Sheridan shook his head. “It’s true we were tied up across the way, but the Bertha Krupnik lay between us and the wharf. I don’t think anyone on the Lucella could have seen anything.”
The waiter came back to take our orders; we told him we needed a few minutes to study the menu. He was back again within thirty seconds, coughing apologetically.
“Mr. Grafalk wants to know if you and the lady would join him and Mr. Phillips at his table.”
Sheridan and I looked at each other in surprise. I hadn’t noticed either of them come in. We followed the waiter across the rose and purple carpet to a table in the corner on the other side. Grafalk stood up to shake hands with Sheridan.
“Thanks for interrupting your lunch to join us, Mike.” To me he added, “I’m Niels Grafalk.”
“How do you do, Mr. Grafalk. I’m V. I. Warshawski.”
Grafalk wore a soft tweed jacket, tailored to fit his body, and an open-necked white shirt. I didn’t have to know he was born with money to feel that he was a man used to controlling things around him. He exuded a seafaring atmosphere, his hair bleached white, his face red with wind and sunburn.
“Phillips here told me you were asking some questions of Percy MacKelvy. Since I’m on the spot, maybe you can tell me why you’re interested in Grafalk Steamship.”
I embarked on a story which by now seemed very threadbare. “Mr. MacKelvy thought he ought to check with you before he told me where the Bertha Krupnik is,” I finished.
“I see.” Grafalk looked at me sharply. “Phillips told me you were a private investigator. I thought maybe you’d decided to do some snooping around my company.”
“When people meet a policeman unexpectedly they often feel guilty: nameless crimes rise up to confront them. When they meet a private investigator they usually feel defensive: don’t come snooping around me. I’m used to it,” I said.
Grafalk threw his head back and let out a loud crack of laughter. Sheridan gave me a sardonic smile but Phillips looked as strained as ever.
“If you have a minute after lunch, walk back with me to the office—I’ll get Percy to cough up the Bertha’s whereabouts for you.”
The waiter came to take our order. I asked for a whole artichoke stuffed with shrimp. Grafalk chose grilled lake trout, as did Phillips. Sheridan ordered a steak. “When you spend nine months of your life on the water, beef has a solid, earthy appeal.”
“So tell me, how does a young woman like you get involved in a career as a detective? You work for a firm or for yourself?”
“I’ve been in business for myself for about six years. Before that I was an attorney with the Public Defender in Cook County. I got tired of seeing poor innocent chumps go off to Stateville because the police wouldn’t follow up our investigations and find real culprits. And I got even more tired of watching clever guilty rascals get off scot-free because they could afford attorneys who know how to tap-dance around the law. So I thought—à la Do?a Quixote perhaps—that I’d see what I could do on my own about the situation.”
Grafalk smiled with amusement over a glass of Niersteiner gutes Domthal. “Who usually hires you?”
“I do a certain amount of financial crime—that’s my specialty. The Transicon Company; that business last year with Ajax Insurance and the Knifegrinders … I just finished a job involving computer fraud in wire transfers at a small bank in Peoria. I fill in the gaps tracking down missing witnesses and serving subpoenas on people anxious to avoid a day in court.”
Grafalk was watching me with the same amused smile—wealthy man enjoying the foibles of the middle class: what do the simple folk do if they don’t own a steamship company? The smile grew rigid. He was looking at someone behind me whom he apparently didn’t want to see. I turned as a stocky man in a gray business suit walked up to the table.
“Hello, Martin.”
“Hello, Niels.… Hi, Sheridan. Niels trying to enlist your help with the Ericsson?”
“Hi, Martin. This is V. I. Warshawski. She’s Boom Boom Warshawski’s cousin—down here asking us all a few questions about his death,” Sheridan said.
“How do you do, Miss Warshawski. I was very sorry about the accident to your cousin. None of us knew him well, but we all admired him as a hockey player.”
“Thanks,” I said.
He was introduced as Martin Bledsoe, owner of the Pole Star Line, which included the Lucella Wieser. He took a vacant chair between Sheidan and Phillips, asking Grafalk after he sat down if it was okay to join us.
“Glad to have you, Martin,” the Viking said warmly. I must have imagined the strain in his smile a few minutes before.
“Sorry about the Ericsson, Niels. Hell of a mess out there. You figure out what happened?”
“Looked to me like she ran into the dock, Martin. But we’ll know for sure after we’ve made a complete investigation.”
I suddenly wondered what Grafalk was doing eating a leisurely lunch when he had several hundred thousand dollars’ worth of damage sitting outside.