Алистер Маклин - Dead Halt

“Not if everything falls into place,” Tillman agreed.

“I’m sure it will, Ray. I’m sure it will.”

Paluzzi parked outside the harbor master’s office and climbed out of the car. It had taken him an hour to drive from New York to Milford. He felt he’d made good time. He locked the car, pocketed the keys, then entered the building and walked over to the reception desk. A youth in his early twenties sat at a desk against the back wall. He seemed to be the only person on duty. He finished an entry in the ledger in front of him before he got to his feet and crossed to where Paluzzi was standing.

“Afternoon,” he said without much enthusiasm. “Can I help you?”

“Hopefully,” Paluzzi replied with a smile. He took a forged Press card from his pocket and showed it to the youth. It identified him as Franco Pasconi, a journalist for the Italian newspaper, La Repubblica . It had been included in the envelope Whitlock had given him in New York. “I’d like to ask you some questions about the Ventura .”

A look of fear flashed across the youth’s face. “I ain’t got nothing to say to you, mister.”

“I’m prepared to pay for any information,” Paluzzi told him. He removed an envelope from his jacket pocket. Inside were twenty hundred-dollar bills. He took out two bills, folded them in half, and held them up between his fingers. “Well?”

The youth’s eyes flickered toward the notes but he quickly checked himself. “I said I got nothing to say to you, mister. I got work to do.”

“What’s wrong?” Paluzzi asked, leaning closer to the youth. “What are you frightened of?”

“I ain’t frightened of nothing,” the youth shot back.

“Then talk to me.”

“I told you, I got nothing to say.”

“Well, can you at least tell me where the Ventura was berthed when she was in port? It’s worth a hundred to you.”

The youth looked at the notes between Paluzzi’s fingers. “Two hundred.”

“OK, two hundred,” Paluzzi agreed.

The youth pulled a ledger out from under the counter and leafed through the dog-eared pages until he found the entry he wanted. “Wharf Three.”

“And how long was she there for?” Paluzzi asked.

“Hey, I said I’d tell you–”

“I’ve still got the money,” Paluzzi reminded him.

The youth glared at Paluzzi then consulted the ledger again. “It docked there at seven-forty on Monday morning. It left again at five that afternoon.” He slammed the ledger over then reached out and plucked the notes from Paluzzi’s fingers. When he was sure Paluzzi had gone the youth returned to his desk and dialed out a three-digit number. It was answered immediately at the other end. “Jess?”

“Yeah, who’s that?”

“Jess, it’s Billy.”

“What do you want?” came the curt reply.

“I’ve just had a guy in here asking about the Ventura . He had one of those Press card things. Foreign accent.”

“What kind of foreign accent?”

“Jeez, how should I know?” Billy retorted.

“What was the name on the Press card?”

“I didn’t see it properly.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing, honest, Jess. I’ve sent him to Wharf Three.”

“What the hell did you go and do that for?”

“He ain’t going to leave without some kind of answers. I thought it best if you spoke to him. Hey, and I told him the Ventura was berthed at Wharf Three. Play along with that.”

“Yeah,” came the thoughtful reply. “Well, he’d better not try and dig too deep or he ain’t gonna leave. Period.”

The line went dead.

Paluzzi returned to his car and took the Beretta from the glove compartment. He fed the clip into the butt then pushed it into the holster he was wearing at the back of his trousers. He didn’t want to carry the gun. It was hardly in keeping with his cover as a journalist. But he couldn’t afford to take any chances. What had alarmed him was the fear in the youth’s eyes when he mentioned the Ventura . It was obvious he had been told to keep his mouth shut. But by whom? That’s what he was hoping to find out …

He slid on a pair of sunglasses then walked the short distance to the docks. He stopped the first man he saw to ask directions to Wharf Three. On reaching his destination he paused and looked around him. Fifty yards ahead of him was a towering crane which was loading wooden crates into the hold of a small freighter. To his right was a warehouse. A large “3” was painted on the side of the building as well as on the corrugated-iron roof. Two men sat on an empty packing crate which had been pushed up against the wall adjacent to the door. Both were wearing torn jeans and grease-stained T-shirts.

“Afternoon,” Paluzzi called out as he approached them. He took the Press card from his pocket and held it up. “Franco Pasconi. I’m a journalist with the Italian newspaper, La Repubblica . I’d like to ask you some questions about the Ventura . I believe it was moored here before it sailed on Monday night?”

One of the men shrugged and took another drag on his cigarette.

The other drew his forearm across his sweating face then wiped it on his T-shirt. “Dunno,” he said.

“Surely you must have seen it?” Paluzzi said.

“We see a lot of boats,” the one with the cigarette said.

“You’re not being very helpful,” Paluzzi said. “The Ventura was registered here in Milford. The crew were all locals.”

“That’s right,” the one with the cigarette replied. “Our people. Our friends. Not so, Randy?”

“Yeah,” the other man muttered.

“How well did you know Earl Reid?” Paluzzi asked.

“What the hell do you want to know ’bout Earl for?” Randy demanded.

“Background,” Paluzzi replied.

The man with the cigarette pointed a finger at him. “Shove your background, mister. Earl was a friend of ours. And that’s all you need to know about him.”

“What about the rest of the crew? How well did you know them?”

“We knew them,” Randy replied. “Right, Tom?”

“Right. We’ve had enough of your questions, mister. I suggest you get your ass out of here while you’ve still got one. We don’t like outsiders prying into our affairs. Especially at a time like this.”

“Why’s everyone clamming up around here?” Paluzzi asked. “What are you hiding?”

Tom stubbed out his cigarette on the side of the crate then jumped nimbly to the ground. “I told you to get your ass out of here. You don’t listen, do you?”

“All I want are some answers–” Paluzzi trailed off when Tom pulled a switchblade from his back pocket.

“That’s enough!”

Paluzzi looked around, startled by the voice behind him. The man was in his late thirties with thick sandy hair and a rugged, weather-beaten face. He was wearing jeans with a white shirt and a red tie open at the collar.

“This guy’s a journalist. He’s been asking questions ’bout Earl,’ Randy said. “We told him to beat it but he don’t listen.”

“Get back to work,” the man ordered, then glanced at the switchblade in Tom’s hand. “And put that away. I’ll deal with this.”

Tom glowered at Paluzzi then pocketed the switchblade again before disappearing into the warehouse. Randy spat onto the ground inches from Paluzzi’s feet and followed Tom into the warehouse.

“Thanks,” Paluzzi said, extending a hand toward the man. “The name’s Franco Pasconi.”

“Jess Killen, I’m the wharf foreman,” the man replied, purposely digging his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Why are you asking questions about Earl?”

“It’s background for a story I’m writing.”