“Now you’re a relatively smart man, and you don’t need money. Not personally. There wasn’t any reason for you to get sucked up in Clayton’s scheme for your personal gain. But there was if your steamship company needed help.
“My first day down at the Port I heard your new dispatcher on the phone trying to get orders. He just couldn’t get his bids down low enough. You’re operating this antiquated fleet. When the Leif Ericsson ran into the wharf, Martin Bledsoe asked if that was how you were planning on getting rid of your old ships. That was when you needled him about his prison background. He reacted violently, and everyone’s attention was diverted. But you did need to get rid of your old ships. Martin hadn’t been able to persuade you to build the thousand-footers, and you were stuck with these unprofitable clunkers.”
He swept the brandy decanter from the table with a violent movement and sent it flying against the starboard wall. It smashed and a shower of glass and Armagnac sprayed my back.
“I never thought they’d be profitable!” he shouted. “They’re too big. There weren’t many ports that could handle them. I was sure they were a passing fad.” He clenched his fists and his face took on an angry, brooding look. “But then I started losing orders and I just couldn’t get them back. And Martin! Goddamn him to hell! I saved him from prison. I gave him his life back. And how did he thank me? By building that damned Lucella Wieser and flaunting her under my nose.”
“Why didn’t you just build your own at that point?” I asked irritably.
He bared his teeth at me. “I couldn’t afford to. The steamship company was overleveraged by then. I’d mortgaged a lot of my other holdings and I couldn’t find anyone to lend me that kind of money.
“Then I found Phillips and his pathetic wife and I saw a way at least to get some orders. But last fall your damned cousin started nosing around. I knew if he got onto the truth we were all in trouble, so I sicced Paige on him.”
“I know that part. Spare me a rerun—these sentimental stories make me gag … What made you blow up the Lucella?”
“That crack of Martin’s—had I deliberately run the Ericsson into the wharf? At first I was wishing I could blow up my whole fleet and collect the insurance. Then I had a better idea. Get rid of the Lucella and close the upper lakes to the big ships at the same time. I can’t keep the Poe Lock shut forever. But I’ve got three of those bastards stopped up at Whitefish Bay. They’ll have to trundle tiddlywinks between Thunder Bay and Duluth for the next twelve months and there’s no place big enough for them to dock for the winter up there.”
He laughed crazily. “I can carry a lot of freight this summer. I should be out of the woods by next spring—I’ll be able to start capitalizing some new freighters next year. And Martin should be wiped out by then.”
“I see.” I felt tired and depressed. I couldn’t think of any way to stop him. I hadn’t left a trail of my investigation. I hadn’t even told anyone about the documents taped in my old copies of Fortune.
As if reading my thoughts, Grafalk added, “Paige told me you had those invoices Boom Boom threatened Clayton with. Sandy went over there early this morning—no kids with bread knives to get in his way. He had to tear the place up a bit, but he found them. Pity you weren’t there. We wondered where you were.”
The anger had subsided in Grafalk’s face and the look of suppressed excitement returned. “And now, Vic, it’s your turn. I want you to come on deck with me.”
I pulled my utility knife from my back pocket. Grafalk smiled at it tolerantly. “Don’t make it difficult for yourself, Vic. I assure you, we’ll kill you before you go overboard—no unpleasant drowning for you.”
My heart was beating faster, but my hands were calm. I remembered a day many years ago when Boom Boom and I had taken on a gang of South Side bullies. The excitement in Grafalk’s face made him look like one of those twelve-year-old punks.
Grafalk started around the table for me. I let him follow until he was behind it and my back was to the door. I turned and ran down the hall toward the bow, slashing through my shirt sleeve with the knife as I ran. I cut the surface of my arm and blood rolled down it to my hand.
Grafalk had expected me to head for the stairs and I gained a few seconds. In the dining room I whirled and kicked the china cabinet with the Wedgwood in it. Glass shattered across the room and cups and saucers fell from their perches with the rocking of the vessel and crashed to the floor. I ran behind the table and wiped my bleeding arm on the drapes.
“What are you doing?” Grafalk bellowed.
“Leaving a trail,” I panted. I scraped the knife across the mahogany table and rubbed my blood into the scratches.