The Tide Can't Wait by Louis Trimble

approached him. She stopped, flushing. “What’s the matter? Did I forget something?”
    â€œEverything seems very much in the right place,” he assured her. “Whisky?”
    â€œI’m too hungry.”
    â€œAh, dinner for two,” Barr said. “And can the lady have a whisky with her suet pudding?”
    â€œIt’s steak pie tonight,” Doddsby said. He fixed the whisky, and followed Lenny and Barr to a table in the dining room. He set down the glass. “Steak pie or omelette.”
    They both decided on steak pie. Lenny sipped the whisky, glad for something to do while she waited. Barr had not asked her to dinner; he had just taken it for granted that he could join her. She was not sure that she liked his attitude. She was equally unsure as to any success if she complained.
    Barr said, “Over your ducking?”
    â€œYes. I had a bath.”
    â€œSorry we intruded.”
    â€œAre you?” She was surprised to hear the words pop out of her. “I thought you’d followed us.”
    Barr’s grin was easy. “I did. Even so, you were glad to see Portia and me.”
    She decided to play it straight. “I was. Very.”
    â€œUnwanted boy friend?”
    â€œOld friend from the school where I taught. He’s sweet but a little too serious.”
    Something she had said appeared to be clicking over files in Barr’s mind; she could tell it by the suddenly still expression on his face. But when he spoke, he still gave the impression of doing nothing more than indulging in light chatter. “Honorable intentions?”
    Lenny was annoyed. She said sharply, “Is that your business, Mr. Barr?”
    He said quietly, “Very much so,” and then he smiled and sipped his drink. “And so,” he said, “the dog came in and paid four to one to win and I had ten quid on him.”
    For a moment Lenny thought he had gone mad. And then she saw the waitress with their soup at the side of the table. Lenny felt better now; Barr had definitely revealed his position. She felt very good indeed. She had achieved a kind of victory.
    When the girl had gone, she said, “Is it Portia’s business, too?”
    â€œDrink your soup,” Barr said. “Hot soup is good for you.”
    There were other diners, Lenny saw now, close to them. She lifted her spoon. Barr ate and talked, not only about dogs who paid four to one but about church architecture. By the time the meal was over, Lenny felt as though she had had a tour of England’s cathedrals. Lenny found it hard to associate a man with so much academic knowledge with the lean, hard agent seated across from her. Yet there could be no doubt. As she listened, she realized that he was the Barr who had written the book which had first aroused her interest in church architecture.
    She said on impulse, “What kind of book are you writing now?”
    He was laughing at her. “A novel. It’s a thriller. You know, spies and that sort of thing. Of course, like all of my breed, I don’t know a cloak from a dagger.”
    The coffee came and after they were done, Barr suggested a walk. His tone of voice was a command and she went docilely. Outside, she found the air cooler than she had anticipated.
    â€œLet me get a wrap.”
    â€œHold it.” He went inside and returned with a gray gabardine topcoat which he draped about her shoulders. They went up onto the barren headland by way of a faint path. A slice of moon swam in the soft black sky, tinting the calm waters of the little cove and throwing everything about them into silvery light and dark shadow. They sat on a wide rock, smoking and looking out over the water.
    â€œGo ahead,” he said. “You’re bursting with it.”
    â€œI’d like to know more about you. A few minutes ago I was thinking of you as an agent.”
    â€œOf sorts,” he admitted.
    â€œHow can I be sure?”
    He laughed. It