I studied the rest of it. There’d be the station wagon I had to buy to get back to Sanport with all the gear. Abandon it when we sailed? No. Storing it in a garage was a better idea. After a year or so they’d probably sell it for the storage charges, and if anybody ever bothered to look into it all he’d find would be that it had been left there by a man named Burton who’d sailed for Boston in a small boat and never been heard of again. People had been lost at sea before, especially sailing alone.
What about after I’d landed them on the Central American coast? Florida was my best bet now. I could lose myself among the thousands who made a living along the edge of the sea in one way or another, and gradually build up a whole new identity. I tore all my identification into tiny shreds and flushed it down the plumbing along with the remainder of the bus ticket. As soon as I turned out the light and lay down I was thinking of her again.
It was a little after eight when I awoke. I shaved hurriedly, noting my face was almost back to normal now, and dressed in a clean white linen suit. Brassy sunlight spilled into Canal Street, shattering on the chrome and glass of traffic as the sticky New Orleans heat began. I pushed through the crowds, looking at my watch. The banks wouldn’t be open for over an hour.
I got some change in a cigar store and went back to the battery of phone booths. Putting in a long-distance call to Sanport, I caught the yacht broker just as he came in his office.
“Hello,” I said, sweltering in the airless little cubicle. “My name’s Burton. I understand from a friend of mine you’ve got a New-England-built sloop over there, 36 footer by the name of Dancer, or something like that—”
“Yes,” he said. “That’s right. The Ballerina. Good boat, in first-class condition—”
“How much are you asking?”
“Eleven thousand.”
“That sounds high to me,” I said. “But I’m looking for one of her class and I’d go to ten if it’s in top shape. Suppose I come over and take a look at it? I’m in New Orleans now, but I could be there sometime tomorrow morning if you could make arrangements for the boat yard to haul her out.”
“Fine,” he replied. “She’s at Michaelson’s Yard. We’ll be looking for you.”
“Around nine a.m.,” I said.
So far, so good. She hadn’t been sold yet.
When the banks opened I went into the first one I came to, endorsed the check for deposit, and opened an account, asking them to clear it with the Sanport bank by wire. They said they should have an answer a little after noon.
The used car lots were next. I didn’t find a station wagon in the first one and was just about to leave when the idea began to come to me. Part of my mind had been occupied with the problem of getting Macaulay out of that house, and now I was starting to see at least part of the answer. I didn’t want a station wagon; I wanted a panel truck, a black one. I found one in the next lot. After trying it out, I told the salesman I’d come back later and let him know. I couldn’t buy it until the check cleared.
The wire came back from the Sanport bank a little after one. I cashed a check for three thousand, picked up the truck, and drove over to a nautical supply store. It took nearly two hours to get everything I needed here, chronometer, sextant, azimuth tables, nautical almanacs, charts, and so on, right down to a pair of 7 by 50 glasses and a marine radio receiver. That left diving gear. Of course, there was still the aqualung in the back of her car, but the coast of Yucatan was too far to come back for spare equipment if anything went wrong. I bought another, and some extra cylinders which I had filled. At five o’clock the truck was full of gear, and nothing remained but to check out of the hotel and start back.
No, there was one thing more. I went into a dime store and bought an anniversary greeting card.
* * *
I drove all night.
Just at dawn I was approaching the outskirts of Sanport, and stopped at an all-night service station to shave and clean up a little while the attendant filled the tank. I was a little nervous as I approached the downtown area, but I shrugged it off. There was nothing to worry about yet. In the panel truck I looked like any laundry route-man or cigarette salesman.
Michaelson’s Boat Yard lay some three miles from town, in the opposite direction from the Parker Mill. It was on a sandspit running out toward the ship channel beyond the eastern end of the water-front, with only some mud flats between it and the long jetties going toward the open Gulf.
About a block away from the yard gate there was a small cluster of buildings among the otherwise empty lots, a beer joint or two and a cafe and an abandoned store building with a For Rent sign on it. I parked the truck in front of the cafe, locked it, and went inside. It was still early, and a girl was making coffee in a big urn. I drank two cups and ate an order of hot cakes. The morning paper was on the counter. I looked through it, but there was nothing about his body’s being found. It was too soon yet. There would be.
The yard workmen began to drift in. I walked down to the gate and went inside. The Ballerina was hauled out on the marine railway. I stood for a moment, just looking at her. She was long-ended and slimly arrogant, cut away at the forefoot and tapering in sharply under the stern, and she drew nearly six feet when she was afloat, with some 5000 pounds of iron in her keel. I’d never been aboard her, but I’d seen her several times over at the yacht basin, and I was familiar with the design. I’d sailed one of her sisters in a race shortly after the war.
Opening my pocketknife, I walked under her, white linen suit and all, and started probing. It must have been six months or more since she’d been hauled, because she was foul with grass and barnacles, but in half an hour I knew that under all the marine growth she was as sound as the day she was built. I kept on, hardly even aware when calking hammers began sounding on the ways.
Finding a ladder, I went aboard and went on with the inspection. She’d been well kept up. I remembered Carling had bought new sails for her a few months ago when she was over at the yacht basin, so I didn’t have to look at them. The cabin seemed to be all right, with no indication of leaks in the decking overhead. The layout was perfect for the three of us who were going to be aboard. There were two bunks forward, then a head on the port side and a locker on the starboard that formed almost a partition, leaving only a narrow passage. That could be curtained to make two cabins of it. Aft of the head and the locker there were two settees, one on each side, and either of these could be made up as a bunk. A folding chart table came down over one of them, and aft of them were the icebox and locker space of the galley and the primus stove hanging in gimbals.
I inspected the bilges, and took a look at the Gray marine engine, though I couldn’t tell much about the latter until she was back in the water and I could try it out. Just as I was coming down the ladder the man from the yacht broker’s showed up. The yard foreman was with him. I introduced myself.
“Well, what do you think of her?” he asked.
“She’s in good shape,” I said. “I’ll give you ten thousand.”
“He’s still asking eleven.”
“Who owns her?” I asked.
“Man named Carling. Automobile dealer.”
“Well, how about getting him on the phone? Tell him I’ll write you a check for ten in the next five minutes.”
He went off toward the office. I gave the yard foreman a cigarette. He was a big, heavy-bodied Finn or Norwegian. He nodded toward the sloop.
“That one’s built,” he said.
“She’s that,” I said. “But her bottom’s in awful shape. How soon can you get a crew of men on her? I’ll give you the paint specification, and the rest of the work list—”