Стюарт Стерлинг - Down Among the Dead Men

“I don’t follow you.”

“Two of your former employees were working on the Seavett; she hired them on your recommendation.”

“Correct.”

“They wouldn’t be much use watching Merrill, because generally he wasn’t on the yacht long enough to change his shirt. But if they’d been paid off to report on Mrs. Ovett’s doings, they’d have been able to put you hep to a lot of stuff. Give you the whip hand over her.”

“Nobody has control over Barbara Ovett.” The lawyer chose his words carefully. “A sex hangover from some promiscuous ancestor has made her emotionally unstable and mentally unreliable.”

“Why you acting for her on this divorce tangle, — against young Ovett, then? At the same time you’re corporation counsel for his father?” Koski circled the room, restlessly.

“The interests may seem to differ. Actually they are identical. My loyalty is to the Line which fees me; I act in its behalf to prevent the dispersal of its securities into hands which might impair their value.”

“Whose hands?”

“A person who knows nothing whatever about ships or the shipping business. And who may be inclined, accordingly, to adopt policies which would wreck the company.” The lawyer nodded at Schlauff. “Morrie will corroborate me. Miss Ellen Wyatt.”

“How’s she get in the mixup?”

“No reason why I shouldn’t tell you. It’s a matter of public record. Merrill’s aware his activities subject him to great risk, but he didn’t make a will to dispose of the minority stock his grandfather left him. He gave it outright to establish Blue Water Babies, a foundation. Stated purpose, to provide for the care of children left fatherless by the fortunes of submarine warfare.”

“Has my vote. If it’s as stated. Show me somebody who’s against it.”

“No one is, naturally. That’s the point. It’s too good an idea to ruin. But the Foundation won’t be able to carry out its program if the stock which endows it loses money. Which it will do if the Line is run by the governors Merrill has appointed for the Foundation.”

“Who’ll the governors be?” Koski watched a puzzled frown deepen on Schlauff’s face.

“Besides Miss Wyatt, Merrill himself and a union radical named Joslin. None of them has ever had the slightest experience in conducting a business. Miss Wyatt’s to be chairman; she’ll appoint successors if either of the other should... be incapacitated.”

“How’ll this setup affect the Ovett Lines, if Merrill only owns a minority interest?”

“The boy will inherit his father’s stock, which will undoubtedly be given to the Foundation, too — if Merrill has his way. Miss Wyatt will then control a definite majority of the voting shares. You see?”

“I get a glimmer.” The Lieutenant stared bleakly. “You think the old man won’t live much longer. You hired Schlauff to get the goods on Merrill so you could stop his transferring the shares to the Foundation. Or maybe Schlauff dug up some dirt about Mrs. Ovett and one of the yacht-hands and tipped Merrill off, hoping the boy would pull some rough work and put himself out of the picture.”

The investigator came up out of his chair. “Hey, now! Don’t put me on the spot. I never talked to M.O. in my life; I’ve told you all I know.”

“Hell you have.” Koski gripped Schlauff’s arm. “You know more. What you might know is this. The murderer we’re after may be supplying the background for this flurry of sub sinkings off the coast. You’re not holding out on the Police Department. You’re criscrossing the old gentleman with the beard and the beaver hat. You’re helping to gang up on the guys who sleep with their pants on and one ear cocked for the call to put on life-belts.” Fross slapped his desk smartly, for emphasis. “That puts quite a different light on it. Quite a different aspect. Neither Morrie or I would hesitate to give you any information we might possess... or may possess in the future... if it comes to a patriotic consideration.”

Schlauff chimed in: “You’re damn tooting. Just give me a chance to heil... ptth... right in der Fuehrer’s face.”

Fross removed his pince-nez, tapped his thick lips with the rim of one lens. “Do I understand you? Merrill is the traitorous individual you mention?”

“You understand I want Ovett. I want him damn quick.”

The lawyer sat up very straight. “I might possibly be able to suggest a train of thought in that direction.”

“You’ve got a clear track.” Koski wheeled about.

“He may have gone to sea, again. You knew he’s been getting firsthand experience as a sailor, I presume.”

“Yair.”

“Under a nom de guerre.”

“Now you’re touching the spot. What name?”

“I regret my inability to advise you on that point.”

“Ever hear him mention any name he might have used on other trips?”

“I am sorry.” The lawyer nipped at a speck of dust on his coat sleeve. “I can’t help you.”

“Say.” Schlauff slapped the newspaper against the calf of his leg. “I don’t know the tag M.O. used for shipping purposes. But I might know where to find out...”

“It’s like pulling back teeth,” Koski growled. “Spit it out.”

Schlauff rose, tossing his newspaper in the chair. “There’s something in that report on the Wyatt girl, Mister Fross.” He kept facing Koski and the lawyer, backed toward the door of the sanctum. “She used to call him some whacky name,” he put his hand on the knob almost reluctantly. “I heard her use it once in a booth. I’ll show you...” He slid out of sight. The door closed softly after him.

Fross laughed, skeptically. “Sinbad. It’s ridiculous; Merrill wouldn’t attempt anything as juvenile—” his voice dwindled away as Koski got to the inner door, flung it open.

The Harbor Squad man hissed a mono-sibilant, strode through the cozy-nook, opened the private door to the hall, looked out. There was no one in the corridor. He dived toward the red bulb marking the stairs, jerked open the door, listened. No sound of running feet; nothing but distant traffic noises.

He cursed under his breath. Trying to run down a sharpshooter like Schlauff in a building as big as this might take half a day; time Koski couldn’t spare now. He stalked back into the office, muttering: “Singlehanded Schlauff. Needs his teeth fixed up. First thing he knows somebody’ll straighten them for him. With a spade—” He cut it short. Both offices were empty. Koski moved swiftly through the corridor to the reception room. “Where’s Fross?”

The bespectacled old man at the switchboard regarded him owlishly. “I couldn’t say, sir.”

“He go out just now?”

“I didn’t see him, sir.”

“You wouldn’t.” Koski went back into Fross’s office, rummaged around, found nothing that interested him. In the private cubicle he had better luck. In a handkerchief on the shelf under the portable bar was a nickel-plated hammerless.

The Lieutenant stuck a pencil in the barrel, held it up so he could sniff at the muzzle without touching it. It was a thirty-two and it had been cleaned since it was last fired.

He wrapped it in the handkerchief again, put it in his pocket, went out to the elevator by the private door.

Fingers of fog crept across Battery Park, strangling the lambent blue at the subway kiosk, shrouding a newspaper stand in golden haze. A tug groaned dismally; a St. George ferry hooted back. There was no dusk, only an enveloping grayness which grew steadily darker. Koski opened the door marked Harbor Precinct, stood with hands on his hips. He sniffed, grumbled:

“Haven’t you guys heard?”