck. She felt the water close over her head as she thrashed with hands and feet. She heard the slap of the oar and felt it strike her shoulder, but somehow she was swimming and feeling no special pain and knowing that what she had felt was only the pressure of churning water as the oar blade had knifed past head and shoulder.
She went down, and down until, ten feet below the surface, she felt the smooth hard sand beneath her fingers. Working along this and hoping she was heading towards the pier, she came suddenly to something hard and snakelike and slimy that angled upward immediately in front of her. She would have screamed had she been able to and the shock of her fear as her hand touched this thing was paralyzing in its intensity. Then, its very hardness telling her this was no animal, she knew it was the mooring chain of some boat and understood how it might be helpful.
Slowly, her lungs near bursting now, she let the chain guide her to the surface. When she felt the small buoy above her she grabbed it and, hoping to use the buoy as a screen, let her head slip carefully alongside with only her face above water.
The dinghy was fifty feet distant now and it was probably the slight phosphorescence in the water that gave her away. For even as she focused on the shadowy oars man, she saw the blades dip and the bow swing swiftly towards her. With that she gulped air and, with no further attempt at stealth, dived again.
This time she knew where she was going. One glance had told her the black and spindly silhouette of the club pier was no more than fifty yards ahead of her, and now she swam diagonally towards it, still hugging the bottom. When she was forced to surface again the pier was closer and, still not glancing back, she launched into a furious crawl, not bothering to breathe until she slid between two protecting piles to safety.
For a while then she had no strength to swim, but lay on her back, floating and gasping for breath. She saw nothing more of the dinghy, heard nothing but the pounding of her heart. When she could she paddled under the pier to the beach beyond. Her knees were wobbly when she tried to stand but she forced herself to walk, instinct rather than conscious thought guiding her steps, the shock of her fear too great even to wonder about why such a thing had happened.
Even now, sitting here in the chair, she had no answer. She could not understand why anyone would want to kill her. She understood that some such idea must have been behind the attempt but it made no sense. The only thing she kept telling herself over and over was that the oarsman could not have been Alan. . . .
Mark Farrow turned uneasily on his bed and listened to the sounds of the party across the street. It had been going full blast when he and Vivian had come home some time before midnight, but it seemed now to be breaking up and he wondered how long he had been asleep, if at all. He did not remember dropping off, but then one never did.
Driving home from the schooner he had been unable to think of anything except Julia Lambert’s arrival and her probable effect on the island venture in the Bahamas. Only he and Vivian knew how tenuous their credit position was and how desperately they needed fresh capital. Without it they stood to lose their investment and it was difficult to speculate just how much of Julia’s former influence over her husband remained and what could be done aboutit.
It had been Vivian who had taken his mind off his immediate troubles and she had done it effortlessly and without conscious thought. She had done it simply by sitting there on the vanity bench and combing out her hair. The things she had to say about Julia and their problem were the same things which had been uppermost in his mind, but as he watched her he began to think instead of his wife and how different this marriage was from his first one.
He had stood in the doorway in his pajamas, his gaze speculating while she sat there unconscious of his inspection, nude except for the briefest of panties. It occurred to him then that her anger became her, adding somehow to the luster and color of her skin, and as he considered the line of thigh and breast and throat the idea came to him that sometime soon he must have a likeness of her just that way. Perhaps not a painting, since one could hardly hang it for others to see. But a piece of sculpture would be different. Something in wood like that fellow in Nassau did so well, dark rich wood with a high polish and shaped to duplicate her figure, say from knee to neck in the classic form.
He wondered if she would pose for such a thing and thought she would if she knew it would please him. Such a piece, headless if necessary, would preserve in replica the loveliness of her body against the future when they were older, and now, lying there in the darkness this thought came back to him, warming him anew. Such speculation was pleasant to contemplate but he could not sustain it in his new wakefulness. For presently, and in spite of himself, his mind again strayed to more pressing problems and he began to think about how he could stop Julia and what the following day might bring.
Right now he did not know. But Vivian might know what to do; she so often did when things seemed hopeless. Actually this island developing scheme was her idea, not his. During those first months of marriage they had discovered that between them their resources amounted to the equivalent of about $200,000. Invested at four per cent they would have $8,000 a year and here in Barbados, or in fact any of the islands, one could do quite handsomely, the exchange being what it was.
This, however, had not been enough for Vivian. She had ideas and ambition and the courage to take a gamble, once the odds seemed right. When she had learned the island was for sale she was at once full of plans for the future, and she went to those who could help her for the development of those plans. Things had gone well. They had a splendid start. Others had become interested, though not to the point of providing the needed capital.
But Vivian was a determined woman, in her love and in her loyalty. She was not one to give up easily. She would battle Julia right down to the wire, battle Keith Lambert too until convinced her cause was hopeless. Somehow, some way, they had to get Lambert’s financial support, and now, on impulse, he stood up in the darkness to glance out the window which overlooked the backyard and the house across the street where the party was starting to break up.
Quietly then, he moved to the open door of the dressing alcove connecting their rooms, crossing barefooted through this to the room beyond, having no thought of waking his wi
fe but moved by some unknown compulsion to look at her again as she lay sleeping. Reflected light from outside filtered through the two open windows. He found he could distinguish the pieces of furniture and the white outline of the bed, and it was only when he had moved closer that he realized the sheet had been pulled down, that the bed was empty.
Across the street in the rear a couple said good-bye to the hosts of the evening, their muted voices sounding in the night air. A car door slammed and a motor started; not until it had accelerated and faded away in the distance did Farrow move. Then he leaned over the bed, feeling the pillows to make sure his eyes did not deceive him. Slowly, wonderingly, he straightened and peered about the empty room.
After a moment he walked to the front windows which overlooked the roof of the veranda and the beach beyond. He could hear, clearly now, the crunch and slap and hiss of the surf as it broke and rolled across the sand. He could see the white line where the curling waves started to break, the pale froth racing shoreward to die in the sand.
Unable yet to accept the fact that his wife was not here he stood motionless by the window until an explanation came to him. She had gone downstairs to get something to eat or something cold from the refrigerator. This is what he told himself and yet when he went to the head of the stairs and saw no light below he understood that this could not be. He went along the hall to the back window and only when he looked out at the open door of the garage and found it empty could he accept the fact that Vivian had left the house. . . .
Alan Scott was not sure what woke him nor did he know at first how long he had been asleep. He only knew that his eyes were open and staring at the overhead and he did not know why. For a few seconds he lay that way, wondering about it, conscious of the hot stillness about him, aware that his mouth was thick and his head was throbbing. When a glance at the radium dial of his watch told him it was only five minutes after two he sat up and began to curse softly.
Uninvited Guest Page 4
