Stone shook his head. “I’m not going to become a party to a crime for you or anybody else, and I’m certainly not going to become a fugitive.” He stood up.
“Where are you going?” she asked, alarmed.
“I’m going to get as far away from you as I possibly can, although, in the circumstances, that’s not very far.”
“You’re going to turn me in, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Of course not; I’m not going to be the instrument of your death. I’m trying to save your life.” He turned to leave.
She stood up and grabbed him, turned him to her, and put her arms around his waist. “Don’t go,” she said. “Stay here with me; I’m so frightened.”
Stone disentangled himself from her arms. “I’m leaving right now. We won’t be seeing each other again, Allison.” He turned and started up the companionway before she could speak again.
He was furious. The stupid girl was jeopardizing them both, herself most of all, and there was not a damn thing he could do about it. At the top of the steps he looked toward the Shipwright’s Arms and saw three policemen striding across the lawn toward the marina. “Oh, shit!” he moaned, and ran back down the steps.
“What is it?” Allison asked.
Stone looked around the cabin for some place to hide her luggage. They’d look in the after cabin. “Quick, fix us a drink; the cops are coming.” He opened the door to the engine room and started tossing duffels down the steps.
Allison ran to the bar, got two glasses of ice, and poured some brown whiskey into both of them.
There was the sharp rap of a nightstick on the deck. “Ahoy, Expansive!” a deep voice called.
“Answer him!” Stone whispered, closing the engine room door and diving for the sofa.
“Hello!” Allison called back. She was halfway to the sofa with the drinks when the first policeman appeared on the stairs.
“Good afternoon,” the man said. “I am Colonel Buckler of the St. Marks police.” Two other officers crowded the companionway behind him.
“Good afternoon, Colonel,” Allison replied smoothly. “We were just having a drink; can I get you something?”
“No, ma’am, thank you,” the colonel said.
Stone stood up. “Colonel, I am Stone Barrington, Mrs. Manning’s lawyer. Is there something we can do for you?” He took a drink from Allison and sat down. Allison sat next to him. “Please,” he said to the policeman, “be seated.”
The policeman sat down gingerly at the chart table. “I understand Mrs. Manning has made some travel plans,” he said.
Stone looked at him blankly, then at Allison.
“Come again?” Allison said.
“I believe you have recently chartered a yacht,” the colonel said.
Allison waved an arm about her. “Colonel, I already have a yacht; why should I want to charter another one?”
“Colonel,” Stone said, “perhaps you could explain yourself?”
“Of course, Mr. Barrington,” the policeman replied. “Earlier this afternoon a very fast yacht berthed here and cleared customs, stating his intention of picking up a charter passenger. And you were seen, not half an hour ago, having a drink at the bar of the Shipwright’s Arms with that yacht’s captain, and then going aboard her.”
“That’s quite true, Colonel,” Stone said. “I met the man, whose name I believe is Sam, at the bar. I expressed an interest in his boat, and he was kind enough to offer me a tour. He said his charterer was a Mr. and Mrs. Chapman.”
“Come, come, Mr. Barrington, you are being disingenuous,” the policeman said.
“I assure you, I am not,” Stone replied firmly.
“Colonel,” Allison piped up, “why do you think I have anything to do with that yacht?”
“Yes, Colonel, why?” Stone asked.