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Authors: Charles Williams
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bottom of one of those pilings. Too much precious time and breath were wasted in going down and coming up. But I could recharge the cylinders of that other aqualung. It’d be easy that way.
I broke off and just stood there, regarding the ultimate horror. What I was actually looking at was the tug disappearing around the bend above me, shoving its barges in toward the oil dock near the end of the waterway. I was a diver, and yet it had taken me all this time to realize it had just gone by here with its powerful twin screws churning up that muck and silt on the bottom. You could hold a thousand-watt light three inches in front of your eyes down there and it would look like the glow of a firefly.
The tide was still ebbing. It would be the end of the next flood before you could see your own hand under the pier. And not only that. The churning millrace from the propellers might have moved him. There was no telling where he was now.
There was just one more thing, I thought, and then we had it all. Carter would be back from New Orleans sometime this morning, here aboard the barge, and I wouldn’t be able even to look.
I fought with panic. I still had a chance, I told myself.
They might never connect me with it. After all, there was no identification on him now that I’d shoved the wallet into the muck. They wouldn’t have a picture of him, except possibly one taken as he looked when he came up. Chris might not have had a good look at him when he came in the gate.
But I wouldn’t know. That was the terrible part of it. I’d never have any idea at all what was happening until the hour they came after me.
I had to get out of here. I was thinking swiftly now. Quit, and tell Carter I was going to New York. Sell my car, buy a bus ticket, get off the bus somewhere up the line, and come back. Buy the boat, under another name, of course. In three days I could have it ready for sea. We’d be gone before they even came looking for me. If they did.
It didn’t occur to me until afterward that never once in all of it did I ever consider the possibility of not buying the boat and not taking Shannon Macaulay. That part of it was apparently foregone, and inevitable, so I didn’t even have to think about it.
Suddenly I had to see her. Why, I didn’t know. I had to get the money for the boat, or make arrangements for it, but that didn’t account for the overpowering desire just to see her. For the first time in a self-sufficient life I was all at once terribly alone, and for some reason I couldn’t define she was the one I wanted to see.
That reminded me. What had the watchman said? Some woman had called? I looked down, and I was still holding in my hand the slip of paper he had given me. It was a telephone number, the same one she had given me in the bar. Maybe something had happened to her. I turned and ran toward the car.
Five
Calling from the watchman’s shack would be quicker, but I didn’t want the audience. I slowed going through the gate, and the graveyard watchman lifted a hand and nodded. I noted bitterly that old Chris had gone home at last.
I turned right off the dark street, away from the water-front. There was an arterial and a shopping center about ten blocks over. The drugstore was closed, but I saw a neon cocktail glass beyond it and a sign that said Elbow Room . I parked and pushed through a door into refrigerated dimness and smoke and a muted ground swell of “Easy to Love.” The phone booth was at the rear, beyond the jukebox.
I closed the door and fished for a dime. The little fan whirred. I wondered uneasily how long it had actually been since she’d called. Twenty minutes? Thirty?
It was ringing. It went on.
Then it clicked. “Hello,” she said. “Mrs. Wayne speaking.”
She sounded all right. I breathed easier.
“Manning,” I said.
“Oh. Bill! I was just hoping you would call—” There was a contralto delight in it that was like the brush of finger tips. Then I remembered what she’d
I broke off and just stood there, regarding the ultimate horror. What I was actually looking at was the tug disappearing around the bend above me, shoving its barges in toward the oil dock near the end of the waterway. I was a diver, and yet it had taken me all this time to realize it had just gone by here with its powerful twin screws churning up that muck and silt on the bottom. You could hold a thousand-watt light three inches in front of your eyes down there and it would look like the glow of a firefly.
The tide was still ebbing. It would be the end of the next flood before you could see your own hand under the pier. And not only that. The churning millrace from the propellers might have moved him. There was no telling where he was now.
There was just one more thing, I thought, and then we had it all. Carter would be back from New Orleans sometime this morning, here aboard the barge, and I wouldn’t be able even to look.
I fought with panic. I still had a chance, I told myself.
They might never connect me with it. After all, there was no identification on him now that I’d shoved the wallet into the muck. They wouldn’t have a picture of him, except possibly one taken as he looked when he came up. Chris might not have had a good look at him when he came in the gate.
But I wouldn’t know. That was the terrible part of it. I’d never have any idea at all what was happening until the hour they came after me.
I had to get out of here. I was thinking swiftly now. Quit, and tell Carter I was going to New York. Sell my car, buy a bus ticket, get off the bus somewhere up the line, and come back. Buy the boat, under another name, of course. In three days I could have it ready for sea. We’d be gone before they even came looking for me. If they did.
It didn’t occur to me until afterward that never once in all of it did I ever consider the possibility of not buying the boat and not taking Shannon Macaulay. That part of it was apparently foregone, and inevitable, so I didn’t even have to think about it.
Suddenly I had to see her. Why, I didn’t know. I had to get the money for the boat, or make arrangements for it, but that didn’t account for the overpowering desire just to see her. For the first time in a self-sufficient life I was all at once terribly alone, and for some reason I couldn’t define she was the one I wanted to see.
That reminded me. What had the watchman said? Some woman had called? I looked down, and I was still holding in my hand the slip of paper he had given me. It was a telephone number, the same one she had given me in the bar. Maybe something had happened to her. I turned and ran toward the car.
Five
Calling from the watchman’s shack would be quicker, but I didn’t want the audience. I slowed going through the gate, and the graveyard watchman lifted a hand and nodded. I noted bitterly that old Chris had gone home at last.
I turned right off the dark street, away from the water-front. There was an arterial and a shopping center about ten blocks over. The drugstore was closed, but I saw a neon cocktail glass beyond it and a sign that said Elbow Room . I parked and pushed through a door into refrigerated dimness and smoke and a muted ground swell of “Easy to Love.” The phone booth was at the rear, beyond the jukebox.
I closed the door and fished for a dime. The little fan whirred. I wondered uneasily how long it had actually been since she’d called. Twenty minutes? Thirty?
It was ringing. It went on.
Then it clicked. “Hello,” she said. “Mrs. Wayne speaking.”
She sounded all right. I breathed easier.
“Manning,” I said.
“Oh. Bill! I was just hoping you would call—” There was a contralto delight in it that was like the brush of finger tips. Then I remembered what she’d
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