Gibbs started his automobile, drove rapidly to the waterfront, skirted around to the parking space by the yacht club. He left his car and started walking toward the clubhouse and float.
A dark figure detached itself from the shadows. Rays from the distant street lights glinted on brass buttons. “What’s the idea, buddy?” the man asked.
“Looking for a yacht.”
“Member of the club?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s see your membership card.”
Gibbs promptly reached in his pocket, pulled out his wallet, started fumbling with cards. “Got a flashlight?” he asked.
“Oh, I guess it’s okay,” the policeman said. “Just trying to keep out sightseers. What’s your yacht?”
“Right at present I’m with Miss Harpler on the Albatross.”
“The Albatross, eh?”
“That’s right.”
“She ain’t there.”
Gibbs raised his eyebrows.
The officer indicated the stretch of black water where the ghostly forms of yachts loomed gray and indistinct, like the wraiths of incoming fog. “Pulled out,” he said. “Understand she pulled out all of a sudden like. There was a young woman who was supposed to go on that yacht and got left behind. She made quite a commotion about it.”
“Perhaps that was the woman I want. Could you describe her?”
“Girl with blond hair and a red sport jacket. Had on some kind of white pants. I didn’t see her myself. I wasn’t on duty, but the man I relieved told me about her, told me to keep an eye open for her. She seemed awful anxious to catch up with that yacht.”
“Any idea where I could locate her?” Gibbs asked eagerly.
“No, I wouldn’t know.”
“How about the man you relieved? What’s his name?”
“Now, don’t go bothering him,” the officer said. “He’s had a hard day, and he’s entitled to his sleep. That’s the thing that makes it so tough on a cop — having to put in his days working, and then answering questions on his time off. By the time you make a pinch, make out a report, and then have to tell some more stuff to the city attorney or the D.A. and then go to court and get on the witness stand and have questions yelled at you by a bunch of lawyers, you almost feel as though it ain’t worth while makin’ a pinch.”
“I’ll try not to disturb him,” Gibbs said. “What time did you relieve him?”
“Ten o’clock tonight.”
“Did he tell you what time it was when she showed up?”
“Yes, shortly after he went on duty. It was just a little before sundown — oh, maybe an hour.”
“How long had the yacht been gone then?”
“I don’t know. It pulled out this afternoon sometime.” The officer lowered his voice. “But I’ll tell you something. It’s been my experience that guys on yachts are all nutty. I’ve seen ’em do some mighty queer things. They’ll sit up all night, and then hole up all day, just sittin’ out there, tied to those mooring buoys. Why the devil don’t they go out and get some fishing or something?”
“Perhaps they need the sleep more,” Gibbs said, smiling.
“I reckon they do, but I can’t see the idea of keepin’ a yacht to get drunk in when you can do it just as easy ashore.”
“As easily, but not as comfortably,” Gibbs pointed out.
“Guess you mean as completely, don’t you?” The cop grinned.
Gibbs laughed loudly at the sally, said, “Well, so long,” and turned back toward his car, his mind already turning over the problem of what moves a young woman would make who was trying to locate a yacht.
At first, Gibbs thought a speedboat was his clue. Then he realized that there was a lot of ocean to search, and the search would automatically be finished with the coming of darkness. If the young woman had any intelligence, and she certainly had, she’d rent a plane. Were there any hydroplanes for rent in Santa Delbarra?
The answer was surprisingly easy. A caretaker at the municipal airport supplied Gibbs with a telephone number. The person who had that number, when he had recovered from a slight irritation at having been called at that hour of the night over a simple matter of information, disclosed that a young woman who answered the description Gibbs gave had chartered his hydroplane that afternoon. It bad, he explained, been within half an hour of sundown by the time he had the plane up in the air. She hadn’t wanted to go any place in particular, simply cruise around. He thought she was doing it for a thrill. They’d gone out over the ocean, headed down along the coast two or three miles out to sea, then made a circle back up the coast. She’d watched the sunset, seemed to get quite a thrill out of it, didn’t want to come back. He’d insisted on getting back before dark... Yes, they’d gone down low over the ocean once... Yes, there’d been a yacht below them. He hadn’t noticed it much. It was headed toward Santa Delbarra, he’d noticed that... There were usually yachts out off the coast, particularly on a Sunday... She’d asked him to drop down at that particular point... No, he didn’t know where she’d gone after they’d landed. She’d paid him, and driven away... Yes, that was right, a big cream-colored sport coupe... The young man with her?... Why no, there hadn’t been anyone with her... No, no one had waited in the car. He was certain of that.
Gibbs thanked him, made what apologies and explanations he could for the lateness of the call, and drove back to the waterfront. The yacht in which Miss Moline had taken such an interest had been headed back toward Santa Delbarra. That was a clue. Gibbs parked his car and settled himself to a wait, calming his nerves with frequent cigarettes.
He became conscious of the beam of a searchlight playing on the water, then saw red and green running lights, noticed a yacht feeling its way in to a mooring. He saw a white-clad figure run along the deck, lean over the bow with a flashlight. A looped cable and float were located by the beam of the flashlight. A boat hook dragged the loop up to the deck. A moment later, an electric winch sounded briefly, then the running lights were switched out.
Gibbs started toward the place where the officer was standing guard at the entrance to the yacht club, then thought better of it and decided to wait and see if anyone came ashore from the yacht.
Five minutes later, he saw the headlights of an automobile swirl around the corner. The speed of the car elicited a screaming protest from the tires. Gibbs watched the car swing into a parking place beside his own, and when Nita Moline, still garbed in the white slacks, blouse, and red sport coat, placed a rubber-soled tennis shoe on the pavement, Gibbs raised his hat and said, “I’ve been looking for you, Miss Moline.”
He saw her stiffen into the rigid immobility of a surprised dismay. “What— What do you want?”
“A friend of mine wants to see you.”
“Well, isn’t that nice!”
“This friend is a lawyer.”
“Well, what’s the idea?”
Gibbs said, “Addison Stearne was a rich man, or did you know it?”
“Well, what of it?”
“You inherited his property.”
“What makes you think so?”
“I happen to know.”
“How?”
“Because that’s my business.”
She laughed.
“You don’t seem the least surprised,” he said.
She said, “I’m never surprised at a line anyone hands me. — The fact that I never believe them may have something to do with it.”
“Suppose I could prove it?”
“It would be interesting.”
Gibbs said, “Let’s quit beating around the bush. Addison Stearne left a will. Arthur Right was named in that will as executor. He was given the bulk of the estate — but the will provided that if Arthur Right died before Stearne, the bulk of the property was to go to you.”