"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.
When Whit drove Barbara home later that evening, they rode in silence. It wasn't until they arrived in front of the Prescott home that Barbara said anything.
"Oh, Whit. I'm so scared. Please, come inside and make sure everything is all right."
She just wanted him to escort her to her room safely, but Whit had other ideas. He thought her intentions were somewhat different than they actually were. Whit thought that Barbara needed more than casual comfort and a reassuring pat on the back. He thought that she wanted to go to bed with him.
When they arrived at her room safely, after walking through the house as quietly as possible, Barbara extended her hand.
"Thank you, Whit," she said. "I really appreciate this."
"My pleasure."
Whit took her hand, but he didn't shake it. Instead, he pulled her closer and then hugged her. Before Barbara could protest, he pressed his lips against hers and kissed her hard. She tried to push him away, but to no avail. He was too strong for her. She gave in, but it was less a surrender than it was something she did willingly. She couldn't deny that she had sexual feelings for Whit. Why should she pretend to hold him off any longer? she wondered. Why not just give in and enjoy?
Whit continued to swirl his tongue around in her mouth, and it seemed to Barbara that he would have been content to just stand there and kiss the whole night. So she decided it was her turn to make the next move. Tearing her lips free of his, she gave him one last wet kiss on the cheek. Then she grabbed his hand and led him over to her bed.