Billingsgate Shoal (6 page)

"Exactly, sir. Thank you."

"Fine. So my job now is to contact these New
England skippers who own boats called Penelope and find out."

"What? Find out what?"

"Find out if they laid eyes on the kid, who
drowned in the harbor day before last. He was a friend of mine."

"Why do you think they would have seen him?"

"Because I sent him out to look at the Penelope,
and I don't like myself much for having done so. I think I might have
been indirectly responsible for his death."

"Wow. No wonder you feel so bad. Who wouldn't?"

Just exactly what I wanted to hear. It made my day.

I left the tiny office with the names of the seven
local boats carrying the name Penelope. According to McNab we
couldn't find the name because the boat was new, was a noncommercial
boat, or there was a foul-up with the port listings. The third
possibility seemed the least likely to me since none of the vessels
listed matched the green trawler's dimensions. To me the most likely
explanation was a new boat and an inexperienced skipper. That would
also explain the damaged hull—no doubt caused by faulty
navigation—and the grounding on Billingsgate.

And then—I thought of poor Sarah Hart, alone now. I
still had to go pay my respects. I wasn't relishing the task, and
maybe that's one reason I wasn't paying attention as I headed back to
the car.

It happened as I was leaving the path and entering
the big parking lot at the top of the beach. Even now as I think
about that instant I am wracked with pain. I was walking out between
two cars (not the brightest thing to do, I'll admit when a kid on a
moped hit me. More specifically, he hit my wrist. He crushed my poor
wrist between the tail fin of an aging Cadillac, Eldorado and his
handle bar, which was traveling at a nice clip.

I don't remember the instant of impact because I went
into semiconsciouness during it or shortly afterward. I awoke to see
some pendulous breasts in a scanty halter swaying over me. It
probably would have been a great view under other circumstances. The
spectators ohhhed and ahhhed at me. I rose into a sitting position
and looked at my hand. The back was gashed open and bleeding; it
looked like a slab of barbequed pork. That would heal in a few days
without difficulty. It was when I tried to move the fingers that the
pain got interesting. It was the deep-down, systemic pain—the kind
you feel go up the very center of your arm into your I brain—that
told me it was serious. The damage was not of the muscles or
ligaments. Bones were broken. Of this I was certain as I tried to
close my hand. The Cadillac's tail fin was badly dented. Old
Knucklebrain on the moped had dealt both me and the car a good one.
Except the car couldn't feel it. I moaned and was helped to my feet.
Soon thereafter I came face to face with my accidental assailant,
who'd also been injured—in a regrettably minor fashion—as he
tumbled to the parking lot concrete after maiming me. His name turned
out I to be Jeremy Knobbs. Now is it any wonder that a guy so cursed
in nomenclature would run down innocent pedestrians in parking lots?

I was in frankly awful pain, but refused assistance,
not out of stoicism, but because I wanted to get home to Mary fast.
She is a registered nurse. I wanted Mary. I wanted to cuddle my head
into that deep Calabrian bosom and get sympathy. I wanted her to kiss
me and say it was going to be all right.

* * *

"It looks pretty bad, Charlie," she said
after looking at the left mitt for about four seconds. "This
hurt?"

I let out a scream like the charging bull elephant in
the movie Ivory Hunters. Then I picked myself off the floor and wiped
the thick rope of saliva from my mouth.

"Hu1t, huh? You've broken at least one bone,
maybe more. Let's get back to Concord, now. I'll pack the arm in ice;
then put on a sling—"

Don't remember much about the ride back to Concord.
Two hours after entering Emerson Hospital's emergency room, Dr. Bryce
Henshaw, noted orthopedic surgeon whom I'd never heard of (but was on
call that night), was troweling a thick coat of plaster over the left
wrist, now immobilized by la metal brace and insensitized by a big
jolt of procaine. Colleagues and associates who know us stopped by to
offer condolences. Didn't seem to help. Went home. Big drink. Felt
better.

Next morning I got a call from Jeremy Knobbs's
father. His name was Jeremy too. It figured. It wasn't a good way to
begin the day. I was quick to realize that I could not ply my trade
as oral surgeon with one arm in a cast, and stood to lose a lot of
dough. I was not overly fond of Jeremy Knobbs after what he'd done to
me. After arranging with the senior Knobbs to speak with various
attorneys and insurance personnel, I rang off and sulked.

"Mary, I'm going down to the library and check
out a book before I meet with Jeremy Knobbs. I want to do a little
research so I'll know exactly how to handle this."

"That's a good idea. What's the name of the
book?"

"
Ancient Assyrian
Tortures
."

"Oh Charlie, get off it. It was an accident.
Also, you weren't looking where you were going, you admitted that."

I rubbed my new cast and groaned. "If the kid
had had any sense at all he wouldn't have been flying through that
lot. It was an accident but it was his fault."

"You're not really going to get a book on
tortures are you? Why are you going to the library really?"

"I'm going to get some fiction. God knows I'll
have plenty of time on my hands—er, my hand—now that I'm
unemployed. And I was thinking of researching tortures, if for no
other reason than to soothe my troubled spirit."

"Speaking of tortures, I once heard that
crucifixion was the worst ever."

"I've considered crucifixion for young Jeremy
Knobbs. But I rejected it."

"On religious grounds?"

"Nah. Too swift."
 

CHAPTER FOUR

I PICKED UP the phone.

I was in a better frame of mind. Slightly. My
insurance, for which I pay a small fortune, would adequately cover
lost revenues caused by the injury. Additionally, I was pleased to
discover that the policy—especially designed for surgeons—also
provided for a sizeable cash settlement for any incapacitating injury
to the hands, regardless of prognosis of recovery.

So I had eight weeks of paid vacation until my wrist
mended which would happen, I was assured—and enough cash to pay for
the
Ella Hatton
, which
we'd bought earlier in the spring. I could grasp with my left hand
slightly, despite the cast.

Still, I was in pain and irritated at my forced
idleness. Young Jeremy was fortunate indeed to have escaped my wrath.
I dialed the number given to me by directory assistance. It rang
twice and a woman answered. I asked for Mr. Babcock.

"Mr. Babcock? Is this Mr. Jack Babcock of
Newport?"

"Yeah it's me. Who's this?"

"Mr. Babcock, I'd like to buy your boat."

"Who is this?"

"Name is Adams, Charles Adams. Do you own a
boat, sir?"

"Yes but she's not for sale. That is. . .uh. .
.unless you'd like to talk about it, I guess."

Obviously business was booming for Babcock, as it was
for almost all independent fishermen in New England. No doubt five
grand down and a promissory note and I could become a skipper
tomorrow, and Babcock could get another job with a bright financial
future, like dispensing detergent in the local Laundromat.

"Didn't I see your boat up in Wellfleet the
other day?"

"Nope. Never been up there. I'm out of Newport."

"Oh. What's your vessel's name, may I ask?"

"She's the
Penelope
.
Hate the name. Wife's dear—"

"Uh. . .I must have it confused with another—can
you quickly describe the boat please? Then I'll leave you alone."

"Sure. Sixty-two feet, white with red gunnels.
Built in Gulfport, Mississippi, six years ago. Twin Cummins diesels—"

"Oh sorry, you know I made a mistake. It must
have been another Penelope I saw."

"She's a beaut, no foolin'. Besides the engines
she's got loran and radar. Long-range VHF radio. Four berths. I could
transfer the mortgage and—"

I called the other six in the course of the day. Four
times I spoke with the wife since the owner was out fishing. The only
two vessels that could possibly match the boat I saw in Wellfleet
were far away; one in Bath, Maine, the other in Elizabethtown on
Martha's Vineyard. I was impressed by the statistics I had copied
from Merchant Vessels too; the descriptions offered by the skippers
and their wives matched the figures in the book very closely.

Next I called the Massachusetts Boat Registry. It
didn't take more than a few seconds to discover there was no boat of
Penelope's
description
registered in the state. There was a sailboat named Penelope out of
Rockport. That was it. So much for that.

Since it was late, I decided to check the USCG
Regional HQ next morning. I went in person. Driving Mary's Audi with
my cast was easy since there was no gearshift to contend with. I
parked in the lot behind the Boston Garden, walked by North Station,
through the Garden, and found myself on Causeway Street. It's a
typical Boston street: dirty, noisy, crowded and charming. The Green
Line trolley tracks run over it, just like the way the El tracks
cover Wabash Street in Chicago. I heard the rattle of the trolley and
the cooing of millions of pigeons. It seems you never see baby
pigeons or pigeon nests, and you hardly ever come across a dead one
either. They must spring up spontaneously from breadcrumbs or
something and disappear into thin air when they kick the bucket.

I entered the big headquarters building. On the
fourth floor I found Lieutenant Commander James Ruggles. To my
surprise, he had
Penelope's
documentation certificate in front of me in less than ten minutes.
Well, it seemed to wrap up the little puzzle. I asked Ruggles if he
could give me the owner's name and address so I could contact him. He
stared at the page.

"New vessel,.
Penelope
,
noncommercial vessel—"

"Noncommercial?"

"Yup. What it says. Built this year. Hailing
port is Gloucester. Officially that's the port that should be on the
vessel.
Penelope
is
technically in violation."

Then that explained everything. It explained the
grounding, I as suggested by McNab at the Nauset station: new boat,
new skipper. It explained even the rather bizarre behavior of the
boat and her crew once inside the harbor. Finally, it explained
Penelope's
absence
from Merchant Vessels.

"Who's the owner?"

Ruggles hesitated a second.

"Why do you want the name. I'm obliged to
provide it, but mind if I ask?"

I quickly told him about Allan's death, and my desire
to lay at least some of the guilt to rest. He listened keenly and
with patience, then looked back to the papers on his blotter. He
rubbed his chin with his fingertips.

"Wallace Kinchloe, of Boston, owns the
Penelope
.
His address is Five Blossom Street. That's right up the street; you I
shouldn't have any trouble—"

He stopped in midsentence.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing. The address is familiar though. Here's
the phone number. If you want to try it there's a pay phone down the
hall. Good luck. Come back and let me know what you've found out."

I called the number. A musical voice oozing forced
cheerfulness answered. It was the Holiday Inn. Stunned, I asked for
Wallace Kinchloe. He wasn't registered. Was he ever registered there?
They wouldn't say. I returned to Ruggles's office.

"Guess what?" I asked him.

"I already know. It's the downtown Holiday Inn.
I just remembered."

"He isn't there either. Is there anything else
on the documentation? How about a post office box?"

"Nothing. Tell me the story again."

So I did. Lieutenant Commander Ruggles continued to
stroke his chin thoughtfully.

"According to this, Wallace Kinchloe was born in
Danbury, Connecticut, August 4, 1913. He resided in Cohasset until a
little over two years ago. Now he is listing his address as
temporary, which fits with the Holiday Inn. Under remarks are two
words: in transit.

"In transit?"

" 'In transit.' Not much to go on. Here's more
though; the boatbuilder who built Penelope is required by law to fill
out one of these."

He waved a small square of paper at me. It had a
fancy engraved border, two signatures, and some sort of. government
seal. Very official.

"This is a Master Carpenter's Certificate, which
states that such-and-such a vessel actually was constructed at
such-and-such a time and that delivery of said vessel actually took
place at a certain time by a certain party. OK?"