something. That wasn't very strong. Well, I'd done the best I could, for the time being, at least.
Plymouth lay roughly equidistant from Gloucester and Wellfleet, if that meant anything. Also, it was pretty close to Boston-if that meant anything. There was only one person besides the crew of the Penelope/Rose who could clue me in: Danny Murdock. Even dead drunk, he could be eloquent. His sodden brain held the pertinent dope.
I eased the Hatton out of her borrowed slip and hummed back up Plymouth Harbor. I passed the cordage works and saw the Rose still hitched quayside, a white-dressed damsel amongst thugs. It was now late afternoon and things had ground to a total halt on the small pier. I glided on toward Duxbury Harbor. I drifted to a stop and let out anchor chain just inside the harbor, and clear enough of the breakwater so I could see the dock across the water. When Rose left I wanted to know it. I packed my pipe and dismantled the gizmo; the rain had lifted and- Lawd sakes amighty-there was the faint promise of sun. I sat on the cabin top and puffed and sipped a Budweiser, crinkling and uncrinkling my toes.
I thought of the scrambled CB conversation I'd heard. It could be interesting, it had issued from the Rose and if there was any marine double talk intended in it of the kind Ted had described to me in the Schooner Race. Somebody was referred to as the general, and he had something, tuna and, swordfish. Good for him. The other party didn't want to be forgotten. According to the general, he wouldn't be. That meant that in the future-probably the near future-the men of the Rose were going to do something.
Why did he call himself general? Either he was really a general-something I found myself discounting immediately-or else general was a code name. Why general? There was Miles Standish, standing up above the harbor. He was probably a general. That could be it. The only other general I could think of in the area was the General James Longstreet, the half-sunk target ship.
There were a lot of loose ends. I had to see Danny Murdock, drunk or sober. That was for sure. I lazed about in Hatton's cockpit for the remainder of the afternoon, reading, sunning, and watching the commercial pier. It was quiet as a tomb over there. The water was still as glass in the faint sunlight. The draggers were mirrored motionless where they sat. I could hear flies droning fifty feet away. I dozed in the dying sun.
The crackle of the CB awakened me. It was number-one son-the guy who loved whales. It was almost six. He was two hours late. We met at the dock and I ferried him out to the catboat via the dory. We had a long discussion on what had transpired, and decided that we'd wait it out, in shifts if necessary, until Rose cut loose and split. Then we'd make one more attempt at her interception. After that there was nothing much more we could do except to trail Ella Hatton back to Concord for her winter's sleep. We sat and talked. Jack told me Tony was under medication for his dose, which was good to hear. He said Mary was not the slightest bit pleased at this quixotic streak that I had manifested itself in me, and I understood-in part at I least.
'Oh, yeah, I forgot one other thing. Did you write a letter to someplace in the Caribbean?'
He took a thin aerogramme out of his pocket and tilted it around, looking at the postmark affixed to the tissue paper.
“Uh… Queen's Beach Condominiums?'
'Gimme.'
I tore the flimsy thing open, and I read: QUEEN'S BEACH CONDOMINIUMS
Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands
'Where Paradise Begins' September 18, 1979
Dear Dr. Adams:
Thank you for your recent inquiry regarding your friend and our client, Mr. Wallace Kinchloe. While it is the strict policy of this development, and all the developments of the Chadwick-Longchamp Group, to maintain the utmost confidentiality regarding all its tenants and clients, we do feel at this time obliged to reveal to you and any other interested parties our concern over the absence of Mr, Kinchloe, who indicated an arrival date here in Charlotte Amalie of September 1. Since it is now getting on toward October, we are justifiably concerned, especially given Mr. Kinchloe's extremely prompt communications in the past. You may rest assured that should he arrive here, we will notify him immediately of your concern. Until such time as we hear from Mr. Kinchloe, we shall of course maintain his suite of rooms as per the agreement. However, if there is no word from him whatsoever by the first of the year we reserve the right, under the terms of the contract, to offer the suite for rent or sale. We would regret doing this, of course, and still look forward to hearing from him. Sincerely yours,
John C. Pepper
Manager
I pondered the epistle, blowing pipe smoke down onto the page and watching it billow out around the edges.
'An arrival date of September l.'
Windhover disappears in late June. Allow, say, three weeks for Murdock to alter the boat and fake the papers. She would then be ready for Walter Kincaid, presumed dead and now alias Wallace Kinchloe, to put out to sea around the first of August, maybe a bit later. Roughly a month, then, to make it from Cape Ann all the way down the Inland Waterway to the Miami area, then island hop a bit to A Bimini, the Bahamas, and on over to the Virgins. He could do it, but he'd have to hump a bit. Still, if he really wanted to get away, he wouldn't dawdle; he'd scoot. For a forty-foot-plus power boat a month was plenty of time to make it. Perhaps even with a quick duck southward to visit Grand Cayman Island too. Sure. Plenty of time. Only he didn't get the chance, because just before he set out… what?
At nine-thirty that evening the running lights on the Rose flipped on. I glassed the boat and could see the faint waver of heat above her stack. She was going out.
'She's taking off, Jack, and so am I.'
I left in the dory for the town pier and there placed two calls: one to Joe and one to Brian, telling them that Rose was on the march.
I got back to the Hatton in time to see Rose slide away from the quay and glide along in the still water for the harbor mouth. I opened beers for myself and Jack and we sat in the cockpit under the stars-for the weather had finally cleared-and talked. It was pleasant there with the water sloshing around. We made a late dinner and took our time eating. I told him how the Hatton had handled herself, and what I'd seen. I told him about Mr. X-Jim Schilling-sitting behind me in the cafe. We debated the cryptic message over the CB-assuming of course it was the Rose.
'I don't know, Dad,' said number-one son as he pulled up the wool blanket and blew out the hurricane light in the bow.
'This whole thing is so… iffy.'
'Son, you're so right.'
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
'And the thing that makes it really hard, Doc, the thing that really pisses me off, is the apology given to me by Clive Higgins. He's the guy I told you was my friend at Massport. Like I predicted, he's now a former friend. But he was so goddamned apologetic on the phone for not being of more service. Christ, Doc, why in hell did I ever listen to you-'
A Brian Hannon was being true to his word. He was all over me like a cheap suit. I was standing on his carpet examining, the weave. I was getting sick of being called into the principal's office.
'And you know what? Did you know your brother-in-law was in here too? Eh? Well, the both of us had some mighty pretty words to say about you, Doc. Yes indeed.'
He stomped around behind his desk and lighted another Lucky Strike. He fanned out the match and filled his half off the room with smoke. He kicked his desk and cussed.
'He hasn't told you? Well, Clive and Joe together got the Coast Guard up for it. Told them to be sure and intercept the dragger Rose on her return to Plymouth. Which they did. Yes sir! Sent a special boat just for the occasion.'
I decided to break my silence.
'And I take it, Chief, that they did not find anything of interest aboard her?'
