The Tide Can't Wait (6 page)

The other headland was set with cottages, three of them in a row from near the tip almost back to the edge of the village. A good deal of space separated the cottages from one another and almost all this space was filled with well-tended flower gardens, even around the middle cottage that was obviously empty at the moment. A pathway from the village ran along the edge of the headland, joining the garden gates of the three cottages, and then dropped steeply to the beach. A narrow road ran along the far side of the headland, to give cars access to the cottage garages.

Lenny noticed the fine details of her surroundings, naturally. Later, she was thankful that she had. To have been only vaguely familiar with the terrain could have proved fatal.

The inn, the Dragon's Head, where she had a room was set in the center of the curve of beach but well back. It was a Tudor-style building with leaded windows through which she had a view of the water. Lenny found her room old and austere but comfortable enough. Her one regret was that the windows did not also give her a view of the Norman church.

She stood now before the opened window, looking at the sun sparkling on the bay. In this quiet spot all that had troubled her seemed dim and far away. The man in the hotel room—the Chief—and Stark, even Leon, all took on an air of absurdity.

And then she saw the woman. She sat on one of the rocks on the barrel headland, bent over toward her own lap in what seemed to Lenny a strangely awkward pose. Then Lenny realized that the woman's interest lay in a sketch pad balanced on her knee.

Now Leon was saying, “… You will find a woman who calls herself Portia Sloane. She is an artist. She is also a very dangerous woman.” And Stark, the man with the yellow mustache, was saying, “You may be contacted by a woman there. She calls herself Portia Sloane. You'll recognize her. She's an artist and she spends a lot of her time sketching things. She is a very clever and dangerous woman.”

Lenny wondered how many more strange men would come to her and announce that she must go somewhere and do something. The Chief had told her to expect some kind of contact. She was glad Stark had been such a pleasant one.

He really did not seem at all sinister, nor did he fit any of the other patterns vaguely formed in her mind when she thought of espionage. He looked very ordinary, dressed neatly, spoke politely. He had a frank, open face, really not bad to look at, except for the mustache that had a strong tendency to droop.

At first, his orders had been brief and exact, and frighteningly like those Leon had given her. Even though it sounded as though he and Leon might have planned her orders together, all really went well until he mentioned Portia Sloane. Lenny said, “Is she—on our side?”

Some of his ordinary manner went away and momentarily she could see the hard core of the man beneath. “What is our side?” He could as well have slapped her and said, “What is your side, Miss Corey?” That was what he meant. And after he left her, she was afraid again.

Now, standing by the window and looking out over the bay up to the woman on the headland, Lenny felt the fear rise in her once more. Her own swift changes of mood—from confidence to this almost abject terror—annoyed her. She would have to get some kind of grip on herself if she were to do anything at all.

The trouble lay, of course, in her knowing so little. Because the Chief had really not told her much. And the man with the yellow mustache—as she kept thinking of Stark—had told her even less. Leon had really told her a great deal, but it had all been about himself.

It occurred to her with a shock that she really did not even know whom Stark worked for. He had simply come in and announced that he was the man she was expecting. She had assumed he worked under the Chief. But now, recalling how like Leon's orders his had been, she was not at all sure. The whole affair could have been one of Leon's devious schemes. Portia Sloane might be here to watch her.

Her helplessness and indecision made her angry, and she turned away from the window. The Sloane woman could be working for the Chief, too, for that matter. Or for no one except herself. She sat on the bed and shut her eyes, pressing the heels of her hands against them. What was she supposed to do? What could she do when she did not even know what she faced, nor whom she could trust? Find Leon's contacts—ridiculous.

Suddenly she laughed. It was so petty. And she was hungry. A quick wash at the basin and she went downstairs to see what might be offered for lunch.

The meal was good, and after eating, Lenny walked down to the beach and along it, taking advantage of the low tide.

The headland was empty now except for a lone seagull. Two piles of driftwood and a half-overturned boat filled with sand made up the decorations of the beach. Lenny chose the larger group of driftwood and perched herself on a convenient piece to smoke a cigarette. A small sailboat came around from the east, poked its prow into the bay and went lazily away, its sail scarcely filled by the gentle breeze. Later, a sleek-looking launch gleaming with brass and mahogany peered in, swung about and cruised out of sight. Far off where the haze mingled with the horizon, she could see a liner sailing majestically along. Suddenly aware that the water was coming perilously close to her feet on the pebbly beach, she rose and started for the village.

As she passed the inn, the landlord stepped into the open to enjoy a pipe in the sunshine. She waved and he nodded cheerily back. She walked on, a spring in her step.

She was almost upon the little gray stone church pushing itself upward through a ring of trees when she noticed the woman again—Portia Sloane. She sat on a folding canvas campstool set at a distance from the side of the building. Her dark hair, cut in thick bangs across her forehead, fell forward as she bent over her work. She wore yellow slacks and a yellow turtle-neck sweater, making a bright splotch of color against the green and gray background of her surroundings.

Lenny felt sudden panic. By the time she reached the front of the church, she was almost running. With an effort, she slowed to a decorous pace and walked inside the building. Cool dimness engulfed her, and she slipped into a pew, grateful for the protective peace of the place.

The frantic squirrel cage of her mind slowed and stopped. She found that she was sweating and she daubed at her forehead with her sleeve. Her mind was sharp and steady now. She had wanted to flee, but she could not run away because there was nowhere to go. Wherever she might hide, whatever she might do to change herself, inside she would still be Lenny Corey, and Lenny Corey would always know the truth.

“I did it,” she admitted softly, aloud. Because she had done it. Unwittingly, perhaps, but that was no real excuse. She was no child. She had believed Leon because she had wanted to believe him, just as she had refused to believe the man in the hotel room because she had not wanted to shatter her little world of illusions.

Last night she had tried to find out more from Leon. She had left him knowing one thing for certain—Leon was all that the Chief had said he was, and more.

And what had he said about those who wanted what he had brought to England? They were the ruthless ones, the truly clever ones.

Knowing what she did, feeling her own dislike for Leon come so suddenly, so strongly, still she had gone willingly into his arms. There was no use continuing the make-believe that it was just part of the game, that she was lulling Leon into security. Being honest with herself, she had to admit the truth—she might despise Leon for what he was and for what he had done to her, but she still needed him.

In the quiet of the pew, she saw the problem with true clarity for the first time. It was not Leon alone she needed to be afraid of. She also had to fear herself.

Calmer now, she left the pew. She stepped outside into the sunlight and paused to light a cigarette.

She was aware of Portia Sloane still sketching. She backed away from the church, moving this way and that, as though trying to get a perspective, and suddenly she turned as if realizing that she was in Portia Sloane's line of vision.

“I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking.”

“Stand where you like. I'm about fed up for today, anyway. I've done this so many times, I have every crack memorized.” She had a pleasantly husky voice.

“I don't blame you for being captivated,” Lenny said. “It's wonderful.”

Portia Sloane smiled, an amazingly childlike smile.

And then Portia stood, and Lenny saw that she was shorter than she, almost chunky, her figure richly curved. She said, “I'm Portia Sloane, and one of the reasons I draw this place so much is that people are always wanting it for advertisements of Ye Olde Engelonde. I saw you this morning when you came to the Dragon's Head.”

Making Portia's acquaintance was almost too simple. Lenny felt a little cheated. If this was espionage, she should at least have a run for her money. Within five minutes they had shared cigarettes and all the necessary data on each other. Portia ended by saying, “Come and have tea with me. I come down here because I get fed up with people and right away I'm lonesome for them. I'm not really cut out for a recluse.”

They walked along the path that joined the garden gates of the three cottages. Portia's place was at the end, a neat little cottage set in the neatest of gardens. Lenny was rather surprised. Portia did not seem overly concerned with her personal appearance—her yellow slacks and sweater were stained with bits of paint and charcoal and cigarette ash. She let her hair blow every which way with no apparent concern, and she made no effort to keep her figure within bounds. That figure, coupled with her gamin features, had given Lenny the picture of anything but an almost fussily tidy woman. And yet she could find no better word than fussiness to describe the house and garden.

For a garden, Portia obviously believed in precise rows, neatly trimmed grass, and well-raked gravel pathways. Her house was the same, although Lenny found one false note—by the large sea-view window stood an easel with a disorderly pile of canvases scattered around it.

Portia waved a hand. “Make yourself comfortable. I'll do something about tea.” Lenny surveyed the obviously expensive furniture, the bric-a-brac that represented a small fortune in museum pieces, and then walked about to study the art on the walls. Portia went in heavily for seascapes, English landscapes, and impressionistic nudes. Lenny found well-known names signed to most of the works. She decided that however Portia Sloane made her living, she did well at it.

The tea was excellent, the sandwiches well-stuffed, the cake homemade and good. Portia talked as she ate, scattering crumbs without regard for the neatness of the little room.

Lenny found herself relaxing in the comfortable atmosphere. Portia was so open and cheerful that Lenny began to wonder if she might not have the wrong woman.

Portia was a Canadian, thirty years old, educated on the Continent, without relatives, and possessed of a small but ample income to bolster her not-inconsiderable earnings from commercial art work. By the time Lenny was ready to leave, she felt that she knew a good deal about Portia Sloane.

By the time she had returned to the inn, she realized that she actually knew very little. Portia had been too loquacious really to give out much information.

Turning up the collar of her jacket against coolness that came with the slanting sun, Lenny rounded the corner of the inn. The parking space that had been empty before now contained a not new but still very sleek Riley sedan.

Inside, she saw a stranger at the bar, his back to her. He was idly drinking a whisky and at her entry he turned and surveyed her with an equally idle glance.

Normally Lenny would have paid little attention to a strange man, or, for that matter, a strange woman. She was basically shy. But since her meeting with the Chief and then with Stark, she had found herself looking twice at everyone.

Now, she returned the frank appraisal.

He was a tall man, slender enough but with a heavy look because of the breadth of his shoulders and the bulky gray flannel suit that he wore. His hair was a curly mahogany-brown. His eyes were gray and steady, set wide on either side of a bold nose. As she looked back at him, he let the corners of his broad mouth turn up in a quick grin and then gave his attention again to his whisky. Lenny went on up the stairs.

She lay on her bed thinking about Portia Sloane and then the man downstairs.

When she rose, she changed for dinner, choosing a white frock with green collar and cuffs. She went on down the stairs and stopped with one hand on the newel post. Portia Sloane was at a table in the bar, and with her, foreheads almost touching, was the stranger in the gray flannel suit. Portia still wore her yellow slacks and turtle-neck sweater.

She looked up and saw Lenny, and her gamin smile broke through. She beckoned. “Come and meet another of our occasional residents. Miss Corey, a fellow writer, Rob Barr.”

Barr was on his feet, smiling much as he had earlier, bowing slightly. “Portia tells me you write books, too.”

“Rob writes stories,” Portia said. “Novels.”

“I can't compete,” Lenny protested. “I do boring articles about old church architecture.”

“You've come to a good place,” Barr said. “Have you seen the old ruin just over the hill?”

“She's only been here since noon,” Portia said.

Lenny sat down. Barr said, “I'm in the middle cottage. The one with the sloppy garden that gives Portia the horrors. That makes me almost a neighbor, so can I offer you a drink? Whisky or gin, of course. In case you haven't quenched many thirsts in this country, whisky means Scotch. Not rye, not bourbon, not even Kentucky sour mash, just Scotch.”

“I'll take Scotch.” Lenny laughed, genuinely amused. He was being so brash and so American. And she felt that normally he was not the brash type. It did not fit him well, she thought, really no better than Stark's drooping mustache did him.

“Now that we've been adequately introduced,” Barr said when her drink had come, “may I suggest dinner?”