Aground (2 page)

“Who?”

“His name’s Fredric Hollister, and he’s president of Hollister-Dykes Laboratories, Inc., of Cleveland, Ohio. They manufacture ethical drugs. He’s at the Eden Roc Hotel; go ahead and call him.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this in the first place?” Schmidt demanded.

“Partly, I suppose, because it was none of your damned business,” he said. “But principally because he didn’t want it known the buyer was a corporation until after the deal was set, because of the effect it might have on the price. I was to select the boat, subject to his final approval, and then take over as captain. We’d pretty well settled on the
Dragoon
after I gave him the report on it Sunday night, but decided to wait till I’d looked at the others in Tampa and Nassau before we committed ourselves. I’m supposed to call him this afternoon.”

Schmidt nodded. “Can I use your phone?”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

The detective picked it up. “Get me the Eden Roc Hotel, in Miami Beach,” he said, and waited. The room was silent except for the faint humming of the air-conditioner. “Mr. Fredric Hollister, please . . . Oh? . . . Are you sure? . . . And when was this?”

Ingram stared at his face, conscious of a very cold feeling that was beginning to spread through his stomach. Schmidt hung up, and snapped, “Get your clothes on, fella.”

“What is it?”

“Hollister checked out of the Eden Roc a week ago. On Monday night.”

2

His leg hurt. He’d smoked the two cigars he had, and the cigarettes they gave him tasted like hay. They sent out for coffee. Quinn and Schmidt questioned him, moving like cats around the table where he was seated, and then Schmidt was gone and there was another man, named Brenner. There was one window in the bleak interrogation room, covered with heavy screen, but from where he sat he could see nothing but the sky. He thought it was still raining. It didn’t seem to matter. Quinn went out, and came back shepherding an old man with dirty white whiskers and sharp black eyes, an old man who clutched a comic book in one hand and a crumpled and strangely bottle-shaped paper bag in the other and pointed dramatically from the doorway like some ham in an amateur production of
Medea
or
King Lear,
and cackled, “That’s him! That’s him!” It was the watchman, the old shrimper who’d lived aboard the
Dragoon.

“Hello, Tango,” Ingram said wearily, to which Tango made no reply other than to heighten the fine theatrical aspect of this confrontation by leaning further into his point and belching. “Ain’t nobody’d ever forget a big flat face like that,” he announced triumphantly, and was gone, presumably back to the bottle. The identification seemed rather pointless, since he admitted being aboard the
Dragoon,
but maybe it was something technical about preparing the case.

Schmidt came back, and Brenner left. Schmidt leaned on the other end of the table with an unlighted cigarette in his mouth, and said, “All right, let’s try again. Who’s Hollister?”

“All I know is what he told me,” Ingram replied.

“We just heard from Cleveland. There is no such outfit as Hollister-Dykes Laboratories—if that’s news to anybody. And he paid his hotel bill with a rubber check. How long have you known him?”

“I didn’t know him at all. I met him just twice.”

“How did you meet him?”

“I told you. He called me at the La Perla Hotel.”

“When?”

“A week ago last Saturday. He said he had a proposition that might interest me, and asked if I’d come over to Miami Beach and see him.”

“He just pulled your name out of a hat, is that it?”

“No. He said I’d been recommended to him by a couple of yacht brokers.”

“He mention any names?”

“No. It didn’t occur to me to ask, at the time. But there are any number of people around the Miami water front who could have told him about me. I’ve been in and out of here for years. Anyway, he seemed to know all about me, and wanted to know if I’d had any luck in finding a boat. I told him no.”

“This was over the phone?”

“Yes.”

“So you met him at the Eden Roc?”

“That’s right. In his suite, about two p.m. Saturday. He explained who he was, and gave me a rundown on the deal he had in mind. The company wanted an auxiliary ketch or schooner, seventy feet or longer, one that would accommodate eight guests in addition to the crew. It would operate out of Miami, and be used for conferences and company entertainment, that sort of thing—deductible as a business expense, of course. I was to get five hundred and fifty a month as skipper, and during periods when nobody from the company was using it I could operate it as a charter boat on a commission basis. I wasn’t crazy about the idea, because I’d rather work for myself, but I was in no position to be choosy. We didn’t have the boatyard fully insured, and three-quarters of it belonged to Barney’s widow, anyway, so by the time I’d settled my hospital and doctor bills I had less than thirteen thousand left. Any kind of boat I could use at all would run twenty-five thousand, and I just didn’t have enough cash to talk to anybody. So I told him I’d take it.

“He had a list of five boats the company had been considering. The
Dragoon
in Key West,
Susannah
in Tampa, and three over in Nassau. He suggested I look at the
Dragoon
first, since it seemed to be the most promising. I went down to Key West Sunday morning, spent all afternoon on it, and flew back that night. I called Hollister, and he asked me to come on over and give him the report. I met him in his suite again, and we spent about two hours going over all the dope I had on it—sketches of the interior layout, inside dimensions, estimates on minor repairs, condition of the auxiliary engine, rigging, sails, and so on. The boat had been kept up, in spite of the fact it hadn’t been used for a long time. He liked it. I told him that of course any offer we made would be subject to her passing survey. You don’t buy a boat just on preliminary inspection. He suggested we hold off final decision until I’d looked at the others, but that if I still liked the
Dragoon
we’d get in touch with Mrs. Osborne and try forty-five thousand dollars. I left for Tampa Monday morning, and then went on from there to Nassau on Wednesday.”

“He didn’t say anything about calling him from Tampa with a report on the
Susannah?”

Ingram’s face hardened. “No. In fact, he said he’d probably be in West Palm Beach the next few days at a house party, and just to wait till I got back from Nassau.”

Quinn came around in front of him and leaned on the table. “That’s a great story. I love it. It covers you from every angle except being a chump, and there’s no law against that.”

“I can’t help it. That’s exactly the way it happened.”

“Then you just swallowed all this whole?” Schmidt asked. “It never occurred to you to question it?”

“Why should it?” Ingram demanded. “His story made sense. Corporation-owned boats are nothing new. He had all the props. He was living in a suite on the ocean side, with a sundeck. He gave me his card. It said he was Fredric Hollister, president of Hollister-Dykes Laboratories. When I was there the first day, he got a long-distance call from the home office in Cleveland—”

Schmidt gestured pityingly. “From some joker on a house phone in the lobby.”

“Sure, I suppose it’s an old gag, if you’re looking for it. But why should I? And don’t forget, he fooled the hotel too.”

“I know,” Schmidt said. “And to do that, he’d have to have more than a business card. He’s beginning to smell like a real con artist to me. But that’s the stupid part of it—what the hell would a con man want to steal a boat for?”

“You tell me,” Ingram said. “He can’t sell it. And he can’t even leave the country in it without papers.”

“Who paid your expenses while you were looking at all these boats?”

“Apparently I did. He gave me a check for two hundred dollars and said if they ran over that to keep a record and I’d be reimbursed. That’s the reason I kept all those receipts.”

“Where’s the check?”

“I couldn’t cash it before I left, because it was the week end, but I had enough cash of my own to carry me, so I mailed it in to the bank from Tampa. On Tuesday afternoon, I think.” He tossed his checkbook over in front of Schmidt. “The deposit’s entered on my stubs.”

Schmidt looked at it, and nodded to Quinn. Quinn went out.

“Can you describe him?” Schmidt asked.

“He was in his late thirties, I’d say. Close to six feet. On the slim side, but big-boned and rangy and sunburned, with big hands. A tennis type. Blue eyes, as I recall. Butch-cut hair. I’m not sure, but I think it was sandy, maybe with a little gray in it. Lot of personality and drive—one of those guys with the bone-crushing grip and the big grin.”

“You didn’t notice what kind of watch he was wearing?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. It was an oversized thing with a lot of gingerbread on it. Chronograph, I think they call it. You know, little windows with the day of the month and day of the week, and a sweep second hand.”

Schmidt removed a watch from the pocket of his coat and set it on the table. “Like this?”

Ingram glanced at it in surprise. “Yes. That looks just like it. Same type of filigree gold case, and everything. Where’d you get it?”

Schmidt lighted the cigarette he had stuck in the side of his mouth. “It was picked up at sea.”

Ingram stared. “How’s that again?”

“Couple of men in a fishing boat brought it in. The
Dorado
—one of those fifty-thousand-dollar deals you use for marlin—”

“Sport fisherman.”

“Yeah. Anyway, they were bringing this
Dorado
back to Miami from the Virgin Islands. And yesterday afternoon a little before sunset they sighted a rowboat—a dinghy, I think you call it. Nobody in it; just drifting around in the ocean by itself. They went over and picked it up. There was an outboard motor clamped on the back, and some man’s clothes in the bottom—sneakers and a pair of dungarees and a shirt. The watch was in one of the pockets of the dungarees. They got into Miami early this morning and turned the whole thing over to the Coast Guard. The Coast Guard figured there might be a chance it was the
Dragoon’s,
and called us. We went out and got a description, and called Mrs. Osborne to see if she could identify it. She wasn’t sure—she’s not too familiar with the
Dragoon
—but Quinn brought old Tango up from Key West, and he identified it.”

“Where did they pick it up?” Ingram asked.

“South of here somewhere. The Coast Guard told me, but I’m no navigator.”

Schmidt went out, leaving him in the custody of a uniformed patrolman who chewed a pencil stub and scowled at a crossword puzzle. When he returned, some ten minutes later, Quinn was with him.

“We’re not going to hold you,” Schmidt said curtly. “But before you go, we want you to look at some pictures.”

Ingram sighed with relief. “Then you located my letter to Mrs. Osborne?”

“Yes. She called her maid at home. The letter apparently came this morning after she’d left for Miami. The maid read it to her, and it checks with what you told us. We also got hold of one of the officers working late at the bank, and he dug out that check Hollister gave you. It was the same phony account he stabbed the hotel with. It bounced, of course, but they hadn’t got the notice out to you yet.”

“Then you’re convinced?”

“Let’s put it this way—you helped steal that boat, but there’s no proof you did it with intent. I don’t know whether you were just a sucker, or smart enough to make yourself look like one, but either way we can’t hold you.”

“You die hard, don’t you?”

“You learn to, in this business.” Schmidt jerked his head. “Let’s go see if you can pick Hollister out of some mug shots.”

They went downstairs to another room that was harshly lighted and hot. The two detectives sat watching while he scanned hundreds of photographs—hopefully, and then with increasing anger as the hope faded—trying to find the man who’d called himself Hollister. He knew he was still suspect, and failure to turn up Hollister’s picture would certainly do nothing to lessen their suspicion. There was anger at himself for having been taken in, and a burning desire to get his hands on the man who’d done it.

“I think this is a waste of time,” Quinn said, after an hour.

“Haven’t you got any more?” he asked.

“No. That’ll do.” There was curt dismissal in the tone.

Ingram stood up. “Where is Mrs. Osborne staying?”

“I don’t think I’d bother Mrs. Osborne, under the circumstances,” Schmidt said. “That might have been the last fifty-thousand-dollar yacht she had.”

“What about the
Dorado?
Do you know where she’s tied up?”

“No. And what difference does it make?”

“I want to find out where they picked up that dinghy.’

“Why?”

“Just say I’m curious. There’s something damned funny about it.”

“You were never more right,” Quinn said coldly. “So why don’t you just get out while you’re ahead?”

* * *

When he emerged on the street the rain had stopped and it was dusk. Neon flamed hotly beneath the darkening blue bowl of the sky, and tires hissed on wet pavement in the ceaseless river of traffic. He walked back to the hotel, feeling his shirt stick to his back with perspiration. The desk clerk looked up with a nervous smile. “Uh—I hope everything’s all right.”

“Yes,” he said.

“I hope you don’t think—I mean, there wasn’t anything I could do. They told me to call them if you checked back in—”

“It’s all right. The key, please.”

“Yes,
sir.”
The clerk whirled and snatched it from the pigeonhole. There was a slip of paper with it. “Oh. You had a phone call. It was about a half hour ago.”

Ingram read the scribbled message.
Call Mrs. Osborne. Columbus Hotel.

That was strange. But maybe she wanted to unburden herself of a few remarks on the subject of meat-heads who helped steal her boat. Probably an imperious old dowager with a voice like a Western Ocean bosun. Well, he intended to call her, but she could wait a few minutes; right now the important thing was to find the
Dorado
before her crew left for the night. The chances were that he was too late already. He strode to the telephone booth in the corner of the lobby, looked up the number of the Coast Guard base, and was just starting to dial when someone rapped on the glass panel of the door. It was the clerk.

He pushed it open. “Yes?”

“She’s on the line now, sir. She just called back. You can take it on the house phone.”

“Oh.” He retrieved his dime and walked over to the desk. He might as well get it over with. The clerk patched him through on the small switchboard and disappeared into his room in back.

“Hello,” he said. “Ingram speaking.”

“This is Mrs. Osborne.” The voice was rather husky, and sounded much younger than he’d expected. “Would you come over to the Columbus right away? There is something very important I’d like to discuss with you.”

“What?” he asked.

“Just say that it has to do with the
Dragoon,
and that it’s quite urgent. I think you could help me.”

This appeared to make very little sense, but he realized asking questions would only waste more time. “All right,” he said, “I’ll be there as soon as I can make it. But first I want to try to get hold of the captain of the
Dorado—”