Чарльз Кенни - This Is Murder

Twice during the trip the girl was seized with spells of nausea. She crawled to the side of the boat. Moraine held her head, struggled to keep the limp weight of her body from dropping down into the swirling waters. He looked up to see the hulk of his own yacht looming almost alongside. The man at the wheel of the speed boat shouted, “Don’t turn on any fights. We’ll take care of what we want.”

A hand flashlight sent its beam slithering along the deck of the big yacht. A swell lifted the speed boat to within a few feet of the deck.

“Throw out a fine,” Moraine called to Bromley.

“We’re giving orders here,” the man at the wheel said. “To hell with the fine.”

Two men picked up the girl. They almost flung her to the deck of the cruiser. She staggered and would have fallen back into the water had it not been for Moraine’s supporting arm as he made a flying leap, caught his left hand on the hand rail, circled her waist with his right arm.

He turned angrily to remonstrate with the men on the speed boat. As he did so, something struck him on the chest, something which dropped to the deck with a thud. The roar of the speed boat’s motor drowned his comments.

Moraine shouted in the girl’s ear, “Stand up! Get some strength in your knees!”

Men were running along the deck. Sid Bromley’s hands caught her as she relaxed completely into limp lifelessness.

Moraine remembered the thing which had been flung at him from the speed boat. He groped around until he found it, picked it up and carried it to his cabin.

It was a woman’s purse.

Moraine dropped it in a drawer of his dresser, took off his slicker and went to the main cabin, where Bromley was pouring out champagne for the girl.

“It’ll pick you up,” he said, “and it’s the best cure known for seasickness.”

Moraine went to her. She smiled at him between gulps of the liquid.

“Anything else?” Bromley asked.

“That’s all. Head her for the yacht harbor.”

Bromley nodded, pushed his way out of the cabin.

“You’re Ann Hartwell?” Moraine asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, a lot better. The champagne seems to settle my stomach.”

“How long have you been on that other yacht?”

“For days.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. We were out on the ocean.”

Moraine frowned at her contemplatively.

“How long since you left home?” he asked.

“I didn’t leave home — I was taken.”

“How long?”

“Two weeks, I think. I’ve lost track of time.”

“Why didn’t they demand ransom earlier?”

“I don’t know — there was something wrong. Something frightened them. They couldn’t get in touch with my husband.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I just heard what they said.”

“Where were, you when you heard them talking about this?”

“On the yacht.”

“You’ve been living on that little yacht?”

“Yes.”

“Ever since you were taken from your husband’s house?”

“I guess so; yes. Around two weeks — something like that. They had me for a day in a shack. Then they put me on the cruiser.”

“Could you see where you were going?”

“No, I could only tell by the swells.”

“There were lots of swells?”

“I’ll say there were. I didn’t like them.”

She made a grimace and sank back on the cushions, saying, “That champagne makes it a lot better, though. I wish I’d known about it sooner.”

“Grandest little remedy for seasickness in the world,” Moraine told her. “You go ahead and he down on that couch. Keep quiet for a while.”

“The motion’s a lot easier on this ship.”

“It’s larger, and we’re headed toward the yacht basin.”

“My husband will be waiting there?”

“I guess so,” he told her. “Don’t talk. Lie still and keep quiet.”

He drew a robe up over her, switched out all except one of the lights and went up to the wheel house.

“What does she have to say?” Bromley asked.

“Not much of anything,” Moraine told him, lighting a cigarette.

“Going to report it to the authorities?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Could you get any line on the boat she was on?”

“No. It looked like a remodeled fishing boat. It bobbed around a lot but seemed fairly seaworthy.”

Moraine smoked in silence. The big yacht knifed though the chop with the smooth dignity of a queen. It eased its way through the narrow opening to the yacht basin, and, crawling along over the light-reflecting waters, nosed its way into its berth. One of the seamen jumped out with a fine. A moment later Bromley shut off the engine.

“Were fast,” he said.

Moraine buttoned his coat about him, pulled a hat down on his head.

“I’m going to get her out of here before anything else happens,” he told Bromley. “You remember to tip the men off not to answer any questions in case anyone should get inquisitive.”

Moraine went down to the main cabin, got the girl to her feet, bundled her in a coat, guided her to the deck. She had one foot over the side of the yacht, groping for the stairs which led down to the mooring float, when the beam of a flashlight stabbed through the darkness.

A man’s voice said, “You re under arrest, both of you. Don’t make any sudden moves. Get your hands up in the air and keep them that way.”

Natalie Rice pushed open the door of Sam Moraine’s private office. There were newspapers clamped under her arm, a stack of mail in her hand. She came to a surprised stop as she saw Sam Moraine seated at his desk, smoking.

“I didn’t know you were here,” she said.

He nodded his head, his eyes fixed upon distance. He continued to smoke, puffing out little meditative clouds of white smoke.

“You thought I was in jail?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I presume the papers are full of it?”

“Yes. They didn’t mention your name. They said, ‘The head of a prominent downtown advertising agency.’ ”

“Nice of them,” Moraine remarked. “It won’t fool anyone — not for long.”

She looked about her at the drawn curtains, walked across to the wall and turned off the lights.

“How long have you been here?” she asked, raising the curtains.

He blinked slightly as the bright sunlight poured in through the window.

“I don’t know. Since three or four o’clock this morning.”

“You got out without any trouble?”

“Yes. Phil Duncan pulled some wires to get me out.”

“Was Barney Morden in on the arrest?”

“No, Barney was okay, but I think he talked too much at that. There was a leak somewhere, and I think it must have come from the district attorney’s office.”

“I don’t trust Mr. Morden,” she said. “I think he’s sort of a yes-man for Mr. Duncan, and I think he pretends to be very friendly and respectful to you, only because it’s good business for him to do so. If he ever had a chance, he’d turn against you.”

“Probably,” Moraine said absently. “Most men would.”

“Most men would what?”

“Turn against anyone if it became to their advantage to do so.”

“How cynical you are.”

“That’s not being cynical; that’s simply appraising facts at their face value. Has there ever been a case on record when a person with social position kept up a friendship with someone where the friendship meant forfeiting that social position?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You see it happen all around you every day.”

Her face was white now. She placed the mail on the desk, held the side of the desk with both hands as though to steady herself.