"Hey, what about me?" Melinda cried.
Lance gave her a friendly but definitely nonromantic pat on the shoulder. "Honey, I'm a working reporter, remember? And I've got a hunch there's a hot story lurking around here somewhere!"
His sleek Italian sports car was parked at the curb in open defiance of the "towaway zone" sign posted above it. Ducking low to enter the car, Barbara shook her head in wonderment. Lance Shelby, she mused, seemed to be one of fortune's favorites. Beautiful girls like Melinda Foster idolized him, fabulous trips to the Orient were a routine part of his life, and traffic cops handed out their citations on the next street down. No wonder the Courier's star reporter was a wee bit conceited!
She gave directions as he skillfully guided the car around corners and downgrades. Presently she found herself responding to questions about herself and her friends. Lance's manner was so friendly that, without hesitation, she detailed Whit's experiences in purchasing the houseboat, and mentioned his difficulties with the recalcitrant "Mr. Smith."
"You think he was using an alias?" Lance probed. "Could be I've run across this 'Mr. Smith.' Give me his description."
Barbara had no trouble in complying; the man had left an indelible impression on her mind. "A stocky man in his mid-forties, about five feet nine, with black eyes and haystack eyebrows," she told Shelby. "He needed a haircut and his suit was rumpled."
A thoughtful expression crossed Lance's face, but "dunno for sure" was the only reply she managed to drag from him when she asked if he could identify the man.
Pulling off the rutted road at approximately the same spot where Whit had parked the evening before, Lance shaded his eyes and peered toward the inlet. "Looks as if your friend has company already." He gestured to the motor launch that nuzzled the bow of the Albatross.
Barbara was forced to take rapid strides in order to keep up with the reporter. As they drew closer to the little bay, she perceived the reason for haste. The visiting craft bore the Coast Guard insignia, and Lance, already intrigued by her accounts of the mystery surrounding the Albatross, intended to discover the purpose behind this official call.
Ascending the gangplank, Barbara found Whit and Greg deeply absorbed in conversation with a pair of Naval policemen. Each of the men wore S.P. armbands, and around the waists of their white uniforms were buckled businesslike service revolvers.
"Has something else happened?" she asked Whit, who broke away from the group and came to greet her.
"Not to us. To Buck Younger, if and when they catch him." He looked quizzically at Lance Shelby, and Barbara introduced him.
"Lance Shelby!" Whit exclaimed. "But aren't you-?"
"Still among the living." Lance smiled, and briefly explained.
"Sorry. That was thoughtless of me," Whit apologized. He swung back to Barbara. "Remember the other evening I thought I saw Buck Younger cruise past the wharf? Seems I was right, after all. The city police had set up a roadblock that night trying to nab a bank robber, and one of the cars they admitted through was driven by Buck. The patrolman checked his license as a matter of routine, but he didn't realize until later that Younger was the man the Navy had a warrant out on."
This confirmed Barbara's theory regarding the telephone caller with the Southern accent. Deciding to save this news until later, she asked, "What are the Shore Patrolmen doing here?"
"They're running a check on all Naval personnel and recent discharges in the area. They're hoping that someone who knew Buck personally might be able to give them a lead as to his present whereabouts."
Whit took her arm and drew her into the group. Lance tagged behind. Barbara, masking a smile, reflected that the lucky newspaperman had stumbled onto the makings of another "scoop." Talk about fortune's favorites!
"We have no idea what he could be doing in this locality," one of the Shore Patrolmen was saying to Greg. "Unless he has made contact with the person who helped him crash out of the brig."
"You mean the escape wasn't his own doing?" Greg asked, startled.
"Definitely not. The guard was attacked from behind and his keys stolen. Younger was the only prisoner in custody at the time, so we have no witnesses who saw the breakout." The Naval policeman fingered his belt. "Funny thing. Younger got into a lot of scrapes during his years with the Navy, but in each case, he operated as a lone wolf. Always by himself. Seems odd that anyone would be willing to take such a risk for him now."
"Yes, it does," Whit agreed, escorting the patrolmen to the gangplank. "If we see or hear anything, we'll let you know right away."
The launch roared out of the inlet, heading back toward the public docks of Santa Teresa.
Barbara was struck by the thoughtful expression that had settled over Greg's face at the mention of Younger's accomplice. He made no mention of the AWOL Texan, however, but extended his hand to Lance Shelby.
"Nice to see you again, sir," he said politely. "We enjoyed reading your piece on Admiral Billingsly."
"Had a ball doing it," Lance replied. "The fishing is good down around Port Dixon. I just tossed the anchor over the side and set my lines while banging out the article. Had a half-dozen bass by the time I finished typing up the interview."
"They ought to change the 'Life of Riley' saying to read 'Life of Shelby,' " Whit observed. "I, uh, I feel a bit guilty having bought the Albatross out from under you. Of course I had no idea-"
"Of course not," Lance interjected smoothly. "Even my editor was prepared to write me off with a floral RIP." His casual glance traveled the length of the houseboat. "You haven't run across any of my tackle, have you? I haven't been down to check it out at Dodson's yet, but it was scattered all over the boat. He might have missed packing a rod or a few lures."
"Haven't seen so much as a fishhook, but you're welcome to look for yourself," Whit offered. Like a proper host, he opened a cabin door and escorted the reporter inside. Within a few minutes, they emerged, empty-handed.
"Stay for a Coke?" Whit invited, but Lance declined.
"I'd better run back into town and play spook for a few people who haven't yet heard of my resurrection. Maybe I can scare Bruce MacFarland into giving me a raise. So long!"
CHAPTER FIVE
Greg, who had remained slouched in one of the canvas chairs while Whit accompanied Lance through the cabins, got to his feet and walked over to the railing. He remained there, lost in thought, until the reporter had vanished around the bend of the road.
"I wonder what's on his mind?" Barbara asked herself. "He has been acting awfully peculiar for the last half hour."
With a start, Greg aroused himself from the brown study into which he had sunk. "How long was Buck Younger in the brig before he crashed out?" he asked abruptly.
"Oh, two or three days, I suppose," Whit said, frowning. "Why?"
"Well, I was thinking-" Greg seemed to be having a mental debate with himself. "No, it couldn't be," he muttered. "Timing's all wrong."
Whit snapped his fingers in front of Greg's face, like a magician bringing his subject out of a trance. "It's me, remember, your old buddy, Greg. What are you stewing about?"
"My bomb of an idea turned out to be a dud." Greg stared glumly down at the frothing water. Suddenly, the glum look changed to one of startled comprehension. "Wait a minute!" he exclaimed. "I had it all backwards. The other guy wasn't the accomplice-Buck was!"
He wheeled around, and the cogs clicking in his brain were almost audible. "You're the one who put the notion into my head. You know-last night, when we were talking about the riot Buck started. You asked if it wasn't the very next day they discovered that the plans for that new atomic sub had been stolen-"
"No, pal," Whit said emphatically. "That's what I started to say. You shot me a dagger look and I shut up."