"Of course you believe it-and so do I!" Barbara asserted in nervous desperation. "Then it's all right-about tonight?"
"I'll go set my hair," Regina answered.
"And Regina sat there like a regular trooper for three full hours," Barbara told Whit the next morning. "I don't know where she found the courage. The presents were things for their new home, and she opened them and thanked people-and all the time she doesn't even know if Greg is alive or dead. I could have bawled."
"Regina is a brave girl," Whit agreed soberly. "But don't forget there is a full week left before the wedding. Remember our resolution to trust Thomas J. Quinn."
She hadn't forgotten. "This business about the negative proves the spy hasn't left town yet, anyway," she said, plucking a sunbeam from the storm clouds which had burgeoned so menacingly seven days before. A thought suddenly struck her. "There's that inconsistency again. He's waiting, just as he waited before retrieving the blueprints. If we only knew why!"
"Maybe the dragnet is spread too wide," Whit guessed. "He's standing pat until the FBI relaxes its guard over the airports so he can board his flight to Moscow or wherever."
The ceaseless worry and speculation over Greg and the blueprints had dropped their morale to an all time low. Barbara was thankful when Whit changed the subject.
"Any answers to your want ad for an apartment yet?"
"Two. Both far too expensive for a humble working girl. I'm still hoping that someone who knows the meaning of the word 'reasonable' will call."
He grinned. "Say, I've thought of just the place for you. Of course the commuting would be a little rough."
"Where?" Barbara asked eagerly.
"Amigos! I'll bet you wouldn't have any trouble finding a vacant apartment there, but as I said-" He ducked, narrowly avoiding the scrub brush which came hurtling across the deck. "Okay, okay! I was only trying to be helpful."
"Whimsical Whit! By the way, have you decided to hire Felipe?"
From his quick response, Barbara knew that he had given the matter a great deal of thought. "He'd be a tremendous asset, no doubt about that. I'm going to make him the best offer I can afford."
She smiled, happy to hear that the pleasant, nimble-fingered lad was to be one of the Albatross's unofficial "crew." She would be very much surprised if the customers didn't flock to hear the young guitarist.
Whit brought out a tide table and a navigational chart of the coastal waters which he had obtained from the Coast Guard.
"I told Senior Rodriguez I'd be down to pick up the furniture today. We'd better plan to leave at noon on the flood tide. Figure two hours each way and another couple hours to load the furniture-we can easily make it back before dark."
Barbara glanced at her wrist watch. Forty-five minutes remained before departure time.
"I'll run up to the house and pack a lunch," she proposed. "Is it all right if I invite Regina to come along? A change of scenery might do her good."
"Sure, but hurry up," Whit cautioned. "We have to make that tide."
She scrambled up the path and through the back door. Her efforts to persuade her friend to accompany them on the outing proved futile, however. Regina doggedly insisted on remaining near the phone in case some word about Greg should come.
Juggling a picnic kit crammed with sandwiches and a six-pack of Coca-Cola, Barbara hastened back to the inlet. "Made it with five minutes to spare," she panted. "Hope you like salami and pickles."
Whit nodded his approval and prepared to cast off. Barbara helped free the lines binding the Albatross to shore, then stood back while he turned the winch which would haul up the anchor. "Anchors aweigh, my boys… " A few bars of the Navy hymn flitted through her mind.
Greg's password, she thought as Mr. Quinn's account of Greg Maiden's last telephone call recurred to her.
"He chuckled as if it were a joke of some kind. When I got near the cove, he said, I should whistle 'Anchors Aweigh.' "
Why should Greg have chuckled? Finding the blueprints was no joking matter. And why had he chosen that particular "password"? Association, she supposed; Greg as a former Naval officer had probably loved the song.
Or had they, she wondered suddenly, in all the excitement surrounding Greg's disappearance, overlooked something?
"None of us gave that remark another thought," she told herself. "And yet it might-"
Jerking herself back to reality, Barbara turned to stare at the massive chain. It rose slowly, clankingly, reluctantly.
Link by link by link the chain dripped clear of the water until, after what seemed to Barbara an eternity spent with the winch's whine in her ears, the dark bow of the anchor itself emerged.
The anchor and, tightly wired to the leaden weight, a waterproof pouch.
CHAPTER TEN
"It's not possible," Barbara breathed incredulously. "It is simply not possible!"
A look of utter stupefaction had spread over Whit's face. Motionless as a pair of statues, neither he nor Barbara seemed able to move toward the object which held their rapt attention.
A long sixty seconds crawled by, the silence broken only by the steady drip, drip, drip of water, which snaked along the brine-encrusted chain and anchor and thick, oily surface of the pouch to dimple the cove in a widening series of circles.
It was the Albatross that prodded them into action. With nothing to link her to shore, she slid out on the rushing current of the tide. The sudden lurch dispelled their inertia. Whit jumped to throw the engine into reverse, while Barbara, her fingers tingling with excitement, bent and twisted at the strong wire which bound the pouch to the anchor.
"Hurry!" Whit called as her hand skidded on the slimy, seaweed-coated oilskin.
Barbara cast a look of terror at the reef which loomed between them and the open sea, and plucked frantically at the wire. The engine hadn't caught. Without the dragging anchor to hold them back, the tide would propel them directly onto the boulders!
Miraculously, the final twist had freed it. The pouch spurted to the deck at the same instant that Whit dived toward the winch. The anchor and its clanking chain plunged viciously downward, barbing into the ocean floor and halting their forward progress with a snap that set Barbara reeling to the rail. Floundering after the pouch, Whit captured it in a flying tackle, scraping elbows and knees as the Albatross shuddered to a standstill.
"Close," he puffed. "Awfully close. This thing is as slippery as a slab of raw liver!"
Barbara peered down at the frothing surf and then hastily looked away. Mere yards separated them from the first gigantic rock!
They regained their balance and hobbled together into the cabin where they would be safe from prying eyes.
"If this is what I think it is," Whit said, "we could be in trouble."
Barbara laughed shakily. "What's trouble? I'm slated to die of old age pretty soon, anyway. Another day like today might just do it."
Eyeing the faded yellow oilskin, patched with brownish flakes of seaweed, Whit gingerly undid the flap. He drew out a long, cylindrical roll of papers. Barbara caught a glimpse of blue background, of sleek lines and precise figures, before his brown fists snapped tight on the roll and secured it with a rubber band.
"Yup, we're in trouble," he confirmed. "Now what?"
There must, Barbara knew, be no postponement of the decision. Not so much as a minute could be wasted. The Albatross was not equipped with radio. One of them would have to chance swimming to shore.
Whit had come to the same conclusion. He bent to untie his shoes. "I'm going to leave you here for a few minutes," he began, but Barbara interrupted.
"No, I'll go. Be practical, Whit," she insisted. "I could never pilot the Albatross around those boulders, and that's exactly what you'll have to do unless I make it back here within half an hour. Take her out into deep water and head for the nearest Coast Guard station."