Authors: Charlotte MacLeod
“They’ve rigged a ladder for us to climb over the sandbags, and tossed a rope so we can pull the boat up to it,” she reported. “I tied the rope to what I believe is known as the gunwale. Was that the right thing to do?”
“An excellent thing to do,” Peter replied. “Shall we?”
“But what about the president?”
“He looks to be good for a few more hours’ sacktime. We’ll leave him a note. Assuming we can find anything to write with.”
Peter fished in Fanshaw’s pockets. He found a ballpoint pen, he found a business card carrying Fanshaw’s name along with that of the Meadowsweet Construction Company. He found no wallet nor key ring, but he did find a handsome gold coin with an eagle stamped on it, regrettably drilled through at the rim and strung on a long chain that must surely also be of gold.
“A twenty-dollar gold piece!” Winifred exclaimed. “Aunt’s grandfather used to wear one of those on his watch chain. She had a photograph of him sitting in a great carved armchair with his frock coat open to show his embroidered waistcoat and that big gold eagle roosting comfortably on his corporation. Is this what Fanshaw used to hypnotize Chief Ottermole and Officer Dorkin?”
“Unless he has one in every outfit, which hardly seems likely. Well, well. We may as well take it along with us, one never knows.”
Peter transferred his own wallet and keys to his borrowed pockets, wrote on the back of the card “Gone to find coffee,” and left it on the floor beside Svenson’s head. Then he went out and pulled on the rope to bring them up to the ladder. He held the boat steady while Winifred got her feet on the rungs, waited till she was safely atop the sandbags, and followed.
Water was lapping against the lower rows of sandbags but the river had stopped rising. This town, at least, wasn’t going to get flooded out. A few spectators were leaning up against the improvised wall, probably exhausted from a long night’s labors but too keyed up to go home to bed. A couple of them moved to help Winifred, but she was down before they could get to her. Peter followed less gracefully. The ground felt strange, it wasn’t moving.
The spectators were smiling diffidently at the newcomers, not quite ready to break the ice. Peter smiled back.
“Thanks a lot for the rope and ladder,” he said. “It sure feels good to be back on land. Had much damage around here? You look to be in good shape.”
As always, there was one member of the group willing to take the lead. “Yes, we come through pretty well. We’d known for a long time that rotten old Upper Clavaton Dam was going to let go before anybody got around to fixing it, so we had our contingency plan all drawn up and ready to put into action. You folks run into trouble, did you?”
“You could call it that,” Peter conceded. “We were—er—visiting the boat’s owner when it broke loose from the dock in the storm. Fortunately the third member of our party happens to be an expert yachtsman. He brought us safely down the river, don’t ask me how, until we were lucky enough to find a safe landing. He’s still asleep; is there a restaurant or a grocery store open around here where we can pick up something to fix him a decent breakfast when he wakes up? And are your telephones working? We need to let our people know where we are. Er—where are we?”
His new acquaintance seemed to find Peter’s question mildly amusing. “You’re in Wilverton. There’s a public telephone just up the street in front of the Lugitoff Superette and the Golden Apples Café’s been open all night to feed the sandbag crew. They put on a decent meal if you don’t mind health food.”
“By George! We certainly picked the right place to run out of gas.”
“Indeed we did,” said Winifred. “I’m interested to hear you say Golden Apples, sir. Is this restaurant in any way connected with the Golden Apples packing company, which I believe is around here somewhere?”
“That’s right, in Briscoe. That’s the next town over; you must have come straight past it in the dark. Half the people in Wilverton work there. I do, myself.”
“Indeed? I don’t suppose you’ll be going to work today, however?”
“Oh sure, I will. Bill and Dodie have a full crew on as usual, only we’ll start at ten o’clock instead of eight. That’s part of our contingency plan; gives us time to go home and get cleaned up, maybe grab a few hours’ sleep if we need to. We don’t use it much except for a blizzard or a hurricane or something when we’ve had to dig out or the traveling’s bad. Bill and Dodie planned the whole thing.”
“They must be remarkably compassionate and resourceful people,” said Winifred. “Are you by any chance referring to Mr. and Mrs. Compote?”
“Well, sure, only nobody around here calls them that. You know the Compotes?”
“Not yet, but I very much want to. I wonder whether I might possibly beg a ride over to the factory with you? I was planning to see the Compotes this week anyway, and it seems a pity to waste the trip since we’re so near. My name, I should say, is Binks; and this is Professor Shandy. We’re both members of the faculty at Balaclava Agricultural College. Perhaps you’d go with me, Peter; or would you rather stay with the president?”
“No, I’d like very much to meet the Compotes, assuming this gentleman would care to take us. Are you agreeable, sir?”
“Well, sure, I guess. Only how’d you get back to the boat?”
“Walk, thumb a ride on one of the Compotes’ delivery trucks, ask Dr. Svenson to pick us up in Briscoe after he’s had his sleep and got hold of some fuel for the engine, whatever. Er—we neither of us happen to be wearing a watch. How soon would you need to start?”
“It’s a quarter past eight now, near enough as makes no difference. Usually it doesn’t take more than fifteen minutes to get over there, but I thought I’d give myself a little extra time this morning, just in case. How about if you go get your food and make your calls, and I meet you back here at half-past nine by the church clock? You’ll hear the bell. My name’s Fred Smith, by the way.”
“How do you do, Mr. Smith.” Winifred was not one to ignore small courtesies. “We’ll be here on the dot, and thank you very much. Now, Peter, shall we try the café first?” she added as they walked off foodward. “My tongue’s positively hanging out for a pot of chamomile tea and a bowl of granola. With a great big red juicy apple for dessert.”
“Gad, Winifred, I hadn’t realized you were such a wallower among the fleshpots. Go ahead, I’ll meet you there. I want to catch Helen before she goes to work. Order me a couple of eggs and whatever else looks good.”
Peter had found some coins in the pockets of his borrowed suit. This call was going to be on Fanshaw; the thought gave him a modicum of satisfaction. Hearing his wife’s voice over the wire was a far greater one.
“Peter! Are you all right? Where are you?”
“In Wilverton, with Winifred and the president. We came down the Clavaclammer by tugboat.”
“By what?”
“Tugboat.
T
for Triphonius,
U
for Ulalume,
G
for Garibaldi,
B
for—”
“Beast! Peter, talk sense. What tugboat? How in heaven’s name did that happen?”
“In our last thrilling episode, as you may recall, the president and I were out at the field station, about to set forth on the track of Winifred’s kidnappers. You did get a call from Sieglinde?”
“Yes, of course I did. She was not happy. Neither, I may say, was I. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m in reasonable fettle, considering. And you?”
“Darling, will you please quit trying to be funny and tell me how you got on that tugboat before I go into a screaming fit?”
“I should explain that it’s not really a tugboat, just a tarted-up imitation of one that apparently belongs to Fanshaw. He or some henchman of his put through a ransom call while we were at the station. We insisted on talking with Winifred herself, and she, God bless her, gave a clue using the names Annie and Horatio. For Tugboat Annie and her nemesis, Horatio Bulwinkle, in case your memory doesn’t stretch that far back.”
“Oh, she is fantastic! Who but Winifred would have had such presence of mind?”
“You, for one. Anyway, the only logical place to look for a tugboat was on the Clavaclammer; so we went and there it was, with some hired gorilla standing guard and Fanshaw dressed up as Tugboat Annie.”
“Good heavens! What did you do?”
“I didn’t do much of anything except call the harbor police after the president had finished mopping up the bad guys. Unfortunately, while the cops were lugging them away, the boat somehow got set adrift. We didn’t dare try to get back to shore in the dark, so we just kept on going till we wound up here. Briscoe’s the next town over; so Winifred and I are going to get some breakfast here at the Golden Apples Café, which she probably owns unbeknownst, then drop in on Bill and Dodie Compote at their office.”
“But what about Thorkjeld?”
“He’s still on the boat, catching some exceedingly well-deserved sleep. He was up all night steering us downriver, God knows how. Call Sieglinde, will you, and tell her the old man’s a hero, as if she didn’t know. I should warn you, by the way, that I have a hunch the reason our mooring line got cast off is that Fanshaw managed to break away from the river police. You’d better carry your bumbershoot to work so you can beat off any heavily disguised ruffian who tries to abduct you.”
“Yes, dear. Anything else?”
“Mink and Bulfinch are probably still at the station. I wish you’d let them know what’s happened and ask them to notify the Clavaton police. I should imagine they’ll want to come down here and seize the boat, though I’m sure the president would be willing to run it back if we can find some gas. Anyway, we should all be home one way or another sometime this afternoon, God willing and the creek don’t run dry; which seems hardly likely, present conditions being as they are.”
Helen started to say something but was interrupted by an importunate computer. “Please deposit an additional twenty-five cents.”
“Damn!” said Peter. “This is Fanshaw’s money and I’ve run out. Take care of yourself, Helen. God, I miss you.”
Hanging up was a wrench, but the prospect of fresh edibles was a consolation. Peter legged it to the café, found Winifred dealing happily with a large glass of fresh-squeezed carrot juice, the chamomile tea for which her soul had been lusting, and a stack of toast made from a wide assortment of whole grains.
“Ah, there you are, Peter. I’ve ordered you orange juice, coffee, and the Log Driver’s Special, which is basically a large omelet and a great many home-fried potatoes.”
“Excellent.” He opted for wild oat muffins with his meal, and sipped at the hot coffee. It tasted, as he’d fully expected, like chicory.
“How is it?”
“Adequate. Not so good as yours, one misses the ground dandelion root. You might mention that to Bill and Dodie.”
“I look forward to the opportunity. Do try this barberry jelly, it’s quite delicious. I wonder if they’ve thought of adding wild crab apples. Tame ones would do as well, I suppose. Dear me, I find myself all agog at the prospect of a good long chin-wag with my partners. Do you suppose this café is connected with the business? Mr. Debenham hasn’t said anything about it. Nor has Mr. Sopwith. I must confess Mr. Sopwith is not my idea of an up-and-coming trust officer, though I expect Dr. Svenson will have him whipped into shape by the time they’ve been over the books.” Winifred smiled a bit. “Perhaps that was not quite the expression to have employed.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Peter. “I shouldn’t be surprised if that’s pretty much what’s going to happen. Miss, could you pack up half a dozen of these muffins and a quart of orange juice to take with us? We’ll stop at the grocery store for ham and eggs and coffee and a few more odds and ends, Winifred. I’ve asked Helen to phone the station and let them know you’re safe. She’s also getting in touch with the Clavaton police. I expect they’ll want to impound the
Lollipop.
”
Winifred giggled quite girlishly. “Not with Dr. Svenson aboard, I hope! Why can’t we sail it, or her, I should say, back to Clavaton ourselves?”
“I don’t know what the protocol is in these matters. Anyway, we’ll get back one way or another. My car’s still parked over by the wharves, at least I hope it is. But that’s the least of our worries right now. Would you like another noggin of carrot juice or anything? What about the big red apple?”
“If that clock over there is right, we have exactly twenty-one minutes to take the president his breakfast and meet Mr. Smith, so we’d better get going. Peter, I’ve had the most dreadful thought! I didn’t bring one red cent of money.”
Peter chuckled. “Not to worry, you probably own the restaurant. Anyway, I have my wallet with me. Go ahead and take the apple.”
“Very well, then, I can eat it on the way. Thank you, miss, that was an excellent breakfast. And thank you, Peter. Here, let me run ahead with the muffins while you get the groceries. I can start the kettle boiling.”
By the time Peter got back to the boat, Svenson was stirring. “Urrgh?” was his greeting.
Peter held out the bag. “Food.”
“Sieglinde?”
“I’ve talked to Helen, she’ll have passed the word by now that you’re safe with us. She’s called the river police, too. I expect they’ll be along in a while to pick up the boat.”
“Gas. Take her back myself.”
“Er—that’s a possibility,” Peter replied carefully. “How do you like your eggs?”
“In quantity.”
Scrambled was the easiest. Peter dumped a dollop of the butter he’d brought back into the only frying pan, broke in half a dozen eggs, added a splash of milk, and stirred. The kettle Winifred had put on was steaming; he took down a mug and spooned in coffee.
Winifred gave him a worried look. “I hope the president’s not going to want much coffee. I used the last drop of water in the tank to fill the kettle.”
“That means it’s time we abandoned ship. Get him started on the orange juice and muffins,” Peter suggested, unwrapping the ham. It was already cooked, fortunately, since there was no room left in the frying pan. He gave the eggs another stir, arranged the slices of cold ham more or less tastefully on the biggest plate in the galley, decided the eggs were adequately scrambled, and piled them on top.