Barbara and Whit arrived at the Courier building minutes after of the ambulance, having delayed only long enough to summon a doctor and place a hasty call to Mr. Quinn. Clattering up the stairs, they wrenched open the door to the photographic department and halted just inside.
Stethoscope dangling from his ears, a sober-faced man swung around to face them. He motioned curtly for silence.
"Don!" Barbara stifled the exclamation as her eyes fell on the figure sprawled across the floor.
"Concussion." The doctor's voice was a whisper. "Not too serious, probably, but I won't be able to tell with any degree of certainty until we get him to a hospital. Are you the person who called me?"
Barbara nodded, a tide of relief flooding over her.
In a moment, her weak-kneed sensation ebbed. Glancing around the room, she caught sight of the telephone receiver hanging limply from its cord. It must have taken every ounce of Don's strength to utter those few words. Once he had gasped out his plea for help, he had collapsed, too weak even to replace the phone.
She did so now, moving carefully around Don's motionless form. Whit came up beside her, pointing, and Barbara's startled gaze fastened on the open door of the darkroom.
It was a darkroom that was no longer dark. Light spilled from a harsh overhead globe, glinting on the shiny surfaces of a thousand negatives strewn about the room.
"Looks as if someone wanted his arm and shoulder to remain anonymous," Whit said tightly.
"I'm afraid so." As usual, they were one step behind their diabolically clever adversary. She gestured helplessly at the litter which swamped the darkroom. "How desperate he must have been, to attack Don and-"
"Didn't see him." Thick and halting, the cameraman's words were barely audible. "Bending over. Hit me… "
"You mustn't talk," the doctor interrupted. He motioned for the two white-clad men who had appeared in the doorway to hurry with the stretcher. Within seconds they had whisked their inert patient from the room. Below in the street the wail of a siren receded screaming into the night.
A pair of city policemen wedged into the room, their eyes busily taking in details. Whit, recognizing them as two of the men who had helped search the thicket for Greg the previous Sunday, confided that Mr. Quinn was on his way and asked them to prevent anyone from tampering with the darkroom until the Federal agent had had an opportunity to dust it for fingerprints.
At the entrance of the building a throng of curious onlookers stirred expectantly as the police cordon opened to allow Whit and Barbara to pass through. Ignoring the inquisitive stares, they hurried to the car.
They had driven only a few blocks when a speeding sedan crowned by a flashing red beacon whipped past them. Barbara sighed thankfully, glimpsing a familiar gray slouch hat in the back seat. Somewhere in the disordered darkroom there might lie a clue. If so, Mr. Quinn would find it.
"Did you tell him about the photographer?" she asked. She had gone for her coat while Whit telephoned the Federal officer.
With a pained expression, Whit massaged his ear. "Yes, and you should have heard him. A Geiger counter being introduced to an atom bomb couldn't have made such a racket. He's positive that Buck Younger is in this up to his neck."
"I suppose that negative is burnt to a cinder by this time," Barbara said gloomily. "The spy couldn't risk being seen consorting with a known fugitive. He must have nearly died of apoplexy when that picture appeared in the paper."
"He's a daring bird," Whit muttered. "He must have found out earlier in the day where the darkroom was situated. As soon as the staff left for the night, he barged right in."
"And struck so fast and ruthlessly that poor Don didn't even have a chance to turn around." Thoughtfully, Barbara considered the assailant's audacity. Like an old nemesis, the point which had troubled her from the beginning of this strange affair returned to plague her anew. They were driving down a quiet side street; on an impulse, she asked Whit to pull in to the curb.
"Regina and her folks will be home by now. I'd just as soon not discuss this in front of them," she explained.
"Okay by me. Got any new ideas?" Whit asked hopefully. "All of mine have ruts worn in them."
"Not new, exactly," she answered with a frown. "But for the first time, I've started thinking of the spy as a real person, not just a-a sort of mechanical bogeyman. You said he was daring, and I certainly agree. Almost everything he's done has a distinct flavor of derring-do about it, a rashness that defies common sense. He's bold and fearless, and a genius at carrying out his decisions on a split-second timetable. Look at how he stole the blueprints! And tonight, the way he went after that negative."
"So he's a decisive fellow." Whit shrugged. "What's so perplexing about that?"
"Nothing, except that I can't understand why he stepped out of character at one crucial point. Why did he dilly-dally around for weeks while the blueprints mildewed on the Albatross?"
"I thought you must be leading up to something." Whit eyed her with dawning admiration. "You do put those little gray cells to work, don't you? Hmmmm. My guess would be that he needed time to set up a deal with a prospective buyer."
"Ye-es," Barbara said dubiously. "I suppose it wasn't really such a great risk, leaving the blueprints where they were. After all, Lance Shelby didn't use the houseboat very often. Most of the time the Albatross stayed in port where the spy could keep a sharp eye on her. And it was less hazardous than if he'd hidden them in his own house-if he were suspected, there would be no evidence to convict him. But I keep picturing him as a man who enjoys flirting with danger. This one act is completely inconsistent."
"Maybe he planned to go back for that new radar device," Whit blurted, and then looked as if he could have bitten his tongue out.
Barbara spun around, her eyes wide and incredulous. "What!"
"I ought to be muzzled," Whit said weakly.
"Not so fast, Mr. Whitney Egan. What was that about a new radar device?"
"Shhh! Barbara, it's just scuttle-butt gossip. I don't even know for sure that there is such a thing."
These protestations did not deceive her for a minute. It would have been almost impossible to keep some hint of a tremendous new defensive weapon from leaking out on a base as large as Port Dixon. While the "scuttlebutt" might not be wholly accurate, it was undoubtedly rooted in fact. And if the spy had been alert enough to ferret out the location of the submarine blueprints, a few adroitly placed questions could have revealed to him the existence of this even more valuable invention.
"Oh, Whit!" she breathed. "Think of what a foreign power would pay if he got that, as well as the blueprints. The spy could retire for life!"
"Come off it, Barbara! He wouldn't be foolhardy enough to go back a second time. That wouldn't be boldness-it would be hari-kari!"
"Not necessarily. In the first place, nobody knows who the spy is. He could be anyone! And how many people are supposed to know about the-the new thing? I'll bet you're not. The authorities would never suspect that he found out about it, let alone dream that he'd be audacious enough to try to steal it. The odds against such a maneuver could work in his favor."
Whit wavered, his thoughts trapped on a pendulum which swung between his own conviction that the feat would be impossible and Barbara's convincing arguments to the contrary.
"Boy, am I confused!" he muttered. "Here I thought civilian life would be nice and uncomplicated. I couldn't go back to a quiet little ranch in Montana, oh, no. I had to buy a houseboat and settle in a hotbed of international intrigue like Santa Teresa!"
Barbara changed her tactics. "I'm sorry," she said contritely. "You're probably right. I don't imagine the spy ever wants to go within a hundred miles of Port Dixon again."
Unexpectedly, Whit grinned. "You're going to back down and let me take the initiative, now that you have me nicely riled up about this notion, is that it? Women!"
A look of mischief danced across Barbara's face. "You'll call Mr. Quinn?"
"Of course I'll call Mr. Quinn." Still shaking his head, Whit reached for the ignition key. "There's about one chance in a million that your idea is on the nose, but it's a chance I don't want to be responsible for. The FBI might want to have the-the thing shipped back to Washington until our shifty adversary is behind bars."
"And if you're wrong," he concluded, "I think I'll throttle you!"
Barbara didn't know what to say. She wanted to take Whit home with her, but she didn't want to be too forward. But as she looked at him and figured out how he was feeling, she decided the best thing she could do would be to tell Whit just exactly what was on her mind.
"I don't know how to say this," she said, sliding her hand across his thigh. "But I wish you could, well, you know."
Whit seemed to catch on quickly. He started up the car and then moved out into traffic.
"Let's go to the houseboat," he said. "We can be alone there."
While Whit drove, Barbara moved closer to him on the front seat. She slid her hand down into his crotch and began massaging his penis.
"Just be patient, honey," Whit said shakily. "I'm driving as fast as I can."
"Well," said Barbara, rubbing harder against his hardening prick, "you're going to have to drive faster."
After what seemed an eternity to Barbara, Whit pulled up at the docks. They leaped out of his car and ran merrily down to the boat, arm in arm. Once inside, Whit tossed Barbara onto one of the bunks.
"I've been thinking about this for a long time," he said, taking off his clothes.
"Me, too, Whit," Barbara replied. "I've wanted you so bad."
When Whit was naked, he climbed into the bunk with Barbara. Quickly, he began undressing her.
"Take it easy," Barbara gasped. "You might tear something."
But Whit appeared not to hear her. He tore at her clothes savagely. Barbara had never seen him like this before. He was so impassioned that for an instant she forgot it was Whit who was ripping off her bra and panties. She couldn't, however, say that she didn't like it, because his frenzied activity was turning her on tremendously.
"Oh, I've been dreaming about these," Whit gasped as he began fondling her breasts. "I've wanted to suck them so bad."
Whit buried his face between her tits and began flapping his tongue all around. It seemed as if he couldn't get enough. When he began slurping on her nipples, Barbara thought he was never going to stop. Not that she wanted him to. She wanted him to do whatever he wished for as long as he wished. She was thoroughly enjoying the way he was attacking her. If he could please her this way all the time, well, she could see no reason to look for any other man.
Slowly, Whit moved his face down her belly until he was staring at her vagina. Licking his lips, he paused to admire her beauty.
"Don't just sit there," Barbara said. "Do something!"
Whit looked up at her and leered. Then he dove between her legs, flapping his tongue madly. Barbara moved her legs together and held him in place, drumming her fingers on the top of his head and urging him on.
"More!" she cried. "Oh, Whit, that feels so good. Keep doing it. Faster. Faster!"
Whit tried his best to meet her urgent demands. He flicked his tongue across her clitoris and then licked through the succulent flesh of her pussy. Opening his mouth wide, he then clamped his lips against the slick folds of her vagina, sucking as hard as he could.
"Yes!" she screamed, her words reverberating through the small houseboat. "Just like that. Oh, Whit!"
But Whit could only kiss her vagina for so long. His desires were getting the best of him, and he just had to sink his penis into Barbara as soon as he could.
"Oh, yes, now," she chanted. "Give it to me now, Whit. I want you in me so deep. So good and deep, baby. Ohhhhh!"
Whit mounted her easily, despite the fact that they had very little room in the tiny bunk. She spread her legs as wide as she could, enabling Whit to slide his penis in to the hilt on the first stroke. His following thrusts were teasing, tentative movements, but it didn't take him long to move into a steady pumping rhythm.
They wallowed mindlessly in the small bed, giving themselves up to their physical needs. Soon, cries and moans that signaled their mutual climax erupted in the tiny boat…
The temporary loss of Don George from the Courier's staff threw an extra workload onto his fellow cameramen. Don was so well liked, though, that the additional assignments were willingly accepted, and most of the newspaper's personnel even juggled their busy schedules in order to visit him in the hospital.
Shortly before noon on the Friday following Don's attack, Lance Shelby appeared at the door of the City Room. He announced his intention of stopping by the hospital during the noon hour.
"Would you girls care to go along on an errand of mercy?" he asked them.
Barbara glanced hopefully at Melinda, who nodded.
"Of course! Why don't you ask Ted Rigney to come along, too?" the Society Editor suggested. "He and I have a meeting to cover at that end of town this afternoon. You can drop us off at the auditorium on the way back."
Barbara found the hushed atmosphere of the hospital depressing, especially after a stern-faced nurse cautioned them to confine their visit to fifteen minutes and to avoid exciting the patient.
Don lay flat, his face almost as white as the bandage which swathed his head. Nevertheless, he insisted that he would be back on the job within a few days. His main reaction to the attack was one of anger.
"If I ever find the guy who hit me, I'll pulverize him with his own blackjack," he threatened darkly.
"You haven't any idea of what he looked like?" Lance probed.
"No, he must move like a cat. I didn't even hear him." Don glared belligerently at the circle of faces surrounding his bed. "Well, how was I supposed to know somebody was going to sneak in and conk me over the head? Why pick on me?"
"Easy!" Ted warned. "They'll throw us out of here if you start hollering. Lance was just offering to head a vigilante committee in case you could point out the varmint. None of us likes this any better than you do."
"I'll bet it was one of those clowns from the Herald, jealous because we're finally getting back some of our own business," Melinda declared. "Do the police have a lead yet?"
"Not that they confided to me," Don grumbled. "I doubt it, though. Every cop in town must have been in here last night, spouting questions. Some who weren't exactly cops, too."
"What do you mean?" Lance asked quickly.
Don started to shake his head, then thought better of it. "They were asking the questions, not answering them. Maybe the district attorney's office got in on the act. I never saw them before, and they didn't bother to introduce themselves."
Barbara, who had been listening apprehensively, exhaled in relief. How wise of Mr. Quinn to keep his identity unknown. A hint to any of these inquisitive news hounds that the Federal authorities were involved could have landed the case on the front page. And that, she thought with a gasp, would have been the end of Greg Maiden!
Ted carefully refrained from mentioning the damage to the irreplaceable negatives, fearing that the knowledge of their destruction would only excite Don further. Instead, he urged the young cameraman to relax and enjoy all the service and attention while he had the chance.
"It won't be long before you're back in the clutches of slave-driving MacFarland," he added.
A short time later, the four left the hospital and, after depositing Melinda and Ted at the door of the auditorium, Lance invited Barbara to lunch with him.
"I'll have time for a quick sandwich," she told him.
This was the first overture of friendliness the star reporter had made since their dinner date at Pietro's. Barbara wondered whether an ulterior motive lay behind the invitation. Lance seldom did anything without a reason.
Almost as soon as they had seated themselves in the drugstore booth, she found that her hunch was correct.
"How did you and that redheaded swabbie happen to be on the scene last night?" he asked. "Don't tell me you have an inside track with the Demon of the Darkroom?"
Barbara realized that his highly trained senses of observation were operating at full speed. She couldn't afford a single careless word!
"Looking for another scoop, Mr. Shelby?"
"A reporter's life isn't all fabulous trips to the Orient," he admitted. "Have to fit in a few slices of bread and butter once in a while, to go along with the cake."
Barbara pulled a napkin from the dispenser. "Blind luck, that's all," she said finally, deciding that to tell the truth with certain vital omissions would be her wisest course. "I telephoned Don, meaning to ask him about the pictures he had taken for one of our features. I guess the constant ringing of the phone must have restored him to consciousness. He answered just as I was about to hang up, and managed to gasp out a few words about needing a doctor."
Lance seemed unconvinced. "You were home and yet you came all the way back into town?" he said skeptically. "Why?"
Irritation at the cross-examination showed in her voice. "Because Don is my friend. I didn't know what had happened to him, but I wanted to be there in case I could help. He might have been dying!"
"Everyone is sure touchy today," Lance complained. "First Don explodes in my face, and now you!"
Barbara felt like telling him to stick to cake if he didn't care for the commonplace bread and butter his attempts to pump her had evoked. Instead, she thanked him politely for the grilled cheese, reminding herself that he was only doing his job. Given his driving ambition to gain a story whatever the cost, it was only natural that Lance would try to ferret out all the details behind the assault on Don.
I suppose all's fair in love and newspaper reporting, she thought grudgingly. But I don't have to like it!
The bridal shower that Fran Harris had planned presented another problem. Like everyone outside the immediate family and a few close friends, such as Barbara and Whit, Fran knew nothing of Greg's disappearance. Barbara, balancing conscience against intuition, could not decide whether to spoil Fran's surprise by telling Regina in advance, or whether to risk the possibility that her friend might find the party one shock too many. After an almost sleepless night, she came to the conclusion that Regina should be forewarned of the surprise which lay in store for her.
"It doesn't seem quite fair to Fran," she concluded guiltily on Saturday morning. "But I was afraid-"
"That I might go into hysterics?" Regina's ghost of a smile was rueful; the tiny blonde girl appeared to have lost ten pounds in the past week. "I'm glad you understand. I'm not sure that even Mother realizes how I feel. If I let myself think for one minute that Greg mightn't be coming back, I'd probably just stand around screaming. But he will come back, Barbara; he is alive and well. I must keep on believing that!"
"Of course you believe it-and so do I!" Barbara asserted in nervous desperation. "Then it's all right-about tonight?"
"I'll go set my hair," Regina answered.
"And Regina sat there like a regular trooper for three full hours," Barbara told Whit the next morning. "I don't know where she found the courage. The presents were things for their new home, and she opened them and thanked people-and all the time she doesn't even know if Greg is alive or dead. I could have bawled."
"Regina is a brave girl," Whit agreed soberly. "But don't forget there is a full week left before the wedding. Remember our resolution to trust Thomas J. Quinn."
She hadn't forgotten. "This business about the negative proves the spy hasn't left town yet, anyway," she said, plucking a sunbeam from the storm clouds which had burgeoned so menacingly seven days before. A thought suddenly struck her. "There's that inconsistency again. He's waiting, just as he waited before retrieving the blueprints. If we only knew why!"
"Maybe the dragnet is spread too wide," Whit guessed. "He's standing pat until the FBI relaxes its guard over the airports so he can board his flight to Moscow or wherever."
The ceaseless worry and speculation over Greg and the blueprints had dropped their morale to an all time low. Barbara was thankful when Whit changed the subject.
"Any answers to your want ad for an apartment yet?"
"Two. Both far too expensive for a humble working girl. I'm still hoping that someone who knows the meaning of the word 'reasonable' will call."
He grinned. "Say, I've thought of just the place for you. Of course the commuting would be a little rough."
"Where?" Barbara asked eagerly.
"Amigos! I'll bet you wouldn't have any trouble finding a vacant apartment there, but as I said-" He ducked, narrowly avoiding the scrub brush which came hurtling across the deck. "Okay, okay! I was only trying to be helpful."
"Whimsical Whit! By the way, have you decided to hire Felipe?"
From his quick response, Barbara knew that he had given the matter a great deal of thought. "He'd be a tremendous asset, no doubt about that. I'm going to make him the best offer I can afford."
She smiled, happy to hear that the pleasant, nimble-fingered lad was to be one of the Albatross's unofficial "crew." She would be very much surprised if the customers didn't flock to hear the young guitarist.
Whit brought out a tide table and a navigational chart of the coastal waters which he had obtained from the Coast Guard.
"I told Senior Rodriguez I'd be down to pick up the furniture today. We'd better plan to leave at noon on the flood tide. Figure two hours each way and another couple hours to load the furniture-we can easily make it back before dark."
Barbara glanced at her wrist watch. Forty-five minutes remained before departure time.
"I'll run up to the house and pack a lunch," she proposed. "Is it all right if I invite Regina to come along? A change of scenery might do her good."
"Sure, but hurry up," Whit cautioned. "We have to make that tide."
She scrambled up the path and through the back door. Her efforts to persuade her friend to accompany them on the outing proved futile, however. Regina doggedly insisted on remaining near the phone in case some word about Greg should come.
Juggling a picnic kit crammed with sandwiches and a six-pack of Coca-Cola, Barbara hastened back to the inlet. "Made it with five minutes to spare," she panted. "Hope you like salami and pickles."
Whit nodded his approval and prepared to cast off. Barbara helped free the lines binding the Albatross to shore, then stood back while he turned the winch which would haul up the anchor. "Anchors aweigh, my boys… " A few bars of the Navy hymn flitted through her mind.
Greg's password, she thought as Mr. Quinn's account of Greg Maiden's last telephone call recurred to her.
"He chuckled as if it were a joke of some kind. When I got near the cove, he said, I should whistle 'Anchors Aweigh.' "
Why should Greg have chuckled? Finding the blueprints was no joking matter. And why had he chosen that particular "password"? Association, she supposed; Greg as a former Naval officer had probably loved the song.
Or had they, she wondered suddenly, in all the excitement surrounding Greg's disappearance, overlooked something?
"None of us gave that remark another thought," she told herself. "And yet it might-"
Jerking herself back to reality, Barbara turned to stare at the massive chain. It rose slowly, clankingly, reluctantly.
Link by link by link the chain dripped clear of the water until, after what seemed to Barbara an eternity spent with the winch's whine in her ears, the dark bow of the anchor itself emerged.
The anchor and, tightly wired to the leaden weight, a waterproof pouch.