To love and to honor (25 page)

"I'll pay anything if they will take me home." The absence of bargaining in that reckless offer would have made her father's senior lawyer pale with horror.

"Sorry. The boat has gone."

**Gone. Why didn't you let me know before it left? Perhaps the crew wouldn't be averse to extra money. Who is, these days? Can you stand there and say you won't try to get me home? That I will have to stay on board and go where this yacht goes? It's a hang-over from the dark ages. It belongs in a horror movie. It's unbelievable."

"That's right, but it's the way it's got to be. We may have to up-anchor at any minute."

"In this fog?"

"We are equipped with radar."

Now what, she thought. As if in answer memory played back a record of Hal Harding's voice.

"She canceled because she has invited friends to dine on the yacht tonight."

"You can't go," she declared triumphantly. "This is Mrs. Drew's boat or you wouldn't be here. I was told that she is entertaining at dinner on board this evening."

"That's out because of the fog."

"But man, look at me. I can't live in these wet clothes."

"That's a cinch. There are clothes in one of the staterooms. The owner keeps an outfit here. I think you could wear them." He drew a bunch of keys from the pocket of his dark blue coat. "This way."

"I can't wear another woman's clothes."

"Take 'em or leave 'em, it's up to you." His hand went to his pocket as if he were about to replace the keys.

"I'll take them."

"They are quite swank clothes," he volunteered as he stepped before the one closed door in the salon. He unlocked it and threw it open, snapped on lights.

"Go on. You needn't be afraid. There is a bolt inside," he encouraged and turned away.

In the room Cindy slid the bolt and leaned against the door. She brushed her hand across her eyes.

"This experience from the time I fared forth in Hal's outboard has a dreamlike quality. Here's hoping it won't turn to a vicious nightmare," she said aloud, and took inventory of her surroundings to prove that she was awake.

The walls were applewood. Bedspread, covers of two chairs, dressing table and hangings beside the porthole were of aqua linen. A thick rug repeated the color. Toilet appointments were clear lucite.

She opened the porthole. Through it came the sounds of water lapping against the side of the yacht, the creak of the anchor chain, the smell of the sea. She counted the strokes of the ship's bell.

Onel Twol Three! Four!

Only six o'clock? She had thought it must be midnight. It was after five when the outboard shot away from the pier at The Hundreds. It was too early for Sary to begin to wonder why she hadn't come home. Only Hal Harding knew she had started out alone in the boat. Perhaps he was so angry he wouldn't tell. There had been one other. Simpkins had seen her.

The wind had changed. The air coming through the

porthole was cold. Gave her shivers. Distasteful as was the thought of wearing another woman's clothes without permission, she must change from her own wet garments.

So suddenly that it stopped her breathing for an instant she remembered the message, the warning Sary had found in the red skirt. She drew a pulpy mass from a pocket of the dripping once-blue cardigan. It disintegrated the moment she touched it. She rolled the soppy fragments between her fingers. Nothing left. Not a scrap to show whence it came. The only proof she could offer that she had received it was the memory of the crudely printed words:

"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 lipht 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 I

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 Simp-kins 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 crooksl"

mENTY-EIGHT

"CrooksI" she repeated under her breath. **You are locked in the cabin of a boat owned by a bunch o£ 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. Tilings 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.

A crash. A Incite brush dropped on the glass top of the dresser? Silence inside. Outside the purr of an engine. Was the motorboat going that had left Mrs. Drew and her party?

"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 tlirow 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 quick-stepping 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.