Стюарт Стерлинг - Collection of Stories

He wasn’t quite sure how pressing the peril was, here on the ketch. But he could sense its close presence from the frightened glances Sydna Perris shot at Ham Belton.

The wrestler huddled against one end of a main-cabin berth; his face was slack-muscled with fear, but there was still some bluster in his voice.

“You’ve no right to keep me here on board, against my will.”

Koski eyed him bleakly. “I’m not keeping you. I didn’t tie you up. Remember? I cut you loose. You can go ashore any time you like. It’ll be a sweet swim. I’ll have a resuscitator ready to pump air into you when they drag you ashore.”

Sydna Perris cried: “Why don’t you find that — floating man and use it on him! Maybe it’s Maury!”

Belton nodded heavily. “Be just like that neurotic buzzard to put us in a jam by doing the Dutch.”

Koski picked up the cowhide suitcase that stood by the lavatory door. “You two act like you’re rehearsing a duet in double-talk. Here’s a jealous husband catches his wife alone with his best friend. You say he beat you up. You claim he went away but you can’t say why. Your story is he was coming back to cut your gizzards out... but both of you are alive. And Perris hasn’t showed. What makes you so sure he’s dead?”

Sydna retorted angrily: “I’m not so sure! He went ashore in the dinghy. Maybe it tipped over. Maybe he’s still alive. You should hurry and find him before it’s too late to help him — instead of browbeating us!”

“You don’t know why he went ashore. You can’t tell whether he got there or not. Still, you seem pretty sure he’s drifting around up there by the Causeway. You’re a big help.”

Belton growled: “I’ve told you all I know. Maury got excited about my being here alone with Sydna. He went clean off his rocker.”

“Don’t give me that broken record routine again.” Koski shook the suitcase. It was light. He opened it. It was empty, except for another, whiff of that queer, sickeningly sweet odor. “Perris comes to spend a weekend on his yacht. Brings along a suitcase. What happened to the stuff that was in it?”

Belton snorted scornfully. “You going to blame us for everything Maury did? He brought the luggage aboard. I never even noticed the blame thing until just now. How would we know when he unpacked, or what he did with his things?”

Koski said: “Things. Yair.” He opened the lavatory door. Linoleum-covered floorboards around the toilet had been pulled out, exposing piping and the curved planking of the hull.

“Who’s the plumber?” he asked.

Sydna cried irritably: “Captain Vaugh did that. He thought a valve was leaking.”

“Um.”

There was plenty queer about the Sea-Dog, but it wasn’t valves. Panamanian registry. Trip to Havana. Wrong-way Corrigan business about coming north when everybody else was going south. Guy who seemed to have gobs of money, still nobody knew how he got it. To top it, the stove-in dinghy — and a dead man out there in the darkness somewhere.

Koski looked in the galley. Behind the door was a white steward’s jacket. In one pocket, a bank book. Seaman’s Savings Bank. In account with Frank Kaalohti. $204 balance. Regular weekly deposits.

Koski stuck the bank book in his slicker. The couple in the cabin weren’t in a position to see what he was doing.

He went up to the cockpit. “Bring that buzzsaw on board, Sarge.” He stood by the bowline Mulcahey had cleated to the ketch. “There’s a couple more Kilkenny cats down below, Joe. Don’t think there’s much yowl left in ’em. But don’t let either of ’em get behind you.”

The engineer crawled painfully from the police boat’s forward deck to the Sea-Dog.

Mulcahey followed. “You towing us in, Steve?”

“No. Going in, myself. To the club. After the steward and captain. Then I’ll slide over and look for that floater.”

He crossed to the Vigilant, cast off, backed away, swung the black nose toward the three blue lights on the Neptune Club mast.

The northwester was a half gale now; the moored yachts heeled over under bare spars.

Deftly Koski brought the Vigilant beside the club float, put out lines, went up the gangplank to the graveled walk with its whitewashed stones.

A swingy trumpet hit a high jive note above a soft-stringed guitar background in the club diningroom. The long, low clubhouse was mellow with light. This would be the Saturday night party for club members and guests. Koski thought of a dead man, dancing in the channel chop.

He went around to a screened veranda. Half a dozen shadowy figures sat in the gloom, rocking, talking. The crewman’s porch. He called:

“Captain Vaugh?”

A gruff bass query: “Who wants him?”

“Harbor Police.”

The movement of the rocking chairs ceased. There were low murmurings. One figure got up, pushed open the screen door, came out.

A tall, rawboned hulk of a seafaring man. Sharp beak of a nose. Steel-framed spectacles. Iron gray hair.

The man asked sourly, “Did Perris trim the lovebirds’ feathers?”

Koski started back toward the float. “When’d you see Perris last?”

Captain Jeff Vaugh followed reluctantly. “Hour and a half ago, I’d say. Here at the club.”

“Ordered you off the ketch, with the others?”

“Yep. Not that I’m taking any orders from him — Mrs. Perris owns the boat. But it looked like I’d best be ashore while they had their brawl out. So I didn’t argue with him when he told me to pack and shove off.”

“This before he had his bout with Belton?”

“How’s that?” Vaugh cupped palm to ear. “There wasn’t any bout. That scut Belton wouldn’t have talked back to a kitten. He was scared witless whenever Perris was around.”

“Um. Did the steward come ashore with you?”

“No, sir. Perris rowed me in, tried to make me take a fistful of cash. I wouldn’t touch it, of course.”

“Why not?”

“Couldn’t afford to let him think he could discharge me like that. I signed on as master, regular ship style. Owner is the only one who can pay me off. Besides, I know Perris. Tomorrow he’d likely accuse me of robbing him. They say he’s made a great success in putting on those theatrical shows. But I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw an anchor. No, sir. He’d steal your last piece of change if you were starving; that’s the kind of fella he is.”

“Didn’t happen to see him bring the steward ashore?”

“No, sir. Expect he did, though. Said he was going to. Good Godfrey Mighty!” Vaugh stopped by the gangplank rail, shaded his eyes. “Who’s taking her out, on a night like this?”

Silhouetted against the lights of a tug, the dark outline of the Sea-Dog was moving swiftly out past the Point.

Koski took the float in two strides, hurdled the police boat’s coaming, slapped the starter. “Cast off, Cap.”

Vaugh ran to the cleat. “Take it away.” He swung himself on the stern deck as the horses snorted under the motor hatch.

Koski threw the clutch lever. The Vigilant shook solid water off her bow, lifted her nose, gained speed.

Vaugh shouted over the hrrush of water: “Who’s aboard her?”

Koski told him, curtly. His concern was — who wasn’t on board the sketch. Had one of that bunch managed to shove Mulcahey overside?

He probed the night with the searchlight, holding it on the buoy where the Sea-Dog had been moored. If Joe had gone in the drink, he’d have tried to make that buoy — if he’d been able to swim. But then, if they’d been able to heave him over, it would have been because the sergeant wasn’t in any shape to navigate.