Slack tide (20 page)

"You said that before," Danaher said scornfully. "I kiUed Kingsley and I killed WiUis. Nutsl If I'd killed Willis at eight o'clock like you say, Carla would have seen me crossing over in the dinghy. Or maybe I went over by helicopter."

"There's another way, Harry," MacLaren said. "An even quicker way."

He was looking right at Danaher now, and he saw a sudden narrowness growing in the eyes.

"You used that old causeway, Harry," he said. "Twice a day you can cross there. For an hour or two at slack tide you can make it. It was close to slack tide tonight when you went to Sam WiUis's place with a gun."

Danaher grunted loudly, a disdainful sound. "You've been doing a lot of talking," he said. "You've picked up a lot of crazy ideas but you haven't said a thing yet that you can prove."

"I don't have to prove it, Harry."

"Hunh?"

"That's a job for the pohce, and I think they've got experts and equipment to tag you for what you did to Sam."

He leaned forward to ease his muscles. The strain that had been building in him had made itself felt and he knew he had to keep crowding. He had to force a move while there was still time and, recalling what he had seen in WiUis's room, he made his words convincing.

"There was a piece of mud on the floor near Sam's body," he said. "It wasn't quite dry when I noticed it. Where do you think it came from?"

"How would I know?"

"It hasn't rained here in the last five days. But when the tide is out, those old rocks that made the causeway are muddy. If you crossed over there, Harry—and I say you did —you couldn't make it without getting a httle mud on your shoes. You've probably still got some there in the crack of the soles, or the instep."

He could almost see Danaher start to glance down at his shoes and then pull his eyes back before he actually stooped. He knew he was right, but he had to make Danaher think so, too, and he said:

"It would only take a speck to make an analysis. There's no mud on this island except when the tide is out. If the bit of mud that t'le police are going to find on your shoes

matches the mud on the causeway—if that mud is the same as the mud that is now on the carpet of Sam's bedroom, you're through, Harry. You went up there with some of that ten thousand you took from Kingsley's drawer, and you let Sam get his hands on it. You let him think it was all right before you pulled the gun. One of those fifty-dollar bills is still in his hand. It's tucked up under his body where you didn't see it. You didn't have time to make sure because you heard me yell from outside, and you had to get out of there.

"Let's get the police in on it now, Harry," he said. "Maybe the fifty-dollar bill isn't important as evidence, but the mud will be and you know it. You can still walk, can't you? Let's take a ride over to the dock. I can take the Woodsman along just in case you get any ideas—"

He glanced down to locate the gun that he had placed beside the ottoman. He was about to reach for it when he heard Ruth Kingsley cry out. In the same instant there was an audible gasp from Carla. When he glanced up, not yet touching the Woodsman, he stayed right where he was.

He had caught some of the movement from the corner of his eye, but Danaher had reacted with swiftness and precision. His good left hand had yanked out the proper drawer of the vanity. Fifty-dollar biUs had spilled over the top and onto the floor, but the short-barreled .38 was now securely in his hand.

"Hold it, Mac! . . . Just take it easy," he said. "That's it," he said as MacLaren straightened. "Now put your hands on your knees and make sure you keep them there."

IT WAS Carla Lewis who broke the tight silence that followed. "I didn't put it there," she cried. "I never saw that money before."

Danaher ignored her. He was watching MacLaren, and the gleam in his amber eyes was bright and dangerous.

"You couldn't let it alone, could you?" he said viciously. "You couldn't let the cops take it on. You had to stick your nose in."

"Someone had to," MacLaren said. "If I hadn't given it a try, Carla would have taken the blame. You were all right on the Kingsley thing. You were all right until Sam Wilhs told you what he had seen that first night. You knew you had to take care of him. You figured you'd have a fair ahbi, if no one saw you take the dinghy across the inlet. By using the causeway, you could make it just as quick, or maybe quicker, and you'd be back here in a few minutes. But that wasn't good enough for you, was it? You wanted to give the police a ready-made victim."

He glanced at Carla but continued to Danaher.

"You had her framed good, didn't you? You could prove by her fingerprints that she swung the fire extinguisher that knocked Kingsley out. When the pofice searched this room and found the money and gun that would be it. You might even he a httle more and say that you saw Carla sneaking off toward the causeway. If you hadn't panicked

and reached for that gun, you might still have made your story stand up. But it's no good now, Harry," he said, "because you can't explain how you knew the gun was in that drawer. Where was it before that? Did you bury it along with the money so the poHce wouldn't know about it?"

He hesitated, but not for long. He had Danaher's attention and he wanted to keep it. He could not be sure how this idea of his would end, but he knew that Lucille Baron was still in her room; Neil Ackerman and perhaps Earl Harwell would be along shortly, and the more people who were around the greater the margin of safety.

"You must have really hated Carla," he said.

"You've got that much right," Danaher said. "She's never been anything but a high-priced tramp. I tried to be nice to her and she laughed at me. I wasn't good enough for her. She thought I was dirt."

"You still are," Carla said bitterly.

Again Danaher ignored her and continued to Mac-Laren.

"You made some good guesses, Mac. All they're going to get you is grief, but you did pretty good. Not about that fifty-dollar bill that Sam Wilhs has still got in his hand though," he said, a frightening sort of pride in his tone. "I left that there on purpose. The number on that bill would tie in with the numbers on these and I figured that would be enough to take care of Httle Carla."

"Not bad," MacLaren said. Then, in the hope that he could keep the man talking, he said: "You took the keys from Kingsley's pocket before you towed him down the inlet. Why? Not because you knew about the ten thousand.

Did Kingsley have something on paper that you were afraid of? Was that traflBc business in Florida you spoke about a hit-and-run thing?"

"Sort of," Danaher said. "I was using Kingsley's car, and I chpped a fellow. Later he died in the hospital and Kings-ley helped me cover up. Not because he liked me, but because he needed me on the boat, and he knew he'd have me under his thumb for as long as he wanted me there. He said I had to sign a confession, otherwise he might be tagged with the accident.

"I had to sign," he said, "and since then he's been treating me hke he owned me. A guy with a mind like his, I never could be sure when he might decide to use that piece of paper just for spite. I never dared to make a move before because I didn't think I could get away with it, but when Carla did her little bit the other night I saw my chance and I took it."

MacLaren understood this, just as he finally understood that the driving force which motivated this man was hatred. A deep-seated hatred that over a period of time had consumed him. A hatred for Carla because she had humihated him by jeering at his attempts to make love to her. A hatred for Kingsley, who had forced a continuing subservience that he had never before given to anyone.

"Yes," he said. "It was made to order for you, wasn't it?"

"He was out cold when I found him," Danaher said as though he had not heard. "It looked hke he'd been hxut bad. I couldn't tell how bad or whether he'd live or not, but I had to get that confession and I made up my mind. When

I saw that ten grand in new bills in the drawer, I figured I might as well take them along too."

MacLaren nodded. "You did pretty good, Harry," he said. "If it hadn't been for Sam WiUis and his Navy binoculars—" He stopped abruptly as the words brought back the picture of death he had so recently left. A tightness began to work along the angles of his jaw and his gaze was dark and brooding.

"You went up there with minrder on your mind."

"No."

"You took the gun."

"Sure." Danaher gave the revolver a glance and shifted it in his hand. "I had to have some insurance, because I didn't know whether I could trust him or not. If the old fool had stuck to his word, he'd be ahve right now."

"How do you mean?"

"We made a deal this afternoon. For three thousand bucks he was going to forget what he saw. When I show up with the dough, he'd changed his mind. He said he'd had a talk with you and, whatever you said, he got the idea that unless he told the truth about me you'd always be under some suspicion even if the police couldn't actually prove it. He said he owed you that much. He wouldn't hsten. When I threatened him, he grabbed the rifle and there wasn't anything else I could do."

The words had a curious effect on MacLaren as he understood what Sam Willis had done. Wilhs had been tempted and he had weakened because his love of the dollar was so strongly ingrained in his character. He had seen an easy way to add to his bank account, not under-

standing that by withholding such information he was tightening the veil of suspicion around MacLaren. Not until the facts had been spelled out for him late that afternoon did he reahze that his silence could mark MacLaren's reputation perhaps for life, or see that only the truth could clear him.

In the end his loyalty and basic integrity had won out over his love for money. He had told Danaher so. It had cost him his life, and this knowledge served only to increase MacLaren's sense of loss. A new bitterness welled up in him to focus on this man who was responsible. There was no longer any doubt in his mind that Danaher would pay, and it pleased him that he, MacLaren, was the one who could help make this possible.

"It's still your move, Harry," he said coldly. "What are you going to do with the gun?"

"Use it, if I have to."

"On me? On Carla, Ruth, Lucille Baron?"

Danaher half closed one eye and his mouth tightened before he spoke.

"Carla had an idea and it just might work. This bullet hole in my arm may turn out to be a help after aU. If we take a boat ride and something happens, the cops would easily figure that Carla blew her top and started blazing away with her Woodsman. If I was the only one found ahve, they might buy the theory that she shot you and Ruth and then turned the gun on herself when she realized she had only wounded me and I cornered her."

The half-closed eye opened and the gleam that showed

through had a wild and desperate look. "Yeah," he said slowly. "It could work."

"Not in a million years," MacLaren said.

"It's all I've got left," Danaher said, "and I'm going to give it a try. . . . Stand up, Mac. Keep your hands nice and easy and kick that Woodsman over here."

MacLaren stood up as directed. He kept his hands in sight. He kept his shoulders loose as he shifted his weight the way he wanted it. This put him about eight feet from the gun in Danaher's hand. He knew what he had to do, and when he was ready to get on with it, he said:

"If you want the Woodsman, come and get it."

Danaher stood up. Not looking down, but reaching behind him, he began to pick the money from the vanity and stuflF it into his trouser pocket. He had a httle trouble because the fingers of his injured right arm were not as strong as usual. He was still working at it when MacLaren took his first step.

Danaher's left hand tightened on the gun. "Hold it," he snapped. "Move the other way. If I have to drop you right here I'U do it, because I've got nothing more to lose."

MacLaren kept his eyes on the gun and the trigger finger. He took another step directly at Danaher, and he heard the two women cry out in unison, and then Danaher's final hoarse warning.

He saw the trigger finger jerk and heard the click of the hammer. He heard it click again as he made his final lunge, and he was talking to Danaher now, saying: "It's no good, Harry. You fired too many shots up at Sam Wilfis's place."

He saw the amazement and consternation in Danaher's

widened gaze. He heard the gun chck for the third time as he wrenched it free and then, leaning a Httle, he hooked his left to the side of that broad jaw, and Danaher bounced oflF the edge of the vanity and fell down.

He may have been too startled to get up, or perhaps he realized that he had played out the string and was at the end of the Hne. He made no attempt to rise but bHnked his eyes at the gun as MacLaren stepped back. Behind him MacLaren heard someone exhale noisily and there was a murmured comment of reHef from Ruth; then the distant sound of a bell ringing reached the room. It came again after a moment and by that time MacLaren knew what it was. So did Carla Lewis.

"Someone's ringing for the dinghy," she said. "It must be Neil."

MacLaren backed up and retrieved the Woodsman. He glanced at Ruth Kingsley and saw that her face was white and stiU. Traces of shock still Hngered in the corners of her green eyes and he stepped a httle closer and gave her a small smile.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he said.

"Oh, but you did," she said with a sigh. "I knew he was going to shoot, and I wanted to scream and couldn't and—" She frowned and swallowed. "It—didn't go off."

"There were only six shots in it," MacLaren said, "and Harry used up four of them before he planted the gun. When I looked at it I turned the cyhnder so he'd have to pull the trigger four times before he had a hve shell under the hammer. He didn't know I'd fixed it because I guess he didn't stop to think that I would have had the chance."

As he finished, the door opened suddenly and Lucille Baron gave the room a haughty glance. It had taken her a long time to dress and fix her face but the result justified the effort. She stood tall and slender and regal in her chng-ing black dinner dress. The tinted blond hair was perfection itself, and hpstick, rouge, eye shadow, and mascara had been blended and apphed with an artistry that gave her narrow face a striking beauty.