P.J. Alderman - Ghost Ship

Her pale blue eyes warmed a bit. “Yes, indeed, Mr. Seavey. I intend to do just that.”

As he watched her walk away, Remy appeared silently at his side.

“Inspector Yardley of Customs awaits you in your hotel suite, Boss. He has a matter of some urgency he wishes to discuss.”

The sound of a throat clearing came from behind them. “Sir?”

Michael turned back, impatient. MacDonough stood a few yards away, looking nervous. “What is it, man?”

“I’ll be needing a name, sir.”

“Pardon?”

“A name. For the ship, sir? Unless you’d be wanting to keep the old name, but most owners replace it with one of their own choice, a name that means something special to them …” MacDonough’s voice trailed off as Seavey scowled, staring out across the bay.

After a long moment, he replied, feeling as if the words had been wrenched from him, “ Henrietta Dale. ”

“A fine name, sir! Would it be belonging to someone I might’ve met?”

“No,” Seavey replied coldly. “It belongs to someone long dead.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

“Yes, so am I.”

IT took Michael only minutes to cross the wharf and walk the block to his hotel. The building was two stories high, and he’d added an annex that allowed for separation of the luxury rooms used by well-heeled guests from the wing of dormitory-style rooms used to accommodate sailors. A balcony ran the length of the second story, and the name of the hotel was attached in large painted wooden letters to the railing. His hotel was easily the most imposing structure along that part of the waterfront, just as he’d intended.

Though it was early in the day, he glimpsed a few sailors already partaking of spirits in his bar, while his wealthier guests reclined on comfortable settees in the adjacent hotel lobby, drinking coffee and reading the Port Chatham Weekly Gazette . No doubt perusing Eleanor’s editorial, Michael thought, and nodding their heads in agreement. Hypocrites, the lot of them.

He quickly climbed the back steps, accessing his suite of rooms through the rear hallway and taking a few minutes to freshen up before entering the sitting room where Yardley waited.

A tall man with a grim expression and a huge handlebar mustache, Yardley was fond of using his size to intimidate others. The Customs inspector’s job was to collect import duties and taxes on incoming cargo, and he had at his disposal a fleet of revenue cutters crewed by agents who had the authority to board and inspect any ship in local waters. Yardley had even become so bold as to insist that his agents travel on board the ships for the shorter runs between local ports.

Still attired in his uniform of wool pants and a double-breasted coat sporting two rows of gold buttons, Yardley must have come directly from being on duty. He held his narrow-brimmed hat with its gold Customs insignia in one hand at his side as he paced. Spying Michael, he halted.

Michael approached, gesturing at the brocade furniture gracing his suite. “Pray be seated, Inspector.”

“I prefer to stand.” Yardley’s tone was pleasant, yet Michael thought he detected a hint of grimness.

“May I offer you refreshment?” he asked, taking a seat in a handsome wing-back chair and propping a boot on one knee.

“No.” Yardley must have realized how rude he sounded, for he added, “Thank you.” He returned to his perusal of Michael’s plush furnishings and expensive artwork, his expression disapproving.

Michael waited him out.

Yardley swung around abruptly. “Last night, my men retrieved the bodies of several Chinese from the local waters. What do you know of this?”

“I’m sorry to hear of it,” Michael replied, not revealing the alarm he felt. “I’m afraid I am of no help, however—I was at the mayor’s soiree for the evening.”

“My men were patrolling an area just off North Beach.” Yardley’s tone was impatient. “According to the police, a Chinaman by the name of Lok lodged a complaint this morning, claiming Sam Garrett attempted to hang him last night in that same location. Lok also stated that another man, one fitting your description, was responsible for saving his life.”

Michael gave a silent curse. No good would come of this; Garrett would be hunting the man to permanently silence him. One would’ve thought Lok had the sense to remain silent about the affair.

He shrugged, maintaining an air of indifference. “The man must be mistaken—I know of no such incident. If I had, I would have reported it.”

“Do you deny that your man Garrett was out there last night, then?”

Michael feigned astonishment. “Come now, Inspector. Sam Garrett is not ‘my man,’ as you put it. I take no interest in his whereabouts—indeed, I rarely have any dealings with him at all. Therefore, how could I possibly confirm or deny?”

Yardley snorted. “You don’t expect me to swallow that story, do you, Seavey?”

“I don’t really care whether you do or not. It is the truth, however.”

Yardley clenched his hands at his sides, the only indication that he was less than composed. He evidently decided to take a less confrontational approach, however, for he said in a more equable tone, “As you may know, we’re experiencing an increase in these types of incidents. Because of the Chinese Exclusion Act, the Chinese are desperate to find a way to our shores by whatever means. Unfortunately, they sometimes book passage with ships’ captains who are less than candid about the risks associated with the crossing. Many of these captains feel justified in tossing them overboard, should one of our cutters approach, given the steep fines they would face upon discovery.”

“It seems a great risk indeed,” Michael agreed serenely, “to book passage with someone who thinks your life is expendable at the merest provocation. However, I fail to understand why you’ve come to me to discuss these incidents. I have no history of—indeed, no inclination to ever consider—trafficking in humans. I can assure you, I hold a man’s life to be far more valuable than that.”

Yardley merely raised an eyebrow. “Your reputation says otherwise.”

“Yes, well.” Michael waved a hand impatiently. “A man can’t spend his time trying to live down the foolish rumors that circulate about him along the waterfront. I conduct my affairs privately, discreetly, and to the benefit of all those involved. I certainly do not barter in human lives.”

“This man Lok,” Yardley said, abruptly changing the subject. “He claims you saved him from certain death last night. Do you categorically deny it?”

“I wouldn’t think such a crime would fall under your jurisdiction, Inspector.”

“It would if it had anything to do with illegal smuggling—either of drugs or humans.”

Close scrutiny by the authorities would be most unwelcome. It was imperative that he stop this line of inquiry immediately. “The man appears to be delusional on this account,” he lied without compunction. “I was at the mayor’s home until quite late. Any number of his guests can vouch for my presence throughout the evening. Payton’s sister, whose name escapes me at the moment, played an exceptional Bach cantabile. And I do admit to indulging in the fine port on offer. I was hardly in any shape to be gallivanting about on North Beach.” He paused, then shook his head. “Perhaps this man—Lok, you said?—suffered some disorientation because of the alleged attempt on his life.”

“Perhaps,” Yardley allowed, studying Michael silently for a long moment. “I suspect it’s also quite possible, however, that you guard your secrets closely.” He placed his hat on his head, turned to leave, then turned back. “I trust that if you hear of anything that might help us solve the drowning of the Chinese, you’ll contact me at once?”