Slack tide (3 page)

"Go on then," said Nick. "Drown yourself. See if I care."

"I won't drown."

"You won't catch any fish either."

"So niu"se that cut finger of yours and keep sucking at the whisky and shut up."

The brief silence was followed by the sound of footsteps on the deck. Presently there was the hollow sound of wood knocking against wood and MacLaren could visuahze the fisherman stepping down into the dinghy. The cabin lights moved with the shifting of weight and there was a clatter of oars in the rowlocks. Finally Nick stepped out and his silhouette moved forward. This time his tone was more interested than dogmatic.

"Do you reaUy think you'll catch anything, Lew?"

"Probably not, but I'm going to give it a whirl," said Lew.

"But if you don't think—"

"Oh, knock it off. A guy that likes to fish don't have to catch something every time he goes out. I hke to fish, see? Like you like dames. So just keep out of trouble until I get back, will you? Probably won't be more than an hour."

The sound of the oars came to MacLaren again, settling now into a rhythm that gradually grew less distinct. Just how long after that it was before he heard the voice from the island, he was never sure. He had finished his pipe and knocked out the dottle, and the warm bowl was still in his palm when he heard the sound of splashing in the inlet. He stood up at once and the thought that came first was that the man named Lew had fallen out of the dinghy. There was no other sound, no cry for help. But he was

moving then and when he reached the edge of the dock he saw someone swim out of the darkness.

He stared in growing wonderment as he leaned forward to get a better look. He sensed that the swimmer was in no trouble so he stayed where he was, and the only thought that came to him before his astonishment became complete was that while the past couple of days had been unseasonably warm for May, the water was much too cold for anything but emergency swimming.

He heard her before he saw her, for though the night was clear and starht, the moon had not yet risen. The unseen splashing, at first faint, grew quickly louder and then, a moment later as he leaned forward in his bewilderment, he could make out the swimmer.

The long hair told him it was a girl. She swam expertly and the current gave her no trouble. For the tide, which had recently been slack, was now moving in from the river and the only thing that hampered her was the garment she wore, not a bathing suit but something that looked more like a dress.

In spite of this she made steady progress, and with no time for further speculation, MacLaren yelled at her, pointing to the floating dock, trying to tell her to swim that way so that she could climb out more easily. When she continued straight ahead, he knelt down, a partial answer occurring to him as he recalled the blonde girl who had arrived late that afternoon.

He saw the face looking up at him through the darkness, the streaming hair. Cold hands clutched his as he leaned out across the stringpiece, and he pulled, getting up from

one knee and then the other, lifting hard now, and high, as the girl swung inward and got her feet on the planking. Then, as he stepped close to get a better look at her, he got another shock.

His personal relations with Ohver Kingsley had not been particularly happy, and over a period of time his dis-hke of the man had become gradually more acute. He knew something about Kingsley's reputation. It had been suggested by some that he had kept out of jail only because of his ability to buy his way out of trouble and, understanding this background, a half-formed explanation had been mushrooming in MacLaren's mind. By jumping at conclusions he had assumed that the blonde of the afternoon, finding things too hot to handle on the island, had fled in panic or hysteria. Now he realized his mistake.

For this was not the girl. She was blonde, and she was slender, but she was not so tall, and the angles of her face were different. This was a girl he had never seen before, and he stared at her in new amazement, still holding her arms.

"Thank you." The words came between gasps for breath, and now he felt her try to pull away.

"Wait a minute," he said, "What happened? Did you fall overboard or—"

"I—I have to go," she said, not letting him finish.

"Go?" he said. "Where?"

"Please."

Again she tried to wrench away, and now some bit of reflected light from the showroom window touched her face. He could see the hysteria there, the sudden terror

which replaced it as her head cocked, and they both heard the sudden throb of a small motor come to hfe from the direction of the island. As it grew swiftly more distinct, she struggled again in her desperation.

"Hey!" MacLaren pulled her to a stop.

"Oh, please—"

"But look," he said, his voice gentle, "You can't go running around like that at night. You'll get pneumonia."

He reached for her again and felt the shudder run through her as she struggled against him. His hands were so tight on her arms now that he knew he must be hurting her and he felt ashamed, yet somehow he was afraid to let her go. He could see the twisted whiteness of her face, the wet, straight hair which framed it; the sodden garment which clung to her shmly rounded body was not a dress as he had first thought but a high-necked nightgown, and her feet were bare, so that the moment would have seemed fantastic had it not been so real and her terror so apparent.

"I'm not going back," she said, sobbing now.

"Okay. Just take it easy."

He watched as the dinghy swung alongside and the motor was cut. With that, Oliver Kingsley vaulted to the dock, hesitating only long enough to toss a line over a bollard before he came striding forward.

"Ah," he said. "Thanks for holding her, MacLaren." He reached for the girl's hand and she jerked away. "Come along, Ruth."

"No."

"Now let's not be childish. You shouldn't have slugged

Harry, you know. Even if you had given me the shp where could you have gone? Let's be sensible about it."

The girl had drawn back against MacLaren, her body braced. "I'm not going back," she sobbed.

"Oh, yes you are."

"No."

"Wait a minutel" MacLaren said, when Kingsley grabbed her arm.

"Stay out of it," Kingsley said, his tone ominous.

"Why?" said MacLaren. "Why should she go with you if she doesn't want to?"

"Because she's my wife."

MacLaren didn't believe it. He thought it was a trick. He thought he knew everyone on the island and he had read somewhere that Mrs. Kingsley had gone to Reno for a divorce.

"I don't believe it."

"Who cares?"

"How do I know she's your wife?"

"Ask her."

MacLaren glanced down at the girl. Her shamed and almost imperceptible nod before she bowed her head was enough to tell him that Kingsley spoke the truth, but when he saw how small and frightened and pathetic she looked, he knew he had to help her. Kingsley's next belhgerent words helped decide him.

"I told you once," he threatened. "Stay out of this."

MacLaren ignored him and looked at the girl again. He felt Kingsley pulling her, and he held onto her other hand, resisting.

"Do you want to go with him?"

"No."

"That's it then," he said. "I'll get you a room at the Inn and you two can talk it over in the morning after—"

It was a characteristic of Kingsley that he turn mean when crossed. The people with whom he had surrounded himself had a luxiu-ious hfe so long as they gave him no argument, and his reaction to this present frustration was both vicious and vindictive. Without warning, giving Mac-Laren no chance to finish, and still holding his wife's arm, he hooked his left. MacLaren, surprised, but seeing the movement from the corner of his eye, could do no more than move his chin. The punch caught him on the side of the head and he went down, roUing but wary, so that when Kingsley stepped close and kicked at his head he was able to tip the heel.

Kingsley tripped and went to one knee, cursing as he fell. He jumped up, furious, but this time MacLaren was ready, stepping inside a looping right as Kingsley charged, and hooking twice to the body. During the next minute or two he had no time for thoughts of the girl, no time for anything but Kingsley. He gave away height and weight, but he was in better condition and he had the advantage of a clearer head. He hated Kingsley at the moment and wanted to put him down, but he was not driven by the blind fury that had gripped his opponent.

He was not sure how many blows he struck or how many times he was hit. He gave ground to the other's superior weight and sensed that the girl was still there as Kingsley wrestled him to the edge of the dock and tried to knee him.

To protect himself, MacLaren slugged inside and they broke apart, both teetering at the edge of the planking. Then, before Kingsley could lunge forward, his wife took a hand.

Beyond the gas and oil pumps and water hoses was the icehouse, which had been put there for the convenience of boat-owners and was fiUed daily in season. The odd pieces of wood left over from the remodeling job had been swept into a neat pile by Larry Keats, and now one of these came hinrtling through the night to bounce ofiF the back of Kingsley's head.

MacLaren was as surprised as Kingsley, not so much at what the move accomphshed, but that it was made at all. He did not see Ruth Kingsley hurl it, but he imderstood that in her panic she was afraid that her husband would be the winner and this was her way of helping.

MacLaren was never sure about that piece of wood; he only knew it was not large. At the time he thought it was a short length of two-by-four, and he saw it glance oflf Kingsley's head, saw the man stagger and try to glance round, more infuriated than hurt—or so MacLaren thought. For a second or two he teetered there on the stringpiece, arms waving as he lost his battle for equihb-rium. Finally, seeing he was going over anyway, he twisted and dived clear of the dinghy, surfacing thirty feet out in the stream.

With that MacLaren acted instantly as the sudden desire to laugh aloud rose within him. Freeing the painter, he dropped to his knees, swung the bow of the dinghy toward Kingsley, and gave it a mighty shove. Only when he

rose and stepped back did it occiir to him that the man might drown.

"Is he a good swimmer?"

"Oh, yes," the girl said from the darkness behind him.

"You're sm"e?"

"Positive."

The tide was not yet strong and MacLaren saw a hand come up and grab the boat. It was too dark to see much else, but as the distance widened, he thought he saw Kingsley try to pull himself up over the side. Then as the night obliterated the scene, MacLaren called out:

"Keep going and don't come backl . . . Come on," he said to the girl. "He's all right now."

She came docilely, hke a person in shock as he took her by the arm and led her toward the showroom, her bare feet making no sounds and her arm cold and stiff in his grasp.

"I've got an apartment over tlie oflBce," he said to reassure her. "When you get dried off I'll phone the Inn and get a room for you."

Upstairs he turned on the Uving-room Hghts, and she went with him to the bedroom as unprotesting as a child. She stood mute and shivering, her face slack and apparently unaware that the soft curves of her young body were so intimately revealed by the thin wet gown. After his first glance, MacLaren turned away to produce a tiukish towel, clean pajamas, and his flannel robe. Because traces of fear and hysteria still lurked in the corners of her green eyes, he did aU this matter-of-factly, not looking at her directly again or wanting to embarrass her.

"Give yourself a good rubdown and then put these on," he said. "I'm going to make some coflFee and call the Inn. Come out when you're ready."

He put the water on for coffee and poured out a small brandy, but when he went to the telephone the word from the Inn was bad. The owner would hke to accommodate him and most hkely there would be something in the morning, but for tonight there was no room to be had.

Ruth Kingsley had rolled up the sleeves of the pajamas and robe, but when she came out of the bedroom the overall effect of the trailing skirt was comic and she seemed to reahze it. What fear remained was deep inside her, and there was color in her cheeks where the towel had left its shine. She seemed now to have control of her emotions and she gave him a shy, tentative smile.

"I don't know how to thank you," she said.

"Drink this before you try." MacLaren handed her the brandy as an odd embarrassment began to work on him. He busied himself fixing a chair for her. He said coffee would be ready in a couple of minutes. Then, as she settled herself and sipped her brandy, he told her about the Inn. "So," he said, making it sound unimportant, "I guess you'U have to stay here for tonight."

"Oh?" she said, her eyes wide and serious.

"There's a cot dov^mstairs I can use. You can have this place to yourself."

He saw the trouble stirring again in her gaze. She looked down at the glass and her shoulders sagged.

"They'll come back," she said woodenly.

"Who?"

"Oliver and Harry Danaher. I had to hit Harry to get away."

He accepted the last statement without comment and said he doubted if they would come back. "If they do," he said, "they won't get in. This is private property."

He stood up to take the glass and pour the coffee. When he sat down again he had a chance to look at her and realize how different she was from the blonde he had seen that afternoon. The blonde had the stilted walk and haughty manner of a high-priced model. This girl seemed so entirely different that he wondered not only how a man with Kingsley's reputation had been attracted to her in the first place, but why, knowing his reputation, she had ever consented to marry him. Even without make-up she was as pretty as a model and just as young, but the prettiness had a wholesome, unassuming quahty that seemed as natural as the other girl's was affected.

"I thought I knew everyone on the island," he said. "How long have you been there?"

"I'm not sure—well, since Oliver moved in."