When Barbara left the houseboat a short time later, Whit and Greg had still not decided upon a definite course of action. Short-cutting along the woodland trail, she decided that the grandeur of the sunset in the western sky was out of place. A damp, murky fog would have made a more appropriate setting for her depressed frame of mind.
Her spirits sank even lower when she found the house empty and recalled the birthday party which the Prescott family was attending. It would be hours before Regina and her parents would return.
Even now, Barbara could scarcely credit the fantastic tale which Greg had unfolded. Espionage in this peaceful little town!
The sharp jangle of the telephone bell sliced through her disturbed thoughts. Her eyes widened in surprise as Lance Shelby's breezy voice came bouncing over the wire.
"Hungry?" he asked without preamble.
"I had forgotten all about dinner," Barbara confessed.
"Then you're in luck. Slip into something black and slinky, and I'll buy you a lobster at Pietro's. Half an hour."
An uncompromising click severed the connection before Barbara could accept or reject the invitation. "Of all the nerve!" she fumed. "And telling me what to wear. It's a wonder he didn't specify the shade of lipstick-"
Suddenly she was overcome by a fit of giggles. It would do the conceited Mr. Shelby no end of good to be left waiting on the porch while she slipped out the back door. On the other hand, her stomach impatiently reminded her, she had eaten nothing since breakfast, and Pietro's was the best restaurant in town.
"Might as well attend the command performance," she told herself, still smiling as she hurried upstairs. Anything was preferable to sitting alone in an empty house and worrying about spies!
Barbara ignored his clothing instructions and chose a becoming knit suit in a soft shade of coral.
This mutinous gesture did nothing to diminish Lance's enthusiasm, however.
"My, my! You should be decorating the Society pages, instead of helping write them," he commented gallantly, holding the car door open for her.
Pietro's was hushed and dimly candlelit. A bowing major domo whisked them to their table, where self-effacing waiters competed for the privilege of drawing out their chairs.
Goodness, thought Barbara, impressed by the service which Lance's very presence seemed to command. He certainly has the world handed to him on a platter. I'll bet he was born wearing twenty-four carat gold diaper pins!
"I have a craving for seafood," Lance confided when the waiter had placed rosy goblets of shrimp cocktail before them. "That ole brain food legend was thrown at me when I was a kid. I had an urge to become the smartest fellow on the block, so fish was on the menu as often as I could persuade my folks to put it there. Guess I never outgrew the habit."
Barbara tasted the tiny crescents of shrimp nestling in a tangy sauce. "Um, this is wonderful," she exclaimed. "I can understand now why you're such a fishing fan."
"It's a wonderful hobby. I've had lots of relaxing vacations aboard the old houseboat. By the way," he asked, "what do your friends intend to do with the Albatross, now that they've bought her?"
"It's Whit's boat, really. Greg is just staying there with him for a few weeks. Whit plans to turn it into a restaurant."
Lance approved wholeheartedly. "Fine idea. It's a wonder no one thought of doing something like that sooner. I was rather surprised when the other young man-Greg-remembered me," he confided after a slight pause. "There were a great many visitors at Port Dixon the day I went down."
"Greg has a marvelous memory." Barbara smiled. "I think he must have had a brain food diet, too."
It was on the tip of her tongue to reveal the brilliant way in which Greg had plotted the circumstances surrounding the theft of the blueprints. Just in time, she restrained the impulse. The slightest hint to a newsman of Lance's capabilities would have him burrowing for details. And the last thing Greg or the Navy wanted right now was more publicity!
"Besides," she substituted hastily, "why shouldn't he remember you? You're one of the best-known reporters on the West Coast. How about sharing the secret of your success and telling me how you reached such lofty heights?"
Lance considered. "Persistence. Determination. Luck, once in a while. My family had practically no money. I resolved to make up for it-be the richest kid on the block, as well as the smartest. You have to be tops if you want to get rich in the newspaper business. After working hours were over, I used to go out and make contacts. Pretty soon I had friends and informants in every walk of life, and leads to the big stories started trickling in. I made them pay off."
Barbara nodded, thinking that this driving determination explained a great deal about Lance Shelby. Vanity accounted for only a small part of his personality. A heaping portion of ruthlessness also figured in his outlook on life. Where his goals were concerned, nothing had been allowed to stand in the way.
"Well, you accomplished your aim," she conceded. "I doubt if many of the other kids on your block drive around in Italian sports cars, or fly to the Orient on routine assignments."
Lance disposed of the last succulent morsel of lobster. "My assignments are never routine," he corrected.
"Allow me to rephrase my statement," said Barbara humbly. "Lance Shelby flies to the Orient only on the most unique assignments. All right?" She smiled, and set down her coffee cup. "Tell me about Hong Kong. Isn't it situated a bit too close to Red China for comfort?"
Lance gave her a keen look. "So you're a geography student, as well as a Society writer? No, I can't say that I ever felt uncomfortable in the Crown Colony. The British keep it well policed."
A flurry of activity at a nearby table captured their attention. Someone's wine glass had overturned, and a waiter moved quickly to blot up the red stain which snaked across the snowy linen cloth.
Barbara's first glance at the scene of the mishap had been casual; her second was frankly incredulous. "Lance," she whispered, "the man at the corner table-he's the Mr. Smith I was telling you about!"
In a natural manner, as if merely wishing to summon the waiter, Lance swiveled. "Smith, nothing!" he said gleefully. "That's Alexei Litvinov!"
While Barbara was puzzling over this unrevealing piece of information, Lance rose unobtrusively and made his way to a phone booth.
"I've had the goods on Alexei for months, but he's always managed to elude me," the reporter said, returning by a route which kept his back to the unsuspecting foreigner.
"But-who is he?" Barbara whispered eagerly.
"Read the Courier tomorrow morning and find out," Lance teased. Amused by her crestfallen expression, he relented. "Comrade Litvinov," he informed her sotto voce, "is one of those men who are popularly known on television dramas as espionage agents. Uncle Sam knows all about the little games he plays. The State Department refused him a visa when he applied for entry to this country last year."
"Then how did he get in? What's he doing here? And how," Barbara asked, "did you come to know him?"
"You sound like a pal of mine who does interviews on radio. Never lets the interviewee get a word in edgewise," Lance chided. "We don't have an iron curtain around America. Anyone with a reasonable amount of determination and intelligence can evade the border patrol and slip in illegally. I ran across Litvinov in Paris a couple of years back. At that time, he was a strike agitator-he and men like him stirred up all sorts of trouble for the French. They promoted a strike which literally crippled the country's transportation for six weeks."
Barbara's eyes widened. "Is that his mission in the United States?"
"My dear child," Lance said patronizingly, "Comrade Litvinov is a very versatile fellow. One never knows from day to day what dirty work he'll stick his pudgy little finger into next." He paused. "I can tell you this, though-I have a file in my safe-deposit box which contains a picture of him. It was snapped in a place which not even loyal American citizens are allowed to enter-unless the highly specialized nature of their work takes them there."