Stolen Diving Suit

by Mike Hershman

  “Well I don’t give a damn, you’re the first cop I’ve seen here since that crook Hollis took the report. Ain’t you Doc Watson’s kid?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He works on my teeth.”

  Mr. Nolan’s breath almost knocked me over, combination of cigarettes and scotch, I thought Dad must just love working on his mouth.

  “We’ll just be a minute --- did you replace the jam.”

  “Oh hell no – I just nailed the door shut from the inside. I use the garage door to get in. You know it’s funny, those guys can’t do anything without the hoses.”

  “Huh.” I said.

  “Well, I had the hose that pumps the air into the diving suit disconnected. The hose was old and had a slice in it. I cut the good part out and use it in my garden over there.” He said – pointing to a rolled up black hose.

  “Do you mind if we look inside the garage,” I asked.

  “Heck no, Officer Watson, you go right ahead,” he said, clapping me on the back.

  We walked back by the side of the garage. The doorjamb had the same type of mark as the library door. I slid the one foot piece of wood next to the jamb so that the two indentations lined up. They matched perfectly. Whatever had been used to pry the door had a small high spot in the middle – like a crease. There was no doubt. The same tool had been used on both burglaries.

  Walt looked at me and smiled.

  We went inside the garage, which was filled with old marine parts. A rusty engine sat in one corner. There was an ancient anchor with white barnacles all over it, as well as an old wood dinghy, which was still in good shape. I noticed the oars against one corner of the garage.

  “Hey – I wonder if he wants to sell that dinghy?” Walt asked.

  “Yeah, that’d be great.”

  I carefully looked around the garage: old nets, lobster traps and assorted salvage items, which Mr. Nolton had obviously found while abalone diving. Suddenly something in the corner caught my eye. I reached down a picked up a two-foot long metal bar with a hole in one end and a thin rope attached to it.

  “It’s an abalone bar, of course,” I said smiling, “ that’s what he used.”

  “But that bar was inside,” Walt said, “ he broke in—remember.”

  “He had his own –he must be an abalone fisherman.”

  “Oh, that narrows it down,” Walt said. “Half the guys in down are either abalone fishermen or abalone poachers.

  When we left, I thanked Mr. Nolton and asked him if he wanted to sell his dinghy. He was pretty drunk.

  “If you want that damn boat – jes come over anytime and pick it up. My wife wants it out of here – you boys can have it.”

  6.

  The next day I stopped by the donut shop and asked for two cinnamon rolls, an orange juice, and a coffee.

  “They’re for Officer Keyes too.” I said.

  “He won’t take them – he refuses to accept any free donuts or coffee. He insists on paying for everything.”

  “Well if he does – I better pay too.”

  “OK,” Betty said, “but let’s start next time, George Bailey.”

  When I got to the office, I told Officer Keyes what Betty said.

  “When I came over here after that mess with Hollis, I thought it was important not to accept anything free, from anyone.” Officer Keyes said looking directly at me. “I know a lot of places on the mainland give free food or discounts to policeman –that’s Ok if you don’t abuse it. I just want to be the opposite of Hollis here on the island. I think it would be best if you do the same.”

  “Sure.”

  I filled him in briefly on the case.

  “That’s good work, I can’t believe Hollis didn’t even notice the similar marks, course he probably didn’t care.”

  I continued filing away reports. The jail was still empty, but the town was filling up. Officer Keyes went to check on the bars. It was still early, but some of the guys off the boats didn’t waste too much time grabbing a barstool.

  I looked up – a sweating heavyset lady with a bright flowered sundress was leaning on the counter.

  “Excuse me Cadet Bailey, someone just took my son’s bicycle from the bike ramp by the pier and he’s crying. We rented a house for the week and we had his bike shipped over. He forgot to lock it.”

  “Don’t worry Ma’am, that happened to my friend one time too. Just have your son check the bike racks by the beach today. Sometimes guys will take a bike to go home or somewhere and then leave it at another bike rack. I’ll take a report real quick, but if you have him check the rack by the bank on the next block,” I pointed, “ I’ll bet he’ll find it in about an hour. If you go with him, you can probably catch the guy. I’d go with you but there’s no one else here. It’s just some stupid kid.”

  She thanked me and headed off towards Dolphin Street.

  About 45 minutes later she came by the window, her son was riding the bike. She peaked her head into the doorway.

  “Thanks, you were right, I wasn’t there very long and a boy came up with the bike and put in the rack. He wasn’t much bigger than my son. I asked him what he was doing stealing my son’s bike. He said he thought it was a rental.”

  “A rental,” I laughed, “that’s a good one.”

  “Yes, I told him he was right --- he owed me 25 cents.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He took off running.”

  “I bet he walks home next time,” I said.

  A lot of our daytime stuff was like that, frantic mothers looking for kids, teenagers jumping off the pier, underage drinking or fistfights between tourists and local guys. If Officer Keyes was out, I’d just take a report. The fights were usually over by the time somebody reported it. Officer Keyes was a local guy -- he grew up on the island and knew most of the tricks local kids played on tourists.

  “I’ll be right back George Bailey – they’ve got the water balloons going again.”

  Sometime local boys would lob water balloons from the hills with huge slingshots made from inner tubes. It wouldn’t take Officer Keyes long to find the kids -- he still remembered the best launching spots. He’d usually just confiscate the slingshots, and chew the guys out.

  Walt managed to get a job on the paddleboard dock down by the pier. If I went by the corner of the window and stood on my tiptoes, I could make him out pulling the blue paddleboards off the rack and getting them ready for the next kid. Sharon was working at the Chamber of Commerce information desk at the foot of the pier, handing out information on hotels, sightseeing tours and stuff to tourists. We all got off work at 5:00 and my garage became our official meeting place. We joked about getting a sign that said “George Bailey and Associates, Detectives.”

  “Oh great, my life’s ambition realized – GB’s Associate.” Walt said.

  “I like the name,” Sharon said. “ When I was at the library, I went through the first three months of the “Hamilton Island News,” from 1897. Thank God the paper only came out twice a week in those days.”

  “Did you find anything?” I asked.

  “No, just junk about the city council, building permits, and complaints about the construction of the Chamber Building. Oh, and they had a big storm that year too. A lot of the boats were washed up on Oceanfront Walk. It rained more than usual that year.”

  “Wow, boats on Oceanfront Walk, there’s some old pictures of that at the Hurricane Bar.” Walt said.

  “How did you see those?” Sharon asked, winking at me.

  The Hurricane Bar was rumored to have ladies working upstairs.

  “You can see the pictures through the window when you walk by.”

  “I’ll bet you were looking real good through that window.” Sharon laughed.

  “Anyway, that’s all they had for the first three months. I’ll check the next three months tomorrow night.”

  7.

  I walked out on the pier before work. It was a really warm day; the beach jam packed with kids -- good-looking gir
ls in bathing suits, and tourists in all shapes and sizes.

  A couple of young boys fished near the paddleboard ramp.

  “You guys catchin’ anything?” I asked.

  “Nah, just some small perch – we threw them back.”

  “What’re you using for bait?”

  “My dad said to use cheese.”

  “ Cheese! Go dig up some little sand crabs and put them on.”

  I told them what to do. They were from Phoenix and had never heard of sandcrabs.

  “Hey Walt, when do you want to get that rowboat from Nolton?”

  “How about tonight after work. I’ll meet you at the garage and we can walk over.”

  “OK.”

  I looked in the Chamber of Commerce building on my way back to the office. Sharon was helping some man with a brochure – she looked up, saw me and smiled. I glanced over to the beach and saw my new fishermen friends digging for sandcrabs.

  Later, she stopped by the station and said she’d just go directly to the library. We agreed to meet there after I got the dinghy.

  After work Walt walked into the garage with Ray Wrendt and Ben Lawson. Ray was in our class and Ben was a year older.

  “I asked my boss and he said we could tie the boat up for the summer on the rowboat mooring line, Walt said, “there’s a couple extra spots. He even has an old outboard motor. It just needs a little work. He has a manual for the thing, maybe we can fix it.”

  “Great! How are we going to get the darn thing down to the pier?”

  “That’s why we’re here George Bailey – course if you’d rather haul it down by yourself.” Ray said.

  “Well my Mom made some chocolate chip cookies and lemonade – how’s that for payment?” I laughed.

  “More’n we figured on getting.” Ray said.

  We went into the kitchen and gobbled down the whole cookie sheet worth of cookies. They were still warm. Mom insisted we all come back when we were done and she’d have another sheet ready.

  When we got to Nolton’s, Mr. Nolton was in the front room smoking and drinking just like when we left him.

  “You boys know where it is. There’s oars there too, and some old lifejackets – take all of it.”

  We walked back to the garage and opened the two big swinging doors.

  “Man, this is a nice dinghy,” Ray said, “you’ll catch some fish in this thing.”

  “Yeah, well you guys can use it too.” Walt said.

  We tossed the oars and life jackets into the boat. Ray’s the biggest, so he and I got on the front. We decided to carry it the three blocks down to the beach and launch it there. It wasn’t heavy at all – Walt and I could carry it by ourselves. I knew Ray was taking more than his share to compensate for me. Ray works at the bait house on the pier and also helps his dad, Elmer, out at his icehouse. Ben works for his dad at their market.

  When we finally got down to the beach they decided it would be easier if I rowed the boat out to the mooring, and then swam back. There was no one on the beach so I stripped down to my boxer shorts, climbed into the rowboat and got the oars ready as the other guys pushed me out. I tied up the boat, dove in and swam back to shore.

  I grabbed my clothes and ran up the street. It was still warm and I dried off as I ran home. I ran in to the kitchen as mom was pulling the cookie sheet out of the oven.

  “George Bailey Watson, what are you doing running around Hamilton City with your underwear on. You’re a fine example of a policeman. Where did your friends go? I have some more cookies.”

  “Don’t worry Mom – I’ll take care of ‘em.”

  I got dressed, put a dozen cookies in a paper sack, and headed over to the library to check on my other associate.

  8.

  “Here’s something,” Sharon said, reading her notes, “ in 1897 the steamship “Bolivia,” carrying 124 passengers and cargo sank midway along the coast of Hamilton Island during a storm.” She turned to another page. “Four people were lost, including Mr. Waldo Conklin, a banker from San Francisco, two crewmen and the skipper, Captain C.G. Wadsworth. Most of the passengers and crew were able to man lifeboats – they landed near Skipjack Point. Several of the men hiked along the trail that is now Skipjack Road to the town and summoned help. They woke Mr. Oscar Jensen at 2:30 am.”

  She continued. “The Island Steamship, “Hamilton Flyer” was dispatched with some volunteer fireman to rescue the men on the ship as well as any cargo. By the time they arrived at 8:00 AM only the Bolivia’s bow was visible. There was no sign of any survivors in the water. On the way back up the Island they found one of the crewman floating face down with his life jacket on. He was dead.”

  It turned out the most of the people on the Bolivia made it to shore in lifeboats.

  Sharon looked at me–then turned to look back at her notes. “Wagons were sent out Skipjack road to retrieve the survivors. The citizens of Hamilton City offered their homes as shelters until another Steamship came to take them to the mainland. Many survivors cancelled their plans and returned home. I sure would have cancelled my plans too.”

  Knowing Sharon, I didn’t believe she would have canceled her plans –Sharon loves adventure. “ I remember hearing my grandfather talk about it.” I said, “It’s strange though.”

  “What’s strange?”

  “The current would normally carry the dead crewman south and the survivors would have had a tough time landing at Skipjack Point.” I examined the newspaper article.

  “It says the ship was headed for Panama.” Sharon said, not paying much attention to my knowledge of currents.

  “Yeah, that was before the canal was built, and people used to land on the Pacific side of Panama,” I remembered from my history class, “then they traveled overland to the Gulf side and caught another boat. It was a lot faster and safer than going all the way around South America.”

  “I wonder where the boat sank?” Sharon said. “Isn’t the water pretty deep on that side of the island?”

  “I think so – I’m not really sure.”

  “Aren’t you a fisherman?”

  “Yeah – but I’ve only fished off the pier and from the beach –course now that I’m a boat owner – I can go further out.”

  “How big is this boat George Bailey?”

  “Oh, about 10 feet.”

  “That doesn’t sound big enough to go out very far.”

  “Well, it has a motor too.”

  “How fast can it go with the motor?”

  “Not too fast yet,” I said, offering her a cookie, “the motor doesn’t work.”

  Sharon shook her head while taking a cookie. She had to hide behind a big book to eat it so Mrs. Quigley wouldn’t catch us.

  “I wonder how deep it is on that side – maybe Mrs. Quigley has some maps of the Island.” I said.

  “Good luck.”

  I walked over to the librarian’s desk. Mrs. Quigley sat behind a huge open dictionary and running her finger down one column. It was something beginning with “juris.”

  “Excuse me.”

  She looked up over the top of her frameless silver reading glasses, her face was real skinny and she looked like an old pelican protecting her catch.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you happen to have any maps of the ocean around the island?”

  “You mean nautical charts?”

  “Ah, yes ma’am, nautical charts.”

  “What area specifically, we have several.”

  “Near Skipjack Point.”

  “That’s strange, is the fishing good out there right now?”

  “I don’t think so – why?”

  “There were two young men, maybe 25 or so, looking for charts of the area last week. They had dirty clothes on and high rubber boots. I could tell they were fishermen by the smell.”

  “Did they look at the chart?”

  “I told them they were welcome to look at them as soon as they went home, cleaned up, and changed their clothes. I’m not going to have my library smelli
ng like a Tuna cannery.”

  “May I see them please?”

  “I’ll let you look at them tomorrow if you promise not to bring any more cookies into my library. I also don’t want chocolate smeared all over my nautical charts – and please ask that young lady to quit eating her cookie as well.”

  Mrs. Quigley dropped her head and resumed her dictionary search.

  When I walked back to Sharon, she was reaching in the bag for another cookie.

  “What did she say?”

  “Stop eating your cookie--- that’s what.” I smiled.

  Sharon shook her head. “Well let’s go—I’ve got to get home anyway—I starving.”

  That night, as I lay in bed, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the “Bolivia.” I also wondered who the stinky fishermen were and why they wanted to see the same chart I did.

  9.

  Monday was my only day off – it was Walt’s too. We stopped by and picked up the key to the boat rental office storage area. Walt’s boss, Stan, gave us directions and we ran out near the golf course road. There was an old metal shack about the size of a small garage where Stan stored his stuff. We opened the door –the shack was filed with life jackets, old paddleboards, rope, gas cans, and several broken down outboard motors, some with missing covers. Near the boarded up window was a nickel colored outboard with a paper sack taped to the shaft.

  “Stan said the brochure’s in that sack.” Walt said.

  I opened the sack. The brochure cover was purple and green –the picture on the front showed two fishermen in a rowboat coming out of what looked like a cave onto a green sparkling lake with mountains in the background. The brochure said “Johnson Outboard Motors.”

  “That boat looks about the same size as ours. What year is this thing?” I asked, patting the outboard.

  “ Stan said it’s a 1924.”

  “Heck it’s just over 10 years old – that’s not bad.”

  “Yeah, but it’s been running in saltwater.”

  “There’s a new spark plug in the workbench over there,” Walt pointed. “Stan said he’d just deduct it from my pay.”