The Tide Can't Wait (10 page)

“You help just by listening to me.”

“You said you wanted my advice. You never did tell me about what.”

“I thought you might have some ideas about what I could do.”

“Do?” He shrugged. “What can you do? You're over a barrel. And if friend Leon is really half as bad as they say …” He paused and added, “I mean really help, Lenny. I'm pretty much of a fool in some ways, but I might be useful.”

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You're very sweet, Tommy, but I don't want to bring you into it—physically, I mean. I don't want to take a chance on your getting hurt.”

“How do you think I feel about you?” He sounded savage suddenly. “Damn Leon.” He swung about, facing her. “Lenny, I can get you away! Out of England. I have plenty of money and I know a lot of people on the Continent.”

“And where would I go?” She had been over all this in her mind. “There's no place for me to go—to get away from them or from myself.”

“Okay, then I say let's wind it up. Get it over with. Do what must be done.” He looked away and his voice dropped. “Lenny, I know that today was sunshine and cocktails and everything. But do you think you could ever really feel that way about me?”

She was wishing he hadn't brought that up, although she knew he was bound to. Tommy worried something like a dog worried a rag once he got a grip on it. She said with no hesitation, “It wasn't a mistake, Tommy. I—I—well, it wasn't any mistake.”

His hand came to rest on hers and she felt pain when he clenched it. She felt rotten because she was lying. She was a coward, she thought. Here was Tommy, a refuge. And right now, she wanted a refuge from all the ugly things of the world. And Tommy would never have to know it was a lie. He was so willing to believe, so wanted to believe.

Strangely she was bolstered in her decision by remembering her sudden panic after telling him about Leon. Idiotically, half tight as she was, keyed up as she had been for what seemed an eternity, she had misunderstood and run from him. She wanted to make it up to Tommy for having doubted him—even for an instant.

“Lenny, I have to go up to London for an appointment. It's one of those fool things that can't be broken.” Tommy was grinning again. “Old moneymaker Price, you know. It's a deal I might get in on. If I do, I'll come back and drop wads of money all over your beautiful legs.”

She matched his smile. “I like you best when you're being an idiot, Tommy.”

“You'll be all right here until tomorrow? I'll come down then if you want, and we can go up to London and do the town.”

“Of course I'll be all right.” She opened the car door. “And, Tommy, I really did have a grand time.”

She got out, leaned back and kissed him lightly. “Go away quickly because I'm going to miss you.”

That, at least, she thought as she watched him go, was not a lie. She was going to miss him if only because his leaving made her feel alone—and afraid again.

“Sometimes you aren't a very admirable character, Lenny Corey,” she told herself as she walked into the inn.

Seeing Mrs. Doddsby, she asked for a bath. “I fell into a pond and got full of silt,” she explained.

“Tim,” Mrs. Doddsby directed her husband, “go light the Geyser for Miss Corey. It'll be ready that quick, Miss Corey.”

Lenny went on up to her room. The liquor had worn off and she felt heavy, depressed. The hot bath was soothing and she lay in it until the water began to turn cool. In her room, she glanced out the window to see Barr walking Portia to her cottage. With a faint smile at Barr's obviousness, she stretched out on the bed, closed her eyes and fell asleep.

When Lenny awakened, she dressed, choosing a yellow cotton that did not clash with her hair. The dress was a favorite of hers, having a bodice that did not emphasize the fullness of her breasts and a skirt that flared about her long, fine legs when she walked. A quick brush at her hair, a slash of lipstick, and she went down to the dining room. It was past seven. Barr was drinking a whisky and chatting desultorily with Doddsby.

He grinned as she approached him. She stopped, flushing. “What's the matter? Did I forget something?”

“Everything seems very much in the right place,” he assured her. “Whisky?”

“I'm too hungry.”

“Ah, dinner for two,” Barr said. “And can the lady have a whisky with her suet pudding?”

“It's steak pie tonight,” Doddsby said. He fixed the whisky, and followed Lenny and Barr to a table in the dining room. He set down the glass. “Steak pie or omelette.”

They both decided on steak pie. Lenny sipped the whisky, glad for something to do while she waited. Barr had not asked her to dinner; he had just taken it for granted that he could join her. She was not sure that she liked his attitude. She was equally unsure as to any success if she complained.

Barr said, “Over your ducking?”

“Yes. I had a bath.”

“Sorry we intruded.”

“Are you?” She was surprised to hear the words pop out of her. “I thought you'd followed us.”

Barr's grin was easy. “I did. Even so, you were glad to see Portia and me.”

She decided to play it straight. “I was. Very.”

“Unwanted boy friend?”

“Old friend from the school where I taught. He's sweet but a little too serious.”

Something she had said appeared to be clicking over files in Barr's mind; she could tell it by the suddenly still expression on his face. But when he spoke, he still gave the impression of doing nothing more than indulging in light chatter. “Honorable intentions?”

Lenny was annoyed. She said sharply, “Is that your business, Mr. Barr?”

He said quietly, “Very much so,” and then he smiled and sipped his drink. “And so,” he said, “the dog came in and paid four to one to win and I had ten quid on him.”

For a moment Lenny thought he had gone mad. And then she saw the waitress with their soup at the side of the table. Lenny felt better now; Barr had definitely revealed his position. She felt very good indeed. She had achieved a kind of victory.

When the girl had gone, she said, “Is it Portia's business, too?”

“Drink your soup,” Barr said. “Hot soup is good for you.”

There were other diners, Lenny saw now, close to them. She lifted her spoon. Barr ate and talked, not only about dogs who paid four to one but about church architecture. By the time the meal was over, Lenny felt as though she had had a tour of England's cathedrals. Lenny found it hard to associate a man with so much academic knowledge with the lean, hard agent seated across from her. Yet there could be no doubt. As she listened, she realized that he was the Barr who had written the book which had first aroused her interest in church architecture.

She said on impulse, “What kind of book are you writing now?”

He was laughing at her. “A novel. It's a thriller. You know, spies and that sort of thing. Of course, like all of my breed, I don't know a cloak from a dagger.”

The coffee came and after they were done, Barr suggested a walk. His tone of voice was a command and she went docilely. Outside, she found the air cooler than she had anticipated.

“Let me get a wrap.”

“Hold it.” He went inside and returned with a gray gabardine topcoat which he draped about her shoulders. They went up onto the barren headland by way of a faint path. A slice of moon swam in the soft black sky, tinting the calm waters of the little cove and throwing everything about them into silvery light and dark shadow. They sat on a wide rock, smoking and looking out over the water.

“Go ahead,” he said. “You're bursting with it.”

“I'd like to know more about you. A few minutes ago I was thinking of you as an agent.”

“Of sorts,” he admitted.

“How can I be sure?”

He laughed. It was a genuine laugh, coming from deep inside. “No wonder you've been pecky! But you're right to question me. Let me put it this way—I get my answers from the Chief. So does Stark. I sent him to see you. Satisfied?”

“I'll have to be unless you have some kind of identity card.”

“We don't work that way,” Barr said. “If anything should happen to one of us, there's no diplomatic sizzling.”

“Just what is your job?” She was genuinely curious.

He said with deep sincerity, “To try to help keep peace in the world.”

“And Portia?”

“Ah,” he said, “that was my doing, telling Stark to have you be on the lookout for her. I think Portia is working only for Portia. But I never know.”

“I don't understand.”

He said, “Portia knows Leon Roget. She's known him for a number of years.” And the way he said it told Lenny a great deal. He took a second cigarette and lighted it, and she saw his expression as the lighter flame flared up. Then she understood even more. He spoke harshly. “You spent a good deal of time with Roget in London. Did you learn anything?”

“Yes. But I doubt if you'll believe me.”

“Just because I don't trust you doesn't mean I expect you to lie every time you open your mouth.”

She was not angry. She knew she deserved what he had just said. Why should he trust her? Even so, she wanted him to.

“I accepted this—this job because I had to. I resented having been followed and spied on. I still do, in a way, but I suppose it has taken me a while to understand the importance of everything—the work you're doing. But it doesn't matter—how I feel.”

“You're trying to say that you understand enough to co-operate?”

“Put it that way,” she said. “This morning I was thinking about it and—well, it's sort of nice to be doing something to make up for what I did. I didn't know about Leon then; I do now. I knew the first night in London.” “He told you?”

She said quietly, “It wasn't anything he said. It was the way he looked. It's hard to explain. But three days ago I still thought I was in love with him. Then I wasn't—it was just in the way he looked.”

“I think I understand,” Barr said, so dryly that she winced. And she remembered him saying, “Portia knows Leon Roget.”

She said quickly, wanting to have this explanation over with, “Leon knows about me, too. I don't know how he found out, but he knows why I'm here.” She tried to tell him everything, all her reactions, what she had guessed from what Leon had not said.

“But,” Lenny finished, “he doesn't know that I know he knows.” Despite the heavy tension within her, she almost laughed at the bewilderment on his face. “I mean, Leon isn't aware that I know he's realized why I'm here.”

“Thank you,” Barr said in a dry voice. “Let's hope you're right…. What about this Price character?”

“Tommy?” She told him about Tommy Price, how they had met, how good a friend he had always been. While she talked, she had the impression that Barr already knew this.

“You already know about Tommy,” she said accusingly.

“We know about everyone with whom you've had contact since you met Roget,” he said. “What I don't know is—what did you tell Price about Leon?”

“I told him I didn't feel the same about Leon. I had to. He's very perceptive and he guessed.”

“Did you tell him anything else?”

His insistence made her angry. “Of course not. But it wouldn't matter if I had. Tommy's my friend. He could help. He knows Leon.”

Barr made a sound. “Rule one—keep your mouth shut.”

“Rule two?” She was still angry.

“Don't trust anyone. Not even yourself.”

She felt herself flushing in the dark. One of the things she feared most was her own nature. “Thank you, Professor.”

“You don't have to mock me. I'm only doing a job.”

“I'm doing a job, too,” she reminded him. “If I'm going to do it halfway decently, I'll have to be trusted enough to be told something.”

“If I could trust you,” he said bluntly.

He stopped. She felt his hand on her arm, the fingers squeezing lightly, in warning. She sat still. The night seemed the same except that the moon was higher and brighter. The soft breeze carried the scent of the sea on it. Listening, she caught distant sounds. There was a boat putting softly around beyond the mouth of the cove. She listened for something else, sure that Barr hadn't been disturbed by a distant boat.

He was speaking so softly that she had difficulty picking his voice out of the light breeze. “To your right. Something just cut across the light from Portia's window. Start a quarrel with me. Then jump and run—head for the inn.”

A moment before she would have been glad to quarrel and run from him. Now the thought of leaving the protection he represented frightened her. But there was no questioning his tone of voice. “Your conversation is very pleasant—and that's all I came for. Conversation.” Her voice was shrill, loud.

Barr chuckled.

She said, even more loudly, “If I ever take another walk with you, I'll bring handcuffs. Good night!”

She turned and started off. Barr came up from the rock and grabbed her arm. She swung about and slapped him, startled at the sound her hand made hitting his face. She hadn't meant to hit him so hard. Or had she?

His whisper cut in, “Run!”

She ran. The uneven ground rose to trip her. She cursed the impulse that had made her wear high heels. She felt herself falling and she thrust out her hands. The jar went up through the heels of her palms to her shoulders as she struck the grassy but hard ground. She had started to push herself up when she heard the noise, very soft, something like the pop of a wine cork muffled in a towel.

She looked back the way she had come. It was dark there and Barr was not in sight. The popping came again and this time she heard the bullet as it struck a rock and whined off into the night.

Now she understood Barr's order. Someone was stalking them with a silenced gun. She was not sure how she knew that it was a silenced gun, but she did know, just as she knew that somewhere close by, in the dark shadows cast by the rocks, someone with a gun was trying to kill Barr or kill her—or both of them.