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.
