“If you’re kidding me——” began the voice.
“Just get it wrong, my friend. Get one thing wrong, and you’ll find out who’s kidding. Now read it back.”
He read it over and I was satisfied.
“He’ll be there any minute,” I announced. “See he gets that message immediately.”
I was about to hang up, when the voice said:
“Wait. What about the other Mr. Martello? Suppose he gets here first?”
“Tell him too. Tell everybody. But get it done.”
I got out then, down into the early evening sun and the slowly cooling Chev. Within fifteen minutes I was banging on the door of Art Green, Impressario.
“Who is it?” came a quavering voice.
“McCann,” I gruffed.
The door was unlocked and he opened it slowly. Seeing me, he gasped and tried to close it, but I was in no mood for those impressario moves. I slammed it open, grabbed him in both hands and kicked the door shut behind me. The small dirty man was whimpering with fear.
“Now Art, tell me about the boat,” I invited.
“Boat?” he queried.
I slammed him against the wall, not too gently.
“Art, we have to understand each other. McCann and the girl are wanted for two murders. Two, Art.”
To illustrate the point I banged him against the wall twice more. He shivered with fright.
“The boat,” I prompted. “If I have to break an arm or a leg, or maybe both, you are going to tell me about the boat. Go easy on yourself.”
He shook his head.
“Legs’ll kill me. I tell you he’ll kill me.”
“He’s all washed up Art. Everybody in town is after him. Martello’s people, cops, everybody. And me. And I’m the one who’s here. Where would you like me to start? Left arm?”
I grabbed the arm, putting one hand behind the elbow and exerting pressure. He screamed, more from fear than pain.
“No, wait,” he gasped. “How about a few dollars? I could blow town till it’s over.”
I let go and looked at him with disgust. Then I took some bills from my pocket, peeled off a few.
“Two hundred. Way you live, that should last a year. What about the boat?”
“It’s an old tub really. Just for coast work, you know. Fruit season, McCann usually runs a few greasers up from the south.” Illegal immigrants. A favorite local pursuit.
“Name?”
“The Costa de Mar. It’s beached just this side of Indian Point.”
A quiet piece of coast, too rocky for all but the most expert divers and swimmers.
“Who has the concession down there?”
“An old guy named Jim. Calls himself Captain Jim. Everybody knows him. He just makes sure things are O.K. while the owners are not there. You know the kind of thing.”
I knew the kind of thing. An excuse to keep some old beach bum off the public charge.
“Art, here’s some advice. And there’s no charge. Grab your other shirt, if you have another shirt, and be out of town within thirty minutes. I won’t tell Martello you’ve been holding out about McCann for one hour. That’s all I guarantee. Kabish?”
He nodded feverishly.
“Gotcha. Say, I sure appreciate——”
I looked at my watch.
“Time is running out, Art.”
I left him looking for the other shirt.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
HAMILTON WAS PARKED outside White’s Boat-House in an open white Alfa-Romeo when I got there.
“What’s it all about?” he greeted.
“You drive, I’ll tell you on the way. You got a man out at Indian Point?”
“Should be by this time.”
He slammed gears and I was pushed against the back of the seat as we roared away. I told him about the boat as we hurtled along the beach highway.
“Nice going,” he complimented. “Very nice going.”
“We could be too late,” I reminded. “They had a head start.”
“Maybe. But I took the distributor out of the girl’s car before I went calling. They’d have to hire, or get a cab. And they know everyone’s watching out for them. It’s my bet they won’t even make their play until dark.”
That made sense. Fifteen minutes hard driving brought us to the base of Indian Point. There were ten or twelve small boats hauled up on the beach. An old guy in a dirty white peaked cap sat talking with a thickset man whom I’d seen around one of the betting parlors. He got up as we approached.
“It’s here, huh?” he greeted.
“With luck,” replied Hamilton. “What was that name again?”
“The Costa de Mar,” I told him.
She was the fifth tub along, a faded thirty footer in bad need of a paint job. There was no sign of life. We went back to the old man.
“You Captain Jim?” I asked him.
“That’s me, shipmate,” he confirmed.
“O.K. shipmate” I emphasized, “tell us about the Costa de Mar. Will it run?”
He cackled.
“Not now it won’t. Not right now.”
“Listen you.”
The other man took a menacing step forward, but Hamilton waved him away.
“Why not now, Captain Jim?” he asked softly.
“No oil for the engine,” he explained. “No oil, no run. Makes sense.”
“Where would a man get oil?” pressed Hamilton patiently.
“From me mostly. Keep a stock back there.”
He waved towards a once-white shack that stood back from the beach.
“Cash in advance of course,” he cautioned.
“Sure, sure. So if anybody wants to get that old hulk out to sea, they have to come to you for oil first?”
“Don’t have to,” he denied. “But there ain’t no point dragging them big drums all the way out from town, when they know I got ‘em right here on the spot. Makes sense.”
Hamilton smiled and patted him on the shoulder.
“That it does old man, that it does.”
He walked away, leaving him sitting there.
“All we have to do is wait,” said Hamilton. “That is, assuming they decide to come this way at all.”
“Makes sense,” I replied.
It would be dark in about an hour. Hamilton drove the car behind some bushes where it wouldn’t be so conspicuous.
