Donald Moffitt - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 57, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2012

“Anything unusual in her preparations for the trip? I mean, she didn’t just get up and leave, did she?”

“Just the usual,” he said. Then he paused. “Except for one thing, probably doesn’t help much, though. Herb Holloway, he’s the engineer, had her LM-200 tanks replenished, which seemed a little odd.”

I had no idea what an LM-200 tank was, but anything a little odd might mean a whole lot. “Did you do that for him?”

He laughed. “Hell, no. The fire suppression company did it at the factory. Anybody else screws with the system and there goes the warranty.”

“Oh, right. I don’t suppose you remember which fire suppression company?”

“Sure. Sea-Spark.”

“Maybe they can help me. Thanks, Marshall.” I walked back up the ramp, turned and waved, and Marshall waved back. Then I left.

Only I wasn’t alone.

I wasn’t sure I was being followed so I got off the Marina Freeway at Centinela to make sure. I cruised up to Washington Boulevard, turned right, and they were still with me. Two guys in a huge, honkin’ maroon Dodge Ram pickup truck with no front plate — that’s illegal in California, so it wasn’t a good sign.

When I got to Culver City, I got back on the 405 and headed up to the 10. They stayed with me, and now there was no doubt.

Now what?

Then, right before I got downtown, the truck blew past me, missing me by inches, its slipstream violently buffeting my car and nearly making me lose control, then peeled off into the exit lane to the northbound Pasadena Freeway so I couldn’t follow. At first I was really pissed off, but then the post-adrenaline jitters set in. What if I’d wrecked the Tesla?

What if I’d been killed?

Miss Enola sat behind her desk, her fingers steepled and her eyes closed. I was still a little jangly. I took several deep breaths to calm myself and sat down across from her.

Without opening her eyes, she said, “Well?”

So I filled her in, word for word and event for event. She didn’t move the entire time. After I shut up, I waited.

Finally the bird-bright eyes opened, and pinned me to the spot like an insect on a card.

“Do you know what Marshall meant by calling himself a ‘snipe’?”

“I don’t know, guttersnipe? Though why anybody’d call himself that is beyond me.”

“I’d say he meant another species of snipe entirely.”

“Okay,” I said, not getting it but afraid to say so.

“About the unknown persons asking questions, the ones Marshall didn’t like. Do you think they might have been the SEC? Or perhaps federal marshals?”

“No, I don’t. Feds always identify themselves and flash their credentials when they’re investigating, unless they’re deep undercover. Undercover cops don’t get noticed at all. So whoever it was probably wasn’t official. I’m thinking they were probably the same cretins who followed me.”

“Hmm. But let’s get back to the investigation of the yacht. Is there anything else?”

I shrugged. “I’d like to know exactly when she left her slip, but I don’t see how.”

“Have you considered making an inquiry of the Coast Guard?”

Oops. I should have thought of that. They might not know anything, but on the other hand, maybe they did. A boat the size of Chengfeng isn’t exactly inconspicuous. “I guess I’d better, huh.”

“Leave that to me,” she said. “I can probably learn more with a single phone call than you can trying to ingratiate yourself with callow sailors.”

“I’m not that kind of a girl, Miss Enola.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest that you were.” So much for sarcasm.

I stood up to go back to my room.

“Erica.”

I turned back to face her.

“Your hair is lovely.”

I really hate that, when someone I’m irritated with says something nice. All that perfectly good self-righteous indignation wasted.

After dinner, which was risotto with butternut squash, leeks, and basil, followed by poached pears in a Pinot Grigio-cinnamon sauce for dessert, Miss Enola got down to business.

“Have you had any luck with the Sea-Spark lead, Erica?”

Uh-oh. “I’m afraid I haven’t quite gotten around to it, Miss Enola.”

“Then don’t bother. According to my sources, Sea-Spark went out of business six months ago.”

“But that means they couldn’t have replenished the tanks.”

“Quite. Furthermore, my query to the U.S. Coast Guard was not without results. At 3:36 a.m. on the morning she got underway, Chengfeng was heard to advise a southbound merchant vessel in the San Pedro Channel off Santa Monica Bay that she would turn right and pass across its stern. This suggests very strongly that the yacht was heading out into the open ocean. Rather suggestive, I think.”

Suggestive of what? But I wasn’t going to admit I wasn’t following. “But still no sign of her?”

“None. There’s nothing more we can do in that regard for the time being. Our next move, however, is glaringly self evident.”

Luckily, she didn’t keep me long in suspense.

“We must confirm that Chengfeng’s assistant engineer is a smoker.”

That was so glaringly self-evident, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself, other than the fact that it seemed completely off the wall. “Miss Enola, correct me if I’m wrong, but we haven’t heard anything to suggest that there even is an assistant engineer. How can you know if he exists, let alone that he smokes?”

“You gave me the data yourself, Erica, although I could be wrong. I hope I am. If not, I may have good reason to ring CUS in Little Creek, Virginia, something I’d prefer to avoid — but that will have to wait. We’ll know more presently.”

I guess I’d gotten a little used to her being cryptic, because I let that last part slide, but not the first part.

“Cus? Who’s that?”

“The United States Navy, child. Don’t forget to look into the Chengfeng’s assistant engineer’s filthy habits tomorrow. It’s important. I eagerly await whatever unconventional stratagem you devise for finding out.”

My stratagem was about as unconventional as ordering a side of fries and a Coke with a Big Mac. Marshall might know if Holloway had an assistant, so after breakfast, off I toodled to Marina del Rey again in the Tesla. There wasn’t anybody at the fueling dock this time, so I went into the Royal Landing shop, which was pretty much the maritime equivalent of the convenience store at some small interstate truck stop, except that it also sold bait.

The clerk on duty was the kind of Hollywood Peter Pan — more pretty than handsome, with the requisite three days’ stubble on his chin. If he’d been a waiter in a Melrose restaurant, I would have pegged for a struggling young actor. He was dressed in khaki cargo pants and a white polo shirt with a Royal Landing logo on the left breast, above which was stitched “Brent.” Sometimes I think they’re all named Brent. Or Cody.

“Hi,” I said. “Have you seen Marshall around?”

“Lucky Marshall.” He grinned, cocking his head to one side. I guess he thought that must be adorable. “He’s got the day off. But maybe I can help.”

“I was told to ask for Marshall, but all right. Do you sell cigarettes here?”

The smile faltered a little. “Sure.”

“Oh my God, not for me! Remember that big motor yacht that left four or five days ago? The Chengfeng?”

“Oh, yeah. Hard to miss.”

“Maybe you remember a guy who worked on board who came in here to buy cigarettes. The assistant engineer?”

The smile was replaced by a puzzled frown. The poor dude was trying hard to think, but I don’t think he was getting very far. “What’s this about?”