Billingsgate Shoal (12 page)

She slapped her hands down on her thighs, as if to
say: That's that. She was crying silently. The lady who had
everything had nothing. I had seen that so often among the rich.
Laura Kincaid certainly wasn't alone, although that could hardly have
been a comfort to her as she sat in the plush chair blinking away the
tears.

"I'm sorry," I said, and patted her
shoulder.

"Oh hell!" she cried, jumping up and wiping
her eyes.

"I'm not crying because I'm hurt or because I'm
sad, I'm crying because it's so goddamn empty and boring."

"I know. Listen, you should get away. Take a
trip somewhere. What's your favorite country?"

"Italy."

"Then go."

She sighed, and agreed that maybe I was right.

"Laura, I want to ask you one more question,
please. If we for a second assume that your husband's death or
disappearance was not accidental, can you tell me if there is anyone
who'd want him dead?"

She thought for thirty or forty seconds—longer than
I expected her to—before answering that she didn't think so.

As we were leaving the study, I noticed a photograph
on the wall near the door. I had walked past it upon entering. It was
an aerial view of an island. Next to it was a drawing of a cutaway
view of what looked like a mine shaft. I squinted at the drawing. At
various places along the shaft (which was  vertical) were
penciled-in remarks: "100 feet, stone tablet with inscription.
120 feet, oaken platform. 150 feet, rock layer," etc.

"What's this?"

"That is the great treasure at Oak Island, Nova
Scotia."

"Oh yes, I've heard of it. Isn't the greatest
treasure of all time buried there?"

"Yes, they think so. But so far, they can't get
it out. Every year people die trying. Walter was convinced that the
Capes held a similar treasure, and he eventually became obsessed with
finding it. Why don't you join me for a drink on the porch, and I'll
tell you about it."

I declined the drink but accepted the invitation.

We sat in the wide screened porch for twenty more
minutes. I gazed out over the vast expanse of green. The interior was
festooned with lush hanging plants. Laura Kincaid spoke a little more
about her husband's obsession with golden pirate treasure;

"But he never really found it? The big haul?"

"Nope. He never did. But he sure enjoyed himself
looking for it."

'
And you say the
Windhover
was equipped with all kinds of electronic gear to help him locate
it?"

"Oh God yes. Everything that a yachtsman could
buy and install, he did. That boat could find her way in and out of a
hurricane probably. That's the reason he selected an old trawler too;
he claimed the hull was more seaworthy. And now let me ask you some
questions."

"Fine."

"What happened to your hand?"

"A kid hit me with his moped and broke it. One
of the reasons I have time on my hands is because of it. Should be OK
in a few weeks though."

"Second question: why did you come here? What do
you I think happened to my husband?"

"Well. I don't know. For a while I suspected he
was still alive. But after this visit I'm pretty convinced that your
suspicion is true. A boat that strikes a ledge—especially at
speed—goes down like a brick. If that happened, he wouldn't have
had time to call for help."

"You mentioned another boat you saw. What was
its name?"

' '
Penelope
.' '

She sighed a slow, deliberate, and irritable sigh. "I
don't know how many draggers there are on Cape Cod or in New England,
but there must be quite a few. I'm sure some of them look alike. They
all look alike to me. I think it's strange though, that you're so
interested."

"A young man, a friend of the family's, was
killed near the boat. I guess I'm a bit more than curious."

She stared at me, tight lipped, for several seconds.
Then she lowered her head and grabbed her hands together.

"I don't feel well. I'm afraid there's nothing
more I can tell you."

I thanked her and left. I went back out through the
tall gates and over to the car.

Laura Kincaid certainly matched the background Joe
had given me. Rich, well bred, and frank, she had given me much more
information about Kincaid and the
Windhover
than I'd had a right to expect. Her explanations laid to rest any
doubts I had about the Kincaid family. If there was anything amiss
with the boat
Penelope
,
it had nothing to do with
Windhover
;
their similarities were coincidental and considering the basic design
of the coastal bay trawler, not even noteworthy. And also, none of
the men I had glimpsed aboard the green boat looked even remotely
like the man in the study photographs. So much for that.

I started the engine and checked the side-view
mirror. Then the rear-view. There was a car parked about a hundred
feet behind me with a pair of big feet sticking out from underneath.
I purred down Rudderman's Lane and headed for home. Mary was annoyed
that I was late, and said she was getting a wee bit tired of my going
around to these widows and comforting them. I mixed her a soothing
bourbon and soda and we retired to the porch, where I told her the
story of Oak Island that Laura had told me.

"What do you think's down there?" asked
Mary.

"There are various theories. One: the Holy Grail
is buried there. No doubt Billy Graham and Oral Roberts believe this.
Two; the treasure of Charlemagne and the Frankish kings is buried
there. Who knows? All I know is that New England was a pirate
hideout. I never knew that before."

"Time to eat, Charlie. Flounder fillets with
lobster sauce."

"Oh honey, you should have."

But during the meal I stopped eating twice.

"What's wrong?"

"This goddamn boat thing is like a boomerang.
Every time I throw it away it comes back at me again. Take today for
instance. Laura Kincaid's explanation for everything made so much
sense. I was convinced that following the Kincaid boat was senseless.
But now two things are bugging me. They're not big things mind you,
but they're enough to keep the old curved stick winging back in my
direction—"

"Well what `things?"

"One: how many people on Old Stone Mill Road
have you ever seen working under their cars on the street?"

She thought a minute.

"I've never seen anyone working on their cars
here."

"Right. And there are two good reasons why. One:
people who live on our road are rich enough to hire mechanics to work
on their cars. Two: if by chance some car buff in this neighborhood
did want to fiddle with his engine, where would he do it?"

"In his garage or the driveway."

"Exactly. And if this road is well-to-do,
Rudderman's Lane is two or three times that. Yet today I saw a guy
working on his car in the street there. Doesn't make sense. Like so
many events and things of the past week, it just doesn't fit."

"What's the other thing?"

"Laura Kincaid's maid."

"Oh it's Laura now is it? My, my, Charlie, you
do get acquainted with the women fast don't you?"

"C'mon. Anyway, the maid opened the door while
we were in the back yard. That's a little strange I guess. But then
Laura said she was retrieving a coat. A coat? It's late summer. Why
would a maid leave an overcoat, much less want one, now?"

"Who knows? Eat your fish."

So I returned to the meal and had thrown away the
damn worry stick again when the phone rang. It was Joe:

"You know that name you asked me to check on?
Wallace Kinchloe?"

"Yeah."

"Uh, born in Danbury, Connecticut. . . lived in
Cohasset?"

"Right. Ah, so you found him. Does he own a
boat?"

"Uh, couldn't find that out. . ."

"Oh. Well where can I reach him then?"

"Can't"

"Well why not?"

"Because he's dead. He died in Boise, Idaho, a
year ago."

"Oh," I said, and watched the damn stick
turn and come back, flickering bigger and bigger.
 

CHAPTER SEVEN

NEXT DAY I went to visit the Wheel-Lock Corporation
in Melrose. It was unseasonably cool so I went dressed with
turtleneck, khaki pants, old Harris tweed herringbone sportcoat with
leather patches on the elbows, an Irish tweed hat, and rough-out
Wallabee shoes. I was smoking a Barling pipe. I was so goddamn
literary I looked like I just walked off a dust jacket. I went in and
told the receptionist I was starting a small biweekly rag in Concord,
and for the first issue wanted to sink my teeth into a really "super"
human interest story.

As she went to fetch one of the senior secretaries, I
looked around. Wheel-Lock had its own building, all done up nice in
fieldstone, rough cast brick and smoked glass. The building was
small, and connected to the factory in back. The rough cast brick was
a mixture of buff tan and cool gray. The carpeting was a rich
chocolate brown with flecks of tan and gray. Abstract oil paintings
in bright colors adorned the walls. The place had a rich but muted
look. It was not gaudy or glittery, and I thought back to the Kincaid
residence at 11 Rudderman's Lane. I had to admit the old boy had
excellent taste. I found myself liking him—wishing somehow I could
have met him.

On a low table was a pamphlet describing the
Wheel-Lock Corporation and its products. On the wall was a copy of an
old blueprint of the basic mechanism of the lock and the U.S. Patent
number. Inside the lock housing was a round wheel that resembled a
cipher rotor. Somehow this device interacted with a bank of
electrical circuitry, then reconnected with a fancy geared mechanism
that drove a thick bolt of steel. In a glass display case were some
recent models of the locks. They were considerably smaller, the
result no doubt of solid-state circuitry. The locks were impressive,
with thick case-hardened steel and brass and nickel fittings. I
strolled around the lobby and saw photographs of various locks being
installed. One was on a bank door in Kansas. Another was at some army
base. There was a framed copy of the army government contract next to
the picture. Though they obviously came in all shapes and sizes I
gathered that the Wheel-Lock was basically a super version of the
combination lock. It seemed a better mousetrap, and Walter Kincaid
had reaped a fortune from it.

"Yes, may I help you?" said the prim
fortyish lady with wide goggle glasses and a Diane Von Furstenberg
dress. I explained my mission, and she seated us in the corner on an
L-shaped couch with a massive cultured marble table. Above us was a
gigantic Japanese lantern four feet in diameter, a sphere of paper
and wire that was elegant in its simplicity. "Now Mr. Adams,
you're doing a story on Mr. Kincaid for which newspaper?"

"Uh, I know you'll think it's corny, but I've
named it the Colonial Gazette, if you can believe it."

She looked at me quizzically. Obviously, I looked
increasingly less and less literary to her.

"I...see..."

"Excuse me, may I have your name please? I'll
mention you in the article."

"Mmm. Mrs. Haskell. Doris Haskell., It doesn't
matter if you mention me or not. Also, the papers have given very
thorough coverage to Mr. Kincaid's—"

"Oh I know, Mrs. Haskell, but I don't want that
stuff in the Gazette. The idea is to give a lot of personal
background. . .you know, how he founded the company. . .perhaps some
of the rough times early on. . . that sort of thing."

"Oh I can give you a pamphlet that will tell
about Wheel-Lock's early days—"

"I'd appreciate it. But isn't there anything
else you can tell me about? Something that's not written down
anywhere? I mean you know as well as I do that the really interesting
stuff—the personal, human interest stuff—is never 'official'
information."

"If you are asking me to reveal some dirt or
gossip about Mr. Kincaid, or some skeleton in his closet, you are out
of luck on two counts, Mr. Adams. First of all, there is no
information of this kind—at least that I know of, and I have worked
here twelve years—Mr. Kincaid was a very upright man. Second, even
if I knew of rumors about him I would, for obvious reasons, never
divulge them."

"Oh no, I wouldn't expect you to. I'm not after
that kind of scandal-sheet stuff. Tell me, is there anyone you know
of who would want to kill Walter Kincaid?"

She was clearly taken back by the suggestion.

"What? I cannot imagine anyone who would be less
a candidate for murder."

"So you knew him well?"

"As well as any of the older staff. You think
he's been killed?"

"Not sure. Do you think he's alive?"

She sighed a bit and looked down at her hands.