Ralph Compton - Bounty Hunter

“Inspector, I’d bet my pension that they’re heading for Sprague’s steam yacht anchored off the Golden Gate,” Langford said.

“Then we’ll never catch them,” Anderson said. “We don’t have a steamboat or any other kind of boat. And even if we can find a rowboat they have too much of a start on us. We’re police officers, not expert oarsmen.”

Suddenly Tone recalled his conversation with Simon Hogg, the night the man described the six men Tone had been contracted to kill.

“Langford,” he said, “Simon Hogg once told me that Joe Carpenter kept a small steam yacht.” He looked at the crowded rows of sailing ships lining the docks, a forest of masts stretching away in the distance. “If we can find it and get the thing going we have a chance of catching them.”

Anderson was willing to clutch at straws. He yelled to his men, “Spread out and search for a small steam yacht. It must be anchored around here someplace.”

“How will we know which one it is, Inspector?” an officer asked.

The inspector was on edge and he let it show. “Damn it, man, find any steam yacht. How many can there be?”

Fifteen minutes passed while Anderson fretted and fumed, pacing up and down, occasionally throwing a long-suffering glance at Langford.

Finally he glanced at Tone, then said to the sergeant, “I don’t believe I’ve met this gentleman before.”

Langford made the introductions, then, anticipating a possible objection from Anderson, he said, “Mr. Tone plans to join the department soon.”

“Excellent, but still, he’s a civilian and—”

A whistle sounded and a policeman waved frantically in the distance.

“By God, they’ve found it!” Anderson yelled. Then he was running.

Tone and Langford pounded after him, their tiredness forgotten along with Anderson’s lowly estimate of civilian status.

Chapter 40

The yacht was moored at a jetty in front of an unused warehouse, well away from the main shipping channel.

Tone calculated she was about seventy feet long with a ten-foot beam. The boat was built low and racy, her single funnel raked for speed, and her foredeck was covered with a white canvas awning. She looked ship-shape and ready for sea. A man in Joe Carpenter’s profession would be expected to keep her that way. There was no one on board.

Tone, Anderson and Langford stood on the jetty, admiring her lines, and the inspector said, “She’ll do.” Then his face fell. “Wait, does anyone know how to make the thing go? I expected there would be a crew on board her.”

“For a start, she’ll need to get up a head of steam,” Tone offered. “I would imagine that takes hours.”

Anderson cursed out his frustration. “Hours! The Ripper and the others will be long gone by then.”

He turned to his men, who were grouped together among rusting machinery in front of the warehouse.

“You men, find me sailors who know steamboats!” he yelled. “Empty the brothels if you have to, shanghai them if you must, but get me seamen.”

“Begging the inspector’s pardon,” said an older officer, stepping forward, “but I was a boiler man on the old Wabash during the late war. If that tub’s wood-fired, I can get her started nice as you please.”

“Come forward, man,” Anderson said. “How long to get her going?”

“Let me take a look below, sir,” the man said. Gray hair showed under his helmet and peppered his thick mustache. “I have to see if she’s stoked with wood or coal.”

“Then do it, man,” Anderson said, tapping out an impatient little jig on the jetty timbers. “Time is a-wasting.”

The officer disappeared down a hatchway and was gone for a couple of minutes. When he came back on deck he said, “Aye, she’s wood-fired right enough. One boiler, single screw, but she’ll be fast through the water.”

“How long to give her . . . what do you call it? A full head of steam?”

“From a cold boiler, using a fire of split pine logs saturated with oil, five or six minutes.”

“That’s all?” Anderson asked incredulously.

“Yes, sir,” the cop said. “There’s only one problem.”

“What’s that?”

“The boiler could blow up.”

It took Anderson only a few moments to consider that warning and dismiss it. “There are barrels of whale oil on the dock. Get a few on board and soak that wood as much as you need. Let’s get her started.”

Tone angled a glance at Langford. “The boiler could blow up,” he said mildly.

“Yeah, and us along with it.”

“It do fill a man with confidence. Don’t it, Thomas?”

After ten minutes Anderson sent a couple of his men belowdecks to feed the boiler and he ordered the Wabash veteran to the wheelhouse, since he was the only man on board who had some knowledge of steering.

As Tone and Langford joined the inspector, Anderson was asking his officer how the boiler was holding.

The man shook his head. “Hard to say, sir. When you rapidly heat a cold boiler, some parts expand faster than others and it causes internal strains. At best you get seams in the metal, at the worst, boom! and the whole shebang goes sky-high.”

Anderson had suddenly developed a twitch under his left eye. “What’s your name, Officer?” he asked.

“Charles Benson, sir. Originally of New York town.”

“Good man, Benson. You aim this scow at the Golden Gate full speed ahead. If we catch up with the rowboat I’ll see you get a sergeant’s star in ten years or so.”

“Thank’ee kindly, sir,” Benson said, smiling, as he opened the throttle and eased the yacht away from the jetty. “Not so much for me, you understand, but the little lady would appreciate it.”

Tone, who had been thinking, said, “Officer Benson, that boat you were on—”

“The old Wabash , sir.”

“Right. Did she have guns?”

“She was a fifty-four-gun frigate, sir.”

“I believe if we tangle with Lambert Sprague’s pirate ship, she’ll have cannons on board.”

Benson’s face stiffened and he was silent for a moment. Then he smiled. “Well, sir, maybe our boiler will explode before that happens.”

“Good man, Charlie,” Tone said. “Always look on the bright side.”

“Yes, sir. It’s me nature, you might say.”

But Anderson was obviously worried. His eye twitching, he said to Tone, “How many cannons?”

“I don’t know, Inspector. I never saw them. But about a month ago he used cannons to shoot up a freighter, so he’s got some big guns, all right.”

“He could blow us out of the water before we even get close,” Anderson said.

“We could always turn back and leave it up to the Navy,” Tone said, testing what the young inspector’s reaction would be.

“No!” Anderson said, the word almost a shout. “I’ve left two officers dead on the dock back there and I plan to bring their murderers to justice.” He turned to Benson. “Full speed ahead!”

“And damn the torpedoes,” Tone added.

The inspector allowed himself a slight smile. “Yes, indeed.”

Tone was no sailor, but it seemed to him that the yacht was fairly racing across the water and he said as much to Benson.

“Yes, sir, she can fly. I’d say we’re doing twenty-three knots. We should catch the rowboat before it clears the strait, if the boiler holds.”

“Yes,” Tone said, “if the boiler holds.”

“Take the wheel, sir, if you will. I’m going below to see how she’s bearing up.”

Benson vanished and Tone gingerly took the wheel, concentrating on keeping the bucking boat aimed for the strait.

White water was crashing over the bow and two dozen cops were huddled under the canvas awning, soaked and miserable, several already leaning over the side, retching.