by Otto Penzler
“Of course, Mac,” he said, “you know and I know that this is one awful lot of liverwurst.”
“Then why ask?”
“Kidding you.”
“Ho!”
“Getting your goat.”
“Ho! Ho!”
Kennedy left the wall, crept dramatically across the floor and slid silently upon the desk. And in a hushed voice, with mock seriousness, he said, “Mac, somebody’s trying to make a boob out of you!”
“How do you know?”
“I suspect, old tomato—I suspect. It’s too sudden, Mac. Stroble has got something up his sleeve. He’s brought you back into the town for a purpose.”
“How big do you think he is?”
“Pretty big.”
“Big enough to be the Big Guy?”
“Almost—and yet, not quite.”
“Who is?”
“Beginning to get a faint idea. If I’m right, the Big Guy has been behind it all from the very beginning. The gangs have come and gone, but the Big Guy has succeeded in remaining hidden. If it’s the bozo I think it is….”
“Yes?”
“I don’t think you’ll reach him.”
“Oh, go to hell, Kennedy! Listen, I’ll get to him. Man alive, I couldn’t lay off now! The thing’s got in my blood. I’ve got to see it through. And I’m going to.”
“Well, Mac, so far you’ve surprised me. Why you aren’t occupying a snug grave in somebody’s cemetery, is beyond me. But you’ve still got lots of opportunity of following in Jack Cardigan’s footsteps. He was a poor slob.”
“A martyr, Kennedy.”
“Well, dignify it.” Kennedy put on his topcoat. “I’m going places, Mac. Good-luck.”
He wandered out, trailing cigarette smoke.
MacBride creaked back and forth in his chair, stopped to light a cigar, went on creaking. Damn new chairs, the way they creaked! The whole room was strange, aloof. Not like the old one, not as dusty—as intimate. Those three chairs standing against the wall—mission oak, bright and shiny, like the desk. Everything trim and spic and span—on parade. Even the clock was new, had a fast, staccato tick. He remembered the old one, a leisurely, moon-faced old chronometer, never on time.
A noise in the central room roused him. He raised his eyes and regarded the door. It burst open. Rigallo and Doran and a third man weaved in. The third man looked like a Swede, and was a head taller than either of the detectives. He slouched ape-like, great arms dangling, and his sky-blue eyes were wide and belligerent. He wore corduroy trousers, a blue pea-jacket.
“What’s this?” asked MacBride.
Rigallo said, “Know him?”
“No.”
The two detectives steered the man across the room and pushed him into one of the three chairs. He looked more the ape than ever—an ape at bay—sitting there with shoulders hunched, jaw protruding, huge hands dangling across his knees.
“Who is he?” asked MacBride.
“Says Alf Nelson,” clipped Rigallo. “Me and Tim here were poking around the docks. We caught this baby trying to set a Tate & Tate barge adrift. He’d slipped the bow line and we caught him as he was on the stern.”
“H’m,” muttered MacBride. “That right, Nelson?”
“It ain’t.”
“He’s a lousy liar!” snapped Rigallo.
“We saw him,” supplemented Doran.
MacBride said, “Come Nelson, why did you do it?”
“I tell you, I didn’t do nothin’.” His Scandinavian accent was barely noticeable. “These guys are tryin’ to frame me.”
“Ah-r-r!” growled Rigallo. “Can that tripe, buddy! D’ you think we waste time framin’ guys? Come down to earth, you big white hope!”
“Look here, Nelson,” said MacBride, rising. “This is damned serious. It’s a rough night on the water, and that barge would have caused a lot of trouble. Riggy, was anybody on the barge?”
“Yeah, guy sleeping. We woke him up. Scog-gins. He was scared stiff, and I’ll bet he doesn’t sleep a wink the rest of the night.”
MacBride took three steps and stood over Nelson. “Did you have a grudge against Scoggins?”
“No. I tell you, I ain’t done nothin’. I found the lines loose and was tryin’ to fix ‘em.”
“Cripes!” spat Rigallo.
“Who’s he work for, Riggy?”
“Dunno. Frisked him for a gat. Here it is. Thirty-eight.”
MacBride said, “Who do you work for, Nelson?”
Nelson growled, pressed back in his chair. MacBride reached down toward his pockets. Nelson raised a hand to block him. Doran caught the hand and knocked it aside. MacBride went through the man’s pockets.
“H’m. Badge,” he said, “of the Harbor Towing. This guy’s a barge captain. Here’s his Union card. Name’s right. Thirty-five. Unmarried, citizen. Listen, Nelson, come across now. Why the hell did you try to cut that barge loose?”
“I told you I didn’t try to cut no barge loose,” rumbled Nelson.
MacBride turned on Rigallo. “You’re sure he did, Riggy?”
“Ask Tim.”
“Sure he did, Cap,” said Doran.
MacBride put Nelson’s belongings in the desk and said, “Tim, plant him in a cell. I’m going down to the river. You come along, Riggy. There may be something in this, and there may not.”
II
T was cold and windy on the waterfront. The pier sheds loomed huge and sombre, and overhead the sky arched black as a cavern roof. And there was not a solitary star afield, not a vagrant moonbeam, not a patch of color against the black inverted bowl.
The river was a dark mystery moving restlessly toward the sea, and fringed sparsely with pier-head lights which probed its surface with thin, tremulous needles of radiance. And here and there, between the fringes, other lights— red, green, white—marked black shapes that moved through the thick gloom. The sound of bells, rung intermittently, skipped across the water with startling clarity.
MacBride and Rigallo strode down Pier Five and came to a barge moored at the end. Beneath them the water gurgled among the piles, and the barge thumped dully against the wharf. The tide was high, and they leaped to the barge without difficulty.
A man was standing in the doorway of a small, lighted cabin, smoking a pipe.
“Scoggins,” said Rigallo.
“Hello, Scoggins,” said MacBride. “Let’s go inside.”
They entered and Scoggins closed the door and leaned back against it. He was a small man, knotty in the framework, weather-beaten, steady-eyed.
MacBride said, “You know Nelson?”
“Yeah, years—from seein’ him around the docks and in the lunch-wagon sometimes. Works for the Harbor Towin’.”
“Ever have a scrap with him?”
“Nope.”
“Sure?”
“Yup. But I got a scare tonight, though!”
“You figure he tried to cut you loose?”
“Says he didn’t. I ain’t never had a line slip on me yet, and I been twenty years on the river.”
“Well, look here, can you think of anything that might cause him to do it?”
Scoggins frowned thoughtfully and rubbed his jaw. “Gosh, I dunno. Of course, Tate & Tate, the comp’ny I work for, had a split with the Union, and they ain’t hirin’ Union men ‘less they can help it. The Harbor Towin’ ‘s all Union. Guys get in scraps over that sometimes. Day before yest’day Bill Kamp, who’s on Number Three Barge, got in a fight with a Harbor Towin’ guy. The guy called Bill a scab and Bill poked him.”
“What caused this split with the Union?”
“Dunno. Just know they split. Young Mr. Tate was sore as hell over some thin’.”
“Do you know what barge Nelson is on?”
“Number Three. Up at Pier Twelve now.”
MacBride turned to Rigallo. “Come on, Riggy, let’s snoop around.”
They left Pier Five, reached the cobbled street and walked north. Fifteen minutes later they turned in
to a covered pier, met a watchman, flashed their shields and passed on down the vast interior.
On the south side of Pier Twelve they found a lighter flying a metal pennant numbered Three. A light shone in the little cabin. They leaped down from the wharf, pushed open the door and walked in.
A girl sat on the bunk. She was a large girl— not fat, but large, broad in the shoulders, wide at the hips. Her skin was fair, her hair light brown; and her cheek-bones were high, prominent; her mouth wide with lips full and frankly sensuous. Her clothes were cheap and not precisely in the mode, and she regarded the two intruders with a dull stare.
Rigallo smiled. “Hello, girlie.”
“Hal-lo.”
“Where’s Alf ?” asked MacBride.
“Ay don’t know.”
“H’m. We were supposed to meet him here tonight,” lied Rigallo.
“Yes,” nodded MacBride.
She shrugged her broad shoulders. “So vas I. Dat Alf iss neffer on time.”
“Ah, he’s a good guy, though,” said Rigallo.
She regarded him stolidly for a moment, then grinned, showing large white teeth. “Yah, Alf iss good fal-ler. Ay vait. You fal-lers vaiting for Alf?”
“Sure,” nodded Rigallo. “We’re his friends. Eh, Mac?”
“You said it, Riggy.”
“Alf’s some guy,” said Rigallo.
“Yah,” nodded the girl, shedding some of her nerves. “Alf iss good fal-ler.” She paused, meditated heavily, then laughed and slapped her knee. “Ay tal you, Alf is vun big guy. Dis Meester Braun he likes Alf much.”
“Sure,” said MacBride. “Mr. Braun’s a good guy, too. But he should treat Alf better.”
Still more of the girl’s reserve vanished, and she leaned forward, waxing confidential. “Yah, like Ay tol’ Alf. But Ay t’ank dis Meester Braun iss be sqvare by Alf. Alf he tal me he vill get lots dol-lars.”
“Well, it’s no more than right,” put in Rigallo.
“Yah. Alf vill be rich fal-ler some day.”
MacBride and Rigallo grinned at each other. Then they grinned at the girl, and MacBride said, “Gosh, miss, Alf’s been holding back on us. Never told us he had a nice girl like you.”
She dropped her eyes. “Yah, Ay t’ank Alf luffs me lot. Ay luff Alf lot.”
“He’ll invite us to the wedding, though, I hope,” said MacBride.
“Sure,” nodded Rigallo.
“Yah,” said the girl.
MacBride tried. “When did Alf say he would be back?”
“Vun hour ago. But Ay vill vait.”
“Yeah,” said Rigallo. “Alf said something about a job down on Pier Five. I wondered what he meant.”
“Vass it Pier Five?” asked the girl.
“Yeah,” said Rigallo.
“Ay vill go.”
“No. You stay here,” put in MacBride. “We’ll look him up and tell him you’re waiting. What did he say he was doing?”
“Alf didn’t say. Alf ain’t tal me much, but he say he be very busy dese nights soon.”
MacBride stood up. “Well, if we see him, we’ll tell him you’re waiting. What did you say your name was?”
“Hilda. Hilda Yonson. Ay come from Oslo two year’ ago.”
“See you again,” said MacBride.
“Yeah, see you again,” said Rigallo.
“Yah,” said Hilda Yonson.
MacBride and Rigallo climbed back to the wharf and strode through the pier-shed.
“Who is Braun?” asked Rigallo.
“Don’t know. Probably one of the bosses. We’ll ask the night watchman.”
In a little office at the far end of the pier they found the watchman, and MacBride asked, “Who is Mr. Braun?”
“Manager. Yeah, he’s the manager.”
“Good-night,” said MacBride, and steered Rigallo into the street.
“What now, Cap?”
“Nothing, until I see Braun.”
“It looks as if Nelson is somebody’s dope.”
“What I think, Riggy. Flag that taxi.”
MacBride went home that night, pounded his ear for eight hours and was back on the job at eight next morning. In plain clothes, he left the station-house and went down to the general offices of the Harbor Towing Company, which were located over Pier Nine.
Braun had evidently just arrived, for he was going through the morning’s mail. He was a fat, swarthy man, nervous and shifty, with a vague chin.
“Oh, Captain MacBride,” he said. “Ah, yes. Won’t you sit down? Won’t you have a cigar?”
MacBride sat down but refused the cigar.
“You probably know,” he said, “that I’ve got one of your barge captains over at the station-house.”
Braun’s eyes squinted, and he licked his lips. “Why, no! That’s too bad. Likely a drunken brawl, eh? Well, I suppose I’ll have to bail him out—mark against his salary.”
“Not quite,” said MacBride. “He was caught trying to cut a barge adrift last night. Pretty serious.”
“Well, I should say so! Can you imagine! Humph! You never know what these drunks will do.”
“But Nelson wasn’t drunk.”
“Well, that is strange! Now why do you suppose he tried to do a fool thing like that, Captain?”
“Search me. Thought maybe you might know.”
“Me?”
“Uhuh.”
“But, Captain, I’m surprised, how should I know why these fool Swedes—”
“Aboveboard, now, Mr. Braun!”
“Why—um—why, what do you mean?”
“Don’t make me go into detail.”
“But I tell you, Captain, I don’t understand—”
“Aboveboard, Mr. Braun!”
Braun pursed his lips, his eyes dilated. He looked amazed. “Really, Captain—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, cut out this stalling!”
“I tell you, Captain, I’m in the dark. I don’t know what you’re driving at.”
MacBride’s lips curled. “There’s something crooked somewhere.”
“Well, if there is, I’d certainly like to know about it. If Nelson has been going wrong, I’ll certainly fire him. Tell you what, I’ll go down to the station-house and give him a talking. Let’s see. It’s nine now. I’ll be there at ten, Captain.”
MacBride stood up. “I’ll be waiting there.”
“Good! Won’t you have a cigar?”
“No.”
MacBride’s exit was like a blast of wind.
III
Twenty minutes later he walked into the offices of Tate & Tate, and a boy piloted him into the sanctum of Hiram Tate, the younger and executive member of the firm. Tate was a lank, rock-boned man of forty-odd, with flashing dark eyes.
“I came over,” said MacBride, “about that bit of business on Pier Five last night.”
“Oh, you did? Good! I’ll go right over with you and prefer charges against this bird you’ve got.”
“What is your opinion?” asked MacBride. “Why do you suppose he tried to cut that barge loose?”
“Captain, my answer will be heavily prejudiced. You want to know what I think? I think that the Harbor Towing is trying to intimidate me. We’re non-Union. I’ll tell you why. Mike Tate, my old man, was double-crossed. And keep this under your hat. The Harbor Towing and Tate & Tate have always been rivals for the river trade.
“We’ve had more damned inspectors on our tail than I thought were in existence. What for? For little things. Unsanitary lavatories. Doors that opened in instead of out. Electric wiring. Unsafe barges. Condemned tugs. Ever since we kicked the Union in the slats.
“And what started it? The municipal pier at Seaboard Basin. It was offered for sale, and we wanted it. The Harbor Towing wanted it. We claimed it should come logically to us because we had no uptown terminal and did a lot of uptown business. The Harbor Towing carried it right to the Union. I was out of town. The old man rep-
resented us, and he’s known for a convivial old souse. They go
t him tight at the board meeting, and he signed all the dotted lines he could find.
“Well, we couldn’t retract. The whole mess was attested by a notary, and when the old man came to he discovered that the Harbor Towing owned the municipal pier. When I came back to town I found him raving mad. I got sore, too, and we told the Union what we thought of it, and dropped. What’s the use of catering to an outfit that kowtows to big money? The Harbor Towing is a big outfit, and they get all the court decisions, too. It’s damned funny. When we get a square deal, get at least one section of the municipal pier to unload and load freight, we’ll go back into the fold. That’s my story. Believe it or not.”
“I’ll think it over. If you want to press a charge against Nelson, we’ll indict him.”
“I’ll press charges, all right!” Tate rose and put on his overcoat. “Have a cigar?”
“Go good. Thanks.”
They drove to the station-house in Tate’s private car, and as they entered the central room, they found Rigallo pacing up and down in something akin to rage.
“Hell, Cap, where have you been?” he snapped.
“What about it?”
“Bower came down from Headquarters and took Nelson up for a quiz.”
MacBride tightened his jaw. “Why’d you let him?”
“How could I stop him. I’m only a dick.”
“What’s this?” put in Tate.
MacBride said, “Nelson’s at Headquarters.”
“I want to place that charge.”
“All right,” said MacBride; then to Rigallo, “You go along with Mr. Tate, Riggy.”
They went out, and MacBride banged into his office. Kennedy was parked in his chair before his desk, immersed in solitaire.
“Out of my throne, Kennedy!”
“Just a minute, Mac. I’ve almost got this.”
MacBride grabbed the back of the swivel chair, hauled it and Kennedy away from the desk, slid another into its place, and sat down. He studied the cards for a moment, made several swift moves, filled the suits and said, “Learn from me, Kennedy.”
“That was good, Mac. How about two-handed poker.”
“No. Busy.”
“What doing?”
“Thinking.”
