To love and to honor (24 page)

She jumped into the boat, adjusted the gas control, pulled the rope. The motor started without a hitch. Must be a recent model. She seized the steering handle and backed away from the pier. Throttled down to half speed and in spite of her frantic urge to get away came about slowly till the boat was headed for open water. The wake of the outboard set the two powerboats jerking at their mooring lines. Someone shouting. She looked back. Hal Harding was running down the avenue between the flaming maples. She waved. Made a megaphone of her hands, called:

"Sary phoned. 'Come home. Quick.' Couldn't wait." Let him make what he would of that. He stopped for an instant as if in amazed unbelief, then ran forward calling:

"Maceyl Maceyl"

The shouts came fainter and fainter as the outboard rounded a jagged promontory.

So far so good, she told herself and dropped into the stern seat. She exercised her tense fingers and took a

fresh hold on the steering handle. This boat didn't kick up as much sea as the red runabout.

Now I can relax, she thought. Doubtless a psychiatrist would call my fear and getaway an infantile pattern of conduct, failure to mature emotionally. I call it a hunch.

I'd better stop pigeonholing my reactions and plan. I can see The Castle and Mrs. Drew's place the other side of Pirate's Cove. There is a fire up the shore. No mistaking that red glow against the sky. Perhaps I was unjust to Hal. Perhaps his guests did walk out on him—even so, that doesn't cancel the menace of that vicious Simpkins. Why was he coming from the playhouse without the drinks Hal had ordered if not to warn me not to tell that I recognized him as the clown who stole the car? The probability gives me what Sary calls the hibby-jibbies. I'm glad I had the nerve to beat it.

This boat is the only moving thing visible between that shore and the broad Atlantic. I've never been in just this spot before. I don't know how far the reef extends. I'd hate to get hung up on it with the tide going out. What are those gray wisps floating across that gorgeous sky? Fog? It can't be, her mind protested. Perhaps it can't, but it is coming in fast.

Wisps broadened to patches till the sky was a gun-metal gray. The sea turned dark and oily. Fog rolled in. Streaked with blood red from the setting sun it held the menace of a horror effect thought up by Dali. On it came, thicker and thicker. It blotted out landmarks. The gray silhouette of the shore dimmed. Vanished. If she could make the channel, then the harbor, she would be safe. It would be full of craft driven in by a warning weather broadcast.

Booml Boom! BoomI Surf beating against the ledge. She was headed for it. She turned sharply starboard. Now she didn't know where she was. She listened for a guiding sound.

Muffled voices dead ahead and the velvet purr of a powerful motor. She would follow at a respectful distance, the boat must be going somewhere. Better reduce speed, or there might be a collision. Fog lay like a wet

blanket across her shoulders, dripped from her nose. Perhaps the caretaker kept a slicker aboard. She couldn't take her hand from the steering handle to hunt for one, or the boat might swirl into a do-si-do and she would lose the guide ahead.

The last time she had looked for a covering to keep her warm she had plunged up to her neck in trouble. Had Bill—Ken Stewart—returned the robe to the owner of the black limousine? The clown who had stolen it had outwitted the police and made a safe getaway. She should have warned Hal that the man working for him was a criminal. She had thought only of her own danger when making her escape.

Her shiver was combined of cold, dampness and memory. She visualized the eyes between the slits in the black mask on the chalky face when the clown had danced with her. Idiot, why live over that? Couldn't she think of something happier-She sprang to her feet. A huge dark shape was almost upon her. The boat she was following had come about and—

"Look outl" she screamed.

A light flashed. Too late. A crash. She tried to snatch at something before she plummeted into the sea. An absurd thought went with her. "I wish I'd put on my sandals."

A glare blinded her as she rose to the surface. Arms reached for her—she didn't know how many—and pulled her into a boat. Light enveloped her.

"I'll be damned, a woman!"

""VVHiy in hell did you stand up when you saw us comin'?" the rough voice went on. "Ought to have known you'd pitch over. Were you drifting alone in a boat in this fog? Perhaps you weren't alone. Heck, have we got to fish for another guy?"

Cindy shook her head. Moisture showered from her hair. She had no idea to what type of men the rough voices belonged or in what sort of boat she was seated. All was deep shadow beyond the blinding light focused on her. She had an uneasy conviction that Hal Harding

and his playhouse would be a haven of refuge in comparison with the present situation.

"I was alone," she panted, "on the way to the village when the fog caught me and I lost my bearings. What will happen to the outboard I was in? Can't you find it? It—it was borrowed."

"Not in this fog. Tough luck for the owner. It will beach somewhere—tide's going in—unless it goes out to sea."

"That's a cheering thought." Her breath was coming normally. "If you will leave me at the harbor pier—"

"Leave you nothing. You don't think we'll poke round in this pea soup to land a dame, do you? You'll go where we're going—and like it."

"The boss'll fire you if you bring anyone along," reminded a voice.

"What else can we do? Toss her overboard? There it is again. Steer for it. Quick."

A searchlight swept the water, picked up the powerboat and lingered. It revealed the figures of three men, two forward, and a third who stood near her.

"Toss her overboard." The words echoed through Cindy's mind and sent an icy shiver slithering down her spine. I don't believe he would, she reasoned, they wouldn't have stopped to pull me out of the water if they were that kind. Now what do I do? Think success? How can I think success when I don't know what to think? Would I be better off if I jumped overboard? No. I survived the limousine crash. I'll have faith that I will come out of this.

"Faith, your fortress against fear."

The clergyman's sonorous voice rolled through her memory and counteracted the chill. At least this boat has a destination. It is going to something that is big enough to show a huge searchlight. Are my teeth chattering because of fear or cold?

"Have you a slicker I could put across my shoulders?" she ventured. "I'm very wet."

"Sure you're wet." Came the sound of a locker being opened. An oilskin was flung at her feet.

"That will fix you all right," the gruff voice assured.

They can't be desperate characters or they would let me freeze, just to get rid of me. The thought helped. Snuggled in the slicker which felt and smelled clean she sat in the stem. Nothing to do but sit tight and wait. No use trying to signal another boat, the fog was so thick she couldn't make out objects a foot ahead. Crazy of these men to keep pushing on. Why didn't they anchor, set lights and wait? Because it was desperately important that they reach their objective?

It seemed hours that she huddled there. After a time her eyes became conditioned to the fog. She was in a speed runabout not quite so large as Hal's, with dark, almost black finish. There was a man at the wheel forward, one behind him acting as a lookout, and a third who had questioned her and appeared to be a crew member at large. At regular intervals the big searchlight picked up the boat and the course would be altered to sail into it.

"Almost there." The man nearest Cindy groaned relief. "This is the toughest trip we've ever made. One more like this and I'm through. You can split my share between you and—"

"Shut up. We've got a passenger," a muffled voice reminded.

Cindy closed her eyes. Not a minute too soon. A light flashed in her face. She opened them.

"What's happened? This slicker is so warm—I must have been asleep. Are we there?"

"Where's 'there'? Damned if I know." Three guffaws in unison followed the question and answer of the man who had been beefing about the tough trip.

"I don't know where 'there' is, Skipper. You said I would have to go where you were going. From that I assumed you were headed for somewhere."

"We're headed for somewhere, all right, and here we are. Pretty work. Skinny—watch outi" he yelled, but not before the bow of the boat had hit a resisting surface with a force that set it plunging and rocked the three men on their feet. A light from above enveloped them.

"What's the idea? Trying to stove a hole in the side?"

The voice muffled by fog sounded far away. "Come aboard, report, and collect your dough. Catch."

The man at the bow caught the line that came coiling down like a mammoth serpent and made it fast. The three men went into a huddle.

Were they planning to dispose of her? Would they make her walk the plank? Fortunately the sea was quiet if they intended to set her adrift in a boat.

"What you waiting for?" an eerie voice demanded.

The man who had first interrogated her went up the three steps of a ladder on the side of what appeared to be a yacht, stepped lightly over and disappeared. The powerboat rocked and swayed lazily and made sucking sounds as it bumped against the larger craft.

"Send the dame up." The ghostly order came from the haze above.

"Does that mean me?" Cindy asked. Anything was better than this grueling uncertainty.

"Yes, ma'am." The voice was respectful. "See the steps? Can you make it?"

Can I? It's a must, she prodded herself and hesitated. She wasn't so sure that what awaited her above was an improvement on the uncertainty she had been enduring.

"If you're going, get a move on," one of the men prodded. "We can't wait here all night for you to make up your mind."

"I'm going." She had been up the swimming ladder of a big boat many times before but not under these circumstances. Could she make it?

One step up. Two. Her wet stockinged foot slipped on the third. Hands caught her under the arms and lifted her to the deck. Panic, sheer panic, the sense of impending danger tightened her throat. What lay ahead in this impenetrable gloom?

TWENTY-SEVEN

"Thank you. Thank—" her voice stuck in her tight throat. What difference did it make? Apparently she was speaking into uninhabited space. The person who had lifted her to the deck had disappeared. What next?

Next is to find out where I am, she answered her own question. Now that my heart has stopped racing its engine and my eyes are becoming adjusted to the fog something tells me that I have landed on a luxury yacht. I can see opalescent globes through the mist, lights undoubtedly. I must be on the aft deck. Those shapes shrouded under tarpaulin covers are seats, they suggest tea or cocktails at five. Tea. Golly, nice hot steaming tea. Now I am dreaming.

"This way." The voice came out of the mist behind her. A ghostly hand touched a ghostly cap. "The Captain will see you."

I'm a sad sight for the eyes of the skipper of this sensational craft, she thought, as she entered a luxuriously furnished salon vibrant with color and caught her reflection in a long mirror. Little tight curls capped her head; the once pale blue cardigan hugged her figure like the jersey of an Apache dancer she had seen on the screen; her wet skirt swished against her legs as she moved; water squished in her stockings at each step. The sailor leading the way—who, now that he was in the light, seemed anything but ghostlike—knocked on a door.

"Come in."

As they entered a cabin which appeared to be an office, he announced:

"Here she is, sir."

Another man. Cindy's hopes grounded. The beautifully appointed staterooms that opened from the salon-only one door was closed—suggested a woman owner. Miracle of miracles if it should prove to be Mrs. Sally Drew.

"Here's the lady, sir," the sailor reminded.

The man seated behind the desk absorbed in checking a pile of what appeared to be indices looked up. Cindy closed her eyes and opened them wide to be sure that what she saw wasn't a vision induced by wishful thinking. Mrs. Drew's secretary, Laurence Lloyd, was returning her incredulous stare.

"Mrs. Stewartl" He was on his feet. "You are Mrs. Stewart of The Castle, aren't you? How did you get on this boat? You shouldn't be here." His brows met in a portentous frown.

His startled greeting brought back the sense of distrust she had felt the afternoon she had met him at Mrs. Drew's. Perhaps Lyd Fane's acid "If he is a secretary," had prejudiced her. Added to that the instant of stillness when she had introduced him to Bill Damon had given her a chilly premonition of trouble. Watch your reaction, she warned herself, you are in too precarious a jam now to show that you don't like him.

"Where I came from is a long story, Mr., or is it Captain Lloyd?"

"I'm Captain here. Go ahead."

She told of faring forth in the outboard—omitting the reason—of losing direction in the fog; of the collision with a powerboat; of pitching overboard; of the rescue.

"Go on."

"And here I am, that's all. There isn't any more, yet. You must have heard the crew's version of my adventure. The men were very kind."

"Why not? They knocked you overboard." He came from behind the desk and looked at her from dripping hair to shoeless feet. "Your clothes are soaked."

"The sea is quite full of wet water tonight." She did

her best to suppress a nervous chuckle at her foolish retort but he heard it.

"That was a stupid remark of mine." She remembered his habit of pinching the lobe of his left ear. "I don't know what to do with you."

"I can answer that one. Send me home."

"Impossible. I'm under orders to sail on receipt of a radioed message which may come at any minute. I can't spare a boat or a man."

"The boat that knocked me into the water can take me back. It would be just restitution, wouldn't it?"

"Sorry. That speed runabout belongs to men who live way up the coast. They have been on business for the owner of this yacht."

Business for the owner. Again she remembered the growled, "You can split my share—" What kind of business? That remark would indicate that the crew was not allergic to the mighty dollar—if not so mighty as of yore, she reminded herself.