"Look, Charlie, somebody tried to kill you-"
I rubbed the bean with my cast. I was in truly great shape: broken wrist, black eye, cracked ribs, and a bruised brain bucket.
"I've been thinking that over too, Mary. Listen: just before I got mugged and dumped, I was in a bar fight. A nasty scuffle in which I figured prominently-not of my own choice-and in which several men were severely beaten and people were arrested., Don't you see how most cops would suspect that what happened forty minutes later was merely a continuation of the fight inside?"
"You mean somebody getting even with you?"
"Sure. I know I clipped somebody: a good one on the side of his head with my cast. He must not be overly fond of me."
"Maybe he's the one who tried to kill you."
I considered this possibility, but later rejected it. The clientele of the Schooner Race was a rough slice of humanity, but I doubted if the patrons would stoop to murder from behind. Several people had been pretty beat up in the light, but nobody was stabbed. Yet every person I saw there had a knife of some kind on his belt. No. Logic led me away from that fork in the road. On the other hand, there was Danny Murdock. Certainly he'd be interested in my demise. So would the person who paid him to falsify the carpenter's certificate. And he'd made a phone call just before the fight broke out. Then afterward lounged about in front of the bar where I'd be sure to see him. Another possible scenario began to emerge:
1. Danny Murdock is warned that somebody is inquiring around his boatyard about Penelope. The person who warns him is his wife.
2. Murdock, alarmed, gets in touch with Penelope's owner, whoever he is.
3. Owner, also alarmed, instructs. Murdock to keep mum, but to alert him if/when he ever sees or hears of me.
4. In the Schooner Race, after our initial encounter, Murdock phones the owner, who tells him to stay put in the bar so I'll stay there too, giving the owner, who could be the same nice fellow with the blackjack and the flashlight, time to arrive either in the bar or outside it, waiting for me to emerge.
5. Perhaps Murdock was to leave the Race, allowing me to follow behind, perhaps not. In any event, the fight caused me to remain in the joint long enough for Mr. X to arrive and arrange for my disposal. He must have known my description. But that wouldn't be hard: middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair, yellow jacket, thin, with left hand in cast. I would be easy to pick out, especially from a bunch of working fishermen, most of whom were young, Italian or Portuguese, or both.
The second scenario made a lot more sense, but it couldn't be pinned down for sure. No, the police could-would-say that the bopping on the head was either a robbery mugging or a revenge action from the brawl in the Schooner Race. Certainly Danny Murdock, who did not follow me outside, had an airtight alibi.
"What about Chief Hannon, Charlie?"
"Let's wait for the Gloucester police to make their preliminary inquiries and spread the word of my disappearance far and wide. Then I'll see Brian and explain. Now I have taken out grouse and pheasant, which should be almost defrosted. I'm hoping a game dinner will speed my recovery, or at least improve my spirits. And speaking of them, how about a double Tanqueray with a dash of Boissiere on the rocks, with a curl of pungent lemon rind?"
"Oh Charlie, you've got a headache already."
"Yeah, but not for long," I said, making for the side-board.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Four days dragged by, during which I smoked cigars, read, listened to Bach and Vivaldi, and healed. I had a new cast put on the wrist-not as big but still formidable. I began growing a beard. As I healed, I spent a good deal of time with six big NOAA charts spread out on the carpet at my feet. I puffed on my cigar and stared at them. Placed roughly together, they formed sa jigsaw puzzle that became the cocked arm that is Cape Cod. It is shaped like a cocked arm, which joins the mainland at the shoulder. It is bent the way Arnold Schwarzenegger bends his to make his baseball-sized biceps pop. Only the arm is a skinny one. At the fist end-the end of the Cape-is Provincetown. Wellfleet and Eastham are halfway down the inside of the forearm, on the bay side. At the elbow is the town of Chatham. Along the bicep side are the towns of the Brewsters, the Dennises, the Yarmouths, the Barnstables, and the Sandwiches. On the tricep side are Harwich Port, Dennis Port, and Hyannis. I studied the Cape, then I studied a big map that showed everything from Block Island Sound (the body of water to the north of Long Island) to Cape Ann, where Gloucester was. What was going on?
What lay between Gloucester and Wellfleet, if anything? I puffed and studied, studied and puffed. If I were Sherlock Holmes, or had his talents, no doubt the problem would become clearer. But that wasn't happening to Yours Truly; the problem was getting murkier and more confusing. But I kept at it… glancing over the charts and harbor approaches trying to get a hold on… on something.
I also knew I had to explain myself to our police chief, Brian Hannon. To explain to him why I wasn't really dead. I knew this had to be done before it became town gossip. He scolded me for twenty minutes. Then he notified the Gloucester' police about the attempt on my life, and requested that my continued presence be kept confidential for my own personal safety. This they solemnly agreed to do, which pleased me. In addition, Brian promised a close watch on the house, mostly at night.
Meantime, if the house was being watched-which we and the police both doubted-I never left it or showed my face around Concord Center. We called Jack and Tony and explained the situation, urging caution and discretion. I added that I might be needing their assistance in a week or so.
I got one unexpected call. Mary answered the phone, as arranged, then handed it to me. It was Tom Costello.
"Pahdon me for calling, Doc; I didn't know you'd been killed. Listen: I checked with Jim and he said it was all right to talk to you if I kept my mouth shut."
"If you will greatly exaggerate the rumors of my death you may call me anytime. What gives, thou mighty sage of the ticker tape and prophet of the Big Board?"
"What gives is that my friend Jerry Klonski at Kidder is in touch with some of Wheel-Lock's potential buyers. They have examined the books and there's no suspicious cash flow, no irregularities of any kind about the place. Just thought you'd like to know."
"I do like to know. Thanks."
"And also, if you've got any more theories/about the late Walter Kincaid, my advice is forget 'em. They almost got you killed."
"Thanks for the tip."
"My pleasure, Doc. Stockbrokers are in the advice business. I guess I can't help it. Let me know when you get sprung from Purgatory."
He hung up.
Then a bombshell arrived from California-sent whizzing in our direction by Sarah Hart, who was drawing her visit at her sister's to a close, It was a manila envelope, and inside was the following piece from the Los Angeles Times: L0s Angeles Man Missing, Feared Dead
SPENARD, ALASKA-Nov. 10, 1978. Mr. James Schilling, a Los Angeles area businessman and sportsman, was reported missing Tuesday evening from his hunting camp on the Kenai Peninsula near Ninilchik. Schilling's guide, an Aleut Indian named Joshua J Teal, told his supervisor at AL-AK Airways that his client failed to return to camp after setting off along the coast in a small motorboat to look for brown bear. Teal reported he found the boat awash in a small bay after a brief search. Schilling's rifle and some personal gear were found in the water. There was no sign of the hunter. Though it is possible that Schilling could have been attacked and dragged off by an angry bear, Teal said he thought it unlikely since the rifle had not been fired and there was no sign of violence. Mr. Schilling was employed by the Plee-Zing Food Corporation of Costa Mesa as a regional manager. He resided in Newport, Beach and leaves a A wife, Barbara, and two daughters.