An Owl Too Many (18 page)

“Why, Peter and Dr. Svenson,” exclaimed Winifred Binks. “How good of you to come.”

For the moment, the two were too preoccupied to respond. Even as they entered, a hulking fellow of uncouth appearance had been reaching for his M-l rifle. In a matter of seconds, Peter had the gun and Dr. Svenson had wrestled the guard to a fall. Unfortunately, the pair continued to thrash around the tiny cabin’s floor while Svenson was in the act of removing the fellow’s belt and trussing him up with it, thus preventing Peter from reaching the door to the inner cabin. He very much wanted to do this, as instinct told him no sensible kidnapper would have left Winifred Binks here with only a muscle-bound oaf to guard her.

Instinct was right on the button. Peter was still trying to thread his way among the thrashing legs and writhing bicepses when a figure appeared at the inner door.

“By George!” he ejaculated.

Here stood Tugboat Annie in the flesh: a dumpy figure bundled into rubber boots, a heavy dark-green cardigan full of pulls and snags, and a much-bedraggled black skirt. Her face was red and weather-beaten, her wispy gray hair straggled out from under a man’s old felt hat, the type that Peter’s father used to wear.

“What the hell do you guys think you’re doing?”

Her voice was somewhere between a squeak and a squeal. That did it for Peter. He raised the rifle to his shoulder and squinted amiably along the barrel.

“We just dropped in for a visit,” he replied. “It’s the custom around these parts. I don’t believe you’ve met President Svenson of the college? President, this is that chap Fanshaw I was telling you about. Nice to see you again, Mr. Fanshaw, we wondered where you’d gone to after your ingenious jailbreak. Congratulations on your Tugboat-Annie getup, but I’m afraid you flubbed the voice.”

“Oh?” Fanshaw was trying to fix Peter with a glittering eye. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me what I’ve done wrong?”

“Quite a number of things, since you ask. To begin with, Annie was more a basso than a soprano. Secondly, it’s not considered the done thing to hypnotize police officers while they’re in pursuit of their duty. Thirdly, kidnapping heiresses is frowned upon in the best of circles. And fourthly, you’ve set yourself up for a murder rap.”

“I’ve what?” There was a noticeable pause. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Ah, but I do. I’m talking about the young botanist out at the field station whose name is Knapweed Calthrop and whose skull you fractured while you were in the process of abducting Professor Binks.”

Peter could have sworn this was news to Fanshaw. He wasn’t really surprised; Fanshaw had impressed him as being a conniver, not a hit man. God knew how many accomplices he had, or who was the ringleader. This hulk whom Svenson had just laid low was a more likely type to have slugged Calthrop and to have roughed up the luscious Viola. Fanshaw himself couldn’t have been involved in yesterday’s tree-tying episode, he’d been in the Balaclava Junction hoosegow at the time, hypnotizing Ottermole and Dorkin. That alleged lawyer who’d shown up at the station, no doubt with the real purpose of providing Fanshaw with a getaway car, could have been in on Viola’s abduction, though. Or could he? Peter was cogitating when Svenson became restive.

“Shandy! Move.”

“Er—yes, President, by all means. Winifred, I’m afraid we didn’t think to bring you a raincoat. Perhaps you’d care to hold this rifle on Mr. Fanshaw while I see if I can persuade the Clavaton police to come out and make a pickup. Shoot him if he tries to reach for his hypnotizing apparatus. How does one work this telephone, I wonder?”

“The instructions are right there on the wall,” said Winifred. “I noticed them while I was talking to you earlier at Mr. Fanshaw’s behest.”

“Ah yes, I see. Quite simple, really, if I could just get at the confounded thing. President, I’m sure you won’t mind taking that other chap out on the dock so we’ll have room enough to move in here? It’ll save the police the bother of unloading him.”

“Probably get the longshoremen’s union on my back, but what the hell?”

Glad of a little more action, Thorkjeld Svenson dragged the recumbent knave to his feet and frog-marched him out of the cabin while Peter plumbed the mystery of ship-to-shore telephoning.

They were in luck; a Clavaton police boat was patrolling the river nearby on flood watch. Minutes later, it tied up alongside the tugboat.

The officer in charge was quite willing to take Fanshaw and his accomplice aboard, but reluctant to hang around for statements. Things were getting fairly brisk out on the river; they were worried about the Upper Clavaton Dam, which had been built during the administration of Ulysses S. Grant and was beginning to show its age.

Peter said that was quite all right, he and President Svenson were anxious to get Professor Binks home as soon as possible. They’d stop by the Clavaton police station in the morning, assuming they could get there, and give a full report. Svenson helped one of the officers to get the as yet unnamed accomplice aboard the police boat while two others attended to Fanshaw, who was still wearing his Tugboat Annie getup, supplemented by shiny new handcuffs.

Fanshaw didn’t go peaceably. Peter and Winifred heard a scuffle on the dock, but it didn’t last more than a moment. Svenson ducked back into the cabin looking pleased with himself. The police boat revved its engines and took off up the river. The tugboat rolled and pitched in the swell from its wake, the wind howled louder, the rain lashed even harder. It was high time they got out of there.

“THAT WRETCHED, WRETCHED MAN
!”

Staring out at the fast-widening gap between the tugboat and the dock, Peter thought Winifred could have pitched her evaluation of Fanshaw in somewhat less decorous language. “That scuffle on the dock we heard just now must have been Fanshaw kicking the mooring loose from the bollards.”

“But why?” Winifred demanded.

“Pure spite, I suppose. I can’t see what he thinks he’s gained by setting us adrift. I’m just wondering why the river police didn’t notice what he was up to.”

“Black as the inside of a witch’s pocket out there,” Svenson grunted. “Rain hitting their eyeballs like flying rivets. Who gives a damn why Fanshaw did it? Got to get this craft under control or we’ll be swamped. Back inside, Binks. Batten the hatches. Pilot house, Shandy.”

Peter gathered that the president was talking about the small glass-enclosed structure perched on top of the cabin. He fought his way up the few steps that led to it, Svenson at his heels, and was using his flashlight to inspect the instrument panel when Svenson reached over and flipped a light switch.

“Batteries, Shandy.”

“Oh, thanks, President. I should have thought of that myself.”

“Yes. Know how to start this thing?”

“No, but I’ve started enough farm machinery in my day, it can’t be all that difficult. What if we pull this? And turn that? By George, she’s started. Now what?”

“Now get out of my way. This is a job for a Swede.”

Peter gulped in ill-concealed terror as Svenson grabbed the wheel. The president was a menace on the highway, what would he be like in this raging maelstrom?

He was magnificent. The tugboat still bucked and pitched, but Svenson had put a stop to those sickening side-to-side rolls. He was neatly avoiding the increasing number of floating objects that were cluttering the river. The only thing he wasn’t doing was the one thing Peter most urgently wanted.

“Er—President, shouldn’t we head back to the dock?”

“Can’t. Current’s too strong. Get swamped. Head inshore, get wrecked. Stay in the middle, keep going, find a safe place to pull over.”

“I see. Any idea how long that might take?”

“No. Quit bugging the captain. Food.”

Peter himself was not eager for food at the moment; quite the reverse, in fact. However, he didn’t argue but let himself out of the pilot house and fought his way below to the cabin. Winifred opened the door for him.

“Is there a galley aboard this floating bathtub?” he asked somewhat reluctantly after he’d mopped his face and shed his sopping mackinaw.

“Yes, in there.” She indicated the cabin, which Peter still hadn’t gone into. “I filled a kettle, but I was afraid to light the stove. Can you figure out how it works?”

The forward cabin was tiny but well arranged. This was really more a yacht than a working tugboat, Peter decided. There was a narrow table down the center with benches on the sides that could double as bunks. There was a work area with a small sink and running water, the stove that had intimidated Winifred, and cupboards containing dishes, tableware, and a few cooking utensils, along with tins of soup, luncheon meats, and other quick-fix edibles.

“At least we shan’t starve,” he remarked. “Is there any bread?”

“No, but there’s almost a full tin of pilot biscuits,” Winifred told him. “I can’t find any vegetables or fruit, though, not even a jar of jelly. Do you suppose tomato soup has any value as an antiscorbutic?”

“Open a can and we’ll give it a shot.”

Peter gave the galley stove a once-over, decided it must work much like the portable camp stoves with which he had a fairly extensive acquaintance, and tried a match he’d fished out of another closed tin. It worked like a charm.

“There you are, Winifred, hand me your kettle. I trust this is bottled water coming out of that faucet, but I suppose we needn’t worry so long as it’s boiled. Er—I ought to mention that the president isn’t sure how soon he’ll be able to set us ashore. The high winds and strong current are creating—er—navigational problems. He seems to know what he’s doing.”

“Oh, I’m sure he must.” Winifred was still exploring the cupboards. “The Viking blood, you know. Would you fancy some of this liver pâté with your soup? It doesn’t seem to be quite so loaded with chemicals as the pressed ham. We could make sandwiches with pilot biscuits.”

“Sounds good to me. What’s to drink?”

“There’s a bottle of whiskey and scads of beer. Ah, tea bags. I’ll have tea. And a fresh-opened jar of instant coffee but no milk. They’re well supplied with the nonessentials.”

Nonessentials were a matter of opinion; Peter mixed himself a medicinal tot while Winifred operated on the soup tin. “We ought to take something up to the president, don’t you think?” she remarked.

“Definitely,” Peter agreed. “Soup, sandwiches, and coffee. We’d better skip the whiskey, it might be too heating for the Viking blood.”

“Yes, I expect it might. Could I trouble you for that saucepan?”

“My pleasure.” It was amazing how quickly he’d overcome that temporary repugnance toward food, Peter decided his stomach must be getting its sea legs. He hoped it wouldn’t be needing them much longer, though, he was getting pretty fed up with this pounding and pitching.

He wished he’d tried to get Helen on the phone back at the station even if the dratted thing was bugged; at least she must have heard from Sieglinde long before this. He could try her now, he supposed, but what was the use? In the unlikely event that he managed to get through, what would he tell her? That he was bucketing down a maddened river in a tarted-up tugboat with Thorkjeld Svenson at the helm?

Not that the Viking wasn’t doing an acceptable job; they were still afloat and hadn’t hit anything that mattered. Not yet, anyway. Peter opened the pâté while Winifred stirred the soup and set about assembling some sandwiches.

“Is there any mustard, Winifred?” Maybe mustard was an antiscorbutic.

“Yes, I believe so.” She handed over a half-empty jar crusted around the lid. “It doesn’t look very appetizing. But then neither does the pâté.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers.” Peter broke off an edge of pilot biscuit and ran a taste check. “Not too bad. Better than a boiled boot, anyway.”

“Goodness, I hope we shan’t get down to that. Actually, we could be in far worse straits than we are now,” Winifred reminded him.

Peter hoped they wouldn’t get to them. The soup was hot now, the kettle was boiling. He improvised a tray from a flattish tin, found a couple of mugs, filled one with soup and the other with strong black coffee, added a few of the biscuit sandwiches, and covered the lot with a plastic garbage bag. A clean one, fortunately.

“I’ll take this up to the president. Go ahead and eat,” he said.

The wind was no gentler nor the rain less wet, but Peter made it to the pilot house without spillage or dilution. Svenson was either glad to see him or, more likely, glad to see the provender. He finished the chorus of “Blow the Man Down” he’d been shaking the windows with—tugboat glass must be sturdy stuff, Peter decided—reached for the soup mug, and drained it in one mighty draft, Viking-style. Peter set down the tray on the chart table and turned to leave; by now the growls in his own stomach were almost overcoming the noise of the storm.

“What’s your hurry, Shandy?” Svenson demanded through a mouthful of biscuit.

“I’m starving to death. I haven’t eaten yet.”

“Urgh.” Svenson thrust the empty soup mug at him. “More. If there is any,” he was considerate enough to add.

“There’s more, but you’ll have to wait till I heat it. We do have a galley and a fair supply of canned stuff. And, God knows, no lack of water.”

Peter was able to rinse out the president’s mug on the way back to the cabin by the simple expedient of holding it out to the rain. He found Winifred sitting up to the galley table like a proper lady, finishing her soup. She’d set a place for him and rigged a low rail to keep the utensils from slipping off.

“Well, Peter, how is our dauntless captain?”

“Still undaunted and in good voice, relatively speaking; he’s having a whale of a time. He wants more soup, but I’m going to eat mine first. Gad, this tastes good!”

“Quite surprisingly good,” Winifred agreed. “Aunt always did say hunger was the best sauce. I’ve been trying to remember when I ate last, this has been such a long day. After we’ve done the dishes, I believe I’d like to lie down for a while. Those benches out in the main cabin, or saloon, as I believe it’s called, convert into bunks. Or you could go first if you’d like. I expect one of us should stay alert, but we can sleep in rotation.”