“When is this business going to be pulled?”
“To-night, I believe.”
“Have you got a gun?”
“No.”
“Then,” Duncan said, “you can do just whatever you please. Do you want to mix into it?”
“No.”
“But you think you should, perhaps, is that it?”
“Yes”
“Officially,” Duncan said, “as far as the office is concerned, I don’t even know about it. Do anything you want, but I’m sending a gun down to your office by special messenger and also a permit to carry a concealed weapon.”
“Thanks very much,” Moraine told him, and, without hanging up the telephone, turned to Wickes.
“Okay, Wickes,” he said, “I’ll go.”
Wickes’ lips twisted in a relieved smile. Over the telephone, Moraine could hear Duncan’s chuckle and the voice of the district attorney saying, “You were the boy who wanted adventure. Stick around.”
Tom Wickes pulled a half-dozen snapshots from his pocket.
“These,” he said, “are photographs of Ann Hartwell. They give a pretty good idea of what she looks like. Study them carefully. You’ll want to be sure she’s the one you’re paying out the money for.”
Chapter Three
Wind was howling across the bay, kicking up white-capped waves that tossed Moraine’s graceful yacht into violent motion.
Within the wheel house, two shadowy figures moved noiselessly about, their bodies outlined against the binnacle light.
Moraine, taking a cross bearing on two of the lights, said in low voice to Sid Bromley, his captain, “This is just about the place. We wait here for a speed boat.”
“What is it?” asked Bromley. “Liquor?”
“No,” Moraine told him, “it’s something different. The less you know about it, the better. Hold her right here. Watch for a speed boat.”
“There’s lights over on the port bow,” Bromley said.
Moraine cupped his hands about his eyes, peered out into the night. He pulled open the door of the wheel house, braced himself against gust of wind and stepped out on deck.
The lights were growing momentarily closer. The roar of a motor could be heard. He thrust his head back inside the door and said, “I think this is it, Sid.”
“It’s a hell of a night to monkey around a speed boat,” Bromley complained.
“Probably it’s a big one — a big power cruiser.”
Moraine reentered the wheel house and pulled a slicker about himself. A searchlight stabbed through to focus upon the name of the yacht. Apparently satisfied, the operator of the speed boat extinguished the light and swung in alongside.
“Turn her so we’ve got a lee side,” Moraine ordered, and went out on deck. He slid one foot over the rail. The speed boat came in close, paused for a moment on the crest of one of the waves, dropped away, then came up again.
“Jump!” a man yelled to Moraine.
Moraine jumped.
Someone grabbed his arm. A man, stepping forward from the shadows, took his other arm.
“All right?” the first asked.
“Okay,” Moraine said.
The second man slid his hands over Moraine’s body. He encountered the bulge of the gun on Moraine’s hip.
Moraine said, “Wait a minute,” and started to pull away. The man held his arms. The second man slid his hand under Moraine’s slicker, jerked out the gun and said, “Naughty, naughty!”
“I want that gun back,” Moraine said.
The man broke open the cylinder, shook the shells into his hand, then tossed them over the side of the speed boat. He handed the empty gun back to Moraine and said, soothingly, “Sure, buddy, you can have your gun back. No one wants your gun.”
Moraine said nothing, and the man gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “No hard feelings, buddy,” he said. “Don’t hold it against us. It’s all part of die game, you know. There’s nothing personal about it. Okay, boys, let’s go.”
The speed boat swung away in a circle, the bow cleaving the water into two curved waves. As it gathered momentum, the stern settled down. Waves struck the bow of the craft with the force of a battering ram.
“A hell of a night for a speed boat,” Moraine said.
“Yeah,” one of the men agreed. “You’ll get spray in your eyes, buddy, if you don’t pull your hat down.”
He grabbed Moraine’s oilskin hat, jerked it down on his forehead so that the brim covered Moraine’s eyes.
Moraine cursed.
Someone laughed. Moraine pushed at the hat brim. Hands circled his wrists and pulled them down. “Don’t do that,” a voice said. “You don’t want to see too much.”
The boat roared into greater speed, staggering at times as it smashed into some big waves. Twice it turned sharply, sluing around with the peculiar, uncertain motion of a speed boat. Then the motor slowed, the bow settled. Someone pulled Moraine’s hat up. He could see the lines of a sail boat. The speed boat drew alongside.
“You go aboard,” the man told him.
The man at the wheel of the speed boat jockeyed it up close to the small yacht. Moraine waited for an advantageous wave and jumped to the deck. A shadowy figure materialized from the darkness and said, “This way.”
“I want assurance I’m dealing with the right parties,” Moraine said.
“You’ll have it,” the man at his side told him. “Come this way.”
Moraine was guided toward the bow of the little cruiser. A canvas was slid back from a skylight, and he found himself looking down into a small, lighted cabin. Evidently this was not the main cabin, but one which opened just forward of it. It was occupied by a young woman who was lying stretched out on a berth. Her face was a peculiar greenish pallor. As Moraine watched, she was seized with a violent fit of retching. When she flung herself back on the berth, Moraine had an opportunity to study her features.
“Looks like the one,” he said.
“She is the one,” the man at his elbow said. “Hell, we wouldn’t want to run a ringer in on you. We don’t want the broad; we want the dough. We want old bills, ten grand, all in twenties, no numerical sequence. If you’ve got it, okay. If there’s anything funny about it, the girl goes overboard. We don’t want any distinguishing marks on the bills.”
Moraine unbuttoned his slicker, opened his coat and vest, unstrapped a money belt.
“Here it is,” he said.
He was conscious of other figures on the deck, men who had jumped from the speed boat, men who had apparently pushed their way up from the main cabin. And now they came crowding toward him.
The man at his side grabbed the belt.
“Okay, Louie,” he said, “get down there and bring the broad up. Make it snappy. Throw her and her stuff into the speed boat, and for God’s sake, shake a leg.”
He held the money belt in his hand for a moment, letting the wind whip it about. Then he held it so that the light which came up from the cabin illuminated it. He opened one of the pockets, saw the frayed edges of old bills. He nodded his head and snapped the leather compartment shut.
“She’s all yours, brother,” he said. “We never did want her. All we wanted was the dough. Take her with you, and you can’t get started any too quick to suit us. You get back in the speed boat. We’ll load her aboard.”
“No,” Moraine told him. “I stay here until I get her.”
The man laughed sarcastically.
“My God,” he observed, “if we’d wanted to cross you, we’d have pitched you overboard when we got the dough. Hurry up, Louie. Get that broad up here.”
There was a commotion near the entrance to the main cabin. A group of shadowy figures swirled toward the rail. The speed boat bumped alongside. Someone tossed a bundled figure over into the speed boat, and the man at Moraine’s elbow growled, “Okay, buddy, on your way.”