“I don’t know what ship he’s signed on,” Berger spat out a loose bit of tobacco. “I don’t know how to find out.”
The office door opened quietly; Koski said “Morning.”
Ovett swiveled around. “Who the devil—”
Berger broke in, swiftly. “This is a private conference, sir.”
Koski shut the door softly behind him. “Don’t mind me. You’re probably talking about the same thing I came to see you about. Keep punching.”
“You’re mistaken, sir.” Berger was incensed. “Mister Ovett and I were discussing a business matter. I told the girl I’d see you later.” He put an arm around Ovett’s shoulder, steered the older man toward the door. “If you’ll excuse us — I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Koski didn’t budge. “Don’t bother with the runaround. Mister Ovett ought to know we’re scouring the harbor for his son.”
“What?” Ovett put one hand back of his ear again. “You’re doing what?”
“Doing just what you want, Lawford.” Berger shrugged, wagged his head in annoyance. “Trying to keep Merrill from sailing. Lieutenant Koski’s from the police.”
The detective leaned back against the door. “The Coast Guard is checking every ship that clears the port. But Mister Berger mentioned last night something about your son’s sailing under an assumed name. That’s why I’m here. To find out what name.”
Berger said: “I don’t know.”
Ovett fingered tremulous lips, his voice was shrilclass="underline" “Why are you hunting for my son?”
Koski waited, inspected the sea-captain’s portrait.
“Don’t excite yourself, Lawford.” The Director searched for words. “The authorities have no proof Merrill’s done anything. That engineer on your yacht, what’s his name...?”
“Gjersten,” Koski put in. He discovered that by holding his hand up over the sea-captain’s beard, the portrait was a very fair replica of the life study Ellen Wyatt had made of the lookout.
“Gjersten’s been found dead,” Berger went on. “Merrill was on the yacht about the time the engineer must have been killed. The police are putting two and two together and getting six, as usual.”
Koski examined a gold-leafed strip at the bottom of the picture frame, read Victor Stanley Ovett and beneath, in smaller letters, Founder of the Line.
Ovett’s shoulders drooped, his eyes were dull coals under the shaggy brows. He slumped into the chair.
The Director went to him. “Lieutenant Koski came to your apartment last night; I told him then there was a mistake, — Merrill wasn’t the sort to run away if he’d done anything to be ashamed of. He was trying to tell you the same thing on the phone, Lawford. Not to worry, things will come out all right.”
“On the phone?” Koski asked. “When did he phone?”
“This morning,” Ovett mumbled. “To say... good-by.” His head began to jerk from side to side, spasmodically; his fingers twitched; his lips worked pathetically.
Berger got around back of him, put his hands under the old man’s armpits. “Help me with him, Lieutenant. Has to lie down when he gets one of these attacks.”
They lifted him, walked him between them into the adjoining office, stretched him out on a brown leather sofa.
“Be all right... few minutes.” Ovett shuddered, his head rolled loosely. “Call... Doctor.”
Koski stood by the window while Berger used the phone. The morning sun came out from behind a cloud, slanting a dusty shaft across the model of a full-rigged ship on a stand beside the window, glittering on silvered wire and glass spools on the sill outside. Below, he could see the headquarters of the Marine Division at Pier A; the stubby black hull of the Vigilant beside the slate gray of a Navy launch; the arc of the Battery, the ferry terminals. Beyond, the Hudson was a brooch of sparkling brilliants against lapis lazuli. A gray two-stacked minesweeper moved slowly down past the smoke of the factory chimneys on the Jersey shore; gulls dived in the riffles of the wake. Those same gulls might have been foraging at Governors Island not many hours ago; might still be discovering bits of carrion elsewhere in the harbor...
“Doctor’ll be here in ten minutes.” Berger motioned to the Harbor Squad man. “Just take it easy, Lawford. I’ll leave the door open.” He went back to his own office, muttering: “I warned you this might happen.”
“Yair. Had to do it. Best way to do it is the surgeon’s way. Quick and clean. Hurts more at the beginning. Less later.” Koski followed him. “Where was young Ovett when he phoned?”
“Lawford didn’t know. Saloon in Brooklyn, Merrill told him.”
“That narrows it down. Anyone around here besides his father who was close to Merrill?”
“Hurlihan used to see a good deal of both Merrill... and his wife,” Berger mused. “That was before Clem had delusions of grandeur; thought he could take the company out of the hands of men who have authority because they know how to use it.”
“Hurlihan’s fiddling around with a reorganization, isn’t he? Planning to put himself in your place?”
“My place! By George, I’ll put that trickster in his place and rub his nose in it.” Berger raised his voice. “Don’t talk about replacing me; I’ve been doing my best to quit for three long years. If it hadn’t been for Lawford’s ill health and that rattlebrained son of his, I’d be raising blooded stock over in the Jersey hills today instead of watching stock being manipulated by men who never sailed over as much salt water in their lives as I’ve rung out of my pant leg!”
His face was apple-shiny with perspiration. “I am the operating head of the company only. But — I operate it. They’d better not interfere with me. I’m not one of that stock-juggling crowd. I own ten shares. I want no more. Or any bilge from underlings who talk one way in the front office and use another tone of voice when they’re making undercover deals with union organizers.”
“Meaning Hurlihan?”
“I don’t mince my words. Clem Hurlihan and that underhanded Joslin.”
“Joslin? Which Joslin’s that?”
“I don’t know his name...”
“He the union man you mentioned?”
“Yes. Calls himself an organizer for the International Longshoremen’s Association. He’s a disorganizer, a filthy rotten bolshevik who’s raised more hell with our loading costs—” He glared, apoplectically. “And Lawford’s boy has to associate with that kind of riffraff. By the Lord I wish he’d been with his father and me at the Council Sunday. He’d have heard a thing or two about union organizers who wangle their way into the confidence of shipowners’ sons, — and then go behind the owner’s back to make a shady deal with some crooked superintendent.”
“Hurlihan and this Joslin been getting chummy?”
“What else would you call putting their heads together over breakfast?”
“Where was this?”
“In the coffee room of the Sulgrave Hotel.”
“When?”
“Sunday morning. A member of the Council saw them, wanted to know why Hurlihan was on such close terms with the worst agitator on the water front.” Berger smacked his right fist into his left palm, stood stiffly erect. “I couldn’t tell him. I don’t keep tabs on our men outside of business hours. It may not be of interest to you to know that these two have been conning Merrill along, but all the time working against his interests—”
“Yair. It’s of interest. Mind?” Koski reached for the phone. To the operator on the PBX he said: “Get me Whitehall 4-1760... hello, Johnny... Koski here... I want the low on a guy named Joslin... initial would likely be T... T for Tim... organizer for ILA... yair.... address, description, the works... and shoot it fast.”