Barbara slept late the next morning, awaking barely in time to shower and dress before attending church services. Although invited to come along, she had decided against accompanying Regina to her aunt's home, where the entire Prescott family planned to gather for a relative's birthday party. Instead, she purchased a fat Sunday newspaper and carried it to a park bench.
"Houses, flats-here we are, apartments, furnished," she murmured, creasing open the want-ads section. Unless she found an apartment within the next three weeks she would have no choice but to give up her job and return to Los Angeles.
How disgusting! she fretted, when the tightly crammed column revealed nothing suitable in a moderate price range. If only I had left work early last Friday. Just an hour sooner and I would have had first crack at the houseboat.
Then she was forced to smile. The situation wasn't quite that desperate yet. And, she reminded herself, Whit intended to make very good use of the Albatross. In any case, she would have found it difficult to cope with the bewildering assortment of persons who continued to demonstrate their interest in the houseboat-even to the point of illegal entry.
"I'd like to know if that awful Mr. Smith was our burglar of last night," Barbara mused aloud.
She considered it quite likely that the stocky foreigner was the culprit. But then again, it might also have been the man with the Southern drawl.
"If Whit was right and the man he saw in the car was Buck Younger, what connection might he have with the Albatross?" she asked herself.
The mention of the brawling Texan reminded her of the abruptly terminated conversation of the night before. What sort of military secret could possibly have involved a rough and tumble sailor like Buck Younger? Again, she struggled to retrieve the dim memory that had teased her brain, but whatever it was had firmly entrenched itself in her subconscious, and no amount of puzzling could coax it out.
Well, anyway, I'll bet the mystery has something to do with Lance Shelby, Barbara thought, abandoning side issues like Buck Younger. Think of the secrets a famous newspaperman might uncover!
Perhaps Lance Shelby had obtained documents which incriminated a gang of racketeers. These criminals would certainly attempt to recover such evidence before the police learned of the newspaperman's discovery. But why such concentration on the houseboat? Why not search his desk at the Courier office-or his apartment?
How do I know they haven't? Barbara thought suddenly. With reporters and cameramen bustling in and out of the newspaper building at all hours of the day and night, it would be almost impossible for anyone to ransack his desk. To desperate men, though, Lance Shelby's apartment would be easily accessible.
She deposited the papers in the nearest trash can, at the same time trying to remember the address that Ted Rigney had mentioned. She had boarded a bus and was on her way downtown before she paused to wonder how she might gain entry to the ace reporter's penthouse.
"I'm hunting for an apartment, and his is vacant. What better excuse do I need?" she decided.
Despite the simplicity of her plan, Barbara felt some trepidation as a uniformed doorman bowed her into a lavishly decorated foyer. Everything in the apartment building had an aura of wealth surrounding it. Everything, she amended, but herself. Supposing the manager refused to admit her?
"There's only one way to find out," she told herself. Taking a deep breath, she readied her sunniest smile and pressed the button beneath the card labeled "Superintendent."
Barbara heard the gong reverberate loudly behind the closed door, but no footsteps responded in answer to the summons. After a minute or two, she pressed the buzzer again. The bell had just echoed a second time when feet shuffled down the polished expanse of corridor and an elderly man in work clothes appeared.
"Mr. Post is gone. He'sa come back two or two-thirty," the old man said.
"Oh, dear, that's too bad." Barbara started to turn away, but the janitor's Italian accent had evoked a memory. "Why, Mr. Orsini!" she exclaimed, recognizing the former custodian of the high school. "How nice to see you again."
He smiled widely, pleased at being remembered. "You want to see Mr. Post?"
"Not really. I came to look at the vacant apartment," Barbara explained. "I'm working here in town now, and I need a place to live."
The janitor shook his head. "You don't need this one. It'sa too expensive. But come on. I show you." He drew a jingling ring of keys from his pocket and stepped into a self-service elevator.
"I understand the man who leased the apartment has recently died," Barbara said as the elevator ascended. "Are his things still here?"
Mr. Orsini nodded. "Maria, my wife, she clean the apartment Friday. Mr. Post say pretty soon relatives come, take everything away. Might as well have the place looking nice."
But, Barbara thought as the door swung open and she stepped onto the thick, rich pile of the carpet, Maria's work had all been in vain. The penthouse most decidedly did not look nice.
Behind her, Mr. Orsini gasped and began gesturing frantically. "Somebody wreck everything!" he moaned, clapping his hands to his head. "Mr. Post will be plenty mad!"
Appalled as she was by the wanton destruction, Barbara felt no shock of surprise. She had almost expected to find the penthouse in a state of chaos similar to that which the midnight prowler had left behind on the Albatross.
Barbara was now convinced that it was the sullen "Mr. Smith" who was responsible for the rifling of Lance Shelby's possessions, since the man with the Southern drawl had apparently not arrived in Santa Teresa until Friday evening. On Thursday morning, he had been in a phone booth in Port Dixon. By late the next afternoon, he had still not made an appearance at the dock, but had resorted to another telephone call in the hope of persuading Mr. Dodson to refrain from selling the Albatross until he arrived.
I wonder why it took him so long? she pondered. Greg and Whit made the drive from Port Dixon in a couple of hours. It seems to me if the Southerner wanted the houseboat so badly, he would have broken every traffic law in the book to get it first.
"You don't want the apartment, eh?"
Barbara realized that Mr. Orsini was waiting for her to leave the elevator. "No, I don't think so," she said. "Thank you for showing the apartment to me, but I'm afraid it would cost a great deal more than I can afford."
"You'd be better off with a nice cheap place bandits don't break into," he said morosely, pausing at the superintendent's office.
Barbara left the building and resumed the train of thought he had interrupted. If Mr. Smith's motives were difficult to figure out, the Southerner was a real enigma. Unless-Her eyes widened. Unless the Southerner was Buck Younger!
He wouldn't dare break any traffic laws, she thought. I'll bet he detoured miles out of his way every time he saw a policeman. With the Shore Patrol after him for desertion, he couldn't risk being recognized.
When Whit had first suggested that the Southern voice on the phone might have belonged to Buck Younger, Greg had argued that the Texan would have no reason to linger in California. Barbara could still think of no motive why he should do so, but nevertheless, she strongly believed that Whit's hunch had been correct. Buck Younger, as well as Mr. Smith, was interested in that houseboat-or in something that he suspected was concealed on it.
Barbara took a few more steps, then halted, oblivious of the curious stares she was drawing from her fellow pedestrians. "There might be a way to find out what the mysterious something is," she murmured. "If Lance Shelby was working on a hot story just before he flew to the Orient, someone at the Courier might know about it."
A brisk ten-minute walk brought her to the newspaper building. A cameraman, she decided, would have been Shelby's most likely confidant, since the reporter might have needed pictures to accompany his story. She rode up to the third floor, but found the photographic department deserted. Undaunted, she hiked up another flight of stairs. The photographers quite often spent time in the City Room when not working on a specific assignment.
To her disappointment, however, most of the rooms on this floor were also empty. Not until she had reached her own department did she encounter anyone, and then it was Melinda Foster. The Society Editor sat pecking halfheartedly away at a batch of items in her column.
"Don't you ever take a day off?" Barbara asked her.
Melinda smiled wanly. "I prefer to keep busy. But what are you doing here on such a beautiful Sunday afternoon?"
"I was looking for one of the cameramen. They all seem to be out, though." Barbara sank into a chair beside the older girl's desk. "Melinda," she said impulsively, "you knew Lance Shelby pretty well, didn't you? Would you have any idea of what he was working on just before-"
Melinda swayed, gripping her typewriter with both hands. Every drop of color had drained out of her face, and her entire concentration was riveted on a spot ten feet away.
"What is it? What's wrong?" Barbara cried. Following Melinda's stupefied gaze, she, too, was impelled to turn.
A tall, dark, and very handsome man stood in the doorway. His arms were folded and a cigarette dangled rakishly between his lips.
"Just before what?" Lance Shelby demanded, advancing into the room.
For a minute longer, Barbara struggled to regain her composure. There were no ghosts, she told herself sternly, and spooks and spirits materialized only at sйances under the adroit manipulation of phony fortune tellers.
Glancing anxiously at Melinda's waxen face, she hurried to the water cooler and returned to press the cup into the older girl's hand. The question she ignored. This was hardly the time to go on with a sentence that had almost ended in the words, "just before he died."
Because, incredible as it seemed, Lance Shelby was very much alive.
The reporter appeared to be genuinely bewildered.
"Well, come on. Isn't anyone even going to say hello?" he expostulated. "You two characters act as if you'd seen a gho-oh, ho! Everything has suddenly become very clear."
Wheeling abruptly, he strode to the oak-paneled partition at the opposite end of the room. He shoved through Bruce McFarland's private door and rummaged through the editor's desk. With the gusto of an instant tornado, he came breezing back, flapping a beige-colored envelope against the palm of his hand.
"Doesn't anyone ever read the mail around here?" he exclaimed aggrievedly. "I sent this message from the Honolulu airport nearly ten hours ago!"
"Lance, we thought you were dead." Melinda had regained her voice. "That plane crashed!'
He nodded. "So I hear. Lucky for me, I wasn't aboard."
"You must have known that everyone here would be frantic with worry." Barbara's sharp tone held none of the deference usually accorded the star reporter. "Why didn't you cable or telephone as soon as you learned what had happened?"
"Now hold everything! I hadn't the foggiest notion until early this morning that my name was listed among the missing. Believe me, it was a greater shock to me than it was to you!"
Lance slung a leg over the corner of Melinda's desk, treating the girls to one of his famous, off-center smiles.
"Through no fault of my own, I was detained in Hong Kong. The plane on which I held reservations took off without me. Apparently, nobody bothered to cross my name off the passenger manifest, since everybody seems to have taken it for granted that I was aboard." He shrugged. "When I'm busy chasing down a lead, I don't go browsing through every news sheet published in the Crown Colony. I knew nothing of the exaggerated reports of my demise until I landed in Honolulu this morning. Dashed off a cable right away then, of course, but-"
"Oh, what does it matter now?" Melinda cried happily. "You're safe; that's all that matters!"
"My opinion exactly." Lance flicked his hat to the back of his head. "Guess our esteemed editor will be glad to see me back, too. Don't know what he'd use for copy if I weren't around."
Barbara gasped. What overbearing egotism! Granted, Lance Shelby had plenty to be conceited about. He was talented-and handsome-and charming. But she could not help feeling that all of these attributes could be enhanced by at least a semblance of modesty.
His personality flaws were none of her business, though, Barbara told herself. She opened her purse and fished for the notebook she had used the night before.
"See you in the morning," she said, dropping it into her desk drawer. "I really just stopped by to leave my notes on the Nicholson dance."
Melinda smiled absent-mindedly. Before Barbara could reach the hall, however, Lance Shelby's voice arrested her.
"Sure that was your only reason for paying a Sunday call on the Courier? Somehow I got the impression that you were digging for information about me." He tilted a sardonic eyebrow. "Research for my obituary?"
Barbara had been hoping to escape before the subject of her unfinished query recurred to him. Certainly she had no desire to break the news that the mistaken announcement of his death had prompted sightseers to route a series of excursions through his belongings.
"I'm afraid the only obituaries I write concern parties that die on the vine," she hedged.
"Then why ask what story I had been, working on?" he persisted reasonably.
There seemed no way to avoid replying. Barbara took a deep breath. "If you must know, the man who bought the houseboat you used to rent is a friend of mine. I thought that if you had been investigating the activities of gangsters or racketeers, it might account for some of the strange things that have been happening aboard the Albatross."
"Bought the houseboat!" Lance Shelby roared, leaping to his feet.
"Like everyone else, Mr. Dodson thought you were on the plane that crashed," Barbara explained. "Since you only rented the boat by the month, he put the Albatross up for sale."
"Goodness, Lance, it's not that important," Melinda declared. "I never could understand why you kept that creaky old boat, anyway."
"I happen," he said, "to be very fond of fishing."
"All your gear is in a storage room at Dodson's," Barbara put in helpfully.
This statement seemed to relieve his mind. "Just so long as he didn't include my tackle in the sale, I guess it's all right," he conceded. "Uh-you mentioned that strange things have been happening?"
Lance Shelby's attitude had undergone a quick change. Now he was all news-scenting reporter.
"Yes," Barbara said, deciding that her snap judgment of him might have been faulty. "Several people were interested in the Albatross, but my friend succeeded in buying it first. Both he and Mr. Dodson were offered bribes to cancel the sale, and when they refused, an attempt was made last night to rob the boat."
"Is your friend wealthy?" asked Melinda.
Barbara smiled. "No, quite the contrary. Nothing of his was taken. So we assumed that since Whit had nothing of value there, the thief must have been hunting for something belonging to the houseboat's former owner. Did you keep anything expensive aboard the Albatross, Mr. Shelby?"
"My fishing tackle wasn't cheap," he admitted. "By the way, everyone calls me Lance. Now, what was that about my investigating racketeers and gangsters?"
"A number of your articles have concerned notorious criminals. As there seemed to be no other explanation for the houseboat's popularity, I thought you might have come across some incriminating evidence concerning underworld life."
"And cached the evidence aboard my floating oyster palace?" Lance grinned. "Quite an idea. Wish I had thought of it myself."
"Then you don't know of anything concealed on the Albatross?" Barbara bit her lip, chagrined. So much for elaborate theories!
"Nothing except your friend-Whit, is it?" Lance slid off the desk where he had been perched. "I wonder if he'd mind my taking a quick look around the old tub just to make sure the Dodson's didn't overlook any of my gear. Some of those lures would be hard to replace."
"Of course he wouldn't mind. I had intended to drop by there this afternoon, if you'd care to come along."
"Hey, what about me?" Melinda cried.
Lance gave her a friendly but definitely nonromantic pat on the shoulder. "Honey, I'm a working reporter, remember? And I've got a hunch there's a hot story lurking around here somewhere!"
His sleek Italian sports car was parked at the curb in open defiance of the "towaway zone" sign posted above it. Ducking low to enter the car, Barbara shook her head in wonderment. Lance Shelby, she mused, seemed to be one of fortune's favorites. Beautiful girls like Melinda Foster idolized him, fabulous trips to the Orient were a routine part of his life, and traffic cops handed out their citations on the next street down. No wonder the Courier's star reporter was a wee bit conceited!
She gave directions as he skillfully guided the car around corners and downgrades. Presently she found herself responding to questions about herself and her friends. Lance's manner was so friendly that, without hesitation, she detailed Whit's experiences in purchasing the houseboat, and mentioned his difficulties with the recalcitrant "Mr. Smith."
"You think he was using an alias?" Lance probed. "Could be I've run across this 'Mr. Smith.' Give me his description."
Barbara had no trouble in complying; the man had left an indelible impression on her mind. "A stocky man in his mid-forties, about five feet nine, with black eyes and haystack eyebrows," she told Shelby. "He needed a haircut and his suit was rumpled."
A thoughtful expression crossed Lance's face, but "dunno for sure" was the only reply she managed to drag from him when she asked if he could identify the man.
Pulling off the rutted road at approximately the same spot where Whit had parked the evening before, Lance shaded his eyes and peered toward the inlet. "Looks as if your friend has company already." He gestured to the motor launch that nuzzled the bow of the Albatross.
Barbara was forced to take rapid strides in order to keep up with the reporter. As they drew closer to the little bay, she perceived the reason for haste. The visiting craft bore the Coast Guard insignia, and Lance, already intrigued by her accounts of the mystery surrounding the Albatross, intended to discover the purpose behind this official call.
Ascending the gangplank, Barbara found Whit and Greg deeply absorbed in conversation with a pair of Naval policemen. Each of the men wore S.P. armbands, and around the waists of their white uniforms were buckled businesslike service revolvers.
"Has something else happened?" she asked Whit, who broke away from the group and came to greet her.
"Not to us. To Buck Younger, if and when they catch him." He looked quizzically at Lance Shelby, and Barbara introduced him.
"Lance Shelby!" Whit exclaimed. "But aren't you-?"
"Still among the living." Lance smiled, and briefly explained.
"Sorry. That was thoughtless of me," Whit apologized. He swung back to Barbara. "Remember the other evening I thought I saw Buck Younger cruise past the wharf? Seems I was right, after all. The city police had set up a roadblock that night trying to nab a bank robber, and one of the cars they admitted through was driven by Buck. The patrolman checked his license as a matter of routine, but he didn't realize until later that Younger was the man the Navy had a warrant out on."
This confirmed Barbara's theory regarding the telephone caller with the Southern accent. Deciding to save this news until later, she asked, "What are the Shore Patrolmen doing here?"
"They're running a check on all Naval personnel and recent discharges in the area. They're hoping that someone who knew Buck personally might be able to give them a lead as to his present whereabouts."
Whit took her arm and drew her into the group. Lance tagged behind. Barbara, masking a smile, reflected that the lucky newspaperman had stumbled onto the makings of another "scoop." Talk about fortune's favorites!
"We have no idea what he could be doing in this locality," one of the Shore Patrolmen was saying to Greg. "Unless he has made contact with the person who helped him crash out of the brig."
"You mean the escape wasn't his own doing?" Greg asked, startled.
"Definitely not. The guard was attacked from behind and his keys stolen. Younger was the only prisoner in custody at the time, so we have no witnesses who saw the breakout." The Naval policeman fingered his belt. "Funny thing. Younger got into a lot of scrapes during his years with the Navy, but in each case, he operated as a lone wolf. Always by himself. Seems odd that anyone would be willing to take such a risk for him now."
"Yes, it does," Whit agreed, escorting the patrolmen to the gangplank. "If we see or hear anything, we'll let you know right away."
The launch roared out of the inlet, heading back toward the public docks of Santa Teresa.
Barbara was struck by the thoughtful expression that had settled over Greg's face at the mention of Younger's accomplice. He made no mention of the AWOL Texan, however, but extended his hand to Lance Shelby.
"Nice to see you again, sir," he said politely. "We enjoyed reading your piece on Admiral Billingsly."
"Had a ball doing it," Lance replied. "The fishing is good down around Port Dixon. I just tossed the anchor over the side and set my lines while banging out the article. Had a half-dozen bass by the time I finished typing up the interview."
"They ought to change the 'Life of Riley' saying to read 'Life of Shelby,' " Whit observed. "I, uh, I feel a bit guilty having bought the Albatross out from under you. Of course I had no idea-"
"Of course not," Lance interjected smoothly. "Even my editor was prepared to write me off with a floral RIP." His casual glance traveled the length of the houseboat. "You haven't run across any of my tackle, have you? I haven't been down to check it out at Dodson's yet, but it was scattered all over the boat. He might have missed packing a rod or a few lures."
"Haven't seen so much as a fishhook, but you're welcome to look for yourself," Whit offered. Like a proper host, he opened a cabin door and escorted the reporter inside. Within a few minutes, they emerged, empty-handed.
"Stay for a Coke?" Whit invited, but Lance declined.
"I'd better run back into town and play spook for a few people who haven't yet heard of my resurrection. Maybe I can scare Bruce MacFarland into giving me a raise. So long!"