Billingsgate Shoal

by Rick Boyer

  The place was basically quiet. . .almost too still in fact. Yet trucks did rumble, in and out. I took a final tour around the huge old warehouse buildings and then headed out the main drive toward the highway. Then I heard a truck coming behind me. As it swept past I realized it was the blue van that Schilling had poked his head into. I snapped it as it bounced down the road ahead of me. I saw an elbow sticking out of the passenger window, but nobody turned to look.

  Back at the fish pier I called Brian Hannon and told him I had located the Penelope.

  "I'm overjoyed, Doc. I really am. You have made my day."

  I asked him if he could request that the Rose be boarded by the Coast Guard on suspicion.

  "Suspicion of what?" asked Brian.

  "Who knows? Smuggling's the best guess I can think of."

  "Absolutely not."

  I told him I understood. But I said it in a very clipped tone.

  "Look," he finally said, "I have a friend at the Massport Authority. After this episode he'll no doubt be my former friend. . .but I could. . .I could relay your message. They might tell the Coast Guard. . .they might not. But let me tell you. If it's a wild-goose chase I'm going to be all over you like a cheap suit."

  He hung up. I called my brother-in-law, Joe, and requested the same. Finally I called my buddy Lieutenant Commander Ruggles and informed him what I found. Three requests. Hell, unless a hurricane blew in, the USCG would have to follow up. There was no excuse not to. Except of course one: that a private citizen had suspected something. That wasn't very strong. Well, I'd done the best I could, for the time being, at least.

  Plymouth lay roughly equidistant from Gloucester and Wellfleet, if that meant anything. Also, it was pretty close to Boston—if that meant anything. There was only one person besides the crew of the Penelope/Rose who could clue me in: Danny Murdock. Even dead drunk, he could be eloquent. His sodden brain held the pertinent dope.

  I eased the Hatton out of her borrowed slip and hummed back up Plymouth Harbor. I passed the cordage works and saw the Rose still hitched quayside, a white-dressed damsel amongst thugs. It was now late afternoon and things had ground to a total halt on the small pier. I glided on toward Duxbury Harbor. I drifted to a stop and let out anchor chain just inside the harbor, and clear enough of the breakwater so I could see the dock across the water. When Rose left I wanted to know it. I packed my pipe and dismantled the gizmo; the rain had lifted and—Lawd sakes amighty—there was the faint promise of sun. I sat on the cabin top and puffed and sipped a Budweiser, crinkling and uncrinkling my toes.

  I thought of the scrambled CB conversation I'd heard. It could be interesting, it had issued from the Rose and if there was any marine double talk intended in it of the kind Ted had described to me in the Schooner Race. Somebody was referred to as the general, and he had something, tuna and, swordfish. Good for him. The other party didn't want to be forgotten. According to the general, he wouldn't be. That meant that in the future—probably the near future—the men of the Rose were going to do something.

  Why did he call himself general? Either he was really a general—something I found myself discounting immediately—or else general was a code name. Why general? There was Miles Standish, standing up above the harbor. He was probably a general. That could be it. The only other general I could think of in the area was the General James Longstreet, the half-sunk target ship.

  There were a lot of loose ends. I had to see Danny Murdock, drunk or sober. That was for sure. I lazed about in Hatton's cockpit for the remainder of the afternoon, reading, sunning, and watching the commercial pier. It was quiet as a tomb over there. The water was still as glass in the faint sunlight. The draggers were mirrored motionless where they sat. I could hear flies droning fifty feet away. I dozed in the dying sun.

  The crackle of the CB awakened me. It was number-one son—the guy who loved whales. It was almost six. He was two hours late. We met at the dock and I ferried him out to the catboat via the dory. We had a long discussion on what had transpired, and decided that we'd wait it out, in shifts if necessary, until Rose cut loose and split. Then we'd make one more attempt at her interception. After that there was nothing much more we could do except to trail Ella Hatton back to Concord for her winter's sleep. We sat and talked. Jack told me Tony was under medication for his dose, which was good to hear. He said Mary was not the slightest bit pleased at this quixotic streak that I had manifested itself in me, and I understood—in part at I least.

  "Oh, yeah, I forgot one other thing. Did you write a letter to someplace in the Caribbean?"

  He took a thin aerogramme out of his pocket and tilted it around, looking at the postmark affixed to the tissue paper.

  “Uh. . . Queen's Beach Condominiums?"

  "Gimme."

  I tore the flimsy thing open, and I read:

  QUEEN'S BEACH CONDOMINIUMS

  Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands

  "Where Paradise Begins"

  September 18, 1979

  Dear Dr. Adams:

  Thank you for your recent inquiry regarding your friend and our client, Mr. Wallace Kinchloe. While it is the strict policy of this development, and all the developments of the Chadwick-Longchamp Group, to maintain the utmost confidentiality regarding all its tenants and clients, we do feel at this time obliged to reveal to you and any other interested parties our concern over the absence of Mr, Kinchloe, who indicated an arrival date here in Charlotte Amalie of September 1. Since it is now getting on toward October, we are justifiably concerned, especially given Mr. Kinchloe's extremely prompt communications in the past.

  You may rest assured that should he arrive here, we will notify him immediately of your concern. Until such time as we hear from Mr. Kinchloe, we shall of course maintain his suite of rooms as per the agreement. However, if there is no word from him whatsoever by the first of the year we reserve the right, under the terms of the contract, to offer the suite for rent or sale. We would regret doing this, of course, and still look forward to hearing from him.

  Sincerely yours,

  John C. Pepper

  Manager

  I pondered the epistle, blowing pipe smoke down onto the page and watching it billow out around the edges.

  "An arrival date of September l."

  Windhover disappears in late June. Allow, say, three weeks for Murdock to alter the boat and fake the papers. She would then be ready for Walter Kincaid, presumed dead and now alias Wallace Kinchloe, to put out to sea around the first of August, maybe a bit later. Roughly a month, then, to make it from Cape Ann all the way down the Inland Waterway to the Miami area, then island hop a bit to A Bimini, the Bahamas, and on over to the Virgins. He could do it, but he'd have to hump a bit. Still, if he really wanted to get away, he wouldn't dawdle; he'd scoot. For a forty-foot-plus power boat a month was plenty of time to make it. Perhaps even with a quick duck southward to visit Grand Cayman Island too. Sure. Plenty of time. Only he didn't get the chance, because just before he set out. . . what?

  At nine-thirty that evening the running lights on the Rose flipped on. I glassed the boat and could see the faint waver of heat above her stack. She was going out.

  "She's taking off, Jack, and so am I."

  I left in the dory for the town pier and there placed two calls: one to Joe and one to Brian, telling them that Rose was on the march.

  I got back to the Hatton in time to see Rose slide away from the quay and glide along in the still water for the harbor mouth. I opened beers for myself and Jack and we sat in the cockpit under the stars—for the weather had finally cleared—and talked. It was pleasant there with the water sloshing around. We made a late dinner and took our time eating. I told him how the Hatton had handled herself, and what I'd seen. I told him about Mr. X—Jim Schilling—sitting behind me in the cafe. We debated the cryptic message over the CB—assuming of course it was the Rose.

  "I don't know, Dad," said number-one son as he pulled up the wool blanket and blew out the hurricane ligh
t in the bow.

  "This whole thing is so. . .iffy."

  "Son, you're so right."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  "AND THE THING that makes it really hard, Doc, the thing that really pisses me off, is the apology given to me by Clive Higgins. He's the guy I told you was my friend at Massport. Like I predicted, he's now a former friend. But he was so goddamned apologetic on the phone for not being of more service. Christ, Doc, why in hell did I ever listen to you—"

  A Brian Hannon was being true to his word. He was all over me like a cheap suit. I was standing on his carpet examining , the weave. I was getting sick of being called into the principal's office.

  "And you know what? Did you know your brother-in-law was in here too? Eh? Well, the both of us had some mighty pretty words to say about you, Doc. Yes indeed."

  He stomped around behind his desk and lighted another Lucky Strike. He fanned out the match and filled his half off the room with smoke. He kicked his desk and cussed.

  "He hasn't told you? Well, Clive and Joe together got the Coast Guard up for it. Told them to be sure and intercept the dragger Rose on her return to Plymouth. Which they did. Yes sir! Sent a special boat just for the occasion."

  I decided to break my silence.

  "And I take it, Chief, that they did not find anything of interest aboard her?"

  "Brilliant. Just brilliant. You are excused, Doctor."

  I left, but returned to stick my head back in the door.

  "The Guard screwed up, Brian. They should've boarded Rose on her outward passage."

  "Excused!"

  I went home and dialed Joe at state police headquarters.

  "I didn't rat on you, Charlie, I just got mad, that's all. Brian and I went out on a limb for you and it didn't pay off. We have the authority—official or otherwise—to call out a lot of people as often as we like. But we've got reputations, too. Too many false leads don't do either of us any good."

  "They should've nailed Rose outward bound, not returning."

  "Now you tell us. You sure?"

  "Well, she was clean coming in, right?"

  "Oh, Christ, this isn't trial and error. You're saying now she's taking something out?"

  "Just guessing."

  "Well, look, Old Friend, please don't guess on my account, OK?"

  "Can I take this warm reception by both you and Brian to mean that I can expect no more help from official channels?"

  "In a nutshell."

  "Joe, I want a couple more favors. Please; They're easy."

  There was a weary sigh and an assent. I outlined the three favors I wanted.

  "Thought you said a couple, that's two."

  "Should have said several, that's three." They were:

  l. For him to request the contents of post office box 2319 when it officially became an abandoned box, and to let me know what these contents were.

  2. To track down the owner of the blue van I saw and photographed on the fish pier in North Plymouth, using the license plate visible in two of my photos.

  3. To accompany me to Murdock's Boatyard in Gloucester, lending his official presence if nothing else, and perhaps obtaining a search warrant if he felt it justified. In short, to help me find Danny and get him to talk.

  He listened—in apparent disgust—while this list was read over the phone.

  "The first two I can do easily. The third is kinda outside amy jurisdiction—"

  "No, it isn't, Joe. You know it isn't."

  "Look: if I do the first two and work on the third, will you get off my back?"

  "For a while at least."

  "Done."

  He hung up. But I didn't feel the least bit guilty. While he stayed with Mary during the Hatton's Great Quest, he drank my bottle of Glenlivet. The bastard.

  If it seems that I've skipped over Mary's reaction to my homecoming, it was intentional. The fact is that she was not in good humor about it. Women from southern Italy are many things: beautiful, full-breasted, sensual, good cooks, shrewd, and lovers of the hearth and home. But they are not subtle. Subtlety eludes them, much as modesty eludes the French. So my welcome home from Mary wasn't pleasant, and we were still avoiding one another. I went out back to the cabin, a small guesthouse made of logs where I go when I want to really be alone and think. Danny and Angel went with me. It was cool enough for a fire, and I built one in the small woodstove. The dogs flumped down in front of it as it ticked and crinkled with heat and sent the air above it dancing. I had a good long think and decided that it was best to forget the entire thing. Joe had told me the details of the Coast Guard boarding.

  They had intercepted Rose as she entered Plymouth Harbor at dawn. She was clean as a whistle: no illicit goods, no safety violations, and all her credentials were in order. The owner's name was Marlowe. Roger Marlowe, and he had the identification to prove it. The Master Carpenter's Certificate was new, claiming likewise for the boat. End of case. The USCG wouldn't come back in no matter what I unearthed. I had asked Joe to get me a description of Roger Marlowe.

  He refused, saying he'd bugged his contacts enough. Toward dinner there was a soft knock on the cabin door. It was Mary.

  "Dinner's ready. I take it you've talked to Joe and Brian?"

  "Yep."

  "And they want you to drop this thing?"

  "Yep. Drop it. Drop it like the proverbial overheated ground tuber."

  "Well good then. We can be friends again, Charlie. I'm really glad you're going to forget about this thing. In a few weeks your wrist will be good as new and you'll be working on all the lost practice. You'll forget about the whole thing." She squeezed my hand as we walked back toward the house. There was meat sizzling and it smelled mighty good. I was going to drop it.

  Yes indeed.

  Yes sir!

  No.

  After dinner two questions gnawed at me like rats around a grain dryer. One: how did Schilling know I was seeking his boat? That question was easy to answer: because Danny Murdock called him up from the Schooner Race and warned him that I was snooping around and getting hot on the trail. But the antecedent to that question was this one: how had Schilling known to warn Danny about me beforehand? How was the link made between my early watching of the boat and Schilling's need to have me eliminated?

  That appeared to be the interesting question.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  JOE BRINDELLI and I had just arrived in Gloucester in Mary's Audi. It was a warm, sunny day; a perfect Indian summer weekend. We rolled to a stop in front of Murdock's Boatyard and exited. We tried the bell with no result. We were walking along the side of the worn-out house when a familiar face stuck out the window above us.

  "Who you lookin' for?"

  "Daniel Murdock. Can you help us?"

  I pointed lo Joe.

  "This is Detective Lieutenant Brindelli of the State Police. We'd appreciate your help."

  She looked down at us quizzically for about fifteen seconds. Then her eyes crinkled up and her mouth turned down sour. Saliva drooled down her chin and her eyes were all wet and shiny. She was bawling. She left the window in a hurry. A few seconds later she opened the back door and hobbled down the short wooden flight of steps and lurched over to us, drawing the frayed robe around her as she came. She was looking down at the leaf-strewn sidewalk, crying. She was drunk too. Joe grabbed her by the elbows and she collapsed into him, sobbing. As for me, I had seen enough miserable women in the past month to last a lifetime.

  Joe sat her down on the stoop. She told us she hadn't seen her husband in three weeks. Sure, he'd been on benders before but he always came back, pale and shaking, a few days later.

  "Have you gone to the police?"

  She nodded, clenching the old robe up around her neck.

  "Two, three times, But they know Danny. They think he just run off drunk. They say they'll look for him, that's all."

  "You," she said to me, "you were here before a long time ago."

  "Yes. I finally found your husband over at the Schooner Rac
e but didn't have a chance to talk with him—"

  "—too drunk?"

  "No. He just didn't want to. Can you tell me the last time you saw Danny?"

  "The police asked me that, too. It was on September eighth, a Thursday."

  That was the same night I'd seen him, and been clobbered. We left Mrs. Murdock and walked back to the boatyard. The door was locked and Joe returned for the key. It was the same as when I'd seen it earlier through the window. Benches lined three of the walls and were strewn with ball-peen hammers, swages, pressure hoses, cutting torches, giant vises, and welding equipment. There were ratchet tools, air compressors, gas bottles (metal tanks, actually), power hacksaws, and a hundred assorted other implements. Interlaced between all of them were empty beer cans. Though he preferred Budweiser, he was obviously catholic in his tastes, for there was a representative of every brand I'd heard of and then some. The center of the building was taken up almost completely by the big metal hull of a boat that was nearing completion. Danny Murdock did build boats, and was pretty damn good at it too as far as I could see. The big hull was cradled in a massive wooden dolly mounted on railroad trucks. The trucks rolled on tracks that led down and out the big hangar doors to the harbor. The dolly and trucks were hauled up the track by a big electric winch.