To Love and to Honour
Page 22
“Keep away from the seat on the point.
Stop flashing lights. DANGER.”
She said them over and over as she changed to dry clothing.
Half an hour later she regarded herself in the long mirror in the door which opened on the shower. She had selected what seemed the most easily replaceable separates from the wardrobe: navy gabardine slacks, an orange-yellow cummerbund to hold them tightly at the waist, and a white silk blouse with long sleeves and Eton collar. Each garment was too large but she had leaned heavily on safety pins to make it fit. Orange-yellow sandals completed the costume. Her hair was fairly dry and had been brushed till it lay flat and gleaming on top, and curled at the sides and neck.
She shook her head at the allure of a bottle of choice perfume on the dressing table. It was her favorite scent. But it was bad enough to borrow a woman’s clothes without a “by your leave,” it would be nothing short of criminal to take her perfume.
What was she supposed to do next? Nothing in sight from the porthole — her chance to dispose of the wet clothes she had tied in a bundle with the gay kerchief. She leaned as far out as possible, heard the splash as it reached the water. It was a wrench to part with the monogrammed cardigan, she loved it, no use keeping it, it was ruined. The knobby bundle was bobbing on the surface. Of course it would sink, it must. She couldn’t wait to watch it. She must make the next move.
What is the next move? Would she be invited to join the secretary — Captain — at dinner? The boat was still at anchor. Perhaps he had seen light and was preparing to send her home, perhaps Mrs. Drew had decided to come on board with her dinner guests. If there was a chef he must be tearing his hair at the off-again-on-again orders.
“I must find out sometime what is ahead. Here I go,” she said aloud.
She drew the bolt. Her fingers tightened on it. The sound of a motor. Had the powerboat in which she had arrived returned? Had Lloyd had a change of heart and recalled it?
She snapped off the light before she peered from the porthole. The change of wind had blown the fog back to sea. The stars were out. A powerboat swayed and bumped against the side of the yacht. The owner and her guests? No. There were two men in it. Another was coming over the side.
Who were they? In some way had they heard she was here? Was it a rescue party? No sound of voices. Queer. There was something wrong about this yacht. When she had asked Sary about a Sally, she had said:
“Want to know somethin’? Every little while a big boat anchors off Rockledge shore an’ signals. I guess she goes off in it. Kind of mysterious.”
Was the man coming aboard a government agent? Suppose he found her here? Added to the police court appearance it would be difficult to explain. There would be no Ken Stewart to rescue her this time. Better get out and face the music.
Someone at the door. A key turned. Too late. She was locked in.
Locked in!
The dream had changed to nightmare. Lloyd could have sent her home in the boat that had brought her here. He had let it go without her. What did it mean?
Head pressed close against the door she listened for voices on the other side. Not even a low murmur. Quiet as the grave. The only sounds came through the open porthole, the suck of a rocking boat; low voices; the creak of a chain as the yacht swung at anchor; a starting motor; the powerboat was leaving. Where was the man who had left it to come aboard? Had he been enticed into the Captain’s cabin for a pacifying drink? Who had locked this door? Was someone afraid she would be seen?
Afraid of her? That was a thought. Lloyd had refused to send her home; had declared, “At any moment orders may be received to pull up anchor, fog or no fog.” If those facts didn’t add up to mystery what facts would?
Mystery. Sary’s word again. Mystery! There was a mysterious cache of jewels in the turret room of The Castle. Could the outfit on this boat be connected with that? Now I am crazy. Sally Drew, the owner of this yacht, is a businesswoman, silent partner of a big cosmetic concern, isn’t she? Where would she pick up a lot of Oriental jewels to hide?
Was she the owner? Laurence Lloyd had not once admitted that this was Mrs. Drew’s yacht. One of the men in the powerboat that had picked her up had growled, “You may split my share between you,” and had been ordered sharply to “Shut up.” Later the crew had been told to come aboard and collect their “dough.”
Suppose this was Sally Drew’s boat? Suppose she was not a silent partner in a big cosmetic company — Ella Crane had started the rumor and time and again her statements had been proved to be products of her prolific imagination — suppose Sary was right and the tenant of Rockledge was a mysterious person?
The question sent her thoughts racing backwards, to the afternoon she had made the neighborly call; to Alida Barclay with her hand pressed against the wall in the colorful living room; to the Oriental tray and eggshell china; to Rena who had served tea; to her companion on the beach, the man with the tilt —
Her heart flopped over with a force and suddenness that stopped her breath, sent her thoughts scurrying on. Already she had decided that the tilt of the hat of the man in the snapshot was identical with that of the shadow she had seen slip out the patio door the afternoon she had met the bracelet man; had he just planted the bag of jewels or had he come to retrieve them and been frightened by her sudden appearance in the hall? The face of the man in the snapshot was that of Simpkins who was working for Hal Harding. His hair was exactly like that of the clown who had stolen the limousine — who was playing around with the maid at Mrs. Drew’s house.
Add that up and what do you get? she asked herself. Her blood turned to ice, her mind answered:
“A bunch of crooks!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“CROOKS!” she repeated under her breath. “You are locked in the cabin of a boat owned by a bunch of crooks. What do you do now? Get out, of course — and quick.”
Cautiously she tried the door. Locked on the outside. She had drawn the bolt when she thought of joining Lloyd. The hum of a motorboat. Was it returning for the man who had come aboard a short time ago?
“Catch.”
The thud of a line followed. Voices. Gay, laughing voices. She peered through the porthole. Mrs. Drew and her guests? Would they come to this stateroom to leave their wraps?
The plot thickens, she thought and wondered that she could be so flippant when she was in what could be a perilous situation. Lloyd had refused to send her home. He was a crook as was the owner. The guests might be more crooks. She’d better hide somewhere until convinced that it would be safe to explain her presence aboard or find a way to escape.
No time to stand here deliberating. Someone was coming up the side. Too dark to see whether it was a man or woman. She soundlessly opened the door to the shower. The door directly opposite must lead to another stateroom. Gently she turned the handle. It did, to a room decorated in green. She stepped in and closed the door behind her. A door to the salon was wide open. It would be a risk to close it. She tiptoed across to the closet. Empty. Could she squeeze in? She could. Not a minute too soon. Her heart did a hop skip and jump. Voices.
“How charming.” That couldn’t be Ally Barclay speaking. Things didn’t happen that way outside of books. “Does the dinner table fold into that beautiful cabinet?”
“Yes, Mrs. Barclay.” Mrs. Drew’s prissy voice. “I thought it would be pleasant to dine before we sail, then the last wisp of fog will have vanished. You and the Counselor were good sports not to be frightened by it. I am so used to being at sea in all sorts of weather that I never think of danger. Leave your coat here,” the voice came now from the threshold of the green room. “Come into the salon when you are ready. I’m next door if you need anything.”
“Thank you.”
Would Mrs. Drew miss her clothing, Cindy wondered. The sound of the salon door of this room closing? She listened. Widened the crack to which her ear was pressed. She would take a chance.
“Mrs. Barclay,” she whispered.
“Mrs. Barclay,” she repeated softly. “Cindy Clinton. Here.”
A key turned. Had it locked off the shower? The faint sound of a sliding bolt. Had that shut off the salon? A second later white-faced Alida Barclay in a thin amethyst wool coat and skirt stared back at her as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.
“Cinderella Clinton,” she breathed the name. “Where did you come from?”
Cindy held up a warning hand as she stepped from the closet. She whispered a brief explanation.
“Now what shall I do?”
“Give me a minute in which to think. My mind is rocking like a porch chair in a high wind.”
“Hurry. Hurry. Decide something. If I step outside this room and Mrs. Drew sees me in her clothes she may think I stole them before I have a chance to explain.”
“That is not the only reason you must keep out of sight.”
“Then you suspect them, too? I’m sure the owner of this yacht is a crook and Lloyd and the crew are up to their necks in crime, Mrs. Barclay. Watch your step. You are in danger.”
“No. Seth and Ken Stewart are aboard. You must lie low, Cindy, not only for your own sake, but because your appearance might throw a monkey wrench into our plan. Get back into the closet. Stay there. We will pick you up some way before we leave. Quick. Someone’s coming/”
Humming softly she drew the bolt soundlessly. Snapped off the light. Opened the door to the salon.
“Leave it open, please, Mrs. Barclay.” Mrs. Drew’s voice. “It will give us more air.”
Men’s voices. Ken Stewart’s set Cindy’s pulses quickstepping and her heart racing. Why was he here? Of course he would be. Hadn’t the owner invited him to sail with her? Seth Armstrong speaking. Lloyd answering. Where was the man who had come aboard before the owner and her guests had arrived? He had not returned to the boat that brought him, it had left directly after he came over the side of the yacht.
What had Alida Barclay meant when she said, “You may throw a monkey wrench into our plan”? What plan? Come to think of it she hadn’t seemed surprised when told she suspected that a gang of crooks controlled this yacht. Perhaps she knew it. Perhaps she, her brother and Ken Stewart were here for a purpose?
“The jewels in the turret room.”
The words shot to the top of her mind like bubbles in a glass of champagne rising to the surface. Had Ken Stewart been investigating whence that cache all this time? He had spent days in Washington, but that was before she had discovered the hidden loot.
She relived the moment in police headquarters when he had extended his billfold to the chief for inspection, his “Take a look at this” Recalled the official’s startled, “Goramighty, it was you, Col —” saw again the warning lift of Ken’s hand which had broken off the sentence. Curious how a mystery began to untangle when one caught the right end. Probably that same police department had supplied “Brother Joe.” No one else had appeared to guard the hidden loot in The Castle.
Cautiously she widened the crack. Why stay cooped in this closet when possibly a melodrama was about to be unreeled outside? Ally Barclay had left the door partially open. Could she slip behind that? This stateroom was dark. She had made it. Through the crack she could see the end of the salon with a table set for four. Crystal sparkled. Silver shimmered. From the sounds it would appear that cocktails or sherry were being served.
“I didn’t find out whom you were representing at the Bal Masqué, Mrs. Drew —” Ken Stewart’s voice.
“I left before the unmasking. I wasn’t used to my costume, and when it threatened to come apart on me I departed.”
“Did any one of you discover the identity of the clown who cut in so often on the girl selling papers and her news? I wondered if it was a case of love at first sight.”
“I didn’t notice him. I wasn’t the newsgirl, Colonel Stewart. I wore a purple East Indian costume.”
“The one you brought from Calcutta — Patty Gould?”
“Max!”
The hoarse exclamation brought Cindy from her hiding place to the threshold. She could see Mrs. Drew’s ghastly face — her pallor accentuated by the brilliant green of her frock — as she stared at the man in uniform who had stepped into the room. Light struck the large lenses of his spectacles with uncanny effect. It highlighted also the small, shining bald island on top of his head surrounded by graying hair. The silver bars of a captain glinted on his shoulders, a broad and colorful array of service ribbons adorned the breast of his tunic
“I see you recognize me, Patty, my love.” A gargoylish grin distorted his face.
In the split second of silence that followed her horrifled exclamation Mrs. Drew had pulled herself together.
“I don’t know what you are talking about. Lloyd, how came this man aboard my boat?”
“Your man Lloyd will keep his mouth shut till I get through talking.” The voice was that of a person accustomed to command. “You called me ‘Max,’ didn’t you? That is my name, isn’t it?”
“How do I know what your name is?” She was magnificent in her disdain. “I was startled for a moment. You looked like a brother I lost in the war. He was a Captain. Lloyd, put this person off my boat.”
“No one will put me off this boat till I have collected my half from the sale of our possessions you brought to this country, Mrs. — Drew. Am I right in the name? I understand you have had several since you discarded mine. I have been half crazy with anxiety about you — didn’t give a damn for the treasures — now that I see you and know what you are, so far as I am concerned you died the day you left me.” He removed his spectacles and polished them with a handkerchief.
“You’d better come clean, Patty, my love.” His voice lashed. “Each person in this room knows you’ve been smuggling during the last two years.”
“How did you know —” As if realizing she had betrayed herself she whirled toward Ken Stewart in a passion of fury.
“You did this. You heard that broadcast of missing persons at White Pillars. At cards you tricked me into showing my skill. You got in touch with this man who claims to be my husband. You — you —” Fury choked her voice.
“Better stop where you are,” the man in uniform reminded coldly. “With every word you’re plunging deeper into confession. I’m not here to claim you as my wife. I don’t want you. I want my half of our joint property or my share of the money you got for it and I won’t leave this boat till you sign over my rights.”
Her eyes flashed from one to another like those of a trapped animal. Stopped at Laurence Lloyd. Narrowed.
“Why haven’t you said a word in my defense? I wonder if all this time you have fooled —”
“You and the crew of this boat are under arrest, Madam.”
Cindy’s heart shot to her throat and choked her with its heavy beat.
The white-haired police chief in person. He stood in the doorway that opened on the deck. He was the man who had questioned her at headquarters. Would he suspect she belonged to this gang? That was a lovely thought.
“Arrested.” Mrs. Drew looked him up and down as if he were some strange animal which had wandered into the lounge. “Arrested? For what? Because I deserted that man in uniform? All right, he was my husband, but you don’t arrest people for desertion in the State of Maine, or do you?” There was a hint of amusement in the last question.
In the instant of tingling silence which followed Cindy forgot that she should remain out of sight and stepped across the threshold. Safe enough. No one would notice her in this crisis. She glanced surreptitiously at Ken Stewart. He was staring at her as if he couldn’t believe what his eyes were seeing. It was but a second before they returned to the white-haired police chief who had produced a paper from the breast pocket of his brass-buttoned dark blue coat.
“The charge of desertion does not app
ear in this warrant. You are accused of smuggling stolen goods into this country.”
“Laurie!”
“No use to appeal to your captain for help, Madam. The broadcasting radio of the yacht has been put out of commission. You can’t warn your accomplice on shore. Already government men are at work in your house with mirrors, torches and probing rods to find the loot hidden behind walls and in furniture. We’ve let you run your rig till we knew there was plenty of evidence. That covers it The persons present not under arrest are advised to go and quickly.”
Alida Barday came to the stateroom for the topcoat Cindy was holding out to her.
“My heavens, in the excitement I completely forgot you, Cinderella. I’ll go first. Follow in a minute. Our hostess is so engaged she won’t notice.”
She did.
“Who’s the woman in my clothes?” Mrs. Drew demanded as a figure in navy, orange and white flashed by.
“I’ll explain later,” Cindy heard Lloyd say before in her headlong flight she collided with Ken Stewart who was helping Alida Barclay over the side. A light from below illumined them.
“Here I am!” She announced the evident fact breathlessly. “I was so afraid you would leave me.”
He waited till Alida called, “Next,” before he seized her shoulder in a grip that hurt.
“How long have you been on this boat, Cinderella?”
The hint of suspicion in the demand coming on top of the evening’s excitement and threat of danger infuriated her.
“Something over two thrilling hours, I’d say,” she answered airily. “Sensational yacht, isn’t it?”
“Did you come on board with Lloyd?”
“Ask him. Now, if you will step away from the exit I’d like to leave, Simon Legree.”
“Go ahead.”
He held her arm till her feet were firmly on the ladder. The tide was higher than when she had come aboard. Only two steps and she was in the motorboat. Ken Stewart followed. He picked up a slicker.