ELEVEN
There were no floodlights on the seaward side of the ship. Red cut his motor to half of nothing and curved in under the overhang of the stern, sidled up to the greasy plates as coyly as a clubman in a hotel lobby.
Double iron doors loomed high over us, forward a little from the slimy links of a chain cable. The speedboat scuffed the Montecito’s ancient plates and the sea water slapped loosely at the bottom of the speedboat under our feet. The shadow of the big ex-cop rose over me. A coiled rope flicked against the dark, caught on something, and fell back into the boat. Red pulled it tight, made a turn around something on the engine cowling.
He said softly: «She rides as high as a steeplechaser. We gotta climb them plates.»
I took the wheel and held the nose of the speedboat against the slippery hull, and Red reached for an iron ladder flat to the side of the ship, hauled himself up into the darkness, grunting, his big body braced at right angles, his sneakers slipping on the wet metal rungs.
After a while something creaked up above and feeble yellow light trickled out into the foggy air. The outline of a heavy door showed, and Red’s crouched head against the light.
I went up the ladder after him. It was hard work. It landed me panting in a sour, littered hold full of cases and barrels. Rats skittered out of sight in the dark corners. The big man put his lips to my ear: «From here we got an easy way to the boiler-room catwalk. They’ll have steam up in one auxiliary, for hot water and the generators. That means one guy. I’ll handle him. The crew doubles in brass upstairs. From the boiler room I’ll show you a ventilator with no grating in it. Goes to the boat deck. Then it’s all yours.»
«You must have relatives on board,» I said.
«Never no mind. A guy gets to know things when he’s on the beach. Maybe I’m close to a bunch that’s set to knock the tub over. Will you come back fast?»
«I ought to make a good splash from the boat deck,» I said. «Here.»
I fished more bills out of my wallet, pushed them at him.
He shook his red head. «Uh-uh. That’s for the trip back.»
«I’m buying it now,» I said. «Even if I don’t use it. Take the dough before I bust out crying.»
«Well — thanks, pal. You’re a right guy.»
We went among the cases and barrels. The yellow light came from a passage beyond, and we went along the passage to a narrow iron door. That led to the catwalk. We sneaked along it, down an oily steel ladder, heard the slow hiss of oil burners and went among mountains of iron towards the sound.
Around a corner we looked at a short, dirty Italian in a purple silk shirt who sat in a wired-together office chair, under a naked bulb, and read the paper with the aid of steel-rimmed spectacles and a black forefinger.
Red said gently: «Hi, Shorty. How’s all the little bambinos?» The Italian opened his mouth and reached swiftly. Red hit him. We put him down on the floor and tore his purple shirt into shreds for ties and a gag.
«You ain’t supposed to hit a guy with glasses on,» Red said. «But the idea is you make a hell of a racket goin’ up a ventilator — to a guy down here. Upstairs they won’t hear nothing.»
I said that was the way I would like it, and we left the Italian bound up on the floor and found the ventilator that had no grating in it. I shook hands with Red, said I hoped to see him again, and started up the ladder inside the ventilator.
It was cold and black and the foggy air rushed down it and the way up seemed a long way. After three minutes that felt like an hour I reached the top and poked my head out cautiously. Canvas-sheeted boats loomed near by on the boat-deck davits. There was a soft whispering in the dark between a pair of them. The heavy throb of music pulsed up from below. Overhead a masthead light, and through the thin, high layers of the mist a few bitter stars stared down.
I listened, but didn’t hear any police-boat sirens. I got out of the ventilator, lowered myself to the deck.
The whispering came from a necking couple huddled under a boat. They didn’t pay any attention to me. I went along the deck past the closed doors of three or four cabins. There was a little light behind the shutters of two of them. I listened, didn’t hear anything but the merrymaking of the customers down below on the main deck.
I dropped into a dark shadow, took a lungful of air and let it out in a howl — the snarling howl of a gray timber wolf, lonely and hungry and far from home, and mean enough for seven kinds of trouble.
The deep-toned woof-woofing of a police dog answered me. A girl squealed along the dark deck and a man’s voice said: «I thought all the shellac drinkers was dead.»
I straightened and unshipped my gun and ran towards the barking. The noise came from a cabin on the other side of the deck.
I put an ear to the door, listened to a man’s voice soothing the dog. The dog stopped barking and growled once or twice, then was silent. A key turned in the door I was touching.
I dropped away from it, down on one knee. The door opened a foot and a sleek head came forward past its edge. Light from a hooded deck lamp made a shine on the black hair.
I stood up and slammed the head with my gun barrel. The man fell softly out of the doorway into my arms. I dragged him back into the cabin, pushed him down on a made-up berth.
I shut the door again, locked it. A small, wide-eyed girl crouched on the other berth. I said: «Hello, Miss Snare. I’ve had a lot of trouble finding you. Want to go home?»
Farmer Saint rolled over and sat up, holding his head. Then he was very still, staring at me with his sharp black eyes. His mouth had a strained smile, almost good-humored.
I ranged the cabin with a glance, didn’t see where the dog was, but saw an inner door behind which he could be. I looked at the girl again.
She was not much to look at, like most of the people that make most of the trouble. She was crouched on the berth with her knees drawn up and hair falling over one eye. She wore a knitted dress and golf socks and sport shoes with wide tongues that fell down over the instep. Her knees were bare and bony under the hem of the dress. She looked like a schoolgirl.
I went over Saint for a gun, didn’t find one. He grinned at me.
The girl lifted her hand and threw her hair back. She looked at me as if I was a couple of blocks away. Then her breath caught and she began to cry.
«We’re married,» Saint said softly. «She thinks you’re set to blow holes in me. That was a smart trick with the wolf howl.»
I didn’t say anything. I listened. No noises outside.
«How’d you know where to come?» Saint asked.
«Diana told me — before she died,» I said brutally.
His eyes looked hurt. «I don’t believe it, shamus.»
«You ran out and left her in the ditch. What would you expect?»
«I figured the cops wouldn’t bump a woman and I could make some kind of a deal on the outside. Who got her?»
«One of Fulwider’s cops. You got him.»
His head jerked back and a wild look came over his face, then went away. He smiled sideways at the weeping girl.
«Hello, sugar. I’ll get you clear.» He looked back at me. «Suppose I come in without a scrap. Is there a way for her to get loose?»
«What do you mean, scrap?» I sneered.
«I got plenty friends on this boat, shamus. You ain’t even started yet.»
«You got her into it,» I said. «You can’t get her out. That’s part of the pay-off.»
TWELVE
He nodded slowly, looked down at the floor between his feet. The girl stopped crying long enough to mop at her cheeks, then started in again.
«Fulwider know I’m here?» Saint asked me slowly.