"Something must be preying on his mind." Barbara frowned. "I've heard that people react strangely at times when they are troubled with a problem they can't solve."
Whit looked dubious. "Greg is the most normal guy I've ever known," he declared. "What possible problem could he have? He's healthy, he's going to marry the second prettiest girl in Santa Teresa, and he's about to join his dad in making a mint of money selling real estate."
"I didn't mean personal problems, exactly," Barbara murmured. "I meant-Whit, I can't get those blueprints out of my mind. I keep wondering who took them, and whether he has already succeeded in handing them over to the enemy. I'm sure Greg is worried about the same thing. More so, probably, because he was actually on the base when the plans were stolen."
"So was I-so were two thousand other sailors." Whit dragged a hand through his close-cropped red hair. "Holy smoke, Barbara!" he burst out. "Do you suppose Greg knows who took those blueprints?"
"Of course not," she said firmly. "If he did, he would have notified the FBI immediately. Remember, he said that as the Admiral's aide he stuck pretty close to that party of newsmen and photographers who were visiting the base? I think he has been going over and over their movements in his mind, trying to recall if one of them slipped away from the group for any length of time. He must feel partly responsible for the theft, even though no one could have foreseen that such a thing would happen. It's become sort of an obsession with him to expose the culprit."
"And that's what pressured him into climbing out of the sack in the middle of the night to go prowling around the boat?" Whit shook his head. "Sounds goofy to me."
"Listen!" Barbara cried. "Greg's theory hinged on the fact that he thought the blueprints were smuggled out of Port Dixon aboard the Albatross. Subconsciously, he might believe that they are still hidden somewhere on this boat!"
"He was poking at the bulkheads," Whit reflected. "Ah-they couldn't be, though. This houseboat has been searched so many times it's practically threadbare!"
"I didn't say they were still here. I said Greg might believe they were," Barbara pointed out reasonably. "You'd better see if you can't get him interested in something else."
Whit promised to do what he could. "Want to go to a movie tomorrow night?" he asked, squeezing her hand as she started down the gangplank.
"I'd love to. Though by the time we're through chipping all that paint we may be too bleary-eyed to watch it," Barbara laughed. "See you at nine in the morning."
It was closer to ten o'clock, however, when Barbara arrived at the houseboat on Saturday morning. Immediately after breakfast, Fran Harris telephoned, and upon learning that Regina was nowhere about, she proceeded to outline a plan she had in mind.
"I want to give Regina a bridal shower," she confided. "Is next Saturday night all right with you?"
"Sure," Barbara answered. The same idea had occurred to her, but she lacked a place to hold the shower and still preserve the necessary secrecy. "What can I do to help?"
"Just make sure Regina gets here without suspecting anything. I want it to be a real surprise. Tip off her fiance so that he won't make any big plans for that evening."
They chatted a few minutes longer before hanging up. Then, after explaining to Mrs. Prescott that she would be away for the rest of the day, Barbara headed for the inlet. Whit greeted her enthusiastically and, when the paint-chipping operation was completed in record time, complimented her on her workmanship.
"You're so good, I think I'll let you paint, too," he told her.
"Thanks a million!" Barbara retorted, but she didn't really mind. Working side by side with Whit, chores she would ordinarily have classed as drudgery became almost pleasant.
They picnicked on chicken-filled pastries and frosty lemonade, and dabbled their toes in the cove's clear, shallow water before resuming work on the Albatross. During the afternoon, Whit finished sanding down the decks, while Barbara polished the portholes to a glistening sparkle.
"Wonder what happened here?" she murmured, catching her finger on a rough edge. The casement into which the porthole fitted was splintered. It looked as if it had been damaged at one time, and inexpertly repaired.
The grating hum of the sander drowned out her voice, however, and Whit failed to hear her comment. Shrugging, Barbara moved her cleaning equipment onto the next porthole and promptly forgot about the splintery one adjoining it.
Contrary to her prediction, they both enjoyed the movie at the drive-in which followed.
"Damn! I almost forgot!" Whit exclaimed with a suddenness which almost caused Barbara to spill her malt. "I found a restaurant that's going out of business. Heard about it from a fellow in the drugstore."
"Wonderful! Is it here in Santa Teresa?"
"No. It's down the coast about thirty miles. Little place called Amigos."
"Amigos-friends," Barbara translated. Many California towns bore the original names given them by the first Spanish settlers. "When do you plan on seeing the owner?"
"The sooner the better. We could drive down together, if you'd like to come." Whit had tapped his lean savings to purchase a small secondhand car. "I'd take the Albatross, but I don't have a decent chart of these waters. Besides, the paper said there might be rain squalls."
Barbara agreed that the proposed excursion sounded like an ideal way to spend a Sunday. On the way home they speculated on what sort of place the Cafe El Gato might prove to be, and what sort of arrangement might be made with the owner for the sale of his equipment.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Shortly after noon the following day, Barbara and Whit set out along the barren coastal road. Although ominous-looking clouds glowered on the horizon, the predicted rain squalls did not materialize. Several times Barbara asked Whit to stop the car so that she might photograph some of the majestic rock formations which jutted up from the frothing surf.
"You shutterbugs!" Whit said indulgently as she clambered out on the ledge and teetered precariously while focusing on her target. "Anything for a good shot. You ought to get together with Rog Nelson, my partner. Now there is a camera addict. Never goes anywhere without a couple of bulging cases strapped over his shoulder. He looks like a tourist even in his home town!"
Barbara stuck out her tongue at him and climbed back into the car. "He ought to have a grand collection by the time he returns from the Orient," she remarked, thinking vaguely of cherry trees and Balinese dancers.
"Right now, he's on destroyer duty, but last time he wrote they were about to start for home, and he was hoping the ship would put in at Hong Kong and Tokyo long enough for him to shoot up a few yards of film."
Urged on by Barbara, Whit described some of the places he had visited during his hitch in the Navy. Almost before he knew it, the little car was toiling up the steep winding road which led to Amigos.
The buildings which fronted the town's main street were ramshackle and unpainted. Few pedestrians were to be seen on the sidewalks. The gutters were clogged with debris, and the gloomy weather only intensified their impression that the place was really a ghost town and the sparse population figments of their imagination.
"Amigos looks a little short on friends at the moment," Barbara commented as Whit pulled up to the curb in front of the only whitewashed building they had seen so far.
A decal of a stalking black cat was embellished on the door of the cafe. When no one appeared to answer their tentative knock, Whit tried the latch. Finding it unlocked, they stepped inside. Barbara was quick to notice the scrubbed appearance of the floors and counters, and that the furnishings were solid and unmarred.