Стюарт Стерлинг - Down Among the Dead Men

“It isn’t plausible,” Barbara insisted. “Nobody saw Ansel on board after we left Rodd’s Yard.”

“Nobody would have seen him, Mrs. Ovett. If he’d been in Merrill’s stateroom, changing into Merrill’s clothes.”

“Right after Clem left at Wall Street, Merrill jumped ashore.” Barbara sighed with impatience. “Otherwise, he’d have been aboard next morning.”

Koski said: “He left while you were still at the dock in Brooklyn. Right after Gjersten came back to the yacht. Chances are Gjersten gave him some decoy message to get him to go to this disreputable house. Gjersten might have told him some pal of his was in trouble there. Probably this union lad, here. The murder room was taken in Joslin’s name. It would have had to be some frameup like that to get Merrill into that Red Hook rat-hole. One thing sure, he wasn’t aboard this tub; he wasn’t seen aboard it after you left Rodd’s. You told me he was sulking in his tent, Mrs. Ovett. You were way off. He probably thought he was rushing to rescue a friend.”

Berger cleared his throat, gruffly. “I can’t contradict you on what happened here on the boat or in Brooklyn. What sets wrong in my craw is that Merrill was alive this morning. His father talked to him on the phone.”

“Thought he did.” Koski nodded. “Be natural to expect a man to recognize his son’s voice. But there were what the parole people call mitigating circumstances.”

“Lawford didn’t mention any to me, sir.”

“First place, the old man is half deaf.”

“Not so deaf anyone could fool him, pretending to be Merrill.”

“Yair. When you take second place into account. Second place was, he’d had a shot of dope the night before. It hadn’t worn off by the time he got to your office, — an hour or so after the call.”

“That’s so.” Berger stared at Clem. “That is so.”

“Then you told me Mister Ovett thought the call came from a saloon. Only way he’d have known that would have been because of the racket. Good place for Gjersten to talk from if he was pretending to be Merrill. Another reason for being sure the call was phony, — the guy at the other end of the line didn’t talk long. Not long enough to arouse the old man’s suspicions. Damn queer way to talk to your own father when you’d just been rescued. After twelve days in a lifeboat. Merrill would have had more than that to say. Joslin told me Merrill tried to phone his father Sunday afternoon. Not just to say three sentences.” He shifted his position; the pain in his side was suddenly sharper. “Idea was the same as a wire he was supposed to have sent. Make everybody look for Merrill, — instead of Gjersten.”

Clem chewed on his lower lip, dubiously. “I had a different idea about the murder, but say you’re right. It still doesn’t prove Ansel was the murderer.” He leaned back to keep Barbara within his range of vision. “It might have been someone else, — who paid Ansel to do away with the... uh... remains, to make that phone call. Somebody who hoped, with Merrill out of the way—”

“—to get control of the Line,” Berger broke in sharply. “Yes ... indeed!”

“No.” Koski’s voice was dull with fatigue. “Nothing to do with all this security hocus-pocus. If the idea’d been to get hold of Merrill’s shares, or his estate, or his inheritance, — the body wouldn’t have been cut up to conceal its identity. Other way ’round. Body would have to be identified before there’d be any sense to the crime. Purpose of the mutilation was to hide the dead man’s identity long enough to let Gjersten get out of the country. Aboard the Santa Pobrico . Killer might have stood to profit by Merrill’s death. But not by having it known.”

“There is a discrepancy.” Foss smoothed his mustache. “You say Gjersten sailed on the Pobrico?”

“As an oiler, yair.”

“Then it couldn’t have been Gjersten who assaulted Morrie Schlauff. Because the officers who came around to my office sometime after... after you left... I presume they were acting on your instructions?—”

“Go on. Presume.”

“—told me Morrie must have been attacked at just about the time the Pobrico was pulling away from her pier.”

“Yair.”

Koski waited until the Penfield Reef siren ceased its periodic groan. “Gjersten didn’t slug Schlauff. Schlauff was after information about Merrill. Doped it out that it ought to be worth something to know the whereabouts of a rich man’s son, accused of murder. Had no idea what he was going up against. Accidentally went right to the head man behind this business. He asked the wrong question, guessed the right answer. So maybe the key man tried to buy him off. Maybe he just decided to knock him off. Gjersten wasn’t mixed up in that.”

Barbara asked: “Why are you hunting for him, then? Why don’t you go after this... this head man you talk about?”

“Oh, Gjersten was a killer.” Koski felt the Seavett heel to starboard, knew the yacht must be turning on the inshore leg of the patrol. “He was in on Merrill’s murder. Worked with the boss-guy. Helped put over the message about Joslin. They knew Merrill was a friend of Joslin. Would probably have gone to his aid if word came this union lad was in dutch. So Gjersten let the other man use his room at the dive. But he was probably afraid he’d be identified by the girl he’d taken to the same room in the afternoon. So today, when he learned from the papers the body had been discovered, he must have found where she lived, got in her room up the fire-escape, shot her when she came in. Gjersten was deadly, but he didn’t have the knowledge to do the big job the head man was doing.”

“Knowledge?” Fross took off his glasses, put them on again, and coughed delicately.

“Special kind of information. Information that would be useful to enemy subs off our coast.”

The quietness of the saloon was deepened by the dismal bellow of the siren on the reef. Koski went on:

“Man would have to know about ships. Ship sailings. Ship routes. Might know more about Ovett ships than any others. Have to be familiar with radio. Shortwave. Sending and receiving. Either have one himself or have access to it.” Koski wasn’t watching Barbara, but he could hear her breathing, — like a runner at the finish of a sprint. “He’d have to be able to dress like a seaman. Act like one. Know his way around the waterfront, or how to find his way around without being noticed. He was smart enough to tie a bandage around his chin. So everyone noticed the bandage. Nobody noticed him.”

Ellen stood up, rigidly. “He doesn’t have a swastika mark on his arm, like Gjersten. He has it branded into his heart.”

Joslin came up off the seat, too. “He’s worse than a Nazi. Because he doesn’t wear the lousy label where it can be seen. He’s the dirtiest dog on earth. A Quisling.”

They both looked at Berger.

Berger squinted at her, gaped at her as if she were demented. His apple-red cheeks purpled. Veins traced dark threads on his forehead.

“Me!” he bellowed, — raised his arm to strike Joslin.

Koski stepped in, swiftly, got between them.

He was too close to use punches. There was only room for quick jabs, keeping Berger off balance.

“Yair! You!—”

A push.

“You answer the requirements—”

A shove, crowding Berger’s legs against the transom seat.

“—you found Merrill’s union cards on him. After you killed him—”

A prod in the stomach.

“—that gave you the idea of getting Ansel out of the country by switching identities—”

Another push.

“—you had a short-wave in your office. Or close to it—”