Стюарт Стерлинг - Collection of Stories

SEA-DOG, auxiliary diesel ketch, built by Nevins, 1938. L. 55 ft. B. 14 ft. D. 4 ft. 10 in. Owner, Sydna Perris, Hampton Roads, Va. Registered vessel 21 tons, Colon, Rep. Panama, 1948.

Well, it wasn’t unusual for a man to transfer ownership of his yacht to his wife, Koski told himself. But that Panamanian registry; that was a horse of another collar.

Why would a Broadway personality, a member of the exclusive Neptune Club, prefer to fly the flag of the tiny canal republic instead of his own country’s ensign?

Then, why had the Sea-Dog come to New York in September, after that Havana cruise? Most pleasure craft, about this time, were heading south for Florida waters.

“Which mooring’s the ketch on?” asked Mulcahey.

“Last one,” Buzz spoke as if he had a mouthful of hot spaghetti. “End of the line. Out south.”

Koski said: “What’s with this Belton boy?”

The engineer looked up. “A skunkerino. Useta be a professional wrestler. Big-a da muscle. Likes to pose around in swim trunks. I think he wears a chest wig.”

“What’s he work at, nowadays?”

Buzz held out one hand, palm up. “Mrs. Perris, mostly. He eats for free on the Sea-Dog. He wouldn’t spend a nickel to see an earthquake. Frank says he’s a nixy-never for tips.”

The patrol boat swung inside moored yachts, pitching uneasily on their buoys. Only a small sloop and one bridge-decked sport-fisherman showed lights below. Three blue bulbs on the club mast glowed ghostlike a hundred feet to leeward.

The Sea-Dog was dark, except for the pale spark of her riding light.

Mulcahey slanted in toward her starboard quarter. “Give ’em a hail, Steve?”

“No,” Koski ordered. “Run alongside.”

The Vigilant rubbed her black nose against the ketch’s flank.

Koski went up on the foredeck with a hand torch.

“Hold her, Sarge.”

He stepped across to the Sea-Dog’s cockpit. “Anybody aboard?”

No answer. But the companionway was open. Below the deck shone a dim radiance.

Queer way to leave a yacht. Cabin unlocked. All hands ashore.

Koski went down.

A galley. Unwashed dishes. Main cabin. Dirty dishes on the gimbal-swung table. Cigarette smoke. And a queer, sweetly sickening smell that was an offense to the nostrils.

On the carpeted floor, beside one of the built-in bunks, was the torn coat of a girl’s pajamas. Gauzy, pink silk. Collar ripped. Buttons off. And one red, high-heeled slipper.

The glow came from a stateroom, forward on the port side. It hadn’t been visible at the angle from which the Vigilant approached.

Koski moved warily toward it. From behind the door, someone screamed:

“No, no, no, Maury! Don’t! PLEASE, MAURY!!!”

She crouched against the head of a big, double bed. All she had on was the pajama pants to match the torn jacket, but she hugged a pillow tightly in front of her.

Her dark eyes bulged with terror. A sleek mane of chestnut hair fell tousled across her face. Her lips made a scarlet O in her bronze-tanned face.

Koski looked at the disorder of feminine clothes on the chair at the end of the bed. “Expecting your husband, Mrs. Perris?”

She nodded dumbly. Then she whispered. “Who are you?”

“Police. Harbor Patrol. Koski, Lieutenant. Where’s Perris?”

“He — went to the club.” The fear remained etched on her face. “Has anything bad — happened?”

“You tell me.” He heard a dull thump, as if a rowboat bumped the hull.

“Maury’s out of his mind!” She tossed her head to get the hair away from her eyes. “He came aboard while I was asleep. Ham was here. I heard a terrific battle in the cabin. Maury was beating Ham’s brains out with a pistol. I tried to stop my husband. He came at me like a maniac, ripped my pajamas, called me all kinds of vile names, struck me. That’s all I remember — until I came to a minute ago. I thought he was coming back to kill me too.”

The muffled thumping sounded once more. It wasn’t from the hull, Koski decided. “Ham? The wrestler boy?”

“Yes.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “My husband accused me of — two-timing him.”

“No-o-o!” Koski was sardonic. “Where’s your crew?”

“The engineer went ashore. Aren’t the others here?” She closed her eyes, leaned against the bed as if she was about to keel over.

“Get some duds on.” Koski stepped out of the stateroom, listening. The bumping came from the crew’s quarters, up in the bow. “Make it fast.” He let his flash-beam precede him.

The forecastle was a cramped space with low headroom. In one of the pipe-berths lay a trussed-up giant with blood on his forehead and a sock in his mouth. He wore blue corduroys, a blue jersey, sneakers. His ankles were tied to the pipe-frame of the berth with canvas sail-stops. He was thumping his skull against the bulkhead. Koski cut the gag binding, jerked out the sock.

Belton let out a croak: “Did you get the dirty buzzard? Where is he?”

The lieutenant used his knife on the canvas strips around Belton’s wrists. Then he used the strips to wipe blood off the wrestler’s forehead. Belton put up his hands, pushed Koski away.

“Never mind. I’ll be all right.”

Koski pursed his lips. “Think so?”

The big man scowled. “I wouldn’t have been if you hadn’t come aboard before that bloodthirsty buzzard got back. He nearly killed me. Only reason he didn’t was he wanted to take his time about finishing me off.” He peered up, puzzled. “How’d you hear about it?”

Koski was curt. “Haven’t heard all I want to, yet. For instance, no marks on you. Where’d all the blood come from?”

“I slugged Maury in the snoot. That’s where the blood came from.” Belton got his ankles freed. He slid out of the bunk. He was inches taller than Koski. His shoulders bulked like a bull’s, beneath the blue jersey. “What’s the idea, putting the quiz on me?”

Koski pointed at the bunk. “Funny his nosebleed didn’t get any gore on the bedding.” He made a grab for the neck of Belton’s jersey. “None on your shirt, either.”

Belton struck at the lieutenant’s arm: “What are you strong-arming me for? I’m the injured party!”

Koski jolted him with a short-arm to the chops.

The wrestler wrapped his arms around Koski’s waist, lifted him off the cabin floor. Koski’s toes barely touched the planking. His ribs were being crushed in a paralyzing bear hug. Koski decided it was no time to be dainty. He jabbed stiff fingers at Belton’s nose. Fingertips caught the wrestler’s nostrils, forced his head back.

Belton’s hold relaxed. He stumbled backward, twisted away, put his hands to his face, whimpering.

Koski poked him in the pit of the stomach to straighten him up. “Stop blubbering. If you don’t come through quick with the low-down about what happened on this tub, I’ll make you squeal louder than that. One way or another — you name it.”

He shoved the wrestler aft.

Through the open port in the Sea-Dog’s main cabin came the hollow hoarseness of the Vigilant’s loudspeaker:

“Attention Vigilant! Attention Vigilant! Motorist on City Island Causeway reports body in water near rocks eastern end of causeway, thirty feet from shore. Disregard checkup on small craft and investigate. Nine-eleven p.m. Authority, Bronx Bureau Police Communications. Acknowledge. Over.”

Mulcahey bellowed above the wind. “Hear that, Lieutenant?”

Koski put his face to the porthole. “Tell ’em we’ve already got hold of one end of that line. We’ll follow it up.” That was another of headquarter’s angles that always irked him; the big shields downtown always seemed to pay more attention to dead bodies than live people. Koski looked at it differently; if a man was dead enough to float, he’d wait for you to come and get him. A human in danger might not be able to wait for help.