The Tide Can't Wait by Louis Trimble Read Free Book Online Page B

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