professional voice, the voice he habitually used before he had made up his mind.
“I don’t know what happened,” Jeff said absently. He still stared at the floor.
“My deputy tells me you were out on the wharf when that boat blew up.”
Jeff nodded and sipped his drink.
“Mind telling me what you were doing out there?”
Jeff frowned a little, as if trying to remember. “I was looking for my brother … I was looking for Max …” he trailed off, then suddenly took a long swallow of brandy, and set the empty glass down. Whalen sat down next to him.
“Why don’t you start at the beginning?”
“There isn’t anything to tell,” Jeff said slowly, making an effort to keep himself under control. “I was up in our room waiting for Max. He was going to secure the boat for the night — he shouldn’t have been more than ten minutes. After forty-five minutes I looked for him in the bar over there, then went down to the wharf. The boat was gone. I didn’t believe it at first, but then there was a bolt of sheet lightning and the whole harbor lit up. And I saw
“You aren’t going anywhere tonight, son, and neither is anyone else,” Whalen said emphatically. “No sense having two boats piled up on those rocks.”
Doc Phelps arrived then, and immediately began examining Jeff Horton. While he bent over the young man, Whalen turned his attention to Merle Glind.
“Who is he?” he asked Glind quietly.
“His name’s Jeff Horton,” Glind said. “He checked in about five thirty, six o’clock. He’s from Port Angeles.” Glind frowned, as if remembering something. “Didn’t Chip call you? I was sure he did.”
“He called me,” Whalen said patiently. “But that didn’t mean this was one of the same guys he told me about. Did you hear what Horton just told me?”
Glind bobbed his head. “Not that I was eavesdropping, mind you. You know me, Harney — I’d never try to listen in on something that’s none of my business. But he is a guest in my hotel and I figured—” Before he could continue, Whalen cut him off.
“Merle, it’s all right. All I want to know is if you can verify any of his story.”
Glind thought hard and finally nodded. “I can verify the time he went out. I was sitting with Chip and I was facing the door. I saw him stick his head in and look around. Then he went out and about five minutes later, maybe less, the explosion happened. He couldn’t have had anything to do with it, Harn. There wasn’t enough time. It’d take any boat a lot longer than that to get from the wharf to the rocks.”
“You don’t say,” Whalen said, scowling at the little man. Merle flushed and his glance darted toward the bar.
“I’d better be getting back to business,” Glind said anxiously. “Likely to be a lot of customers in here tonight. Not every night we have excitement like this.” Rubbing his hands together in anticipation of the cash he expected to see flowing over the bar this evening, he hurried away. Whalen watched him go and shook his head sadly, pitying the fussy little fellow who tried so hard to fit in — and failed so miserably. But Whalen forgave him his shortcomings: he and Merle Glind had grown up together.
He was about to ask Dr. Phelps about Jeff Horton’s condition when Chip Connor waved to him. He and Glen Palmer had been talking near the registration counter. Whalen looked inquiringly at Chip.
“Do you need me for anything?” Chip asked him. “If you don’t, I thought I’d run Glen home. He’s afraid his wife will be worrying about him.”
“Well, she’s just going to have to worry awhile longer, I’m afraid,” Whalen said, his voice hard, uncompromising. “I have a few questions to ask you, Palmer.”
Glen started to argue, then changed his mind. An argument would only make Whalen determined to keep him even longer. Instead, he turned to Chip.
“I know it’s a hell of a thing to ask, but do you think you could run out there anyway, just to let her know I’m all right?”
“No problem,” Chip said. “Unless Harn has something pressing he wants me to take care of.” He turned to the chief, and Whalen chewed his lip, thinking. Finally he nodded curtly.
“All right, but don’t be gone all night. I’m going to need you later.”
“I’ll be back in half an hour,” he promised. He went to the bar, and returned a minute later with his raincoat. “Anything special you want me to tell her?” he asked Glen. Glen shook his head.
“Just tell her what’s happened and not to worry. Tell her I’ll be home when I get there.”
Chip nodded and went out into the storm. Glen waited until he was gone, then went over to Whalen, who was talking to Dr. Phelps.
“Shall we get started?” he asked as amiably as he could. “I’d just as soon not be here all night. It’s been a long day.”
“I’ll bet it has,” Whalen replied. “It’s likely to be a lot longer before it’s over. Why don’t you have a seat. I’ll get to you when I get to you.”
“Is it all right if I wait in the bar?” Glen asked.
“Suit yourself. Just don’t try to leave the hotel.”
Glen chose to ignore the veiled threat, and nodded briefly. He ordered a beer and prepared to drink it slowly. He was going to have a long wait.
Rebecca Palmer sat by the fireplace and tried to concentrate on her knitting, but she was unable to complete more than a stitch or two before she set her work aside and went to the window once more, straining to see beyond the wet blackness of the rain and the wind.
It had been almost an hour and a half since Glen had left the cabin, and he should have been back at least an hour ago. She had stayed by the window after he left, and fifteen minutes later had seen his flashlight, dim but distinct, going steadily on and off. She had relaxed then and waited for him to return, sure she had read his signal correctly. But then — she wasn’t sure how much later — she had heard the explosion and run to the window to see the ball of fire far beyond the beach. There had been a second explosion, a second fireball, and a blaze out at sea.
Since then, nothing.
Innumerable trips to the window.
Impulses to go out on the beach and search for Glen.
Attempts to concentrate on her knitting.
And a continually growing fear.
Something had happened. She didn’t know why, but she was sure the explosions at sea had something to do with Glen’s protracted absence. But what?
It was the not knowing that was the worst. If only they had a telephone. If only the storm weren’t so bad. If only the children were old enough to stay by themselves. But there was no phone, the storm showed no signs of abating, and the children could not be left alone. Even the puppy was too young to serve as a guardian.
She was about to go to the window again when she thought she heard a car door slam. She froze where she was, listening intently. Then came the knock at the door.
Rebecca felt her heart begin to pound as she went to the door, but before she readied out to pull it open, something in her mind rang a warning bell.
“Who is it?” she called softly, not wanting to wake the children.
“Chip Connor,” came the reply. Rebecca threw open the door and stared up at the deputy, her fear growing.
“What is it?” she cried. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing’s happened, Mrs. Palmer. Well, nothing’s happened to Glen, anyway. May I come in?”
Rebecca felt the tension she had been under suddenly release; her knees felt weak. “Of course,” she said, stepping back to make room for the deputy. She closed the door after him, then went to the fire. She poked it, then turned to Chip.
“What’s happened? Where’s Glen?”
