Greg, who had remained slouched in one of the canvas chairs while Whit accompanied Lance through the cabins, got to his feet and walked over to the railing. He remained there, lost in thought, until the reporter had vanished around the bend of the road.
"I wonder what's on his mind?" Barbara asked herself. "He has been acting awfully peculiar for the last half hour."
With a start, Greg aroused himself from the brown study into which he had sunk. "How long was Buck Younger in the brig before he crashed out?" he asked abruptly.
"Oh, two or three days, I suppose," Whit said, frowning. "Why?"
"Well, I was thinking-" Greg seemed to be having a mental debate with himself. "No, it couldn't be," he muttered. "Timing's all wrong."
Whit snapped his fingers in front of Greg's face, like a magician bringing his subject out of a trance. "It's me, remember, your old buddy, Greg. What are you stewing about?"
"My bomb of an idea turned out to be a dud." Greg stared glumly down at the frothing water. Suddenly, the glum look changed to one of startled comprehension. "Wait a minute!" he exclaimed. "I had it all backwards. The other guy wasn't the accomplice-Buck was!"
He wheeled around, and the cogs clicking in his brain were almost audible. "You're the one who put the notion into my head. You know-last night, when we were talking about the riot Buck started. You asked if it wasn't the very next day they discovered that the plans for that new atomic sub had been stolen-"
"No, pal," Whit said emphatically. "That's what I started to say. You shot me a dagger look and I shut up."
"Like a clam. You said, 'Sorry, Miss T., Military Secret,' " Barbara verified. "But it isn't, really. It was in all the papers. About the plans having disappeared, I mean." And that, she remembered triumphantly, was exactly what she had been trying to recall. She had even clipped the item from the papers while comparing the different styles of the Courier and the Herald!
Greg grimaced. "With friends like our newspapers, this country doesn't need enemies," he growled. "That information shouldn't have been released."
"Have to keep the American public informed," Whit shrugged. "At least by releasing the news themselves, the authorities could play down its importance. Suppose a sharp news hound like Shelby had sniffed it out? He'd have blared it in three-inch headlines and had every Congressman in the country forming investigating committees to plague the Navy."
"Quit locking the sub door after the plans have been stolen and tell us your idea," Barbara said impatiently. "What about Buck Younger and his accomplice?"
The anger faded from Greg's face. "Usually visitors to Port Dixon are kept to a minimum and allowed in only on special passes. But two weeks ago when Shelby came to interview Admiral Billingsly, a crew of news-reel photographers sat in on the session, and half a dozen consulting engineers who had helped blueprint the new sub were there, too, surveying the harbor facilities. The base was bulging with visitors."
"I remember. All we needed was a drum and bugle corps to make it look like convention time at Madison Square Garden," Whit agreed. "Well, go on-get to the point."
"The point," said Greg earnestly, "is that any one of those people, or even someone who slipped in with them during all the confusion, could have stolen the plans. But he couldn't just stroll in and pick them off the admiral's desk. They were in a locked steel cabinet, and a guard was posted in that office day and night. That's where I think Buck Younger came in."
"That big bruiser is too clumsy to be a safe-cracker," Whit protested. "The only thing he really knows how to do is fight."
"Exactly! As I said, the thief couldn't just walk into the admiral's office. He needed a diversion to pull the guard out of there first. My guess is that he hired Younger to start such a lulu of a brawl that every Shore Patrolman on the base would come running to squelch it. The Navy couldn't afford to let that mob of newsmen and photographers get wind of a riot-not with the Senate already bickering over military appropriations. So, while everyone else was pitching in to stop the battle, the thief jimmied the cabinet and did a Houdini act with the blueprints."
Whit was awed by his friend's deductive abilities. "Good lord, Greg, I think you've hit it!"
"It could easily have happened that way. And listen!" Barbara cried excitedly. "Buck Younger was the only one who could point out the thief. He couldn't be allowed to come up before a court martial-he might have confessed the whole scheme! So the thief slipped back onto the base a couple of nights later and sprung him out of the brig!"
"Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage-when you've got a friend on the outside," Whit quipped.
"What was that you were saying before, about the timing being all wrong, Greg?" Barbara asked.
"Well, first I had the notion that Younger himself was the thief. He couldn't have been, though, because the guard didn't leave the admiral's office until after the fight had started. Buck was right in the thick of it the whole time. You know," he ruminated, "in some ways Port Dixon is a little like Alcatraz was. It's almost impossible to get in or out without a written pass. And when you do enter or leave, you're subjected to a search."
"So how did this mastermind get the blueprints past the gate?" Whit asked.
Greg casually exploded a bombshell. "He didn't. At least, I don't think so."
"They're still on the base?" Barbara gasped.
"Nope. I don't know where they are now," Greg admitted, "but I have a hunch that at one time they were right here on the Albatross."
"Right here on the Albatross?" Whit echoed.
"You're not serious!" Barbara exclaimed.
But Greg was grimly earnest.
"Sure. It hit me a few minutes ago when Shelby mentioned that he had brought his houseboat down to Port Dixon. You know the setup there, Whit. A pass could be faked; an unauthorized person might get onto the base-and off again-but not with those blueprints. The guards at the gate use an X-ray type machine which would show up bulky papers, as well as any metal object. And if anyone had tried going over that twelve-foot electric fence, or taking off in a plane or chopper, he'd have been spotted within seconds."
"Which leaves the water," Whit said, beginning to understand.
"That's the only way those papers could have been smuggled out." Greg paced a few yards down the deck, a faraway look in his eyes. "Shelby requested permission to bring his houseboat into the harbor while doing that interview. Because he is such a well-known person, authorization was granted almost immediately. Between then and the time he actually made the trip, any number of people might have learned of his plan. Shelby made no secret of the fact that he is an avid fisherman. He probably went around bragging that he was going to get the interview and a good catch of fish in the bargain."
"I guess he bragged to one person too many," Barbara said with a little shiver.
"As I see it, the thief learned of Shelby's plans in advance, which gave him a chance to work out a timetable with Buck Younger. When the riot started and the guard ran out to help break it up, the thief slipped into the office and broke open the cabinet. Then he barreled down to where the Albatross was berthed, hid the plans aboard, and hurried back to rejoin his group. The whole operation shouldn't have taken more than half an hour."
"And with the blueprints safely concealed, he had no further need for haste." Whit took up with the sordid tale. "He left when everyone else did, passed the gate search like any innocent citizen, and settled down in Santa Teresa to wait for Lance Shelby to return from his fishing trip. As soon as Shelby came ashore, the thief retrieved the cache." Whit brought his fist smashing down on the rail. "It was so simple it had to be foolproof. He couldn't miss!"
"Don't you think," Barbara interrupted quietly, "that 'thief' is the wrong word to use? Wouldn't 'spy' be more appropriate?"
"Well, let's just say that ordinary second-story men are more interested in diamond necklaces than in the blueprints for a nuclear sub," Greg admitted.
An uncomfortable silence settled over the Albatross as each of them was lost in his own thoughts. Barbara retraced the steps of Greg's reasoning and could find no flaw in it. The only trouble, she decided morosely, was that they hadn't figured out the ruse in time. The spy had neatly outfoxed them.
"Even that creepy Mr. Smith caught on before we did," she murmured to herself. "I wonder where he got the notion that the blueprints were still aboard the houseboat? Maybe he suspected that the spy hadn't been able to smuggle them out of the country yet, and figured this was as safe a temporary hiding place as any."
"I'll bet Buck Younger started worrying that he wasn't going to get his cut of the profits," Whit said, showing that his thoughts were running parallel to hers. "He took an awful risk coming out of hiding."
Greg nodded gloomily. He seemed to be blaming himself for not unraveling the plot sooner.
"What are you going to do now?" Barbara asked. "Notify the military authorities or the FBI?"
"Guess we'd better. Though, as you so aptly put it, starting an investigation now is like locking the sub door after the plans have been stolen." Greg kicked absently at a splinter jutting up from the deck. "I want to think about it a little longer. I've got a feeling that somewhere along the way I overlooked an important point."
When Barbara left the houseboat a short time later, Whit and Greg had still not decided upon a definite course of action. Short-cutting along the woodland trail, she decided that the grandeur of the sunset in the western sky was out of place. A damp, murky fog would have made a more appropriate setting for her depressed frame of mind.
Her spirits sank even lower when she found the house empty and recalled the birthday party which the Prescott family was attending. It would be hours before Regina and her parents would return.
Even now, Barbara could scarcely credit the fantastic tale which Greg had unfolded. Espionage in this peaceful little town!
The sharp jangle of the telephone bell sliced through her disturbed thoughts. Her eyes widened in surprise as Lance Shelby's breezy voice came bouncing over the wire.
"Hungry?" he asked without preamble.
"I had forgotten all about dinner," Barbara confessed.
"Then you're in luck. Slip into something black and slinky, and I'll buy you a lobster at Pietro's. Half an hour."
An uncompromising click severed the connection before Barbara could accept or reject the invitation. "Of all the nerve!" she fumed. "And telling me what to wear. It's a wonder he didn't specify the shade of lipstick-"
Suddenly she was overcome by a fit of giggles. It would do the conceited Mr. Shelby no end of good to be left waiting on the porch while she slipped out the back door. On the other hand, her stomach impatiently reminded her, she had eaten nothing since breakfast, and Pietro's was the best restaurant in town.
"Might as well attend the command performance," she told herself, still smiling as she hurried upstairs. Anything was preferable to sitting alone in an empty house and worrying about spies!
Barbara ignored his clothing instructions and chose a becoming knit suit in a soft shade of coral.
This mutinous gesture did nothing to diminish Lance's enthusiasm, however.
"My, my! You should be decorating the Society pages, instead of helping write them," he commented gallantly, holding the car door open for her.
Pietro's was hushed and dimly candlelit. A bowing major domo whisked them to their table, where self-effacing waiters competed for the privilege of drawing out their chairs.
Goodness, thought Barbara, impressed by the service which Lance's very presence seemed to command. He certainly has the world handed to him on a platter. I'll bet he was born wearing twenty-four carat gold diaper pins!
"I have a craving for seafood," Lance confided when the waiter had placed rosy goblets of shrimp cocktail before them. "That ole brain food legend was thrown at me when I was a kid. I had an urge to become the smartest fellow on the block, so fish was on the menu as often as I could persuade my folks to put it there. Guess I never outgrew the habit."
Barbara tasted the tiny crescents of shrimp nestling in a tangy sauce. "Um, this is wonderful," she exclaimed. "I can understand now why you're such a fishing fan."
"It's a wonderful hobby. I've had lots of relaxing vacations aboard the old houseboat. By the way," he asked, "what do your friends intend to do with the Albatross, now that they've bought her?"
"It's Whit's boat, really. Greg is just staying there with him for a few weeks. Whit plans to turn it into a restaurant."
Lance approved wholeheartedly. "Fine idea. It's a wonder no one thought of doing something like that sooner. I was rather surprised when the other young man-Greg-remembered me," he confided after a slight pause. "There were a great many visitors at Port Dixon the day I went down."
"Greg has a marvelous memory." Barbara smiled. "I think he must have had a brain food diet, too."
It was on the tip of her tongue to reveal the brilliant way in which Greg had plotted the circumstances surrounding the theft of the blueprints. Just in time, she restrained the impulse. The slightest hint to a newsman of Lance's capabilities would have him burrowing for details. And the last thing Greg or the Navy wanted right now was more publicity!
"Besides," she substituted hastily, "why shouldn't he remember you? You're one of the best-known reporters on the West Coast. How about sharing the secret of your success and telling me how you reached such lofty heights?"
Lance considered. "Persistence. Determination. Luck, once in a while. My family had practically no money. I resolved to make up for it-be the richest kid on the block, as well as the smartest. You have to be tops if you want to get rich in the newspaper business. After working hours were over, I used to go out and make contacts. Pretty soon I had friends and informants in every walk of life, and leads to the big stories started trickling in. I made them pay off."
Barbara nodded, thinking that this driving determination explained a great deal about Lance Shelby. Vanity accounted for only a small part of his personality. A heaping portion of ruthlessness also figured in his outlook on life. Where his goals were concerned, nothing had been allowed to stand in the way.
"Well, you accomplished your aim," she conceded. "I doubt if many of the other kids on your block drive around in Italian sports cars, or fly to the Orient on routine assignments."
Lance disposed of the last succulent morsel of lobster. "My assignments are never routine," he corrected.
"Allow me to rephrase my statement," said Barbara humbly. "Lance Shelby flies to the Orient only on the most unique assignments. All right?" She smiled, and set down her coffee cup. "Tell me about Hong Kong. Isn't it situated a bit too close to Red China for comfort?"
Lance gave her a keen look. "So you're a geography student, as well as a Society writer? No, I can't say that I ever felt uncomfortable in the Crown Colony. The British keep it well policed."
A flurry of activity at a nearby table captured their attention. Someone's wine glass had overturned, and a waiter moved quickly to blot up the red stain which snaked across the snowy linen cloth.
Barbara's first glance at the scene of the mishap had been casual; her second was frankly incredulous. "Lance," she whispered, "the man at the corner table-he's the Mr. Smith I was telling you about!"
In a natural manner, as if merely wishing to summon the waiter, Lance swiveled. "Smith, nothing!" he said gleefully. "That's Alexei Litvinov!"
While Barbara was puzzling over this unrevealing piece of information, Lance rose unobtrusively and made his way to a phone booth.
"I've had the goods on Alexei for months, but he's always managed to elude me," the reporter said, returning by a route which kept his back to the unsuspecting foreigner.
"But-who is he?" Barbara whispered eagerly.
"Read the Courier tomorrow morning and find out," Lance teased. Amused by her crestfallen expression, he relented. "Comrade Litvinov," he informed her sotto voce, "is one of those men who are popularly known on television dramas as espionage agents. Uncle Sam knows all about the little games he plays. The State Department refused him a visa when he applied for entry to this country last year."
"Then how did he get in? What's he doing here? And how," Barbara asked, "did you come to know him?"
"You sound like a pal of mine who does interviews on radio. Never lets the interviewee get a word in edgewise," Lance chided. "We don't have an iron curtain around America. Anyone with a reasonable amount of determination and intelligence can evade the border patrol and slip in illegally. I ran across Litvinov in Paris a couple of years back. At that time, he was a strike agitator-he and men like him stirred up all sorts of trouble for the French. They promoted a strike which literally crippled the country's transportation for six weeks."
Barbara's eyes widened. "Is that his mission in the United States?"
"My dear child," Lance said patronizingly, "Comrade Litvinov is a very versatile fellow. One never knows from day to day what dirty work he'll stick his pudgy little finger into next." He paused. "I can tell you this, though-I have a file in my safe-deposit box which contains a picture of him. It was snapped in a place which not even loyal American citizens are allowed to enter-unless the highly specialized nature of their work takes them there."
Barbara's mind was a whirl of names. Los Alamos, Oak Ridge, Cape Canaveral-that was the sort of place Lance meant!
"We'd better be going," he said, fanning bills across the discreetly reversed check on the platter. "I have a feeling that Pietro's is about to be invaded by the minions of the law!"
Her mind reeling with thoughts of international intrigue, Barbara hardly noticed which direction Lance was driving them. Before she knew it, he had arrived at his apartment building.
"I hope you'll be coming up for a drink," he said. It came out more as a command than a wish.
"Well, I really shouldn't," Barbara said. "But since we're already here, I guess it's all right."
"That's the girl."
Once inside his penthouse, Barbara was intoxicated by the beauty of the place. The view was marvelous, and she stopped by the window almost hypnotized by the bright lights of the city. Lance left her there and then returned some time later dressed in a plush robe.
"Here," he said. "I thought you might like to get comfortable."
Lance held out a robe-a woman's robe, and just her size-to Barbara. She thought things had gone too far, but when she saw the gleam of insistence in Lance's eyes, she couldn't find the courage to resist.
After a few drinks, Barbara found herself feeling a bit more comfortable in Lance's presence. They sat close together on the couch talking like old friends. Then Lance hit a switch on a side table and dimmed the lights in the room. Finishing off his glass of gin, he reached out and grabbed Barbara, pulling her to him.
She loved their first kiss. Never before had a man been so bold with her. And never before had she felt so totally swept away by a man. When he moved his hand up to caress her breasts, she made no move to stop him. In fact, she encouraged him to reach inside and touch her flesh.
Lance massaged her nipples for a while as he kissed her deeply. Then he tore his lips from hers and began frantically untying the sash on her robe. He wanted to see her naked. He wanted her body revealed to him so he could run his hands all over it, so he could kiss her everywhere, so he could devour her with his eyes, his touch, his throbbing penis.
Lance slipped off the couch and dropped to his knees beside her. After removing the robe she wore, he began running his hands up and down, from her knees to her neck, pausing to stroke her large breasts, smooth his palms across her belly, or grind the heel of his hand into the puffy mound of her vagina.
When he figured Barbara was aroused sufficiently, he decided it was time to carry her into his bedroom. Running his strong arms underneath her, he picked her up. Barbara was amazed at how easy it was for Lance to support her while he ran into the bedroom. He seemed so strong to her, so powerful.
Tossing Barbara down onto his circular bed, Lance proceeded to shed his robe. Barbara watched him, eagerly anticipating the sight of his penis. She was rewarded momentarily with a glimpse of the biggest cock she had ever seen. When Lance caught her staring at it, he stood at the foot of the bed with his hands on his hips, smiling, letting Barbara have a good look.
"You like that, eh?" Lance said.
"Oh, Lance, it's so big," she said excitedly. "I've never… seen one so… big." Not that Barbara had been with a lot of men. However, Lance's size still amazed her.
"Well, don't worry, honey. I'll go nice and slow."
When Lance joined her on the bed, he embraced her, pressing her down against the mattress. While kissing her neck and shoulders, he pressed his hips into her thighs, letting the heat from his hard penis seep into her body.
Barbara looked at the ceiling to see that it was covered with mirrors. She could see herself underneath Lance's body. She could see his buttocks clenching as he began moving his hips back and forth. And she could see that she was enjoying herself. Smiling at her reflection, she returned to the task at hand.
Barbara extended her hand tentatively down toward Lance's penis. She gently scraped her fingernails into the flesh of his rib cage, his smooth lower back, his hairy thighs. Then she dropped her hand down and gripped the shaft of his prick. She held it tightly, thrilled by the way it filled her hand.
"That's it, honey," Lance said softly. "You don't have to be afraid. Just relax. That's the way."
Back and forth, Barbara stroked her fist. On the down stroke she felt her hand pressing into the soft, wrinkled flesh of his scrotum. At the height of the upstroke, she surrounded the shiny head of his penis.
"Oh, yeah," he grunted. "That's good, baby. But now I've got something else for us to do."
Lance pressed Barbara down onto her back and then spread her legs apart. He could tell her vagina was ready by the way it glistened from an excess of lubricant. Holding his penis in his hand, he aimed it toward the entrance of her pussy. He lowered his hips, and slowly he slipped his manhood inside her.
It felt so good to Barbara that she thought she would burst with delight. Lance's penis filled her so full. She abandoned herself to the wonderful feelings coursing through her body, responding to his fevered strokes passionately.
Higher and higher she drifted until a cascade of bright lights and rippling spasms enveloped her. She could feel Lance's semen smoldering in the depths of her vagina, and it felt tremendously satisfying.
Lance made her feel so good that for the rest of the evening she didn't think about the blueprints or foreign agents for a moment.