Plymouth Harbor. It was a perfect landmark-much easier to find than the squat lighthouse called Bug Light in the center of the harbor. I let go the anchor cable and slouched in the cockpit, glassing the pier with the binoculars.
No Penelope present, so Schilling had ditched her. But just then one of the draggers began gliding away from the pier and, as she left, revealed a white boat that was a dead ringer for the one I'd been looking for. I glassed her carefully from stem to stem. It was her. No doubt about it. She was painted white, and looked brand spanking new. Other than a coat of paint, she wasn't changed except for some kind of superstructure far aft. It looked like a raised hatchway. This altered her appearance considerably, especially in profile. It would fool anyone who wasn't looking carefully, or was unaware of what to look for. How long had it taken the men to add it on?
Three or four days was my guess. And another carpenter's certificate. I wondered what her new name was as I hauled out my camera and a 300-millimeter lens from the aluminum case. I read the name on her bow: Rose. I set up the camera on the tripod and snapped away at the snow-white boat at the pier. Nothing projected from beneath the gizmo canopy. I was-for all practical purposes-completely invisible underneath it in the gray drizzle. But of course Ella Hatton was plainly visible to those aboard. She was tauntingly visible. Were it not for the fact I was moored in about three feet of water, the Rose could chug right over and have a close look. Through the long lens I caught a flicker of motion in the boat's wheelhouse. I raised the binoculars and had a peek. I'll be darned if someone in the pilothouse wasn't looking at me too. No, wait. The person was holding something up to his mouth. He was talking into a microphone. I scurried down under the companionway and turned on the CB scanner. I got a good variety of jabbering. But one in particular made me stop the dial. It was underlaid with a lot of hissing and buzzing common to Citizen Band transmissions:
'mmmmmmmmm-sssstt! No so I'll stay put for a-sssssst! You can catch us back here at the usual t1me.'
'OK general. You meeting the other party then? When can I expectmmmmmmmm-or late tomorrow?'
'ssssst! Yeah tomorrow's fine. I gotta keep a date first though. Got swordfish and tuna this time- fsssst.'
'OK but don't forget me.'
'mmmrrrrmmmm No problem-'
Then there was a bunch of static and buzzing, and nothing else. I moved the dial around. Most of the people were calling each other 'good buddy' and saying when they'd be in, or to tell their wives and girlfriends that they'd be gone another day or two. I couldn't find anything else. I peeped out to see the person in the wheelhouse sweeping a pair of heavy lenses over the Hatton. What did it mean?
I had placed a stem anchor to make sure Hatton's sternside didn't swing around, so people on the white boat could read her name or port. I grabbed the glasses and stared back, but from inside the cabin about a foot behind the glass of the tiny porthole. I knew he couldn't see me… but I could see him. It was the big man. It was him. For half a minute I was tempted to drag the 30-06 from underneath the forward bunk and level it at his chest. What was I saying? Had this slimy crook made a sniper out of me? Nevertheless, I found myself breathing more heavily than usual, and my pulse was pounding. I hoped, really hoped, he'd come a-hunting my boat.
But he didn't. Apparently, he did not recognize the Hatton, or its occupant, or anything else. For several hours, until almost noontime, the three figures walked to and fro along the boat's decks and up and down her hatches. They came and went often from the new superstructure aft, which was obviously a hatchway. So it was real, not just a bunch of welded metal.
Not much was happening. Trucks continued to arrive and depart the old quay, and loiterers and cane-pole fishermen trudged wearily about the long dock, trying their luck in the slimy waters below. The big warehouse had wide doorways every forty feet or so. Some were open, some weren't.
Occasionally men went through them wheeling carts full of stuff. I saw a lift truck gliding along between the semi-trucks. a The long rows of buildings and loading docks behind the big warehouse were quiet.
Just before one o'clock a blue van pulled up on the quay and the two men jumped from the Rose and went over to talk to the driver. Schilling put his head into the window and nodded. I snapped away at the proceedings, but then grew bored.
I decided to move on. There were three additional piers in Plymouth. One was reserved for the Mayflower II and the gift shops. Another was the main fishing pier. Finally, the Plymouth Yacht Club had a small marina at the southern end of the big, wide harbor. I weighed anchors and motored the Hatton in a wide sweep around the commercial pier. As I rounded it to make for the main harbor, I knew that Schilling or his men could read Hatton's name and hailing port on her transom, but it seemed they had lost interest in me.
Hatton snuggled nicely into an empty slip at the fishing dock. On both sides of me were trawlers whose high topsides rose up cavemously and hid me from view except from the dock above. I wheeled up the ten-speed and rode down the dock, out to Water Street and up to Main, which was route 3A. At that intersection I thought of something. Should I be armed? No. I didn't even know how to tote the pistols around. Then too there was the weight problem. Even small bore handguns are much heavier than you'd think. At night it would be a different story. For now, I'd rely on Schi1ling's innate cowardice to protect me. It didn't take me long at all to return to the cordage pier. There was a big white sign telling me the place was called Cordage Park..Under the big letters was a directory. Ocean Spray Cranberry Company had a big spread there (as they did everywhere in the area), along with a wire cable company, a soft drink manufacturer, two electronics firms, and a fishery.
Some of the big buildings had connecting catwalks that joined them several stories above the ground. Others had big boilers and stackpipes attached to them-machinery that by the look of it hadn't seen any action in decades. Some of the buildings were U-shaped and had giant courtyards. The straight brick walls rose up six stories high around these gloomy places, allowing little light to enter. Most of these courtyards terminated in a truck loading dock at the far wall. But the steel shutters were locked down tight. The yards were deserted and silent. Row after row of these swept by as I cruised along. Then I crossed over the railroad tracks. No doubt these were the old spur that had once serviced the Plymouth Cordage Company. Oil drums were everywhere. Some were bright red, most rust colored or dirty gray. They were stacked in rows; they were strewn about; they were tipped over; they were crushed and torn. Just beyond the tracks was a tall Cyclone fence topped with barbed wire. A big sliding gate that led out to the pier was drawn back on its rollers, open. I parked the bike and loitered briefly near the gate. The Rose lay back by the pier beyond two other draggers. She looked I out of place though, truly a rose among the nettles. The big gate had a sign on it that said it was closed at 6 P.M. sharp, and all strangers and vehicles had to be off the quay by then. Period. I took in the whole cordage compound in a long sweeping glance. If one were up to something shady this spot certainly had its advantages. Old broken-down warehouses. A quiet section of a quiet town. A semiprivate pier. A locking gate and barbed wire.
The place was basically quiet… almost too still in fact. Yet trucks did rumble, in and out. I took a final tour around the huge old warehouse buildings and then headed out the main drive toward the highway. Then I heard a truck coming behind me. As it swept past I realized it was the blue van that Schilling had poked his head into. I snapped it as it bounced down the road ahead of me. I saw an elbow sticking out of the passenger window, but nobody turned to look.
Back at the fish pier I called Brian Hannon and told him I had located the Penelope.
'I'm overjoyed, Doc. I really am. You have made my day.'
I asked him if he could request that the Rose be boarded by the Coast Guard on suspicion.
'Suspicion of what?' asked Brian.
'Who knows? Smuggling's the best guess I can think of.'
'Absolutely not.'
I told him I understood. But I said it in a very clipped tone.
'Look,' he finally said, 'I have a friend at the Massport Authority. After this episode he'll no doubt be my former friend… but I could… I could relay your message. They might tell the Coast Guard… they might not. But let me tell you. If it's a wild-goose chase I'm going to be all over you like a cheap suit.'
He hung up. I called my brother-in-law, Joe, and requested the same. Finally I called my buddy Lieutenant Commander Ruggles and informed him what I found. Three requests. Hell, unless a hurricane blew in, the USCG would have to follow up. There was no excuse not to. Except of course one: that a private citizen had suspected
