Stab in the Dark (15 page)

He wanted to believe her. He wanted badly to believe her. He said, “Binks is the little guy that followed Jock around. Jock got killed. Toll is one of the voices at Merkle 3-4220.”

If it made sense, her expression didn’t admit it. She put out a hand, letting her fingertips brush his forehead. “Paul you’re tired. I should let you go to bed. But I’m selfish, I guess, and I’m too curious. Start at the beginning.”

Now that he had started, he would finish it this way. He took a long pull at his drink and set down the glass. “It begins,” he said, “with Leo Auffer. He’s dead.” Lifting the glass, he finished the rye.

Nat was staring at him, her cigaret halfway to her lips, her eyes wide and questioning. “Leo—dead?”

“Murdered,” Knox said shortly. “Like Jock. Just like Jock.” He told her about it, leaving out nothing except his identity and Cora’s and Leo Auffer’s. He detailed the scene on the boat with Binks and Toll and his own investigations in the basement. Then he leaned back and waited for her to say something.

“But why?” she demanded. “Why Leo? What does it mean, Paul. What has it to do with your missing war bride?”

She was good, he thought. She was the best actress in this sort of thing he had ever come across. If, he added, she were faking all of this. He tried again. “There is no war bride. That’s a cover up. It’s all connected with blackmail and obscene pictures like those we saw tonight.”

“They were horrible.” She tried to smile. “I thought at first you were trying to be funny. I got mad. Then I realized—when that man came out—there was more. A lot more. But I don’t understand—about the blackmail.”

He told her that too in short, hard words that left her pale as the picture grew clearer. She whispered once, “How awful,” but outside of that he knew no more of what he wanted to know than when he had started.

“It’s a nasty business,” Knox said. “But it’s almost over-one way or the other.”

“I hope so,” she said. She was playing with her half empty glass. “I don’t understand, Paul. If whoever it is knows that your’re investigating this, why didn’t they kill you too? What would one more murder mean to them?”

Knox looked straight at her. “That’s one I haven’t an answer to—yet. I have an idea, but …” He left it hanging and rose.

She came up too, her hand on his arm. “Paul….” Her voice was soft, her eyes fixed on his. At that moment she was completely appealing. His protective objectivity disappeared, was swept away by her nearness. He felt her touch through the cloth of his coat; he was conscious only of her. Her hands lifted, rested lightly on his cheeks. “Paul …”

He took a deep breath, fighting himself. At that moment he hated his job and everything about it. At the same time he hated himself. With an effort that took more strength than he thought he had, he caught her wrists and pulled her hands away.

“Thanks, Nat. Thanks for your help tonight.” Gently he maneuvered her until they were at the door. “And don’t worry, Nat. It will all work out.”

She did not look at him now but down, at some point by her feet. “I hope so, Paul. But be careful. Don’t—don’t take any chances.”

“No,” Knox agreed, “I won’t take any chances. There really aren’t any now. The coastguard has been alerted for Toll’s boat.” He opened the door and went out. He left her standing there, looking after him.

B
ACK IN
his suite, Knox called Mrs. Renfrew. He received no answer. He inquired and the desk clerk told him that Mrs. Renfrew and Mr. Tinsley had gone out together a few hours before. They hadn’t returned yet.

Nor would they, Knox knew. They wouldn’t return unless the fishing boat decided to come back. He asked for some coffee and sandwiches to be sent up and then he sat down to wait for Beeker to call him.

He didn’t wait long. To take his mind off Nat Tinsley, he thought about Beeker, and his conscience rose up and snarled at him. With a sigh, he succumbed and put in a call for the Lieutenant. When they were connected, Knox said, “I just found out that Mrs. Renfrew—” He stopped and detailed Mrs. Renfrew—“is Cora Deane, Mel. She and Tinsley are both gone. On the boat, I suspect.”

“Then you have an operative still on the case,” Beeker said. “You can relax.” Knox winced at his sarcasm. Beeker went on, “Can she handle it if things get tough?”

Knox said in a low voice, “She could handle it—if she were real lucky.”

Beeker said, “Oh.” There was a silence, then talking in the background. His voice came in stronger. “Paul, the vice squad found nothing but a warehouse where you sent them. They turned the place inside out. Fogarty is sore as hell.”

Knox said, “The devil with Fogarty. Does he think they run those shows like Saturday matinees? Tell him to kick the walls down too. They aren’t fools.”

“Okay,” Beeker said. He sounded faintly amused. “I got the Coastguard, Paul. They’ve gone to work.”

Knox didn’t want to talk any longer. He was getting over being mad and tired; now he was getting sick. Sick from helplessness and a rising feeling of tension that made his head feel like the inside of a triggered bomb. Muttering something about waiting here for further news, he hung up.

The coffee and sandwiches came. He found that he wasn’t really hungry but he managed to eat half a sandwich and drink all of the coffee. He thought about calling Nat Tinsley again and he had to fight hard before the idea went away. He kept remembering what she had looked like in that brief moment he had glimpsed her slim, smooth body. He kept remembering her eyes and her voice and her touch just before he had left moments ago. He rose and forced himself to think of something to do.

He realized how completely disorganized he was when he remembered that he had never finished his check of Leo Auffer’s toiletries kit. Going into the bedroom, he got it from the drawer and dumped the contents on the bed. With savage violence, he took a knife and ripped apart the leather case. There was nothing. The squeezed out tubes lay wrinkled and empty, mocking him. He took the bottles into the bath, emptied them, peeled off the labels, squinted into the caps. He threw the remains into the wastebasket.

He found what he sought in the razor, and he stood for some time cursing his own stupidity. It was a tiny piece of paper covered with miniscule writing, and it had been placed under the felt pad that lined the inside of the metal head guard.

The tiny, folding magnifying glass that Knox carried was barely enough to help his tired eyes make out the writing Auffer had put on the paper. Knox made no effort to do a thorough job of deciphering Auffer’s cryptic notes. The first few words told him that these were to have expanded later into a full report. Then names came out and struck him: “Tinsley directing. Toll running for Tinsley. About to break this. Arranged contact for sub-basement. Deane. Am being played but can make it boomerang and clean it up today.” The date was that of Auffer’s murder. One more. “Fishhead picked.”

Knox put the paper away and began pacing the floor. Auffer’s notes had done little but confirm his suspicions. It still proved nothing about Nat, but one way or the other, he was glad he had said to her what he had. Again he thought of calling her. Right now, he had an idea, she would tell him if he asked. It was too late to matter one way or the other.

He pushed the idea aside again, recognizing it for what it was—an excuse to see her. The last phrase that had caught his attention came back to his mind. “Fishhead picked.” It was so senseless on the surface that he wondered how anyone but a native or a person very familiar with this area could ever decode it. But Knox had not been raised on the Sound for nothing. Fishead was an island, a mere dot of land, on the edge of the San Juan archipelago. It was across the line, on the Canadian side.

Knox knew now what he had to do. Now that he was sure, he had no intention of calling Beeker. It might be foolish and it might cost him the case, but it was a chance he had to take. The kind of chance the World Circle office would understand.

His watch said that it was five a.m. Picking up the phone book, Knox went to work. He found what he wanted and put in his call. It took some time; it was the thirteenth ring before there was an answer.

Knox said, “I want to charter a seaplane to take off at dawn.”

The half asleep voice came to life. “For how long?”

“All day if necessary,” Knox said. He listened, talked, made the arrangements, and hung up. Going into the bedroom, he stripped down. Putting himself under a cold shower until he was thoroughly miserable, he rubbed himself dry, and dressed in a loose flannel suit and sneakers. He took his gun out of the case where he kept it, made a careful check, and dropped it into the coat pocket. He still had a few moments and he used the time to run his razor over his whiskers. Grabbing up an overcoat and soft hat, he left the suite.

A brief breakfast at Connie’s helped waken him some more and then he took a taxi, arriving at the seaplane anchorage at the south end of the lake just as the sky began to lighten. The pilot was a red-haired young man, stocky, with a wide grin and a competent way of handling himself and his plane that Knox liked. He took orders and asked few questions. His name was Riggs.

Knox said when they were up. “We’ll head straight for Fishhead island. I’m looking for a converted fishing boat that should arrive just about the time we do.”

Morning spread out, clear above and with a light mist on the water. By the time they were over the Strait and could see the Canadian mainland as well as the Peninsula to the southwest, the islands began breaking into sight, blending westward into the big mass of Vancouver Island itself.

“Isn’t that it,” Knox said.

“Off to the left,” Riggs said. “All by itself, what there is of it.” He went into a wide sweeping turn. “Now what?”

“There’s a bay on the north,” Knox said. “Not much but maybe enough for you to put me down.”

“Sorry,” Riggs said. “How long would I have a license if I started running people over borders?”

Knox showed him his World Circle card. “This is a government affair, too, by the way. But to save your neck, get as low as you can and go as slow as you can. If you lose me, that’s no fault of yours. Then hightail it to Friday Harbor and report—to the Coast Guard.”

“I don’t like it,” Riggs said. It was logical for him not to want to jeopardize his living. But on the other hand, Knox did not feel like making a detailed explanation. He said:

“Let’s go down and take a look, anyway.”

Riggs gave him a slantwise grin and started for the island. There were two bays, actually, opposite one another. Both showed clearly as they dropped toward the dot of rock and timber that made up the island’s surface. On the north bay, the larger, the fishing boat rode gently at anchor. Riggs dropped so low that both he and Knox could see a man on deck, focusing binoculars on them. Another man appeared. There was the glint of light on a rifle barrel. A star blossomed in the glass at Rigg’s side.

Riggs swore and they went up and away fast. “By God,” he said, “you weren’t kidding.” He looked mad. “Who are those guys?”

“No one you want to tangle with,'” Knox told him.

“It’s my plane, now it’s my war.” Riggs glared down. “Where do you want to be dropped, friend? And shall I come with you?”

“You can do more at Friday Harbor,” Knox said. He had an idea that it was Toll using the rifle—or Eddie Pillow. One or the other. He thanked them.

Riggs began to work back down. Knox stripped, put his clothes into a bundle, wrapped them in a piece of dirty canvas lying in the ship, and waited by the door.

Riggs chose the south bay under Knox’s direction. His pontoons touched the water, skipped, slowed. “Now!”

The ship began to swing away, ready to lift. Knox felt the cold air like an ice bath and pushed with his legs. The water slanted up over him, colder than the air. He jumped to take advantage of the movement of the plane and he didn’t go in too far, but far enough so that he was glad when he broke water and saw daylight. He held his bundle high, dripping on the outside, hoping that it had stayed comparatively dry on the inside.

He could hear the ship roaring up and away. The sandy beach of the island looked a long way off from where he was. He started for it, awkwardly holding the bundle up with one hand.

It wasn’t over fifty yards. Any more, he thought, and he wouldn’t have made it. Fifty yards was a long way in such numbing water. Then when he staggered onto the sand, the breeze was colder than the water had been and he made himself run for the scant protection of a patch of timber.

Once behind the bole of a solid looking douglas fir, he opened the bundle. Little water had seeped in so that his undershirt was dry enough to use as a towel. He was giving himself a good rub with it when a pleasant voice turned him around.

“This is a strange way to come calling, Paul.”

It was Cora Deane and she was looking
him
over with obvious approval. She wore a sweater and slacks and was herself, with no trace of Mrs. Renfrew. Her hair was caught up in a scarf. In her hand she held a thirty-two, and it was pointing casually but definitely at him.

“G
OOD MORNING
,” Knox said. His teeth were chattering. He dropped the soggy undershirt and reached for his shorts. He put them on and then got his shirt. “How are you doing, Cora?” His voice was casual, as if he had expected this.

The gun lowered. “It’s about sewed up.” She smiled at him. “I’m glad you didn’t get any wrong ideas, Paul. I need your help.”

He finished dressing, found his coat with the gun and his cigarets dry, having been protected by his trousers. They slapped damply against his legs. He lit a cigaret and inhaled with pleasure.

“You took a hell of a chance,” he said. “What happened?”

She showed her teeth in a wide smile. “Tinsley isn’t as old as he might be,” she said. “It didn’t take him long to find out some of Mrs. Renfrew’s lumps weren’t real.”

“And he’s letting you run loose?” Knox had to light another cigaret as Cora plucked his from him.

“Why not? He thinks I’m helping him.” She paused and added, “I am—right to where we want him.”

Knox bent to tie his shoes. “The coastguard is on its way—I hope. How do we play this?”

Cora waved her gun. “I was sent to bring you in. Let’s do it that way.”

“How many are there?”

“Just three,” she said. “Tinsley and Toll and a mug named Eddie Pillow.”

He was sure Eddie Pillow was with them. His knowledge of the area from his rum running days plus Toll’s navigation abilities would be invaluable to Tinsley.

“All right,” Knox said. “I go in behind your pea shooter. And then what?”

“They’ll be relaxed with you caught, won’t they?” she asked. “Some time today the contact will be made—here. We have to get them before that happens, while they’re only three. It’ll be easy if they’re relaxed.”

Knox swallowd. He wanted a drink of water. “If they aren’t?”

She hefted the gun. “I still have this.”

“And this,” he said. He gave her his gun. “If you don’t take it, they will.” He watched her lift her blouse, exposing a line of smooth flesh, and tuck the gun into the waistband of her slacks. She let the blouse drop loosely.

“Maybe by tonight we can celebrate, Paul.” Her eyes still held a good deal of interest when she studied him.

“The sooner the better,” he said. “Let’s get going.”

They started walking. Knox went ahead and when they were close, moved with his hands held out from his sides. They dropped over a rise down toward the beach where the boat rode gently at anchor. There was a dinghy drawn on the shore. Cora waved him into it and he rowed them out. He climbed aboard with his hands obviously away from his pockets.

Toll stood there with the rifle. Tinsley was apparently unarmed. Pillow was nowhere in sight. Knox nodded affably. “Could I trouble someone for a glass of water?”

“Of course.” Tinsley might have been in his suite at the hotel. “Cora, dear, get Paul something to drink. He looks chilled.”

Knox stepped toward Tinsley. “Do you want to search me so I can put my arms down?”

“No,” Tinsley said in the same courteous tone, “I want you to remove your clothing. It’s damp anyway, I’m sure.”

How neat, Knox thought. Nothing made the average person more ineffective than nudity, even partial nudity. Cora turned her back and started below deck. With a shrug, Knox stripped down to his shorts. The chill air of the morning, although not as windy on this side of the island, blew icily over him.

At a sign from Tinsley, Toll picked up Knox’s clothes and went through them. He tossed them aside, in a heap on the deck. “Clean,” he said. He shook his head. “Doesn’t it strike you as strange that he’d come here unarmed?”

Tinsley considered it. Knox rubbed his arms with his hands and shivered. Tinsley said, “No, not really.” He turned to Knox. “Go down into the cabin—the starboard one, I believe it is. Cora will bring you something to drink there.”

Knox went. After he had the door closed, he could hear someone walking just outside the door. There was the sound of voices, the words too soft for him to understand. Tinsley and Cora were talking, he could tell that much. He looked around. There was little here to help him. The place had obviously been stripped clean of anything that might be of use as a weapon. But it was warm and that mattered most to Knox at the moment.

The door opened and Cora came in with a glass of water and a large mug of coffee. There was rum in the coffee; he could smell its fragrance in the rising steam.

Knox gulped some of the water to take away the salt flavor of his dip in the Sound and then sipped at the coffee. It felt good going down, spreading warmth where he needed it most. He looked at Cora who was regarding him with the same unabashed interest she had on the other side of the island.

“Where’s Leo?” he asked.

“Leo?”

Knox said, “I left him here last night. On that bunk.”

She looked blank and shook her head. Knox explained briefly. “Just a gag that didn’t work,” he admitted. “Well, give me my gun and let’s get to work. The Coastguard will be along soon—or some Canadian law—and we don’t want to give them all the credit.”

Cora drew up her blouse and took out the gun. She gave it to Knox slowly. “Be careful. They aren’t fools.”

Knox dropped the gun onto the bunk behind him. “Neither am I,” he said: They were close together and he put out a hand, cupping it at the back of her neck. “I like you better this way than as Mrs. Renfrew.”

She didn’t try to pull away from him. “Hasn’t the coffee warmed you enough, Paul?” She was laughing as she said it. Knox kissed her, feeling the smile on her lips smooth out. Her arms came up and went around him. He could feel the coldness of the thirty-two she still held in one hand. The fingers of the other dug into his bare back as she pressed herself tightly against him.

Then, suddenly, she drew back. “Hadn’t we better wait until it’s over before we celebrate, Paul?”

Knox sounded regretful. “I suppose we had.” He was caressing her arms, his hands down near her wrists, his fingers close to the gun she held. He wasn’t surprised when the door opened.

Toll stood there. He held a forty-five in his hand. It looked far more dangerous than the rifle. Knox felt as if he were looking into the muzzle of a cannon. The slug, he thought, could go through Cora and into him with no effort at all.

“Very touching,” Toll murmured. “I told Tinsley he was a fool to trust you, Cora.”

Cora did not even look toward him. “Don’t be a fool,” she said tartly. She stepped aside, leaving Toll a clear shot at Knox. “And get out of here until you decide what to do.”

“We’ve decided,” Toll said. “There’s no point in keeping Knox around any longer. And what’s one more….”

Knox could see Cora Deane’s training come out. She turned on Toll with a swift smoothness that only a good deal of practice could have given her. She was readying to shoot as she turned, and her bullet caught Toll in the mouth, knocking him backward, against the door, stopping the flow of words from his mouth. “Very neat,” Knox murmured. “Very neat, indeed. And now it’s two against two.”

“That’s right,” Cora said softly. She walked to the door where Toll lay sprawled. Bending, she drew him aside enough to get the door open. She called.

“Gerard!”

Tinsley’s voice came down the companionway. “Is everything all right, Cora? What has that fool Toll done?”

“It’s all over,” Cora replied. “The damned fool!”

Knox saw her step forward, through the door. He yelled her name and jumped for her, but he was too late. The roar of her gun was loud in the confined space below deck. Then there was another gunshot. Knox swore and kicked Toll’s body aside and got the door fully open.

Cora stood just beyond the doorway, swaying, a surprised look on her face; the gun lay at her feet. Knox looked and saw daylight at the top of the stairs to his left. Gerard Tinsley was sprawled halfway down, and Eddie Pillow framed against the light, a forty-five like Toll’s in his hand.

Knox grabbed Cora and pulled her back into the room as Pillow’s second shot boomed and the bullet smashed against the galley door beyond. Knox slammed the door and then helped Cora to a chair. “What the hell….”

She was crying in a mixture of pain and rage. “I only tried to wing him, Paul. But I saw that Eddie Pillow and got excited. I think I killed him.”

“And a lot of information along with him,” Knox said. But he wasn’t thinking of that. He bent and looked at Cora’s wound. The forty-five slug had caught her low in the shouder, not far above the swell of her breast. Quickly, he carried her to the bunk, then took off her blouse and went to work with what he had at hand.

The bullet had done a lot of damage, he could see. A heavy slug like that was bound to tear things when it hit, he thought. He staunched the flow of blood, not speaking, working as swiftly as he could. He straightened when he was done and looked into her face. It was very white and still. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was shallow. She was unconscious.

Leaving her that way, Knox took Toll’s forty-five and opened the door. Tinsley lay where he had fallen, sprawled grotesquely on the stairs. Eddie Pillow was nowhere in sight. Knox shouted his name and his head appeared cautiously against the sky. He still held the gun.

“Give it up, Eddie,” Knox said. “The coastguard is on its way. Give it up and take any break you can get.”

“To hell with you!” Pillow shouted. He fired the gun again. Knox drew back as it lifted. But not far enough. He heard the slug rip wood, felt a faint pin prick. When he looked at himself, he saw that a large splinter had imbedded itself in his left arm. He started to draw it out, winced, and left it there.

“You’re just making it tough on yourself,” Knox shouted.

From the bed, Cora said weakly, “He’s a killer, Paul. Like Toll. He killed Jock and Toll killed Leo. I found that out. Be careful of him, Paul.”

Knox twisted his head and forced a smile. “Go back to sleep, Cora.”

There was the sound of a motor. Knox kicked shut the door and went to the porthole. It faced out to sea. He could make out the seaplane just before it passed from his range of view, and not far away, coming fast, was an official looking cutter. He went back to the door.

“They’re coming, Eddie.”

His answer was another bullet, and another. He did not try to answer Pillow’s shots. There was no need to be a hero at this moment. Then he heard footsteps overhead. Pillow was running back and forth, seeked a way out of this.

Knox took advantage of Pillow’s having left the head of the stairs and started for the deck. The splinter in his arm felt awkward but oddly it did not pain too much. He tried not to disturb it, knowing that pulling it out would start the blood flowing.

He reached the deck in time to see Eddie Pillow poised at the rail. “Hold it, Eddie!”

There was a gasp behind Knox, a half choked sound, suddenly interrupted by a gunshot. Knox saw Eddie Pillow look surprised, then half lift himself up before he went over the rail and down into the water. Knox turned.

Cora Deane half leaned, half lay against the door edge. She had picked up her thirty-two and now it hung limply from one hand. Her face was twisted with obvious pain. “You’re too trusting, Paul. You made a target of yourself.”

Knox’s throat was dry. “Thanks, Cora.” He moved, catching her as she slumped. Swearing softly, he carried her down to the cabin and put her back on the bunk. His own gun still lay there where he had tossed it. He left it alone. There was nothing he could do now for Cora, nothing but get a doctor. He had something that needed doing. He did it and then went on deck to wait for the cutter.