Authors: Charlotte MacLeod
“Gyration will be more like it.”
The boat was doing strange things again: jerking, wobbling, rushing forward as though it were being pushed by some giant hand. Had the president got carried away and opened the engine to full throttle? No, Svenson wouldn’t be fool enough to try a stunt like that at a time like this. Peter downed the rest of his soup before it slopped out of the mug.
“Not to be an alarmist, Winifred”—he had to shout, the noise around them had risen to total pandemonium—“but I have the feeling that the Upper Clavaton Dam has just let go.”
“I shouldn’t be at all surprised.”
Somehow or other, Miss Binks was managing to keep from spilling her tea, taking a genteel sip whenever it was possible to get the mug within range of her mouth without whacking her nose. “The force of the current is quite remarkable, it feels like riding the rapids in a canoe. Or so I fancy; I’ve never even been in a canoe, but it’s something I’ve always wanted to try. Do you suppose President Svenson would appreciate our help in steering the boat?”
The teakettle hurtled through the air; Peter fielded it neatly. “No, he’d get sore if we offered. I expect he’d like that soup, but I’m scared to light the stove again. It might fetch loose and set fire to the boat.”
“Then we’ll just have to wait till things settle down. I expect this current will slacken once the initial impetus of the suddenly released water is spent, don’t you think?”
“I should damned well hope so. Undamned, I should have said. Sorry, Winifred.”
“Now, Peter, this is no time to go Victorian on me. The fact that I was held captive for a few hours shouldn’t disqualify me from counting myself an emancipated woman, should it? You know, I can’t help wondering why I was kidnapped.”
“I should say that was obvious enough.”
“To get hold of Grandfather’s money? Well, of course, but that’s my whole point. Why did the kidnappers wait until after I’d committed so much of the inheritance to establishing the college field station? Wouldn’t it have made more sense to snatch me away as soon as I’d managed to prove myself the only true heiress? Goodness knows there was enough hoopla in the papers at that time,” Winifred added bitterly.
“True enough,” said Peter. “And there was plenty more when you announced your plans for the college, as well there should have been.”
Many readers had inferred from the media reports that she’d turned over her entire fortune to Balaclava. In a sense, that was actually true. As far as Peter knew, the college was her sole legatee.
“The figures made so blatantly public when the news came out were based on those which had been published back when Grandfather got into the headlines with that last crazy experiment of his.” Winifred shrugged. “Considering what the estimates for building the station came to, it did look then as if I’d wind up with nothing left for myself, not that I cared. It wasn’t until Mr. Debenham and the others began digging into what had been happening with all those supposedly worthless investments Grandfather had made that we began to realize how much there really is. But by that time I wasn’t news any longer, thank goodness, and we’ve been able to keep the facts confidential, as they should be. So if Mr. Fanshaw and whoever’s been working with him were planning to extort some gigantic ransom, what made them think I’d be able to pay?”
“Because Fanshaw and his pals know a great deal more about your personal affairs than they have any right to.”
“But how did they find out?”
“M’yes, I was wondering about that a while back.”
“Well, I’ve been racking my brain ever since those hooligans put that sack over my head and shoved me into their car. I just boil every time I think of the way they mauled me about.”
Winifred boiled in silence for a few seconds, then went on. “I’m assuming Fanshaw is in fact the ringleader, though I don’t for one moment believe that’s his right name. Do you?”
“I’m not sure I even believe Fanshaw’s a real person. He’s too blasted much like a character out of John Buchan.”
“Ah yes, the one who came to such a well-deserved end in
Mr. Standfast.
Aunt approved of John Buchan’s novels because he always took so high a moral tone. I must confess I liked them for the adventure. Life with Aunt was pleasant enough, but it didn’t offer much in the way of cut and thrust. Except sometimes at her tea parties. Anyway, Fanshaw must be safely behind bars by now.”
“Keep your fingers crossed. That fracas on the dock has me stumped. I can’t for the life of me figure out how he’d have been able to cast off those heavy hawsers from the bollards unless he’d had free use of his hands.”
“Then you think he managed to get out of the handcuffs?”
“Houdini used to do it. You bunch up your muscles while they’re snapping on the gyves, I believe, then you go limp and Bob’s your uncle. Or else you have a friend on the force.”
“Now, there is a possibility I hadn’t considered. I was brought up to look upon our public protectors as pillars of rectitude, as I’m sure most of them still are. Some more than others, no doubt, human nature being what it is. I must say it seems to me one would need an extremely far-reaching organization in order to have a member of the river patrol bribed to function as liberator in case of an unexpected arrest at night under extremely adverse conditions. Though the adverse conditions could be exploited in one’s favor if one were the sort who could think and act quickly. Fanshaw certainly must be that, judging from the way he managed to escape from the lockup by hypnotizing two policemen while—” Winifred turned pink and shut up.
“While I was playing tiddlywinks in the next room,” Peter finished for her. “That’s all right, Winifred, my shoulders are broad enough to carry the burden of a lame brain.”
“Don’t cut yourself down, Peter. Aunt always maintained excessive humility was a form of reverse braggadocio. How could you have anticipated so bizarre a trick? If you hadn’t spotted Fanshaw so quickly under that Tugboat Annie disguise, something really disastrous might have happened. I certainly didn’t, and I was right here with him for longer than I care to think about. Gracious, what would Aunt have thought of my being in the clutches of a master criminal? Not much, I’m afraid. Aunt deplored anything that smacked of the sensational.”
In the most prosaic way possible, Winifred got up from the table and went to the sink, carrying the few dishes they’d been using. She ran water into the tiny sink and began rinsing them off.
“I’m being chary of the water because we don’t know how much there is,” she explained. “Do you think we should set out a bucket for rainwater?”
“I doubt if we’d manage to keep it upright long enough to gather any, the way the wind’s blowing out there,” Peter replied gloomily, “which brings up another happy thought. I wonder how much gas is left for the engine.”
“Let’s not even think about that. Here, you dry.”
Winifred handed him some paper towels from a roll over the sink. Peter began swabbing off plates and cups, setting them back in the cupboard they’d come from. There were guardrails along the shelves; even so it took some doing to keep them from flying back out. Nevertheless, the homely task was comforting. For the moment, he could imagine himself back on the Crescent with Helen at the sink and Jane climbing up his pant leg.
They were most likely both asleep by now, little dreaming that he was somewhere on the Clavaclammer, or maybe the Connecticut, with no prospect of getting ashore till fate and Svenson decided the auguries were auspicious. Peter hoped Helen had got back from Clavaton without running into any trouble. At least she’d understand his predicament if he ever got the chance to tell her; it wasn’t so long ago that she herself had gone for an innocent boat ride and wound up in a desperate situation. From now on, by gad, the Shandys were staying ashore.
He put away the last of the dishes and tossed his paper towel into a wastebasket attached to one of the bottom cupboard doors. They were riding a trifle less frenetically by now. That appalling first gush of the floodwaters must have spent itself, thank God.
“I wonder if it’s safe to light the stove now? The president must be wondering why I haven’t shown up with his soup.”
“I’ll take it this time,” said Winifred. “It’s my turn.”
“No doubt,” Peter conceded, “but I’m heavier than you, hence less likely to get blown overboard. After you’ve had your rest, you might be better occupied in searching the cabin for any clue as to who Fanshaw really is and who may be working with him. Getting off this confounded tugboat isn’t necessarily going to mean we’re out of the woods.”
“I KNOW,” SAID WINIFRED
, “you don’t have to remind me. These soups seem to be all tomato.”
“May we never have a worse misfortune,” Peter replied. “Hand one over, I’ll cope.”
Better he than she to be battling a lighted stove and a runaway saucepan, although he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Peter made doubly sure the bolts that held the stove to the counter were well tightened, and decided to heat the soup in the percolator, which they wouldn’t be using for coffee since they had nothing but instant and not much left of that.
Seeing that he really wasn’t going to let her help, Winifred went into the saloon. The bunks had built-in lockers underneath; instead of lying down, as Peter had assumed she would, she’d opened one of them and dragged out a suitcase that had been stowed inside. Peter picked his way around her, carrying an empty mug and his percolator full of hot tomato soup.
As he stepped on deck, he could dimly make out that the river was a good deal wider now than it had been when they’d started out. He found this circumstance unnerving. Had they drifted on out into the Connecticut, or might they in fact be sailing down the main street of some flooded-out town? Peter had a disconcerting mental picture of the tugboat crashing through the plate-glass window of the local feed and grain store and landing in the cracked-wheat bin. He wished to God it were light enough for him to see the banks, if there were any, and get some sort of handle on where they were. On the other hand, perhaps he was happier not knowing.
The wind must have abated a trifle, the rain wasn’t pelting against his face quite so brutally as before. The percolator had been an inspiration, he made it to the pilot house without spilling a drop.
Svenson greeted him with a snarl. “Took you long enough. Take the helm while I stretch my arms. Hold her as she goes. Yesus, Shandy, this is some river! Twists and turns, cross currents, floating yunk.”
“I can imagine. Am I right in thinking the Upper Clavaton Dam went out a while back?”
“Felt like it to me. Big swoosh, hell of a current. Quieter now.”
Peter was nonplussed by the president’s definition of quieter. His own ears were ringing from the noise. The wheel was shivering under his hands like a nervous plow horse in blackfly season. He felt pretty twitchy himself. These were not ideal circumstances in which to make his debut as a helmsman, though with Svenson at his elbow gargling soup, he didn’t actually have to do much except hang on tight and keep a sharp eye out for floating debris. There was plenty around, some of it small enough to be pushed aside harmlessly by the sturdy tugboat, some of it dauntingly impressive. Like that blackish mass looming up on their starboard bow, for instance.
“Great Scott!” he exclaimed. “President, isn’t that the roof of a house over there?”
“Chicken coop, maybe.”
“I don’t hear any hens squawking.”
“How could you?”
That was a reasonable question. One of the many things Peter hadn’t known about boating was how infernally noisy it could be. What with the engine’s chugging, the wind’s roaring, the rain’s drumming, the insistent pounding of the waves, and the thuds from assorted flotsam hitting against the hull, he and Dr. Svenson both had to yell even to make the other hear inside this small pilot house.
Down in the cabin, where he’d been lower in the water, away from the wind, with the solid cabin walls around him, Peter hadn’t been so fully aware of the racket. This high, glassed-in perch was getting the main force of the elements; he wished it weren’t. He scanned the confusing array of gauges on the control panel, thinking he might as well learn what he could.
“How are we doing for fuel, President?”
“God knows. Gauge stuck. Have to keep up with the speed of the current or she wouldn’t answer the helm. Means we wouldn’t be able to steer, couldn’t handle emergencies.”
“Er—have there been any?” Jokery was the farthest thing from Peter’s mind just now, he couldn’t fathom why the president laughed.
“All the time. One right now. Yesus, Shandy, look out!”
Svenson grabbed the wheel with his left hand, gave it a quarter-turn, then quickly set the tugboat back on course. Peter hadn’t the remotest idea what the flurry had been about, he wished he were back in the turnip fields. At least turnips weren’t given to bobbing around.
They were abreast of the floating house now. It was in fact a house, Peter could see curtains flapping out through broken windows, being cut to rags by the jagged glass and the raging wind. A hex sign had been nailed up under the peak of the roof, which just went to show how much faith could be put in hex signs.
The scene made him think of Huckleberry Finn’s pap, floating down the Mississippi sprawled on the dirty floor of another flood-borne house, with the empty whiskey bottles and the greasy playing cards strewn around him and the bullet hole showing in his naked back. Peter felt a wholly insane urge to pull alongside, crawl through one of the broken windows, and have a look around. He was relieved when they’d put the house behind them and he didn’t have to keep wondering who or what might be trapped inside.
“Plenty of poor souls will be homeless by morning, I expect.” He had to say something to work the misery out of his system. “You read about people being flooded out of their homes, watch them on the news trying to salvage what bits and pieces might be left, but to find yourself out in the midst—”
“Shut up, Shandy,” barked Svenson. “What’s Binks doing?”
“Rifling Fanshaw’s luggage, looking for clues.”