Spy! Spy! Spy! The word traveled through the Courier building with the rapidity of a brush fire leaping across the prairie. Everyone whom Barbara encountered that Monday morning was carrying a copy of the early edition. Her own paper was already dog-eared from having been read and reread.
"Soviet Agent Apprehended!" the banner shrieked, and under Lance Shelby's byline the story was dramatically revealed. The city police, acting on a tip from "your reporter," had placed Alexei Litvinov under arrest. An alerted FBI had already taken over custody of the suspected spy, and it was intimated that charges of espionage would be leveled against him. Definite proof of Litvinov's illicit activities, Lance wrote, had been placed in the hands of the federal authorities.
Although the nature of the proof was not described, Barbara guessed that this must pertain to the compromising photograph in Lance's possession.
He certainly left no doubt in anyone's mind as to who should be credited with the arrest, she thought with a mixture of amusement and annoyance.
References to "your reporter" were sprinkled liberally throughout the article. Even though it was Barbara who had been instrumental in the agent's identification, no mention was made of her participation. Actually, she felt rather relieved that her name had not appeared in the newspaper account. Melinda regarded Lance as her own special property-and Whit might not have understood, either.
In any event, the date had supplied the answer to a point which Barbara had found perplexing. Greg's theory that the blueprints were at one time secreted aboard the Albatross explained why the houseboat was being searched. But Lance Shelby's apartment had also been ransacked. Now she realized that while Alexei Litvinov would have given a great deal to gain possession of the blue prints, his primary concern undoubtedly was to unearth the telltale photograph. No wonder "Mr. Smith" had gone to such desperate lengths in his attempts to buy the Albatross!
Melinda's pointed comment about the unopened mail brought her sharply back to earth. What a relief, Barbara thought, reaching for the letter opener, to have all the riddles solved. Well-all but one. There was still no clue as to the person who had purloined the vital documents. But that was a matter for the FBI. Now maybe Whit could redecorate his houseboat in peace-and she could concentrate on her job!
A few days later, the preparations for the wedding began in earnest. Lengthy consultations with florists, caterers, and photographers went on from morning till night, and strains of the 'Wedding March' and 'O Promise Me' echoed continuously from behind the door of the sun room, where Regina's Aunt Louise had taken over temporary possession of the piano.
"Do you realize," Regina gasped, bursting into Barbara's bedroom on Thursday evening, "that we haven't even selected the bridesmaids' gowns yet? I put it off because Fran Harris left on vacation just before you arrived, and it went completely out of my mind!"
"That's not much of a problem," Barbara said. "Tobin's is having a sale. Now that the June brides are all married off, we can get the dresses for half price. You're right, though," she admitted with a laugh when Regina-groaned despairingly, "we really ought to see about them. Since the wedding is only two weeks away, I suppose we'd better not wait for the quarter price sale."
Regina plopped down on the bed. "Barbara, how can you joke at a time like this?"
"It's easy-I'm not the bride-to-be!" Barbara had been sewing buttons onto a sweater. Now she set aside her needle and looked questioningly at her friend.
"You've been awfully nervous lately, Regina," she said. "Is it just those famous pre-matrimonial jitters, or is something else the matter? I'd like to help if I can."
Regina laughed shakily. "You're imagining things," she insisted. Then her composure crumbled. "Or maybe I am. It's Greg. He-he's seemed so withdrawn and preoccupied these past few days. He can be sitting right in the same room with me, and his mind is a million miles away."
"Oh, I see." Barbara stared reflectively out of her bedroom window. The inlet was masked by close-growing trees, and the twilight effectively camouflaged any lights which might have twinkled aboard the Albatross.
"You mustn't worry," she said gently. "I think Greg is troubled about something that happened in Port Dixon shortly before his discharge. I heard him discussing it with Whit."
Regina looked enormously relieved. "I'm glad to hear that. I was afraid he was trying to think of a diplomatic way to call off the wedding!" Curiously, she added, "What did happen in Port Dixon?"
"The blueprints for a new atomic submarine were stolen. There is a possibility that the man who was arrested the other night might have had something to do with the theft."
"Spies!" Regina shuddered distastefully. "Thank goodness the FBI knows how to deal with people like that. Now," she reverted to her original concern, "what are we going to do about those dresses?"
"The stores are open tomorrow night. Why don't you and Fran meet me downtown after work?" Barbara suggested.
The next afternoon at five o'clock the three girls met outside the Courier building. Strolling along arm in arm, Barbara swapped news with Fran Harris, the pert redhead who was to be Regina's other bridal attendant. They had all gone through school together, and since Barbara and Fran had not seen each other in two years, they found a great deal to talk about.
Luckily, Tobin's had a wide selection of bridesmaids' gowns left in stock. The girls had some difficulty in deciding which style and color they preferred, but finally they narrowed down the choice to a jacketed gown of mist-green taffeta and a lovely flaring chiffon in a heavenly shade of peacock blue.
"I believe the blue number suits both of you better." The saleswoman voiced her experienced opinion. "And aren't you fortunate to need no alterations? I wish I were a perfect size twelve."
After another quarter hour of twisting and turning before the full-length mirror, Barbara and Fran agreed that the saleswoman's advice was sound. They had the blue dresses carefully wrapped in layers of tissue paper and then, to complete the ensembles, they chose simple satin pumps and wide picture hats in a matching shade.
I wonder how Whit will like me in it, Barbara thought, juggling her parcels. A flush warmed her cheeks as she realized how very much she was looking forward to walking down the aisle as his partner after the marriage ceremony.
The past week had been so crowded that she had seen very little of the good-looking ex-sailor. Social affairs seemed to be at a peak despite the fact that July was the height of the vacation season, and she and Melinda were often pressed for time to cover all the events to which they were invited. During her lunch hour, Barbara never failed to comb the want ads in the hope that a suitable apartment for rent would appear. She had even inserted an ad of her own in the Courier, but so far she had not received a single reply.
Something had better turn up soon, she thought. With the ceaseless comings and goings of caterers and photographers, it was beginning to seem as if she would never find another moment of solitude.
Whit, she knew, had been busy, too. A huge mound of paint and cleaning supplies now crowded the Albatross's center cabin, and Greg reported that considerable progress had already been made in the houseboat's refurbishment.
When Regina mentioned that Greg planned to meet her downtown for dinner, Barbara glanced at her wrist watch. It was barely six o'clock. Several hours of daylight remained. Impulsively, she decided to stop by the houseboat on her way home, and de-toured around to the wrapping desk to request that her purchases be delivered.
"Have to rush-got a date. But I want to talk to you about something," Fran whispered as Regina left the shop ahead of them. "Call you tomorrow."
Wondering what could be on Fran's mind, Barbara rode to the bus stop nearest the Prescott home and then walked the remaining distance to the inlet. She found Whit on his hands and knees, industriously running an electric sander over the deck. He seemed glad of an excuse to stop working.
"You've accomplished wonders this past week," Barbara praised him, looking around. "With a couple of days vacation coming up, I thought I'd drop in to ask if you could use a helper."
Some of the weariness left his face and his eyes brightened. "I'll sign you on the ship's complement as soon as my fingers straighten out," he said gratefully. "What's your rating-able seaman, oiler, wiper?"
"Hummm. None of those categories quite describe my talents," Barbara said. "What does the bosun do?"
"Gives orders," said Whit, and laughed at her prompt, "That's for me!"
Over a strawberry waffle and coffee, they discussed the next step in the houseboat's face-lifting.
"I have a few more yards of paint to finish chipping and then we can go ahead and prime," he told her proudly.
"I'll help," Barbara offered. She carried the dishes to the sink and paused thoughtfully, watching the soap bubble up around them.
"Whit," she said, "Regina is worried about Greg. Do you know if he is still brooding about those stolen blueprints?"
"He has something on his mind; I've noticed it, too." Whit frowned. "I didn't want to say anything, but since you've brought it up, there is something else that bothers me. He's taken to walking in his sleep!"
Barbara almost dropped the plate. "Greg? Walking in his sleep?"
"Don't ask me to explain it." Whit shrugged. "I've been sleeping with one ear open ever since our burglary. I thought I heard noises several times before, but wrote it off when I couldn't find anyone prowling around. Then, last night I saw Greg."
"What was he doing?" Barbara asked eagerly.
"At first, he was monkeying around with the bulkheads-tapping them and pushing on them. After a while, he started pacing round and round the deck. Ten minutes later he came back to his bunk and stretched out, and he didn't budge for the rest of the night."
"Did he say anything?"
"Not a syllable. I trailed along behind him to make sure he didn't fall over the side, but I was too baffled to try to wake him. I don't think he believed me when I told him about it this morning. Said he'd never heard of such a crazy stunt."
"Something must be preying on his mind." Barbara frowned. "I've heard that people react strangely at times when they are troubled with a problem they can't solve."
Whit looked dubious. "Greg is the most normal guy I've ever known," he declared. "What possible problem could he have? He's healthy, he's going to marry the second prettiest girl in Santa Teresa, and he's about to join his dad in making a mint of money selling real estate."
"I didn't mean personal problems, exactly," Barbara murmured. "I meant-Whit, I can't get those blueprints out of my mind. I keep wondering who took them, and whether he has already succeeded in handing them over to the enemy. I'm sure Greg is worried about the same thing. More so, probably, because he was actually on the base when the plans were stolen."
"So was I-so were two thousand other sailors." Whit dragged a hand through his close-cropped red hair. "Holy smoke, Barbara!" he burst out. "Do you suppose Greg knows who took those blueprints?"
"Of course not," she said firmly. "If he did, he would have notified the FBI immediately. Remember, he said that as the Admiral's aide he stuck pretty close to that party of newsmen and photographers who were visiting the base? I think he has been going over and over their movements in his mind, trying to recall if one of them slipped away from the group for any length of time. He must feel partly responsible for the theft, even though no one could have foreseen that such a thing would happen. It's become sort of an obsession with him to expose the culprit."
"And that's what pressured him into climbing out of the sack in the middle of the night to go prowling around the boat?" Whit shook his head. "Sounds goofy to me."
"Listen!" Barbara cried. "Greg's theory hinged on the fact that he thought the blueprints were smuggled out of Port Dixon aboard the Albatross. Subconsciously, he might believe that they are still hidden somewhere on this boat!"
"He was poking at the bulkheads," Whit reflected. "Ah-they couldn't be, though. This houseboat has been searched so many times it's practically threadbare!"
"I didn't say they were still here. I said Greg might believe they were," Barbara pointed out reasonably. "You'd better see if you can't get him interested in something else."
Whit promised to do what he could. "Want to go to a movie tomorrow night?" he asked, squeezing her hand as she started down the gangplank.
"I'd love to. Though by the time we're through chipping all that paint we may be too bleary-eyed to watch it," Barbara laughed. "See you at nine in the morning."
It was closer to ten o'clock, however, when Barbara arrived at the houseboat on Saturday morning. Immediately after breakfast, Fran Harris telephoned, and upon learning that Regina was nowhere about, she proceeded to outline a plan she had in mind.
"I want to give Regina a bridal shower," she confided. "Is next Saturday night all right with you?"
"Sure," Barbara answered. The same idea had occurred to her, but she lacked a place to hold the shower and still preserve the necessary secrecy. "What can I do to help?"
"Just make sure Regina gets here without suspecting anything. I want it to be a real surprise. Tip off her fiance so that he won't make any big plans for that evening."
They chatted a few minutes longer before hanging up. Then, after explaining to Mrs. Prescott that she would be away for the rest of the day, Barbara headed for the inlet. Whit greeted her enthusiastically and, when the paint-chipping operation was completed in record time, complimented her on her workmanship.
"You're so good, I think I'll let you paint, too," he told her.
"Thanks a million!" Barbara retorted, but she didn't really mind. Working side by side with Whit, chores she would ordinarily have classed as drudgery became almost pleasant.
They picnicked on chicken-filled pastries and frosty lemonade, and dabbled their toes in the cove's clear, shallow water before resuming work on the Albatross. During the afternoon, Whit finished sanding down the decks, while Barbara polished the portholes to a glistening sparkle.
"Wonder what happened here?" she murmured, catching her finger on a rough edge. The casement into which the porthole fitted was splintered. It looked as if it had been damaged at one time, and inexpertly repaired.
The grating hum of the sander drowned out her voice, however, and Whit failed to hear her comment. Shrugging, Barbara moved her cleaning equipment onto the next porthole and promptly forgot about the splintery one adjoining it.
Contrary to her prediction, they both enjoyed the movie at the drive-in which followed.
"Damn! I almost forgot!" Whit exclaimed with a suddenness which almost caused Barbara to spill her malt. "I found a restaurant that's going out of business. Heard about it from a fellow in the drugstore."
"Wonderful! Is it here in Santa Teresa?"
"No. It's down the coast about thirty miles. Little place called Amigos."
"Amigos-friends," Barbara translated. Many California towns bore the original names given them by the first Spanish settlers. "When do you plan on seeing the owner?"
"The sooner the better. We could drive down together, if you'd like to come." Whit had tapped his lean savings to purchase a small secondhand car. "I'd take the Albatross, but I don't have a decent chart of these waters. Besides, the paper said there might be rain squalls."
Barbara agreed that the proposed excursion sounded like an ideal way to spend a Sunday. On the way home they speculated on what sort of place the Cafe El Gato might prove to be, and what sort of arrangement might be made with the owner for the sale of his equipment.