A form darkened the hatchway. Bruce Farraday came up from below and greeted Stan. “The Commander’s in the engine room with Tolliver,” he said. “We’re all set. Where’s your friend LeRoy?”
“He’ll be here. Did your daughter and Mrs. Staunton decide to come along?”
“They’re in the lounge up forward. It’s rather warm below. Here’s LeRoy now.”
A step sounded on the dock, and the Captain was visible for an instant under one of the lights. A moment later he joined them. The Commander came on deck, and with a word of greeting, stepped up onto the control platform. “I’ll take her out, Mr. Farraday. We’re going out through the Safety Valve and I know every inch of the way. Is everyone aboard?”
Stan nodded. “Captain LeRoy and I will go ashore and cast off. Come on Vince!”
“We’re towing a tender,” Dawson warned. “You better make sure that it’s clear of the dock.”
“I’ll watch it,” Stan promised.
He cast off the stern line, and watched Farraday haul it aboard, thinking how hard people will work—when they call the work play. A splash at the bow told him that the Swainpfire was freed of her moorings. With a boathook he pushed the small tender out from the dock, and went back on board. LeRoy followed, picking up the small gangplank behind him.
“All clear!” Stan told Dawson.
From below came the soft jingle of a bell. The Swamp-fire trembled slightly as the propellers churned water, and pushed her slim prow out beyond the slip. Brickell Point dropped behind. Dawson pulled a signal handle, jangling another bell. Twin waves swished at the bow. He put the wheel to starboard, and the bulk of Burlingame Island slid by on their right as they headed southward down Biscayne Bay toward the open sea.
Stan and LeRoy stood side by side watching the receding lights of the city. Already the Swampfire was lifting slightly to a swell—a portent not lost on Miles Standish Rice. “I’m afraid I was a trifle optimistic about the weather, Vince. It’s no duck pond outside right now. If the wind comes up—well, I hope this million dollars’ worth of mahogany was built to take a dusting.”
A light hand touched Stan’s arm. Lydia Staunton was standing beside him. “I’d like a chance to talk with you, Mr. Rice. There’s no one in the forward lounge. Do you mind, Captain LeRoy?”
“Not at all.” The Captain graciously released Stan, and started aft to the main cabin. But in the cockpit he stopped and spoke to the Commander, governed by a quick intuitiveness that Dawson’s intentness on steering was caused by worry.
“It must be the devil to handle a boat like this in the dark,” he said in friendly fashion. “How do you know where you’re going?”
Dawson laughed softly, but kept his eyes straight ahead. “It’s a cinch—if you can read a chart and have one. The flashers are just like street signs—better even. As soon as you pass one you’re in sight of another. Of course at sea you have to follow a course. That’s a different type of navigation.”
“You think it’s going to be rough?”
“I think we’re going to ride some nice ones off the Fowey Rocks Light. It may stir the women up a bit, but Farraday says they have been through plenty of rough weather on this boat. How many are on board?”
“Just the two women. I wasn’t keen about them coming—”
Dawson looked up from the compass, erratic shadows forming a pattern on his strong face and slightly gray hair. “How many people was what I meant.”
“Seven—including the women,” the Captain informed him after brief figuring. Then, wonderingly, he asked: “Why?”
The Commander beckoned him closer. “I’ve spent thirty years in the Navy, Captain LeRoy. Much of that time was on boats—at night. How much I don’t know. I’m telling you this because there is not a great gulf between the Navy and the Police. Your years of service have taught you, I’m sure, that neither the sailor nor the policeman dares disregard a feeling that something is amiss.”
The Swampfire was feeling the first long roll of the breakers carried over into the bay. LeRoy steadied himself against a stanchion, supporting the awning, and gazed ahead into the blackness. The protecting glass shield, in front of Dawson, was filmed with moisture. Tiny puffs of wind, dank and chill, touched his face like groping fingers searching out of the warmer air.
“You think we better turn back?” His question was firm, without a trace of disquietude.
The Commander shook his head. “I’m afraid that you think as I do—that I’m a timid old sailor—too long away from the sea. I’ll let you be the judge, Captain LeRoy. There is a drum searchlight on this cruiser. It throws a beam two miles in length. I tested it when I came on board shortly after ten. There is the switch which controls it. Watch!” He flipped a panel switch at the side of the wheel. The blackness ahead remained unbroken. From the north came the throaty vibration of a freighter’s deep whistle.
“It doesn’t work!” The Captain angrily fought down a sudden dread.
“The wires are cut along the edge of the forward cabin—and two feet of them have been removed. I locked the wheel and traced them not five minutes before you left Mr. Rice and joined me here. Suppose we ask Mr. Farraday to take the wheel while you and I search this boat together. We better move quickly.”
“You think other damage might have been done?”
“That we’ll
