Shortly after noon the following day, Barbara and Whit set out along the barren coastal road. Although ominous-looking clouds glowered on the horizon, the predicted rain squalls did not materialize. Several times Barbara asked Whit to stop the car so that she might photograph some of the majestic rock formations which jutted up from the frothing surf.
"You shutterbugs!" Whit said indulgently as she clambered out on the ledge and teetered precariously while focusing on her target. "Anything for a good shot. You ought to get together with Rog Nelson, my partner. Now there is a camera addict. Never goes anywhere without a couple of bulging cases strapped over his shoulder. He looks like a tourist even in his home town!"
Barbara stuck out her tongue at him and climbed back into the car. "He ought to have a grand collection by the time he returns from the Orient," she remarked, thinking vaguely of cherry trees and Balinese dancers.
"Right now, he's on destroyer duty, but last time he wrote they were about to start for home, and he was hoping the ship would put in at Hong Kong and Tokyo long enough for him to shoot up a few yards of film."
Urged on by Barbara, Whit described some of the places he had visited during his hitch in the Navy. Almost before he knew it, the little car was toiling up the steep winding road which led to Amigos.
The buildings which fronted the town's main street were ramshackle and unpainted. Few pedestrians were to be seen on the sidewalks. The gutters were clogged with debris, and the gloomy weather only intensified their impression that the place was really a ghost town and the sparse population figments of their imagination.
"Amigos looks a little short on friends at the moment," Barbara commented as Whit pulled up to the curb in front of the only whitewashed building they had seen so far.
A decal of a stalking black cat was embellished on the door of the cafe. When no one appeared to answer their tentative knock, Whit tried the latch. Finding it unlocked, they stepped inside. Barbara was quick to notice the scrubbed appearance of the floors and counters, and that the furnishings were solid and unmarred.
A slender, black-haired boy of about sixteen emerged through the swinging door at that moment. Whit asked if he might speak with the proprietor, and the boy nodded shyly, answering that he would bring his uncle.
Manuel Rodriguez was a hospitable little man with a quick smile and a hearty handshake. "Senior, senorita, come in-my house is yours," he said, giving them the traditional Spanish greeting. "You will not mind coming into my kitchen? I am my own cook, and the food must be tended."
Seated in the homey room surrounded by penetrating odors of garlic, onion, and cheese, Whit stated his errand. Senior Rodriguez listened politely.
"I see. You weesh tables and chairs for this new business of yours." He smiled, white teeth flashing against his olive skin. "That is good. I must sell. The mill, you see, which gave work to most of the people in this town has gone-closed down. My customers went with it." He shrugged philosophically. "So my nephew, Felipe, and I go back to Guaymas."
While the two men discussed details of the sale, Barbara wandered over to the huge iron range and watched as Felipe stirred the contents of one bubbling pot, added a pinch of salt to another. With an amused grin, he reeled off the names of the dishes.
"Frijoles, tamales, enchiladas," he said. "You like them?"
"They smell wonderful," Barbara told him.
"You must dine with us, you and your friend."
Manuel Rodriguez promptly seconded the invitation. Barbara and Whit, their appetites whetted by the tantalizing aromas, readily accepted, and were doubly glad of the decision when at the close of the meal Felipe took up his guitar and began to strum the melodies of old Mexico.
"Why don't you hire Felipe to play on the Albatross?" Barbara asked dreamily. "Between his music and your cooking, you'd have to turn the cabins into extra dining rooms in no time."
"Good idea, but I'm afraid he is going back to Mexico with his uncle," Whit answered.
Felipe had been listening with interest. He would, he said, prefer to stay in California, at least for the rest of the summer. Had they a job for him?
"Not a very profitable one, I'm afraid," Whit said, explaining that his budget would make a shoestring look fat.
"But lots of tips, maybe?" Felipe grinned, his black eyes sparkling. "I sing and play the guitar. I clear the tables, I wash the dishes. You won't be sorry."
Whit promised to think it over and let the boy know in a week's time, when he would return with the Albatross to collect the furniture. He and Manuel Rodriguez had had no difficulty in coming to an agreement, and a receipted bill of sale was in his pocket when at last they left the Cafe El Gato.
Stepping out into the street was like wading into the soft center of a marshmallow. The gray-white fog obscured even the closest objects. Barbara clung tensely to the window handle while Whit cautiously maneuvered around the sharp curves and turns. Then, suddenly, they were able to see again. The fog lay above them, hovering over the hill and the town of Amigos like a ceiling wispy with patches of flaking plaster.
"Scared?" Whit asked, removing his eyes from the road for the first time in fifteen minutes.
"Not now. I was, a little, " Barbara admitted. Settling back, she closed her eyes. What a wonderful day it had been! Not even the fog could spoil it. With a warm feeling of happiness, she thought of the fire lit kitchen, of Felipe's fingers whispering across the strings of his guitar to bring forth those poignant melodies.
"Oh Whit, thank you for bringing me!" she cried. "I've never spent such a perfect day!"
The glow of the dashboard was their only illumination, but she could see his face light up with pleasure. "Neither have I," he agreed enthusiastically. "Your being along-well, it made all the difference." For a time, he drove in silence. Then he burst out, "It must be the very dickens being a Captain of Industry!"
Barbara stared at him. "What brought that on?"
"Even trying to get a small business like mine established takes nearly every minute I have."
"But think how nice it will be when the customers start flocking in."
"Guess you're right. Maybe then I'll be able to relax and concentrate on something really important." An alarming thought struck him. "You're not going to leave Santa Teresa once the wedding is over, are you?"
"It all depends. I-I hope not." More-than ever Barbara dreaded the move back to the city. If only she could find an apartment!
The return journey consumed more than an hour. By the time they drove up to the Prescott house, the sidewalks were deserted, and the only sign of life was the parade of yellow street lights glowing mistily through the darkness.
"Nobody home," Whit remarked, eyeing the darkened windows. "Gallivanters, these Prescott's. As bad as the Egan's and Torrances."
"It's nearly ten." Barbara smiled as she looked at the dashboard clock. "They'll be home soon. Greg went with them to visit Regina's grandparents."
Whit walked around to open the car door for her. "Just the same, I don't like-"
He stiffened, staring at the house.
Her fingers tightening over his, Barbara followed his gaze. A bulky shadow flickered away from the enclosure of the porch. An instant later, a form materialized, solidly, at the head of the driveway.
The man continued to move toward them, not pausing in his measured tread until he-had reached the curb.
"You wouldn't," he said with more than a hint of truculence in his tone, "be Gregory Maiden, would you?"
Barbara's heart resumed its normal beat. How silly, she thought shakily, to have been so afraid. As if, in Santa Teresa, there was anything to fear. As if, she added reluctantly, men like Alexei Litvinov still prowled the streets.
"Nope," Whit said. "You wanted to see him?"
The stranger produced a wallet from his pocket and held it open in the flood of the street lamp. "He wanted to see me. Telephoned. Said it was urgent."
The man's picture and his name, Thomas J. Quinn, were stamped on his credentials. "Federal Bureau of Investigation," Barbara read. Wide-eyed, she met his unblinking gaze. "Oh, but there must be some mistake. Greg wouldn't-"
"Why don't we find out what this is all about?" Whit interjected quietly. "Let's go inside."
When they were seated in the living room, Whit introduced Barbara and himself, adding that they were close friends of Greg Maiden. "You're with the FBI?" he asked.
"Special agent," said Thomas J. Quinn. "Can you tell me where to find Mr. Maiden?"
Whit and Barbara exchanged glances. "As far as we know, he went visiting with his fiancйe and her family," Barbara said. "I can telephone, if you like, and see if they are still there."
"Would you do that, please?" Although Mr. Quinn's words were pleasant, his voice had an authoritative ring.
She found the number in the desk directory, dialed, and exchanged a few sentences with someone at the other end of the wire.
"Mrs. Prescott said that Greg had been with them all day, but that he left rather suddenly around seven o'clock," Barbara relayed. "He insisted there was something important that he had to do. When Regina's father offered to drive him home, Greg told him that he would take a taxi rather than spoil the evening for the rest of the family."
"Mr. Maiden lives at this address?" Mr. Quinn asked.
Whit explained that Greg stayed with him aboard the Albatross. "We don't want to pry, sir, but you've got us sort of worried," he admitted. "You mentioned that Greg called you. Mind telling us why?"
"I'm not sure myself." Mr. Quinn looked thoughtfully from one to the other of them, until Barbara felt like squirming in discomfort.
Finally, seemingly satisfied with what he saw, he resumed: "At eight-five a call came in to our office from a person who said his name was Gregory Maiden. He gave this address, and asked that an agent meet him as soon as possible at a houseboat which was anchored in a cove a few hundred yards down the hill behind the house. Mr. Maiden said that he had discovered something of the greatest possible importance. However, he declined to reveal anything further over the telephone."
"And that's all?" Barbara cried.
"There was one other thing," the FBI man hesitantly admitted. "He chuckled, as though it were a joke of some kind, and said we needed a password so he would know who was approaching. When I got near the cove, he said, I should whistle 'Anchors Aweigh.' "
Mr. Quinn's grave expression was all that restrained Barbara from laughing aloud. The whole tale had sounded slightly ridiculous to begin with, but with this last statement, it took on a cloak-and-dagger aspect. Secret password! And a whistle at that!
Apparently, Whit shared her opinion. "I hate to say this, sir, but I've got a notion that someone was pulling your leg. Greg isn't a very imaginative guy-he couldn't dream up anything as mysterious as this in a hundred years!"
"Did you go down to the houseboat?" Barbara asked Mr. Quinn.
"Certainly," he affirmed. "We can't afford to pass up any leads. When Mr. Maiden didn't meet me as promised, I took the liberty of looking through the cabins. Not a soul around anywhere. I waited for more than half an hour and then came back here to see if someone else might know what this affair was all about."
"I'm awfully sorry," Whit mumbled. Abruptly, his expression changed from puzzlement to relief. A car had pulled into the driveway. "Perhaps the Prescott's can help you," he said hopefully as Regina and her parents entered the house.
Listening to Mr. Quinn describe the enigmatic telephone call a second time, Barbara felt a gradual sense of unease steal over her. Supposing, she thought, the implausible story was true. Supposing it was Greg, and not some prankster, who had phoned the FBI? What possible reason could he have had for doing so-and why wasn't he here to explain?
"… The Sunshine Cab Company," she emerged from her speculations to hear Mr. Prescott say.
While everyone sat frankly eavesdropping, Mr. Quinn placed a call to the taxi company and spoke briefly with the dispatcher.
"He came back here, all right," he reported, hanging up. "Each driver keeps a log of his fares. Mr. Maiden paid off the cab at this address at 7:16 p.m. Roughly fifty minutes elapsed, therefore, between the time he arrived and the time he called me." The Federal agent looked quizzically at the Prescott family. "Was there anything unusual about his behavior earlier in the day?"
Regina, who had been sitting white-faced and tense throughout the recital, suddenly came to life.
"Yes," she said, straining to keep the tremor out of her voice. "He was-he was fine until we went out to mail some letters for Grandad shortly before dinner. Greg dropped the letters in the slot and then he stood there just staring at the mailbox, as if he'd never seen one before. I asked him what was the matter, and he said, 'Right under our noses the whole time and we never guessed!' He looked awfully excited, but he wouldn't explain what he meant. As soon as we had finished eating, he jumped up and said he had to go."
"I see," Mr. Quinn rose briskly and turned to Whit. "I want to have another look at that houseboat of yours. Could be I missed something."
Barbara had no intention of being excluded, although Mrs. Prescott insisted that she and Regina wait at the house for their return. Carrying powerful flashlights, Mr. Prescott and Whit strode down the overgrown trail to the inlet, while Barbara and Mr. Quinn followed closely behind.
The Albatross rocked serenely at anchor, silent and deserted-looking as any Flying Dutchman. Her phantom appearance soon changed, however, as lights flooded the creaky old boat and they began a thorough inspection of her decks and cabins.
It was Whit who discovered the damaged porthole. He had been raking his flashlight across the bulkheads and railings while the two older men concentrated on the boat's interior. With a muffled exclamation, he focused the beam on the chipped fragments of wood beneath the little round pane.
Mr. Quinn emerged hastily onto the deck in answer to Whit's shout. Barbara, watching him bend to inspect the damage, had a sudden, vivid recollection of a soapy sponge and herself industriously polishing portholes.
"That's the splintery one!" she cried. "I caught my finger on the rough edge and thought what a shoddy repair job someone had done."
Mr. Quinn demanded a full description of the porthole's former appearance, but Barbara could tell him nothing except that it had looked as if the wood below it was dented at one time and then haphazardly patched up. She was rather abashed at the furor her exclamation had caused.
"These marks are fresh," the Federal man commented thoughtfully. "I'd say that someone had been gouging here with a penknife. Notice the small crevice between the solid wooden frame and this plywood facing? A thin object could have been inserted here and the breach filled in with putty or some other substance."
"Oh!" Barbara gasped, and Whit, obviously struck with the same idea, echoed her startled cry.
"Oh, what?" Mr. Quinn snapped. "Come on-out with it!"
"This is all strictly guesswork, sir," Whit said hesitantly. "I'm sure your office must have been informed about the submarine blueprints which were stolen from the Port Dixon naval base?" He took a deep breath when the older man stiffened. "Well, Greg had a-a theory on how those blueprints could have been smuggled out… "
The night air seemed charged with tension as Whit recounted the details of Greg's idea. Mr. Quinn listened without interrupting, but his face was no longer impassive.
"Great Scott!" he ranted. "And you two characters just sat on this keg of dynamite without telling anyone?"
"We didn't really know anything," Whit protested. "It was just a notion that Greg had. If we had thought for one minute that the blueprints might still be aboard-"
"Okay, okay. You didn't want to stir up a hornet's nest of red tape without something more than a hunch to go on," Mr. Quinn said wearily. "Can't say I blame you, when you put it that way. It's too late now, of course."
"Mr. Quinn," Barbara choked, "what- what do you think happened to Greg?"
His refusal to meet her eyes was answer enough.
When Whit drove Barbara home later that evening, they rode in silence. It wasn't until they arrived in front of the Prescott home that Barbara said anything.
"Oh, Whit. I'm so scared. Please, come inside and make sure everything is all right."
She just wanted him to escort her to her room safely, but Whit had other ideas. He thought her intentions were somewhat different than they actually were. Whit thought that Barbara needed more than casual comfort and a reassuring pat on the back. He thought that she wanted to go to bed with him.
When they arrived at her room safely, after walking through the house as quietly as possible, Barbara extended her hand.
"Thank you, Whit," she said. "I really appreciate this."
"My pleasure."
Whit took her hand, but he didn't shake it. Instead, he pulled her closer and then hugged her. Before Barbara could protest, he pressed his lips against hers and kissed her hard. She tried to push him away, but to no avail. He was too strong for her. She gave in, but it was less a surrender than it was something she did willingly. She couldn't deny that she had sexual feelings for Whit. Why should she pretend to hold him off any longer? she wondered. Why not just give in and enjoy?
Whit continued to swirl his tongue around in her mouth, and it seemed to Barbara that he would have been content to just stand there and kiss the whole night. So she decided it was her turn to make the next move. Tearing her lips free of his, she gave him one last wet kiss on the cheek. Then she grabbed his hand and led him over to her bed.
Now that the reality of the situation was apparent-they were going to make love-Whit became a bit hesitant. Barbara found this interesting. She supposed he had been acting assertively in the beginning just to prove something to her or to act out what he thought his male role was. But now that it was obvious what was to follow-since Barbara was beginning to take off her clothes-Whit seemed nervous.
"There, honey," Barbara said soothingly. "There's nothing to be afraid of. Here, come sit by me on the bed. That's right. Nice and close. Whit, do you think I have nice breasts? You do? Then help me unhook this bra, okay?"
Barbara was perfectly capable of removing the bra on her own, but she wanted to get Whit involved. When the frilly white cups dropped into her lap, her breasts spilled out into Whit's hands.
"Go ahead, darling," Barbara said. "Kiss them for me. All over, Whit. Especially my nipples. I like that the best."
While holding on to Whit's head, Barbara leaned back against the mattress. All the way down, Whit didn't miss a beat, keeping his mouth securely attached to her fleshy tits. Like a hungry man, he lapped his tongue against her smooth breasts, taking care to linger at her nipples. In no time, the brown tips of her breasts were hard, her areolas covered with goose bumps.
"Please," Barbara gasped. "Please, Whit. Take off your clothes. I want to see your… your… cock."
Barbara was surprised to see Whit appear startled by her request. Hadn't he ever heard a woman talk this way before? she wondered. Surely he didn't think there was anything wrong with being upfront about sex. If so, then he had a lot to learn. Not to mention the fact that he had a willing teacher.
They had finished undressing together. When they were naked, they embraced and kissed again. Barbara thrilled to the feel of Whit's hairy chest sliding across her aroused nipples. And she loved the way his penis jabbed against her belly.
Whit wasn't as well-endowed as Lance, Barbara realized. But he seemed more responsive. Lance was hung up on some bizarre macho ideal. Whit seemed to her more tender and sensitive. Those qualities appealed to her in a big way. She found them more sexy than brute force.
As she wrapped her fingers around Whit's cock, Barbara said softly, "Do you want me to kiss it, Whit?"
"Ah, well, I never… "
"You mean, no one has ever kissed you there before?"
Whit closed his eyes and shook his head from side to side.
"There, there," Barbara said. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. Oh, Whit. You're quite a guy. You know, I really like you."
To prove to him just how much she did like him, Barbara slid down the length of his body until her face was in his crotch. She stuck out her tongue and flicked it along his hard shaft. At the same time, she clutched his testicles gently.
Barbara lovingly sucked on his penis for a long while, swallowing as much of it as she could. When she sensed he was on the verge of coming, she stopped. She wanted to give him the full treatment tonight. Holding his cock tightly at the base, she scooted back up until she was straddling his hips. While Whit lay down beneath her, she sat down on his penis, guiding it inside her moist vagina.
Once they were locked together, Whit became animated. And Barbara loved it. She felt that she had succeeded in helping Whit work through some of the problems he had with women and sex. That in itself was almost as pleasurable as the feeling she got from his penis pumping deep into her pussy.
When Whit eventually climaxed, he groaned so loudly that Barbara had to slap a hand over his mouth in order to keep others in the house from hearing. Whit looked up at her, and then he grinned broadly.
"Gee, I guess I got a little carried away," he said sheepishly.
Then they started laughing, tumbling about on the bed joyously. Barbara felt as if something very important had occurred that evening, and she was determined to share as many of these evenings in the future, with Whit, of course, as she could.