Billingsgate Shoal (18 page)

1.Danny Murdock is warned that somebody is inquiring
around his boatyard about
Penelope
.
The person who warns him is his wife.

2. Murdock, alarmed, gets in touch with
Penelope's
owner, whoever he is.

3. Owner, also alarmed, instructs. Murdock to keep
mum, but to alert him if/when he ever sees or hears of me.

4. In the Schooner Race, after our initial encounter,
Murdock phones the owner, who tells him to stay put in the bar so
I'll stay there too, giving the owner, who could be the same nice
fellow with the blackjack and the flashlight, time to arrive either
in the bar or outside it, waiting for me to emerge.

5. Perhaps Murdock was to leave the Race, allowing me
to follow behind, perhaps not. In any event, the fight caused me to
remain in the joint long enough for Mr. X to arrive and arrange for
my disposal. He must have known my description. But that wouldn't be
hard: middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair, yellow jacket, thin,
with left hand in cast. I would be easy to pick out, especially from
a bunch of working fishermen, most of whom were young, Italian or
Portuguese, or both.

The second scenario made a lot more sense, but it
couldn't be pinned down for sure. No, the police could—would—say
that the bopping on the head was either a robbery mugging or a
revenge action from the brawl in the Schooner Race. Certainly Danny
Murdock, who did not follow me outside, had an airtight alibi.

"What about Chief Hannon, Charlie?"

"Let's wait for the Gloucester police to make
their preliminary inquiries and spread the word of my disappearance
far and wide. Then I'll see Brian and explain. Now I have taken out
grouse and pheasant, which should be almost defrosted. I'm hoping a
game dinner will speed my recovery, or at least improve my spirits.
And speaking of them, how about a double Tanqueray with a dash of
Boissiere on the rocks, with a curl of pungent lemon rind?"

"Oh Charlie, you've got a headache already."

"Yeah, but not for long," I said, making
for the side-board.
 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

FOUR DAYS dragged by, during which I smoked cigars,
read, listened to Bach and Vivaldi, and healed. I had a new cast put
on the wrist—not as big but still formidable. I began growing a
beard. As I healed, I spent a good deal of time with six big NOAA
charts spread out on the carpet at my feet. I puffed on my cigar and
stared at them. Placed roughly together, they formed sa jigsaw puzzle
that became the cocked arm that is Cape Cod. It is shaped like a
cocked arm, which joins the mainland at the shoulder. It is bent the
way Arnold Schwarzenegger bends his to make his baseball-sized biceps
pop. Only the arm is a skinny one. At the fist end—the end of the
Cape—is Provincetown. Wellfleet and Eastham are halfway down the
inside of the forearm, on the bay side. At the elbow is the town of
Chatham. Along the bicep side are the towns of the Brewsters, the
Dennises, the Yarmouths, the Barnstables, and the Sandwiches. On the
tricep side are Harwich Port, Dennis Port, and Hyannis. I studied the
Cape, then I studied a big map that showed everything from Block
Island Sound (the body of water to the north of Long Island) to Cape
Ann, where Gloucester was. What was going on?

What lay between Gloucester and Wellfleet, if
anything? I puffed and studied, studied and puffed. If I were
Sherlock Holmes, or had his talents, no doubt the problem would
become clearer. But that wasn't happening to Yours Truly; the problem
was getting murkier and more confusing. But I kept at it. . .
glancing over the charts and harbor approaches trying to get a hold
on . . .on something.

I also knew I had to explain myself to our police
chief, Brian Hannon. To explain to him why I wasn't really dead. I
knew this had to be done before it became town gossip. He scolded me
for twenty minutes. Then he notified the Gloucester' police about the
attempt on my life, and requested that my continued presence be kept
confidential for my own personal safety. This they solemnly agreed to
do, which pleased me. In addition, Brian promised a close watch on
the house, mostly at night.

Meantime, if the house was being watched—which we
and the police both doubted—I never left it or showed my face
around Concord Center. We called Jack and Tony and explained the
situation, urging caution and discretion. I added that I might be
needing their assistance in a week or so.

I got one unexpected call. Mary answered the phone,
as arranged, then handed it to me. It was Tom Costello.

"Pahdon me for calling, Doc; I didn't know you'd
been killed. Listen: I checked with Jim and he said it was all right
to talk to you if I kept my mouth shut."

"If you will greatly exaggerate the rumors of my
death you may call me anytime. What gives, thou mighty sage of the
ticker tape and prophet of the Big Board?"

"What gives is that my friend Jerry Klonski at
Kidder is in touch with some of Wheel-Lock's potential buyers. They
have examined the books and there's no suspicious cash flow, no
irregularities of any kind about the place. Just thought you'd like
to know."

"I do like to know. Thanks."

"And also, if you've got any more theories/about
the late Walter Kincaid, my advice is forget 'em. They almost got you
killed."

"Thanks for the tip."

"My pleasure, Doc. Stockbrokers are in the
advice business. I guess I can't help it. Let me know when you get
sprung from Purgatory."

He hung up.

Then a bombshell arrived from California—sent
whizzing in our direction by Sarah Hart, who was drawing her visit at
her sister's to a close, It was a manila envelope, and inside was the
following piece from the Los Angeles Times:

L0s Angeles Man Missing, Feared Dead
SPENARD, ALASKA-Nov. 10, 1978.

Mr. James Schilling, a Los Angeles area
businessman and sportsman, was reported missing Tuesday evening from
his hunting camp on the Kenai Peninsula near Ninilchik. Schilling's
guide, an Aleut Indian named Joshua J Teal, told his supervisor at
AL-AK Airways that his client failed to return to camp after setting
off along the coast in a small motorboat to look for brown bear. Teal
reported he found the boat awash in a small bay after a brief search.
Schilling's rifle and some personal gear were found in the water.
There was no sign of the hunter. Though it is possible that Schilling
could have been attacked and dragged off by an angry bear, Teal said
he thought it unlikely since the rifle had not been fired and there
was no sign of violence.

Mr. Schilling was employed by the Plee-Zing
Food Corporation of Costa Mesa as a regional manager. He resided in
Newport,Beach and leaves a A wife, Barbara, and two daughters.

The story sounded reasonable enough. It is not
usually printed in public reports because it is thought to be
embarrassing or in poor taste, but the primary cause of sportsmen
falling overboard from boats and drowning is urination. Almost all
the recovered victims are found to have their flies open. The
incidence is, steep during the summertime fishing season when men go
out not only to see how many fish they can catch, but how many beers
they can drink. No, were it not for one thing I could easily envision
Jim Schilling—with four or five beers. or a thermos of coffee
inside him—leaning over the gunwale relieving himself, perhaps
while under way. Then the boat yaws or hits a sudden chop or swell
and bingo, it's overboard into the icy Alaskan waters. And if you
happen to hit your noggin on the way down—something I was now an
expert on—the chances of your coming up again are about
fifty-fifty. But it was the "other thing" that as much as
told me the story was fabricated. It was the photo of James Schilling
that accompanied the article. It wasn't a good reproduction because
Sara had photocopied it. But it was good enough. I called Mary into
the sunporch.

"Look here, Toots. What do you think?"

She stared for four or five seconds before it hit
her.

"Charlie, it's him. It's him."

"Yep. It sure is. The beard helps, but it
doesn't hide enough."

"Well what's he doing here?"

She was referring of course to our mysterious
piratelike friend whom I had managed to photograph a few weeks
previously aboard the phantom vessel
Penelope
in Wellfleet Harbor. The man was James Schilling, presumed dead. The
man who hated Walter Kincaid. I decided that a good thing to do would
be to have a lengthy and frank discussion with Mary's brother,
Detective Lieutenant Joseph Brindelli. And was in the process of
thinking of calling Joe and moving toward the phone when it rang.
Mary answered it and handed it to me. .

"How are you, dead man? How would you like to
come over tonight and have too much to drink?" asked Jim
DeGroot.

We replied in the affirmative, with deep suspicions
that the invitation was offered chiefly because of my—skill—which
I wear modestly—in preparing fillets of striped bass. Still a
semi-recluse, I managed to slip into Mary's Audi and scoot down low
in the seat. In a few days I would abandon all attempts at remaining
invisible. Things in Gloucester would swing into their petty pace by
then. But for the nonce, I was incognito.

"Ohhhhh, poor baaaaa-by," cooed Janice
DeGroot as she planted a big one on my cheek and cocked a learned eye
at mine. "That's the biggest shiner I've seen in years, Doc.
Does it hurt?"

"Only when I laugh. I was informed by your
spouse over the wires that we have been invited to abuse alcohol.
Let's get down to it."

I found Jim in back lighting the grill. The fillets
were all set: slabs of milky white flesh the color of quartz that
would cook up to look like boiled egg whites and would flake off in
luscious chunks by merely pointing a fork at them. We greased up big
squares of heavy aluminum foil and placed a fillet on each. Then we
covered them with thin-sliced lemons and lots of butter. We covered
this with paprika, thin-sliced scallions, and some Old Bay seasoning,
then folded up the edges of the foil. Just before sealing the
packets, we poured a generous jigger of chablis over the whole thing
and added a sprinkling of finely-cut fresh chives. After ten minutes
over the coals the packets sent forth a merry bubbling sound, and I
poked several holes in each with a toothpick and watched the tiny
jets of steam rise from them. The aroma was made more delicious by
the two ounces of ice-cold gin that was wending its way through my
interior, cutting a wide swath of destruction. I could have eaten a
horse, and said so.

"Then how come you only weigh—what is it you
weigh, Doc?"

"One hundred seventy-four."

"Well how come?" asked Janice.

"I'll tell you how come," said Mary.
"Because he eats only what and when he likes. He has a light
breakfast and skips lunch, when he runs. He pigs it up at dinner. But
that's only once a day."

"All work should be put behind you by
dinnertime," I said. "There should be nothing but pleasant
things from six o'clock on. Music on the stereo. . . the chatter of
friends. . .laughter of children . . .evening twitter of birds, et
cetera. A cocktail or glass of wine. . .an easy chair. . .the aroma
of cooking food. In short, this experience; now. What the hell's a
wrong with you?"

Mary was wiping away a tear. She was thinking of Mr.
X, and the photograph of Jim Schilling. She didn't like any of it. We
talked all during dinner about what was going on, what it all meant.
It broke my rule of nothing but pleasant things after six, but there
was no escaping it. Jim and I agreed on how easy it would be for
Schilling to falsify his death, especially in a remote region of
Alaska. If he were willing to part with a $300 rifle—which he
was—the ruse would gain instant credibility. He could have either
bribed the guide or arranged another escape route. Both Jim and I
strongly suspected the latter strategy, since a bribed guide is
generally a poor liar, whereas a duped guide is an earnest witness.
It would have been simple for Schilling to arrange a clandestine
meeting with a pilot a few miles from the swamped boat. Three hours'
trudge would take them far enough away from the camp so the guide
would never hear the small, single-engined pontoon plane. . .

But why?

We agreed the most logical explanation was that he
wished to return to Massachusetts to seek revenge on his former
employer. But if this were true, hadn't he taken a long time to act?
What was he engaged in during the past year? It was all curiouser and
curiouser, but unfortunately no clearer. 

"Go to the police, Charlie," Jim said.

"No."

"Yes dammit!" screamed Mary. She was
crying, and hadn't eaten.

"OK," I said.

* * *

I wrote a letter to Chief Hannon summarizing the
events of the past two weeks. It was no masterpiece but it would
serve well enough to lay out what had been happening, both in my mind
and the real world. I sent a copy to Joe too. Either Chief Hannon
would be impressed, or he would think I was crazy.
 

CHAPTER TWELVE