little, take a little. That's how the system works.'
They finished the sandwiches and four of the beers.
'Dee-licious,' Lou said, scrubbing his moustache with a paper napkin. 'Now I'm ready for a fight or a frolic.
Thanks, pal.'
'We're going up to the boat basin,' Stilton told me.
'We've got a search warrant for the houseboat. There's a car with two men on Riverside Drive at 79th Street and one guy on the dock. The three of us are going into the boat.
We'll be in touch with the others by walkie-talkie in case Knurr shows up. If the radios work.'
'They won't,' Lou said casually. 'Let's go.'
We drove north on Tenth Avenue, into Amsterdam, and turned west on 79th Street. The two detectives talked baseball for most of the trip. I didn't contribute anything.
We parked in a bus-loading zone near West End Avenue. We got out of the car, Percy and Lou taking their radios in leather cases. They didn't look around for the stakeout car. We walked across the park, down a dirt path.
We came to the paved area and the rotunda.
It was a ghostly place, deserted at that hour. I thought again of an archaeological dig: chipped columns, dried and cracking foundation, shadowed corridor leading to the murky river. It was all so broken and crumbling. Ancient graffiti. Splits in the stone. A world coming apart.
We walked down the steps to the promenade by the river. A few late-hour joggers, pairs of lovers tightly wrapped, solitary gays on benches, an older man frisking with his fox terrier, several roller skaters doing arabesques, a few cyclists. Not crowded, but not empty either.
Stilton rattled the gate, calling, and when the marina manager came out from his shed to meet us, Percy and Lou showed their identification. Stilton held up the search warrant for the man to read through the fence. He let us in, pointing out Godfrey Knurr's houseboat south of the entrance.
We paced cautiously down planked walkways floating on pontoons. They pitched gently under our tread.
'You said you've got a man on the dock?' I asked anxiously.
The detectives laughed.
'The guy with the dog,' Lou said.
'Al Irving,' Stilton said. 'He always takes his mutt along on a stakeout. Who's going to figure a guy with a dog is a cop? That hound's got the best assist record in the Department.'
We stepped down from the wharf on to the foredeck of Knurr's long fibreglass houseboat. There was a thick cable leading to an electric meter on the dock. The sliding doors to the cabin were locked. Lou bent to examine them.
'Piece of cake,' he said.
He took a leather case of picklocks from his jacket pocket. He fiddled a moment, pushed the door open. He stood aside.
'Be my guests.' he said.
But I noticed he had unbuttoned his coat and jacket and his hand was on his hip holster. Percy Stilton went in first.
His revolver was in his hand, dangling at his side. He found the switch and turned on the lights.
'Beautiful,' he said.
And it was. We went prowling through. Chairs, tables, couches. Drapes and upholstery in cheery plaid. Plenty of headroom. Overhead lights. Tub and shower. Hot water heater. Toilet. Lockers and cabinets. Wall-to-wall carpeting. Beds, sinks. Larger than my apartment, and more luxurious. A floating home.
We searched all through the houseboat, stared at the twin engines, bilge pump, climbed to the sundeck, marvelled at the forward stateroom and the instrument panel in the pilothouse. We ended up in the galley, looking at an electric range/oven and an upright refrigerator, And a horizontal chest freezer.
It didn't look like the standard equipment. It had been jammed into one corner, tight against a bulkhead and the refrigerator. The lid was secured with a cheap hasp and small padlock.
The two detectives looked at each other.
'Wanna bet?' Lou asked.
'No bet,' Percy said.
Lou leaned down to examine the padlock.
'Five-and-dime,' he reported. 'I saw some tools in the engine room.'
We waited, silent. Lou was back in a minute with a small claw bar. He hooked the curved end into the loop of the padlock and yanked upwards. It popped with a screech of metal.
'Cheese,' Lou said, flipping open the hasp. He gestured towards Percy. 'Your treat,' he said.
Stilton stepped forward and threw back the lid of the freezer.
We all craned forward. He was in there, wrapped in what appeared to be drycleaner's bags. I could make out the lettering: THIS BAG IS NOT A TOY.
He had been jammed in, arms folded, knees drawn up.
Plastic had frozen tightly around his head. I could see the face, dim and frosted. A long, sunken face, boned, gaunt, furious.
'Professor Stonehouse, I presume,' Percy Stilton said, tipping his hat.
'Shut the goddamn lid,' Lou said, 'before he thaws.'
I turned away, fighting nausea. Percy was on his walkie-talkie, trying to contact the team on Riverside Drive and the man on the dock. All he got in return was ear-ripping static.
'Shit,' he said.
'I told you,' Lou said. 'They're great until you need them.'
We were standing there discussing who would go to the nearest telephone when we heard the thump of feet on the outside deck and the houseboat rocked gently. Before I knew what was happening, the two detectives were crouched by the galley door, guns drawn.
'Josh,' Stilton hissed, ' drop! '
I went down on all fours, huddled near that dreadful freezer. Percy peered cautiously around the door frame.
He smiled, rose, motioned us up.
'In here,' Stilton shouted to someone outside.
Glynis Stonehouse entered slowly. She was wearing her long fur coat, the hood thrown back to rest on her shoulders. Following her came the Reverend Godfrey Knurr, dressed like a dandy: fitted topcoat, wide-collared shirt with a brocaded cravat tied in a Windsor knot, a black bowler tilted atop his head.
After them came Al Irving, grinning. He was holding his fox terrier on a leash. In his other hand was a snub- nosed revolver. The dog was growling: low, rumbling sounds.
'Look what I got,' Detective Irving said. 'They walked into my arms, pretty as you please. I tried to contact you.
These new radios suck.'
'What is the meaning of this?' Godfrey Knurr thundered.
It was such a banal, melodramatic statement that I was ashamed for him.
Percy Stilton gave him a death's-head grin and took two quick steps to the freezer. He threw back the lid.
'What is the meaning of this? ' he demanded.
Then nobody had anything to say. We were all caught, congealed in a theatrical tableau. Staring at each other.
Only the pallor of her face marked Glynis Stonehouse's agitation. Her hands did not tremble; her glance was steady and cool. Did nothing dent her? She stood erect, aloof and withdrawn. Her father lay there, frozen in plastic, a supermarket package of meat, and she was still complete, looking at all of us with a curious disdain.
Godfrey Knurr was feeling more — or at least displaying more. His eyes flickered about, his mouth worked.
Nervous fingers plucked at the buttons of his coat. His body slumped slightly until he seemed to be standing
