Aground

2
His leg hurt. He’d smoked the two cigars he had, and the cigarettes they gave him tasted like hay. They sent out for coffee. Quinn and Schmidt questioned him, moving like cats around the table where he was seated, and then Schmidt was gone and there was another man, named Brenner. There was one window in the bleak interrogation room, covered with heavy screen, but from where he sat he could see nothing but the sky. He thought it was still raining. It didn’t seem to matter. Quinn went out, and came back shepherding an old man with dirty white whiskers and sharp black eyes, an old man who clutched a comic book in one hand and a crumpled and strangely bottle-shaped paper bag in the other and pointed dramatically from the doorway like some ham in an amateur production of Medea or King Lear, and cackled, “That’s him! That’s him!” It was the watchman, the old shrimper who’d lived aboard the Dragoon.
“Hello, Tango,” Ingram said wearily, to which Tango made no reply other than to heighten the fine theatrical aspect of this confrontation by leaning further into his point and belching. “Ain’t nobody’d ever forget a big flat face like that,” he announced triumphantly, and was gone, presumably back to the bottle. The identification seemed rather pointless, since he admitted being aboard the Dragoon, but maybe it was something technical about preparing the case.
Schmidt came back, and Brenner left. Schmidt leaned on the other end of the table with an unlighted cigarette in his mouth, and said, “All right, let’s try again. Who’s Hollister?”
“All I know is what he told me,” Ingram replied.
“We just heard from Cleveland. There is no such outfit as Hollister-Dykes Laboratories—if that’s news to anybody. And he paid his hotel bill with a rubber check. How long have you known him?”
“I didn’t know him at all. I met him just twice.”
“How did you meet him?”
“I told you. He called me at the La Perla Hotel.”
“When?”
“A week ago last Saturday. He said he had a proposition that might interest me, and asked if I’d come over to Miami Beach and see him.”
“He just pulled your name out of a hat, is that it?”
“No. He said I’d been recommended to him by a couple of yacht brokers.”
“He mention any names?”
“No. It didn’t occur to me to ask, at the time. But there are any number of people around the Miami water front who could have told him about me. I’ve been in and out of here for years. Anyway, he seemed to know all about me, and wanted to know if I’d had any luck in finding a boat. I told him no.”
“This was over the phone?”
“Yes.”
“So you met him at the Eden Roc?”
“That’s right. In his suite, about two p.m. Saturday. He explained who he was, and gave me a rundown on the deal he had in mind. The company wanted an auxiliary ketch or schooner, seventy feet or longer, one that would accommodate eight guests in addition to the crew. It would operate out of Miami, and be used for conferences and company entertainment, that sort of thing—deductible as a business expense, of course. I was to get five hundred and fifty a month as skipper, and during periods when nobody from the company was using it I could operate it as a charter boat on a commission basis. I wasn’t crazy about the idea, because I’d rather work for myself, but I was in no position to be choosy. We didn’t have the boatyard fully insured, and three-quarters of it belonged to Barney’s widow, anyway, so by the time I’d settled my hospital and doctor bills I had less than thirteen thousand left. Any kind of boat I could use at all would run twenty-five thousand, and I just didn’t have enough cash to talk to anybody. So I told him I’d take it.
“He had a list of five boats the company had been considering. The Dragoon in Key West, Susannah in Tampa, and three over in Nassau. He suggested I look at the Dragoon first, since it seemed to be the most promising. I went down to Key West Sunday morning, spent all afternoon on it, and flew back that night. I called Hollister, and he asked me to come on over and give him the report. I met him in his suite again, and we spent about two hours going over all the dope I had on it—sketches of the interior layout, inside dimensions, estimates on minor repairs, condition of the auxiliary engine, rigging, sails, and so on. The boat had been kept up, in spite of the fact it hadn’t been used for a long time. He liked it. I told him that of course any offer we made would be subject to her passing survey. You don’t buy a boat just on preliminary inspection. He suggested we hold off final decision until I’d looked at the others, but that if I still liked the Dragoon we’d get in touch with Mrs. Osborne and try forty-five thousand dollars. I left for Tampa Monday morning, and then went on from there to Nassau on Wednesday.”
“He didn’t say anything about calling him from Tampa with a report on the Susannah?”
Ingram’s face hardened. “No. In fact, he said he’d probably be in West Palm Beach the next few days at a house party, and just to wait till I got back from Nassau.”
Quinn came around in front of him and leaned on the table. “That’s a great story. I love it. It covers you from every angle except being a chump, and there’s no law against that.”
“I can’t help it. That’s exactly the way it happened.”
“Then you just swallowed all this whole?” Schmidt asked. “It never occurred to you to question it?”
“Why should it?” Ingram demanded. “His story made sense. Corporation-owned boats are nothing new. He had all the props. He was living in a suite on the ocean side, with a sundeck. He gave me his card. It said he was Fredric Hollister, president of Hollister-Dykes Laboratories. When I was there the first day, he got a long-distance call from the home office in Cleveland—”
Schmidt gestured pityingly. “From some joker on a house phone in the lobby.”
“Sure, I suppose it’s an old gag, if you’re looking for it. But why should I? And don’t forget, he fooled the hotel too.”
“I know,” Schmidt said. “And to do that, he’d have to have more than a business card. He’s beginning to smell like a real con artist to me. But that’s the stupid part of it—what the hell would a con man want to steal a boat for?”
“You tell me,” Ingram said. “He can’t sell it. And he can’t even leave the country in it without papers.”
“Who paid your expenses while you were looking at all these boats?”
“Apparently I did. He gave me a check for two hundred dollars and said if they ran over that to keep a record and I’d be reimbursed. That’s the reason I kept all those receipts.”
“Where’s the check?”
“I couldn’t cash it before I left, because it was the week end, but I had enough cash of my own to carry me, so I mailed it in to the bank from Tampa. On Tuesday afternoon, I think.” He tossed his checkbook over in front of Schmidt. “The deposit’s entered on my stubs.”
Schmidt looked at it, and nodded to Quinn. Quinn went out.
“Can you describe him?” Schmidt asked.
“He was in his late thirties, I’d say. Close to six feet. On the slim side, but big-boned and rangy and sunburned, with big hands. A tennis type. Blue eyes, as I recall. Butch-cut hair. I’m not sure, but I think it was sandy, maybe with a little gray in it. Lot of personality and drive—one of those guys with the bone-crushing grip and the big grin.”
“You didn’t notice what kind of watch he was wearing?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. It was an oversized thing with a lot of gingerbread on it. Chronograph, I think they call it. You know, little windows with the day of the month and day of the week, and a sweep second hand.”
Schmidt removed a watch from the pocket of his coat and set it on the table. “Like this?”
Ingram glanced at it in surprise. “Yes. That looks just like it. Same type of filigree gold case, and everything. Where’d you get it?”
Schmidt lighted the cigarette he had stuck in the side of his mouth. “It was picked up at sea.”
Ingram stared. “How’s that again?”
“Couple of men in a fishing boat brought it in. The Dorado—one of those fifty-thousand-dollar deals you use for marlin—”
“Sport fisherman.”
“Yeah. Anyway, they were bringing this Dorado back to Miami from the Virgin Islands. And yesterday afternoon a little before sunset they sighted a rowboat—a dinghy, I think you call it. Nobody in it; just drifting around in the ocean by itself. They went over and picked it up. There was an outboard motor clamped on the back, and some man’s clothes in the bottom—sneakers and a pair of dungarees and a shirt. The watch was in one of the pockets of the dungarees. They got into Miami early this morning and turned the whole thing over to the Coast Guard. The Coast Guard figured there might be a chance it was the Dragoon’s, and called us. We went out and got a description, and called Mrs. Osborne to see if she could identify it. She wasn’t sure—she’s not too familiar with the Dragoon—but Quinn brought old Tango up from Key West, and he identified it.”
“Where did they pick it up?” Ingram asked.
“South of here somewhere. The Coast Guard told me, but I’m no navigator.”
Schmidt went out, leaving him in the custody of a uniformed patrolman who chewed a pencil stub and scowled at a crossword puzzle. When he returned, some ten minutes later, Quinn was with him.
“We’re not going to hold you,” Schmidt said curtly. “But before you go, we want you to look at some pictures.”
Ingram sighed with relief. “Then you located my letter to Mrs. Osborne?”
“Yes. She called her maid at home. The letter apparently came this morning after she’d left for Miami. The maid read it to her, and it checks with what you told us. We also got hold of one of the officers working late at the bank, and he dug out that check Hollister gave you. It was the same phony account he stabbed the hotel with. It bounced, of course, but they hadn’t got the notice out to you yet.”
“Then you’re convinced?”
“Let’s put it this way—you helped steal that boat, but there’s no proof you did it with intent. I don’t know whether you were just a sucker, or smart enough to make yourself look like one, but either way we can’t hold you.”
“You die hard, don’t you?”
“You learn to, in this business.” Schmidt jerked his head. “Let’s go see if you can pick Hollister out of some mug shots.”
They went downstairs to another room that was harshly lighted and hot. The two detectives sat watching while he scanned hundreds of photographs—hopefully, and then with increasing anger as the hope faded—trying to find the man who’d called himself Hollister. He knew he was still suspect, and failure to turn up Hollister’s picture would certainly do nothing to lessen their suspicion. There was anger at himself for having been taken in, and a burning desire to get his hands on the man who’d done it.
“I think this is a waste of time,” Quinn said, after an hour.
“Haven’t you got any more?” he asked.
“No. That’ll do.” There was curt dismissal in the tone.
Ingram stood up. “Where is Mrs. Osborne staying?”
“I don’t think I’d bother Mrs. Osborne, under the circumstances,” Schmidt said. “That might have been the last fifty-thousand-dollar yacht she had.”
“What about the Dorado? Do you know where she’s tied up?”
“No. And what difference does it make?”
“I want to find out where they picked up that dinghy.’
“Why?”
“Just say I’m curious. There’s something damned funny about it.”
“You were never more right,” Quinn said coldly. “So why don’t you just get out while you’re ahead?”
* * *
When he emerged on the street the rain had stopped and it was dusk. Neon flamed hotly beneath the darkening blue bowl of the sky, and tires hissed on wet pavement in the ceaseless river of traffic. He walked back to the hotel, feeling his shirt stick to his back with perspiration. The desk clerk looked up with a nervous smile. “Uh—I hope everything’s all right.”
“Yes,” he said.
“I hope you don’t think—I mean, there wasn’t anything I could do. They told me to call them if you checked back in—”
“It’s all right. The key, please.”
“Yes, sir.” The clerk whirled and snatched it from the pigeonhole. There was a slip of paper with it. “Oh. You had a phone call. It was about a half hour ago.”
Ingram read the scribbled message. Call Mrs. Osborne. Columbus Hotel.
That was strange. But maybe she wanted to unburden herself of a few remarks on the subject of meat-heads who helped steal her boat. Probably an imperious old dowager with a voice like a Western Ocean bosun. Well, he intended to call her, but she could wait a few minutes; right now the important thing was to find the Dorado before her crew left for the night. The chances were that he was too late already. He strode to the telephone booth in the corner of the lobby, looked up the number of the Coast Guard base, and was just starting to dial when someone rapped on the glass panel of the door. It was the clerk.
He pushed it open. “Yes?”
“She’s on the line now, sir. She just called back. You can take it on the house phone.”
“Oh.” He retrieved his dime and walked over to the desk. He might as well get it over with. The clerk patched him through on the small switchboard and disappeared into his room in back.
“Hello,” he said. “Ingram speaking.”
“This is Mrs. Osborne.” The voice was rather husky, and sounded much younger than he’d expected. “Would you come over to the Columbus right away? There is something very important I’d like to discuss with you.”
“What?” he asked.
“Just say that it has to do with the Dragoon, and that it’s quite urgent. I think you could help me.”
This appeared to make very little sense, but he realized asking questions would only waste more time. “All right,” he said, “I’ll be there as soon as I can make it. But first I want to try to get hold of the captain of the Dorado—”
“That won’t be necessary,” she broke in. “I’ve already talked to him.”
“Did he tell you where they picked up the dinghy?”
“Yes. I have the whole story.”
“I’m on my way. Where shall I meet you?”
“Just come up to my room.”
It was less than ten minutes later when he stepped out of the elevator at the Columbus and strode down the carpeted and air-conditioned quietness of the corridor looking at the numbers. When he knocked, she answered almost immediately, and for a second he thought he must have the wrong room. Even hearing her voice over the telephone hadn’t entirely prepared him for this.
Somehow, a woman who owned a seventy-foot yacht in her own name figured to be a graying and wealthy widow on the far side of fifty, at least, but this statuesque blonde with the flamboyant mop of hair couldn’t be much over thirty. She wore a green knit dress that did her figure no harm at all, and he had a quick impression of a well-tended and slightly arrogant face with a bright red mouth, high cheekbones, sea-green eyes, and a good tan. “Come in, Captain,” she said. “I’m Rae Osborne.”
He stepped inside. The room was the sitting room of a suite, furnished with a pearl-gray sofa, two armchairs, and a coffee table. At the far end was a window with flamingo drapes. The door into the bedroom was on the left. There was soft light from the lamps at either end of the sofa. The thing that caught his eye, however, was the chart spread out on the coffee table. He stepped nearer, and saw it was the Coast & Geodetic Survey No. 1002, a general chart of the Florida Straits, Cuba, and the Bahamas. A highball glass stood in the center of it, in a spreading ring of moisture. He winced.
“Sit down,” she said, with a careless gesture toward the armchair in front of the coffee table. She seated herself opposite it on the sofa and crossed her legs, the knit skirt hiking up over her knees and molding itself against the long and rather heavy thighs. He wondered if he was supposed to look appreciative. Then he decided he was being unfair; it was just that highball glass on the chart. She picked up the glass, rattled the ice in it, and took a drink, not bothering to offer him one. If this was the new look in yachting, he was caring less and less for it. You are in a nasty mood, he thought.
“You are a captain, aren’t you?” she asked. “That’s what they called you.”
“I don’t have a boat now,” he said. “As you may have heard. But who called me?”
“Some people I talked to about you. Lieutenant Wilson of the Coast Guard, and a yacht broker named Leon Collins. They said it was stupid. You never stole anything in your life.”
“Thanks,” he said laconically.
She shrugged. “I’m just repeating what they said. But anyway, I’m willing to take their word for it. You didn’t know that man Hollister , did you?”
“No,” he said.
“Would you tell me what he looked like?”
He repeated the description he’d given the police. She listened intently, but with no change of expression. “I see.”
“What did you want to see me about?” he asked.
“I want you to help me find the Dragoon.”
He frowned. “Why me?”
“For several reasons. I’ll get to that in a minute. But will you?”
“Believe me, there’s nothing I’d like better than to find the Dragoon. And Hollister,” he added grimly. “But if the police can’t locate her—”
“She’s at sea. Outside police jurisdiction.”
“How do you know?”
“Oh, I forgot—you still don’t know where the dinghy was picked up.”
“No,” he said.
“It was right here.” She leaned over the chart and indicated a pencil mark with one red-lacquered fingernail. It was in the open sea, far out over the western edge of the Great Bahama Bank along the Santaren Channel, probably a hundred and fifty miles south-southeast of Miami. At five-thirty yesterday afternoon.”
“The time doesn’t mean much,” he said. “There’s no telling how long ago they lost it, or where. They could be five hundred miles from there by now.”
She shook her head. “Didn’t they tell you about the clothes, and the watch?”
“Yes. But what about them?”
“The watch was still running.”
“Oh,” he said. Then the dinghy must have been adrift for less than twenty-four hours. “Are you sure of that?”
“Yes. I went down and talked to the captain of the Dorado myself. And the Coast Guard doesn’t think the Dragoon was under way when they lost it.”
“No, of course not, if they lost it out there. They wouldn’t have been towing it. But, look—the men in the Dorado didn’t see anything of the schooner at all?”
“No. They watched with binoculars until it got dark, but they didn’t really search the area. She might have been in over the Bank somewhere. Maybe anchored.”
“Not for long, unless they were gluttons for punishment,” he said. “Except in a dead calm, it’d be like riding a roller-coaster. With fifty to seventy-five miles of open water to windward—”
“But it’s all real shallow—or is shoal the word you use? Less than four fathoms, according to the chart.”
“It can still kick up a nasty chop, in any breeze at all. Not to mention the surge running in from the Santaren Channel. It’s more likely they were in trouble of some kind.”
“Then she might be still there. Will you help me find her?”
“How?” he asked.
“How would I know?” she asked, rattling the ice in the glass. “That’s why I’m asking you. Maybe we could charter a boat?”
He shook his head. “You’d just be wasting money.”
“Why?”
“I don’t think you realize what you’re up against. In the first place, that position you’ve got marked is where they think they were when they picked up the dinghy. Big-game fishing guides aren’t the world’s greatest navigators, as a rule. That far at sea, on dead reckoning, they could have been as much as twenty miles out. Add another thirty for the possible drift of the dinghy in the currents and tides along the edge of the Bank, and you’re in real trouble. You have any idea of the area of a circle with a radius of fifty miles?”
“God no, you figure it out.”
“Around eight thousand square miles. That’s not somebody’s front yard.”
“But—”
“Furthermore, that Bank is nothing to fool with—especially at night or in poor light conditions. It’s several thousand square miles of shoals, reefs, coral heads, and sand bars, and it’s poorly charted, especially down there where you want to go. But disregarding all that for the moment, what good would it do if you did get lucky and find her? Assuming, I mean, that the people who stole her are still aboard? There’s no way you can regain possession or have ‘em arrested until she goes into port somewhere; out on the open sea’s a poor place to try to call a cop.”
“Well, you’re sure not much help, are you?” she asked. “Or maybe you just don’t want the job? Can’t you use the money?”
He stifled the slow burn of anger. “I’m trying to keep you from throwing yours away. I’m just as interested in finding the Dragoon as you are, but you’ll never do it that way.”
“Well, what about a plane?”
“You’d have a better chance of finding her, if she’s still in that area. But you couldn’t get aboard, if you did.”
“At least I’d know where she is—and whether she’s in trouble. What kind of plane would it take?”
“An expensive one.”
“That doesn’t matter. Where can we get one?”
“Why do you keep saying we?” he asked. “If you charter a plane, what do you need me for?”
“As I said, for several reasons. You’re an experienced yachtsman. You’ve been sailing boats all your life. So you’d be able to tell if she was in trouble of some kind. But the main reason is I’m not sure I’d recognize the Dragoon if I saw her. They must have repainted her and changed the name.”
He remembered then what Schmidt had said about her not being very familiar with the schooner. It also occurred to him that he knew nothing about her whatever except that presumably she was a widow; the ad in Yachting had listed the schooner under her own name. Alarm bells began to go off in his head. He glanced at her left hand. She wore engagement and wedding rings, but that didn’t prove much.
“Why don’t you think you’d recognize her?” he asked.
“I’ve been aboard her only once.”
“How’s that?”
“My husband took her in on some property he sold about a year ago, just before he died. Since the estate was settled, I’ve been trying to sell her. But to get back to the subject, you’d recognize her, wouldn’t you?”
“I think so,” he said.
“Good. Now, about the plane?”
“Not so fast. Maybe Hollister made me a little gun-shy, but this time I’d like some proof. How do I know you’re Mrs. Osborne?”
“Well!” He thought for a moment she was going to tell him that anybody knew who Mrs. C. R. Osborne was, but she fooled him. “You’re pretty hard-boiled, aren’t you?”
“Not particularly,” he said. “It’s just that I’ve made my quota of bonehead plays for this week. But you don’t have to bother digging up identification. Just tell me what I said in that letter.”
She repeated it almost exactly as he had written it. “Are you satisfied now?”
“Yes.” Then it occurred to him that his manners were almost as bad as hers. “And, incidentally, I want to thank you for going to all that trouble to call back to Houston to verify it.”
She shrugged. “No trouble. Now what about the plane?”
“You’re sure you want to go to all that expense, just to see if she’s out there? She’s insured, isn’t she?”
She nodded. “Against marine risk, as I get the picture. But I don’t think the policy covers theft, and if something happens to her out there and I’ve got no witnesses or actual proof of loss, it might be years before I could collect.”
That was possible, he thought. But the feeling persisted that she wasn’t telling the truth—or at least not all of it. Well, it was none of his business. He bent over the chart, studying the position she had marked and estimating the distances. “I think Nassau would be the best bet. It’s a little nearer, and McAllister Air Service used to have some big twin-engine amphibians that should be able to do it. Want me to call them now?”
“Sure.”
He reached for the telephone on one of the small end-tables. While the operator put through the call he sat frowning thoughtfully at the chart. What could they have been doing out there? He was connected then with the office at Windsor Field in Nassau. McAllister had left for the night, but one of the pilots was still around, a man named Avery. He said they were still flying the amphibians.
“What’s their range?” he asked.
“It depends on the load. What do you want to carry?”
“Just a couple of passengers. Here’s the deal. . . .” He explained briefly, and asked, “Do you have a chart handy, any general chart that takes in the area west of Andros?”
“Yes, sir. There’s one right in front of me.”
“Good. Take a look at the outer edge of the Bank, opposite Cay Sal. Got it? They picked up the dinghy at about 23.30 north, just off the hundred-fathom curve in the Santaren Channel. If we wanted to fly a search pattern around that point, how much of the area could we cover and still not have to walk home?”
“Hmmm . . . Just a minute . . . We could stay down there close to two hours and still get back all right.”
“What’s the rate?”
“A hundred and twenty-five dollars an hour.”
“Just a minute.” He placed a hand over the transmitter and relayed the figure to Mrs. Osborne.
She nodded. “Tell him we’ll be there as soon as we can.”
He spoke into the instrument. “Okay. I think there’s a Pan American flight out of here early in the morning—”
“Yes. Flight 401. Arrives Nassau at nine a.m.”
“Check. And if we can’t get space on it, I’ll cable you what flight we will be on. That okay?”
“Yes, sir. So unless we hear from you, we’ll have her fueled and ready for nine a.m.”
He broke the connection, got the hotel operator again, and asked for Pan American Airways. They were in luck; space was available on flight 401. He made the reservations and hung up.
“It’s all set,” he said. “Ill meet you at the Pan Am counter at the airport about three-quarters of an hour before flight time.”
“Good. Now about your pay—”
“There’s no charge,” he said.
She frowned. “What?”
“I helped them steal the boat, didn’t I? The least I can do is help you find it.”
“You can’t be serious.”
He stood up to leave. “Whether or not I did it with intent, as the police call it, doesn’t change the facts. I’m at least partly responsible for their getting away with it.”
“Well, you’re an odd one, I must say.” She regarded him for the first time with something approaching interest. “How old are you?”
“Forty-three.”
“You don’t look it.”
“Thanks,” he said. She didn’t bother to rise. He walked to the door, fighting the stiffness in his leg, but paused with his hand on the knob. “That dinghy—when they found it, were there any oars in it?”
“No,” she said. “Just the motor.”
“Was there any gasoline in it? Or did they look?”
She stared down at the glass in her hand. “They looked,” she said. “It was empty.”
He nodded. The silence lengthened. “See you in the morning,” he said, and went out.