noticeable.
Joe told me later that she didn't say any more on the way to the station than she had at lunch, which was nothing. Her husband was gone and she didn't know why or how. When asked about the Penelope, she proclaimed no knowledge of it. She seemed to be telling the truth, but she also admitted that she had suspected for some time that Danny was engaged with illegal modifications and shady people.
I did not particularly want to witness the unearthing of the late D. Murdock, but my presence was requested by the officials, including my brother-in-law who, was apparently going to get some important brownie points at headquarters. It didn't take them long to cut him out of there, thank God.
Three men wearing nose masks went down into the hull. They spotlighted the area and turned on the gas, and I heard the sharp 'pop' of the acetylene torch as it ignited, then a hiss as they adjusted the long silver flame with a touch of blue halo around it. That went through the plate steel quickly. The first thing I saw slide out of the bottom of the big portside pillar was a booted foot. I recognized the boot, even with the oil slime on it. Old Danny Murdock would never again do his sloppy, drunken soft-shoe imitation of Bojangles down at the Schooner Race. Those feet were forever stilled.
He oozed out of there like baker's dough. Like pink-gray Silly Putty. He was a formless puddle of stinking goop.
'Can I leave now?' I asked, and headed for the door and fresh air even before I got the answer.
We rode back to Concord in silence. Twice we stopped the car on the side of 128, and got out and walked around slowly, breathing deeply.
We had Joe stay for dinner. Gradually, as the day progressed, he talked more and more of food. Still, we didn't eat much. Mary was in a sense glad of the discovery of Murdock's body, since it meant once and for all that I hadn't been I imagining all this maritime skulduggery, and that finally the authorities would pitch in and help out.
'You're not alone anymore on this thing, Charlie, you should be glad of that,' she said.
'Yeah, and I can bet the first son of a bitch to show up will be Brian Hannon. You watch. Pass the wine please and fill the glasses. I want to propose a toast: To Mrs. Katherine Murdock-May her lot in life improve.'
'Hear, hear,' echoed Joe. 'After all, it could hardly be worse.'
'-and the best thing is, Doc, you're not alone on this thing anymore. Why we-'
'You're excused, Chief Hannon,' I said into the phone.
'Now wait. After all, who provided-'
'Excused!'
'Now look, goddammit! I went out on a limb for you. I'm telling you the way it is. I went along with your harebrained scheme to play down your survival. I helped you plan that lame-brained cruise of yours aboard the Ginger Rogers-'
'The Ella Hatton.'
'Well, whatever. And I'm investigating the people whose names you gave me. I've got some stuff, for instance on the girl who went cruising with Walter Kincaid.'
Dammit, the son of a bitch had me there. `
'What'd you find out?'
'It can wait.'
'Look. Be here at nine.'
'No, you look. You cannot order policemen around. You will be here at the time I say. Clear?'
'Naw. Forget it, Chief.'
'What time was that again? You said your place?'
'Nine.'
Chief Brian Hannon sat sipping on a Tab.
'The oil. I wonder how they thought of the oil?'
'Because,' said Joe, 'there were drums and drums of diesel fuel outside. After stuffing Murdock down the steel channel, they covered him with diesel fuel, then put the cap on and welded it tight. If we hadn't discovered him there he'd have remained for ages.'
'Now what about Walter Kincaid's girlfriend?' I asked. 'That she never was. I've tapped every source I know, official and unofficial, and I can tell you for certain the girl Jennifer Small just isn't, at least around the North Shore. Whoever told you about her is mistaken.'
I considered this tidbit carefully. It meant a lot.
'And what about our humane friend Jim Schilling?'
'Looked clean as a whistle except for one big thing that he'd managed to hide for a long, long time: dishonorable discharge. Assaulting a superior officer. Did time in the stockade. Court martial. DD.'
'Thanks for the help, Brian. Now can you plunder Box 2319 for me? My brother-in-law has cold feet in that department.'
'Look, Charlie, I have cold feet because it happens to be illegal. It's illegal until the PO. officially declares it an abandoned box. At that time-and I've got an intercept notice in-the contents will fall into my lap. And maybe yours. Maybe, Charlie.'
I grunted in disgust.
'It would seem to me it might be a good idea to keep a sharp eye out for the Rose, and Jim Schilling, along the coast of Cape Cod Bay,' said Brian.
I let out a whistle of disbelief.
'You mean with the help of all your former friends? The ones who were so put out and embarrassed by your jackass friend Doc Adams?'
Chief Hannon spoke out of the comer of his mouth as he clamped his fangs around a newly lit Lucky. He flumped around awkwardly on the couch as he stuffed his matches back into his pocket.
'Now goddammit, Doc, I never said that. Not exactly anyway. What I said was-'
The evening dragged on with slashes and parries, advances and retreats, assertions and reversals. I was pretty bloody sick of it before long, and was glad when my two Great Buddies, the law officers, departed.
I had what I wanted for the moment. Joe had delivered the goods on Item # 2 on my list of requests: the identity and whereabouts of the owner of the blue van I photographed on the pier in North Plymouth.
He handed me the data earlier on in the evening, telling me to do nothing until I talked with him. Well, I'd talked to him all right, so now I could do something..
And I did.
The next morning I went to the office bright and early, and went over my bills and invoices. I scheduled in patients for the third week in October when I knew my hand would be fine. I answered overdue correspondence by talking for two hours into a tape machine. I wanted to get the office work behind me. I wanted to clear the decks.
I went to the Rod amp; Gun Club shooting range and pumped two boxes of twenty-two rounds through my Ruger Bull-Barrel, fast-firing every other clip.
After lunch I headed west on the Mass Pike in the Scout station wagon. With me were binoculars, my camera system, and the fact sheet describing the owner of the Ford Econoline van: Rudolph Buzarski _
121 Mt. Pleasant Drive
Belchertown, Mass.
Age: 54 Ht: 6 ft. 1 in.
Weight: 215 Hr: Brn
