HALF-PAST FIVE IN the morning. The very first strands of light were creeping across the sky, turning it from black to palest pearly gray, when Henry awoke. Emmy was sleeping serenely beside him in their room at the hotel. No hurry now, he had said the night before, after telephoning Bob Harrison. They won’t be able to leave until after ten, after the Starfish message. By then, Ingham will be convinced. The Carstairs are safe for the moment. Nothing we can do.
But now, Henry woke with a sudden sense of urgency, an instinct that his colleagues had often described as his “nose.” It even crossed his mind that some sort of heightened perception—a remnant of his drug experience—might still be affecting his mind. Perhaps he had miscalculated, had been wrong to trust Vanduren and Bob Harrison. Whatever it was, he found himself wide awake and absolutely certain that something was wrong. He hesitated a moment, then woke Emmy.
“What… ?” Emmy struggled back to consciousness and looked at her watch. “Half-past five? Henry, what on earth… ?”
“I don’t know, darling. I just know that we have to get down there.”
“Down there?” A ripple of alarm ran through Emmy’s heart. She remembered that PCP can cause aftereffects, which recur even days after the last dose. Certainly Henry did not sound rational at the moment.
He said, “To the yacht yard. There’s something wrong.”
“But Henry—”
“Come on. Get up and dressed. There’s no time to lose.”
Emmy did not argue. In ten minutes they were both dressed and in the deserted hotel lobby. No smiling Shark Tooth and his taxi at this hour, and the big front doors to the hotel were locked. However, ringing a bell marked NIGHT PORTER eventually produced a yawning black man, who opened the doors for them.
Outside, it was getting light with the suddenness of a tropical sunrise, reminding Emmy of the morning when she had seen Dr. Vanduren in St. Matthew’s. As in a nightmare, time had stretched so that the days before the first hurricane seemed eons ago.
Henry said, “Down through the gardens. Quickest way.”
There was no question, of course, of going through the locked and shuttered discotheque; however, a garden fence—not too difficult to negotiate—led to a narrow alley and eventually onto Main Street. From there, ten minutes’ hard walking brought them within sight of St. Mark’s Yacht Charter Services.
Everything seemed quiet and still, but as the Tibbetts approached the gate, Henry suddenly grabbed Emmy’s arm.
“Stop!” he whispered. “Somebody’s moving about in there!”
They froze in their tracks. Then they heard Dr. Vanduren’s voice. He was making no effort to keep it low, obviously believing the place to be deserted. “Hi, Ed! I can’t find one here. I’ll have to try in that other shed. Back in a minute.”
A moment later, Vanduren appeared, hurrying and dodging among the shrouded shapes of grounded boats. He reached Bob Harrison’s office, and Henry saw him wrestling unsuccessfully with the locked door. On impulse, Henry stepped up to the wire fence and said in an urgent whisper, “Vanduren!”
The doctor whirled around, terrified. Then he recognized Henry and hurried over to the fence. “Tibbett! Is this a miracle or an answer to a prayer?”
“Both, I suspect. What’s up?”
“I’ve only got a minute or so. Make this quick. Jan and Ed are on board Katie-Lou. Ocean Rover came round here last night. Ed boarded Katie-Lou for a checkout and found something wrong with the engine. We’ve been up all night fixing it. It’ll be done in a few minutes. I’m supposed to be finding a plug wrench.”
“But—”
“Don’t interrupt. I don’t have time. They’re not waiting for Harrison to arrive. They’ve smelled a rat and as soon as the engine’s fixed we’ll all be away. Jan and Ed on Katie-Lou, the Montgomerys, the Carstairs—poor devils—and myself on Ocean Rover. Message goes out at ten.”
“Where’s the rendezvous?”
“Don’t know. They didn’t say and I didn’t dare ask.”
“How about you?”
“I think they believe I’m with them, but I’ve got to get back and act natural. Get this. The real rendezvous will be at half-past two, somewhere not far from the bogus one, obviously. That’s when the Carstairs will be killed and put aboard Katie-Lou, while Ocean Rover makes off with the rest of us.”
A man’s voice called, “Hey, Doc, how’s it coming?”
Vanduren shouted, “I’m trying to get this goddamn door open!” Whispering, he added, “There’s a telephone and radio in the office. I was trying to get a message to you. Got to go now.” He disappeared.
Henry and Emmy moved quietly away until they were out of sight and earshot of the yard. Henry said, “You were right. He is to be trusted.”
“What do we do now?”
“They’ll be off in no time. Somebody’s got to go after them, or those two young idiots will be as dead as mutton.”
“Inspector Ingham—?”
“You think he’d believe a story like this at six in the morning from me? Anyhow, even if he did, there’s no time.” Henry thought quickly. Then he said, “Unsatisfactory, but it’s the only way. As soon as the boats leave, we break into Harrison’s office. I take the keys to his launch and go after Ocean Rover—at a safe distance. My guess is they’ll be under sail—make everything appear natural—so they’ll be in sight for some time. You get on the telephone to Ingham and convince him if you can—otherwise we have to wait until the Starfish message at ten, which will certainly get him. Meanwhile, I’ll keep in radio touch with you from Harrison’s launch. Just remember though that everyone listening out in the Seawards will be able to hear what we say.”
“Henry—”
“There’s nothing else we can do. Dammit, we ought to have the whole police force and the U.S. Coast Guard and everybody else down here arresting these people, but so long as the authorities think I’m crazy, well…there you are. Listen!”
In the quiet of the morning, they heard the unmistakable sound of an auxiliary engine turning over, spluttering, then starting. A man’s voice called out something unintelligible. Henry and Emmy arrived back at the wire fence in time to see an apparently serene and beautiful early-morning scene. Two graceful sailing yachts, their motors running quietly, puttering away from the yacht moorings and out into the bay against the light breeze, with trim and energetic crew members hoisting the big mainsails as they went. Not a sight to cause anything but appreciation and possibly envy in these delectable islands. Not, by any normal standard, in the least sinister.
“O.K.,” said Henry. “Here we go. Over the fence.”
“You lift me up first, and I’ll find a ladder,” said Emmy briskly. “I’ve done this before. E. Tibbett, the well-known breaker and enterer.” Five minutes later they were both inside the compound.
The office—a small wooden building—was padlocked, but it proved a reasonably simple job to lever off the hinges with a stout chisel, which a workman had thoughtfully left beside one of the boats. The launch’s keys were hanging on a board, labeled with the boat’s name—MARK ONE—as though for the convenience of burglars. Emmy would have liked to wish Henry luck, to caution him, to get final instructions, even to kiss him for what might be the last time; but he was in and out of the office in five seconds flat, leaving her facing a telephone and a VHF radio, which she had no idea how to operate. She sat down at the desk and went into action.
Her first call was to the police station. An unfamiliar male voice informed her that Inspector Ingham was at home, snatching the first bit of rest he had had since Beatrice struck.
Emmy said, “Are you listening out on VHF?” There was a moment of silence and then the voice said, “Sure, lady.”
“There will be some messages from Mark One. Would you please be sure to log them? I may call you back and ask about them if I miss them myself.”
“Who is this speaking?”
“Bob Harrison’s yard,” said Emmy, and she hung up quickly.
She looked at the radio with some trepidation and was relieved to see a simple-looking switch marked OFF-ON, and another marked RECEIVE-TRANSMIT. She set this to RECEIVE and switched on. Sure enough, she was rewarded by a crackling sound from the loudspeaker. And then Henry’s distorted voice.
“Mark One to Blandish. Mark One to Blandish. Are you receiving me? Over.”
Blandish was Emmy’s maiden name. She switched to TRANSMIT, picked up the microphone, and said, “Blandish to Mark One. Loud and clear. Over.” Decades ago, Emmy had been a controller in the wartime W.A.A.F. It was extraordinary how the years slipped away, how easy it was to be talking into a microphone again.
“Mark One to Blandish. Everything set for a good day’s sail. I’ll be in touch later. Out.”
Emmy put the set back on RECEIVE and picked up the telephone again. This time she called Inspector Ingham’s home number, which she found in the directory on Bob’s desk. A soft-voiced lady answered.
“Inspector Ingham? Oh, he’s just got to sleep. Unless it’s really urgent…my husband has been… ”
“I know he has, Mrs. Ingham,” Emmy said, “but this really is urgent. I’m so sorry. Please tell him it’s Mrs. Tibbett and I must speak to him.”
Ingham’s voice was sleepy and unfriendly. “Really, Mrs. Tibbett…ten o’clock this message is supposed to come through… ”
“I know, Inspector, but things have changed. The Katie-Lou has left, and Henry’s gone after her.”
“He’s—what?”
“I’m speaking from Bob Harrison’s yard. Henry has borrowed Bob’s launch and—”
“Mrs. Tibbett, I’m sorry. I may as well tell you that I’ve just had a call from Dr. Harlow, telling me that your husband discharged himself from hospital against medical advice and that his mental condition is probably still far from stable. If I get that Starfish message, naturally I will investigate it. Otherwise… ” The line went dead.
It was by then nearly seven o’clock and the sun was up in a clear sky. Emmy dialed the number of Bob Harrison’s home.
“Bob?”
“You just missed’im.” The woman’s voice was pure London, quite unaffected by her move to this exotic clime. “Just left for the yard,’e’as. You’ll catch ’im there in a few minutes.”
“On the contrary, he’ll catch me,” Emmy thought, but aloud she said, “Thanks so much. I’ll find him at the yard.”
Then to the radio again. “Blandish to Mark One. Blandish to Mark One. Are you receiving me? Over.”
“Mark One to Blandish. Loud and clear. Over.”
“Blandish to Mark One. I’m afraid Herbert can’t join the picnic, at least not until later on. Over.”
“Mark One to Blandish. Never mind. I hope he manages to come later. He’d hate to miss it. Out.”
Henry sounded positively cheerful. Indeed, against all logic, he was enjoying himself. Mark One was a sweet-running, beautifully maintained boat, and there was enough sheer pleasure in being on the water on a gold-and-silver morning to create a sensation of well-being. Also, he felt that his makeshift plans were succeeding quite well. He had radio contact with Emmy, and she had access to a telephone. He also had the two sailing yachts, Katie-Lou and Ocean Rover, well in view, while keeping far enough away not to attract their attention. He idled the motor and gave as good an imitation of fishing as could be done with no fishing tackle. His quarry had set sail due west, toward St. Matthew’s, with a light wind astern. For the moment, nobody else seemed to be on the water. Henry had only to wait.
Bob Harrison’s jeep pulled up outside the boatyard at twenty past seven. He was still fiddling with the key in the padlock on the gate when Emmy came out of the office.
“Mrs. Tibbett! How did you get in there?” Bob was genuinely astonished. “What’s happening, then? Pity about Katie-Lou’s motor going on the blink,” he added, with a grin and a wink.
Emmy said, “I’m afraid things haven’t gone according to plan, Mr. Harrison.”
“Bob.”
“Sorry. Bob. They came into the yard last night in another boat, went aboard to check up, and found the engine wouldn’t work. They’ve been up all night repairing it, and they left at about half-past six.”
“Did they indeed?” Bob had opened the gate and was now inside. “Left without paying and broken into the office, too, by the look of it.”
“No,” Emmy said. “I’m afraid that was—”
“Well, if they’re dangerous as well as dishonest, as Mr. Tibbett says, the thing to do is to go after’em,” said Bob. “Even if they’re motoring. They can’t do more than five or six knots with that little auxiliary. I’ll get Mark One—”
“Bob,” said Emmy. “I’m trying to tell you. Henry’s already done that.”
“Done what?”
“He…we broke into your office, and Henry’s taken Mark One and gone after Katie-Lou.”
Bob looked at her for a long moment, and Emmy was afraid that there might be an explosion. Then he said, “Has he, then? Does he know how to manage her?”
“He’s done a lot of boating,” Emmy said. “More sail than power, but he knows what he’s doing, and we’re in radio touch.”
“You are?”
“On your radio,” Emmy explained.
“Thank you very much,” said Bob. “Perhaps you’d like to help yourself to my jeep and the petty cash while you’re about it?”
“Bob, I—”
This time there was an explosion, but it was in the form of a bellow of laughter. “It’s all right, my dear. Only joking. I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me the whole story behind this, would you?”
Emmy said, “I’d love to and I will. But you may not believe me.”
“Try me,” said Bob.
“O.K. Well, it’s like this… ”
At the end of Emmy’s recital, Bob scratched his head and said, “I can believe it. Thousands wouldn’t, but I know these parts. A lot of youngsters here are getting…well, restless, like. The islands are too small for them, and they want a bit of excitement. Then there’s the drug bit—smoking and snorting and all. You can’t really blame the kids. They read about it and hear about it and it seems glamorous and the thing to do. But it didn’t happen here on its own. Someone’s behind it—someone with a lot of money.”
“Organized crime,” said Emmy.
“Well that wouldn’t make sense if it was just to get the youngsters here hooked on pot,” said Bob. “It’s been puzzling a lot of us, and your story makes sense of what’s going on.”
“Of course,” Emmy said, “the big boys don’t appear down here. Too conspicuous. Their local representatives are the Montgomerys—”
“What?” Bob was scandalized. “The Colonel? Everybody knows him—”
“Exactly,” Emmy said. “I’m reasonably sure he was never a Colonel and I doubt if he’s even British. His wife certainly isn’t. They’ve built up a very pretty façade, and their boat can act as mother-ship on these smuggling operations without attracting attention. On the island, the chief contact is—”
The radio crackled, and Henry’s voice said, “Mark One to Blandish. Mark One to Blandish. Over.”
Bob looked at Emmy inquiringly and raised his eyebrows. She said, “Blandish is me,” and switched to TRANSMIT. “Blandish to Mark One. Receiving you. Bob has joined the party. Over.”
“Mark One to Blandish. Good. Hope he enjoys himself. By the way, Bernie and Abby aren’t together any longer. I’m sticking with Bernie. Out.”
Emmy and Bob looked at each other for a moment. Then Emmy said, “I see. Bernie is Montgomery—Monty’s first name was Bernard. And Abby must be Dear Abby, Abigail Vanburen—which is near enough to Vanduren to mean Janet. The boats have parted company, and Henry is sticking with Ocean Rover because that’s where the prisoners are being held.”
The next radio message, which came through just after eight o’clock, was something of a surprise. A female voice. “Katie-Lou to Starfish. Are you receiving me? Over.”
Mrs. Montgomery’s voice was perfectly identifiable. “Starfish to Katie-Lou. Receiving you. Over.”
“Katie-Lou to Starfish. I suggest we either abort mission or bring timing forward. Over.”
Emmy exclaimed, “That can’t be Janet Vanduren! That’s not an American voice!”
After a moment of crackling silence, the radio spoke again. “Starfish to Katie-Lou. Impossible to abort at this stage. You have your cargo? Over.”
A different voice, also feminine but this time American, answered, “Katie-Lou to Starfish. Yes, we have our cargo. Please give time and place of rendezvous. Over.”
“Starfish to Katie-Lou. Time of rendezvous now brought forward to noon. Repeat rendezvous twelve noon. Place of rendezvous, Mango Bay, St. Matthew’s. Repeat Mango Bay, St. Matthew’s. We need sheltered waters for the transfer. Over.”
“Katie-Lou to Starfish. Confirm rendezvous twelve noon, Mango Bay, St. Matthew’s. Out.”
Emmy flew to the telephone and dialed the home number of Inspector Ingham.
“Mrs. Ingham? I’m sorry, but it’s Mrs. Tibbett again. May I speak to your husband?”
“I’m really sorry, Mrs. Tibbett. He’s not taking any calls except from the police station.”
“Oh, very well,” said Emmy irritably, and she hung up. She called the police station.
“Duty Officer. Bob Harrison’s yard here. Did you get that Starfish message?”
“Well—”
“Have you told Inspector Ingham?”
“I don’t—” There was a metallic sound and voices in the background. Emmy judged that the telephone had been snatched from the young man’s hand. Then a female voice said, “I am sorry, madam. We cannot divulge confidential information to members of the public.” There was a click, and the line went dead.
Emmy looked at Bob Harrison. “They must have passed it on,” she said. “I mean, that was the whole idea. What do we do now?”
The question was answered by the radio. Henry’s voice was tense. “Mark One to Blandish. Position four miles southwest of Mango Bay, small cove, don’t know its name, behind Mizzen Point. Sea conditions reasonable to poor. Bernie awaiting first rendezvous. Get help if you can. I’m going in. Out.”
Bob Harrison said, “I’ve only got an outboard dinghy, but I’m prepared to try. You coming?”
“Of course. But I have to contact Ingham first.” Emmy was already dialing. “Mrs. Ingham? Look, this really is life and death. I have to…oh, he has? To the police station?…Thank you.” She hung up and turned to Bob. “Can you take me to the police station at once in your jeep?”
“Can’t you telephone?”
“Not safe,” said Emmy briefly.
In the street outside the police station, cleanup work was already in progress. Gangs of men in trucks were carting away refuse, while others swept debris off the road. Emmy felt highly conspicuous as the only woman in sight, hanging around on a street corner. However, within a few minutes Inspector Ingham’s familiar little black car drove up. As he got out of it, Emmy rushed to intercept him before he could go into the station.
“Mrs. Tibbett—I told you—”
Breathlessly, Emmy said, “About four miles southwest of Mango Bay, a small cove protected by Mizzen Point. We don’t know its name. You must get there as fast as you can, Inspector. Henry’s there in Mark One, on his own. Bob Harrison and I are going over in an outboard dinghy—”
“Are you crazy, Mrs. Tibbett?”
“No, no, no, for God’s sake. There’s been a lot of craziness, but this isn’t it. This is real. Please, Inspector. So far there’s only one boat, the Ocean Rover, but the Katie-Lou will arrive any moment. Just get out your launch and get there. You’ll probably overtake us.”
“I’ll probably have to rescue you.” Ingham was very angry. “The wind’s dropped, but the swells are still high. Those are no seas for an outboard dinghy to be out in. I don’t want any damned fool tourists drowning on me—”
“Then come after us,” said Emmy, who then fled around the corner to Bob’s waiting jeep.