The Mark of Cain

by William J. Coughlin

  “I’m here to see Mrs. Hamilton. My name is Cain.”

  The man’s eyes quickly surveyed him. Cain knew that if the man was an ex-cop, he would be cataloging the important highlights of Cain’s description: blond; mid-thirties, maybe older; six feet two inches; well built, maybe two hundred pounds; small scar running through left eyebrow; light gray eyes. Cain smiled to himself. He was doing exactly the same thing with the doorman. Once a cop, always a cop, he thought ruefully.

  A stiff smile forced its way across the man’s tanned face. He was satisfied. “You’re expected, Mr. Cain. Go right in. It’s the penthouse apartment. Just push the top button in the elevator.”

  “Thank you.”

  The exterior of the building was modern, but the interior was a trip back in time. Inside, Oriental rugs and potted palms blended with ornate marble statues. It was the sort of place haunted by the ghost of F. Scott Fitzgerald and his lost generation. Although it was empty and silent, Cain would not have been surprised if a bunch of flappers had stepped out of the elevator on their way to a wild party.

  But the elevator was empty, and it whisked him up to the top floor.

  He rang the bell, and a blond-haired girl in a black silk uniform opened the door. Her hair was lighter than his own, almost white.

  “Yah?”

  “My name is Cain. I’m here to see Mrs. Hamilton.”

  “Oh yah, Mr. Cain.” Her Swedish accent was very apparent. “You come along with me.” She led him through a mirrored hallway into a sunken living room. The far wall was all glass, presenting a breathtaking view of the shimmering ocean below.

  “Mrs. Hamilton vill be right here.” She was no more than twenty, but her eyes seemed older, wiser, and they slowly swept over him in a disturbingly frank appraisal. “Can I get you a drink, sir?”

  “No, thank you.”

  She turned and walked from the room. He admired the way her strong young body moved beneath the tight black fabric.

  “So you have an eye for the ladies, Cain?”

  He swung around. A red-haired woman stood framed in a side doorway. The tightly pulled material of her brocaded dressing gown revealed the fullness of her figure. She was beautiful, although she was nearing the age when it would all slowly fade away. He wondered what her true age was; he guessed she was one of those women who seemed ageless. Her soft face seemed to possess a peculiar quality; a hint of toughness beneath the smooth veneer. Though her eyes had been tastefully made up, no cosmetic could conceal the hardness in them.

  “I’m waiting for Mrs. Hamilton.”

  She swept into the room. “I’m Mrs. Hamilton.” She extended her hand. “Please sit down, Mr. Cain.”

  She perched herself on the arm of a high-back chair. He sat opposite her, selecting an overstuffed sofa and sinking into its deceptively soft cushions.

  “You seem surprised that I’m Mrs. Hamilton,” she said.

  “I had expected an older woman.”

  “Oh ho, so you are one of those types.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Cut the ‘how young you look’ business, Cain. You are here strictly as an employee of the Zinner Company, and I want a job done. Don’t get any other ideas.”

  “I won’t.” His reply was spoken in a flat voice, with no hint of feeling.

  She studied him closely. “I’ve heard you are a tough cookie, Cain. Ex-cop, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Thrown off the police force after being accused of murder, right? You see, I’ve done a bit of checking. This is all very important to me.”

  “You have your facts right.”

  She looked satisfied, as if she had been triumphant in an argument. She reminded him of the old man: there was a half-mad quality about her. There was something in her eyes that had the alert hardness of her grandfather. Cain supposed it was a gene, transmitted down through the family even as far as granddaughters.

  “Do you know what you have to do?” she inquired.

  “Find your son and his wife, if possible.”

  “Jesus!” She angrily pounded her hands upon her knees. “There is no ‘possible’ here, Cain. You either find him or …” Her voice trailed off.

  Cain made no response. He looked beyond her to the beautiful sun-drenched ocean.

  “Are you listening to me?” she demanded.

  Cain’s eyes left the bay and returned to hers. “I’m listening, Mrs. Hamilton,” he said quietly. “I know my job, so please let’s get on with this.”

  She glared at him. “They say you are Grandpa’s torpedo, a real tough man. Well, maybe you know your job and maybe you don’t. You had better find my son or I’ll …”

  Cain’s eyes narrowed. “Did you try to bully the Coast Guard too, and maybe the Navy?” His voice carried his disgust.

  “Bully! Now you look here …”

  “Mrs. Hamilton, you are a pampered, loudmouthed bitch.” He was smiling evenly as he spoke the words. “If you want to throw a tantrum, go ahead. I’ll take a walk around the block until you recover yourself. But if you really want your son found, I’d advise you to pull in your horns and start providing me with some useful information.”

  She jumped from the chair, her face flaming. She aimed her open palm at his face. Cain caught her wrist easily and twisted, just enough to sit her down on the carpet with a slight jarring thump. Her robe fell open, and he was surprised at how shapely her legs were—firm, sleek, and tan.

  Her cheeks were red, and she inhaled excitedly.

  “If you scream,” his voice was quiet but firm, “I’ll leave, and you will have no one to hunt for your son. Is that what you want?”

  Her eyes narrowed in hatred. She made no move to cover her nakedness. He looked down at her.

  “You fucking murderer!” She spat the words at him. “What right do you have …”

  He stood up and moved toward the door.

  “Wait,” she called.

  He stopped and looked back at her.

  She slowly lifted herself to her feet. “I’m sorry, Cain, I …”

  “Mr. Cain, if you don’t mind.”

  Again redness flowed into her cheeks, but she controlled herself. “Mr. Cain.” She said the name as if it were a dirty word.

  He returned and sat down again. “Lady, I won’t take much of your time. All I want from you is the facts about your son, the trip, and anything that might be useful in finding him.”

  Despite the unfavorable appraisal by her grandfather Cain found Sandra Hamilton to be an intelligent woman; one who went directly to the issues and who did not waste time on unimportant details. He listened without comment as she told of her son’s last-known whereabouts.

  “As a wedding present I sent them on a honeymoon trip, even though I didn’t like the girl. Stew, my son, is a sailor and a good one. I arranged for a month’s bare boat charter—that means you rent just the boat, no captain, no supplies, you buy those yourself. I rented a thirty-three-foot out-island sailboat. Do you know what an out-island boat is?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s like a motor sailer in a way. It is a sailboat primarily, but it is equipped with a big engine and a fuel capacity to motor for long distances—up to a thousand miles. It’s a very safe boat and easily handled. Just the thing for two people on a Caribbean cruise.”

  “Where did you rent the boat?”

  “At a brokerage in Miami. But the boat itself was moored in Saint Thomas, one of those islands in the Caribbean. A beautiful place.” She seemed to have lost her belligerence toward him. “Have you ever been there?”

  “No.”

  “It is one of those ‘islands in the sun’ right out of a travel magazine. My son and that young bitch he married flew to Saint Thomas and picked the boat up there. I had it completely outfitted for them.”

  “Did they hire a captain?”

  She snorted. “Tell me, Cain … Mr. Cain.… would you like to take another man along on your honeymoon boat?”

  “Dep
ends,” Cain said.

  “Aw crap.” She jumped to her feet and walked to the windows overlooking the ocean. “They didn’t have a captain, they didn’t need one. Hell, my Stewart is a good sailor, and he has sailed in that area before. Out there all you have to do is keep your eye on the next island. Even an inexperienced person would stand little chance of getting lost. Besides they had a two-way radio.”

  “When did they pick up the boat?” he asked.

  She had her back to him. He admired the sensuous shape of her hips flaring out beneath the shimmering robe.

  “They took possession of the boat on the ninth of June,” she said.

  “Where?”

  “I told you: Saint Thomas.”

  “What marina?”

  “It’s called Fidler’s Well. They stayed there until the eleventh before they sailed.”

  Cain took notes as Mrs. Hamilton told of the islands at which the young couple had stopped. He was impressed that she had committed the places and times to memory. It was obvious that her mind had been occupied by little else.

  “The last stop was at San Bonaparte. We have found no trace after that. They sailed in on the twenty-second of June. They sent me a card with that island’s postmark. San Bonaparte had been under Dutch control, and the Dutch influence goes on, at least as far as keeping accurate harbor records. My son sailed out of there on the morning of the twenty-fourth. That was the last anyone ever heard of them.”

  She stopped talking and stared silently out at the sea for a moment.

  “How about the people who owned the boat?” Cain asked. “Did they do any checking?”

  She turned quickly. “What do you think they did? The goddamned boat was worth thirty thousand dollars. They proceeded on the theory that my son had stolen the thing.” Her eyes flashed, and then she gained control of herself. “In a way it was probably a good thing. They made the most thorough search of all. I suppose you would if you thought someone had gone off with your property. But even with all their efforts they didn’t find anything.” She sighed. “The Coast Guard asked the Navy to look around, but I think they just flew a few planes over the area to satisfy any complaints that Grandpa might have had. They really didn’t give a shit.”

  Cain made a few more notes on the paper he held on his knee. “How about the girl? Had she ever sailed before?”

  Her expression revealed a deep resentment as she remembered her daughter-in-law. “I understand she had some sailing experience, although I’m not certain. I talked briefly with her screwy mother after the disappearance, and I remember her saying something about the girl being a good swimmer and sailor. They live somewhere in the Chicago area, so I suppose she might have had some opportunity to sail on Lake Michigan.”

  “How about trouble? Was your son in any kind of difficulty that you know of?”

  “Like what?”

  “Debts, criminal charges, that sort of thing.”

  “Christ, he’s only eighteen. He hasn’t had much of a chance to get into trouble.” She paused for a moment, frowning at a memory. “Oh, he had one run-in with the law up in Cape Cod for possessing marijuana, but I managed to have it dismissed with only a warning. He had no money problems. A trust fund had been set up, and he received a very nice sum every month.”

  Cain nodded. “Any reason to think he might have had trouble with gamblers, anything like that?”

  She shook her head, ruffling her full red hair. “No.”

  “What does your husband think about all this?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Does he have any theories about the disappearance?”

  She stalked over to a low table and pulled a cigarette from an expensive-looking wooden box. Cain made no attempt to light her cigarette as she sat down opposite him. After a pause she took a silver table lighter from a table and snapped open the flame. She blew a stream of smoke up toward the ceiling, following it with her eyes. “That bastard hasn’t had an idea since he was three years old.”

  “Family trouble?”

  She stared at him for a moment and then seemed to relax. “Well, it’s none of your business, but you would probably find out anyway. Stewart Hamilton the Second married me when I was seventeen years of age. He did two things rather well: he played a dashing game of tennis, and he could smell money a mile away. He was thirty, handsome, and to my eyes, fascinating. Like the saying goes, Cain, he swept me off my feet. We were married, and the next year I had my son. From there on things went downhill. Stewart Hamilton the Second lives in an expensive apartment in New York with a former go-go girl. I live here and send him a monthly check. It’s a cheap way to avoid the creep.” She puffed quickly at the cigarette. “I talked to him when it became apparent that Stew had vanished. He was full of bright sayings about keeping a stiff upper lip and all that crap. The man is a walking cliché. You’ll get no enlightenment of any kind if you’re thinking about talking to him.”

  “The Navy and Coast Guard people think your son is dead.” Cain spoke carefully, watching her reaction to his words.

  There was only the briefest flicker of resentment in her eyes. “Cain, you may work out all right after all. I like a person who speaks directly and doesn’t pussyfoot around.” She took a deep drag on her cigarette and again her eyes followed the smoke to the ceiling. “They told me they thought he was dead. And they mentioned something about pirates.” Her voice trailed off at the last word, and she swallowed to control herself. “They said something about a bunch of people down there who steal boats. They said they kill the people and use the boat to smuggle narcotics. They said over thirty boats have disappeared that way.” She turned quickly away from him and stared out at the ocean. “It sounds like a lot of crap to me.”

  “Did your son have a gun, or any kind of weapon, on that rented boat?”

  “No.”

  “Would you have any pictures of them; wedding pictures or anything like that?”

  “I have those and I have some photographs of the boat itself. The owners take pictures of all their boats, just in case they are stolen. They sent me a set. Wait a minute and I’ll get them.”

  She stood up. “Helga, fix Mr. Cain a drink,” she called as she went to get the photographs.

  The Swedish girl reappeared, swishing into the room, her eyes bright and interested. “Yah, what are you drinking, sir?”

  “Bourbon and water, please.”

  “Yah.” She swung around, causing her long blond hair to float out, reminding Cain of a young frisky animal. He noticed that she had swung her hips a bit too much as a device to attract him, but it only amused him. She was only a child in his eyes; well developed but still an inexperienced child.

  “I’ve found the pictures,” Mrs. Hamilton announced as she returned. She walked slowly as she looked at the photographs, her eyes suddenly sad. Cain compared her with the young maid. The older woman lacked the lean athletic look of her young employee, but her soft full body hinted at the earthy erotic quality of a woman able to combine intelligence with sensuality. Cain realized he was strongly attracted to Mrs. Hamilton.

  “Here.” She sat next to him, and he became acutely aware of her perfume—delicate but with a hint of animal like passion. He took the photographs from her and leafed through them.

  “That’s Stew,” she said proudly.

  A thin bearded youth smiled at the camera, his long arms around a short dark-haired girl.

  “Did he have the beard when he sailed?”

  “As far as I know, he did,” she replied.

  “This the bride?”

  She nodded. She seemed to tense slightly.

  “What do you have against her, Mrs. Hamilton?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “It’s just that he is so young, Cain, just a boy. Women make men do the things they do, or didn’t you know that?”

  “I suspected something like that.” He continued to flip through the wedding pictures.

  “I’ll bet.” Her nervous laugh had no humor in it. “Look, Ca
in, the only reason my son married that girl is because she insisted on it. Oh, no pregnancy or anything like that. She just had him wrapped around her little finger; he’d have done anything she asked of him. She wanted marriage, and she got it.” She paused. “I think it’s the ease with which she manipulates him that bothers me.”

  “I understand.” One of the photographs showed Mrs. Hamilton standing next to her son in a tight silk dress that revealed her lush figure. Cain admitted to himself that she was indeed a beautiful woman.

  “I take a lousy picture,” she said, noting that he was lingering over that photograph.

  He quickly flipped through the pictures until he came to the pictures of the boat.

  “That’s it: that’s the Athenia. That’s the name of the boat—the Athenia.”

  It was a sleek-looking sailing craft—a single-masted luxury boat—new and glistening at its berth. Other photographs of the boat were taken from different angles.

  “It was built by the Southward Company,” she said. “Only ten of them were made, and the marina people tell me the Athenia was the only one of its kind sailing in the Caribbean.”

  “Nice-looking boat.”

  She shifted her position, and her thigh rested against his as she pointed her finger at the photograph. “They tell me the distinguishing feature is this high deck line. You see how far it rises up from the water. That’s to house the big diesel engines. It looks more like a motorboat than a sailboat if you block off the mast. See?” She laid her hand across the top of the photo. Her breast rested lightly against the side of his arm.

  Cain experienced a sudden animal stirring within himself. How long had it been since he had last been with a woman? He tried to think. It must have been before the bloodbath of Istanbul. He was surprised to realize that it had been a very long time.

  She did not pull away, her soft body pressed against him. “What do you think, Cain?” she asked, her voice a trifle husky.

  “About what?”

  “Do you think you would be able to recognize the boat?”

  “I think so.”

  Suddenly she pulled away from him. Helga had come back into the room. The maid handed the drink to Cain, her eyes on Mrs. Hamilton. “Madam,” she said, “can I get something for you?”