Scorpion Reef (10 page)

I went out in the street again. It was a hot, still morning, but the cold place between my shoulder blades was growing larger all the time. I watched in shop windows, and stopped suddenly, looking around as I lit a cigarette. Sure, there were people behind me. There were hundreds of them, going to work.

As soon as the used car lots began to open I drove around to one. A man with a cigar glanced at the Ford with complete indifference, told me tearfully how bad business was, and offered me half what it was worth. I knew I wouldn’t get any more, but I screamed like a wounded rug merchant and drove away. Twenty minutes later I came back and turned the papers over to him and he gave me a check. He’d remember me, too. I’d cried louder than he had.

I took a taxi out to the pier, looking at my watch every few minutes now. This was the first place they’d come when they began to wonder what had happened to him, and I was cutting it too fine. There was no one around the gate, however, and the watchman shook his head when I asked if anybody’d been looking for me.

“But you got a telegram,” he said.

It was from Carter. There’d been a delay in opening the bids for the salvage job and he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. We drove out to the end of the pier and I asked the driver to wait while I picked up the bag. We met no one coming out. I turned the keys over to the watchman, said something vague about sickness in the family, and told him I was leaving for New York.

Back at the bus station the ticket agent gave me a surly grunt and reached for the ticket before I’d opened my mouth. I checked the bag through, and looked at my watch again. It was 10:10. I walked over to the bank, cashed the car check, and drew out my account.

There was a telegraph office in the same block. I wrote out a wire to Carter so he’d have a chance to pick up a new diver around New Orleans. It was the least I could do.

The last ten minutes were rough. I kept looking around for them, knowing at the same time it was stupid because I’d never seen any of them except Barclay. After a long time they called the bus over the P.A. system and I went out and climbed aboard. I got a seat on the aisle, away from the window, and just sat there, enduring it. At last the driver swung the door shut and we rolled out of the station into traffic.

The little man in the seat next to the window wanted to know where I was going and when I told him he said, no offense, but he just couldn’t stand the place. All them foreigners, he said.

While he was telling me what was wrong with it the driver cut in the air-conditioning unit and we began to roll faster through the outskirts.

I unwound all at once. It was something like melting.

I straightened suddenly and looked around. It must have been some time afterward, for we were out in open country. People in near-by seats were staring at me, and the man who didn’t like New York was shaking my arm.

He grinned apologetically. “Thought I ought to wake you up,” he said. “You was having a nightmare.”

“Oh,” I said. “Thanks.” I was clammy with sweat.

“Must have been a fire in it,” he said. “You kept moaning and saying something about smoke.”

W
E CAME INTO NEW ORLEANS
at ten-fifteen p.m.. Through passengers going east were scheduled to change busses, with a layover of forty minutes. I hunted up the baggage room, caught the eye of a colored boy, and gave him my claim check and a dollar.

“See if you can find this bag for me,” I said. “I want to clean up a little between busses.”

He located it. I went around the corner toward the washroom, ducked out a side door, and caught a cab. At a little hotel just off Canal Street I signed the register
James R. Madigan
and when I was up in the room I looked at the marks on my face. They were better, and in another few hours they’d be hardly noticeable. I drew a basin of hot water and went to work on them again, soaking the hand at the same time. The swelling was going down.

They might find out I’d left the bus, and they might even trail me to this hotel and eventually start looking for somebody named Madigan, but there the whole thing would end. Harold E. Burton was only a check for $15,000, and the last place they’d ever expect me to go would be back to Sanport.

I studied the rest of it. There’d be the station wagon I had to buy to get back to Sanport with all the gear. Abandon it when we sailed? No. Storing it in a garage was a better idea. After a year or so they’d probably sell it for the storage charges, and if anybody ever bothered to look into it all he’d find would be that it had been left there by a man named Burton who’d sailed for Boston in a small boat and never been heard of again. People had been lost at sea before, especially sailing alone.

What about after I’d landed them on the Central American coast? Florida was my best bet now. I could lose myself among the thousands who made a living along the edge of the sea in one way or another, and gradually build up a whole new identity. I tore all my identification into tiny shreds and flushed it down the plumbing along with the remainder of the bus ticket. As soon as I turned out the light and lay down I was thinking of her again.

It was a little after eight when I awoke. I shaved hurriedly, noting my face was almost back to normal now, and dressed in a clean white linen suit. Brassy sunlight spilled into Canal Street, shattering on the chrome and glass of traffic as the sticky New Orleans heat began. I pushed through the crowds, looking at my watch. The banks wouldn’t be open for over an hour.

I got some change in a cigar store and went back to the battery of phone booths. Putting in a long-distance call to Sanport, I caught the yacht broker just as he came in his office.

“Hello,” I said, sweltering in the airless little cubicle. “My name’s Burton. I understand from a friend of mine you’ve got a New-England-built sloop over there, 36 footer by the name of
Dancer
, or something like that—”

“Yes,” he said. “That’s right. The
Ballerina
. Good boat, in first-class condition—”

“How much are you asking?”

“Eleven thousand.”

“That sounds high to me,” I said. “But I’m looking for one of her class and I’d go to ten if it’s in top shape. Suppose I come over and take a look at it? I’m in New Orleans now, but I could be there sometime tomorrow morning if you could make arrangements for the boat yard to haul her out.”

“Fine,” he replied. “She’s at Michaelson’s Yard. We’ll be looking for you.”

“Around nine a.m.,” I said.

So far, so good. She hadn’t been sold yet.

When the banks opened I went into the first one I came to, endorsed the check for deposit, and opened an account, asking them to clear it with the Sanport bank by wire. They said they should have an answer a little after noon.

The used car lots were next. I didn’t find a station wagon in the first one and was just about to leave when the idea began to come to me. Part of my mind had been occupied with the problem of getting Macaulay out of that house, and now I was starting to see at least part of the answer. I didn’t want a station wagon; I wanted a panel truck, a black one. I found one in the next lot. After trying it out, I told the salesman I’d come back later and let him know. I couldn’t buy it until the check cleared.

The wire came back from the Sanport bank a little after one. I cashed a check for three thousand, picked up the truck, and drove over to a nautical supply store. It took nearly two hours to get everything I needed here, chronometer, sextant, azimuth tables, nautical almanacs, charts, and so on, right down to a pair of 7 by 50 glasses and a marine radio receiver. That left diving gear. Of course, there was still the aqualung in the back of her car, but the coast of Yucatan was too far to come back for spare equipment if anything went wrong. I bought another, and some extra cylinders which I had filled. At five o’clock the truck was full of gear, and nothing remained but to check out of the hotel and start back.

No, there was one thing more. I went into a dime store and bought an anniversary greeting card.

I drove all night.

Just at dawn I was approaching the outskirts of Sanport, and stopped at an all-night service station to shave and clean up a little while the attendant filled the tank. I was a little nervous as I approached the downtown area, but I shrugged it off. There was nothing to worry about yet. In the panel truck I looked like any laundry route-man or cigarette salesman.

Michaelson’s Boat Yard lay some three miles from town, in the opposite direction from the Parker Mill. It was on a sandspit running out toward the ship channel beyond the eastern end of the water-front, with only some mud flats between it and the long jetties going toward the open Gulf.

About a block away from the yard gate there was a small cluster of buildings among the otherwise empty lots, a beer joint or two and a cafe and an abandoned store building with a
For Rent
sign on it. I parked the truck in front of the cafe, locked it, and went inside. It was still early, and a girl was making coffee in a big urn. I drank two cups and ate an order of hot cakes. The morning paper was on the counter. I looked through it, but there was nothing about his body’s being found. It was too soon yet. There would be.

The yard workmen began to drift in. I walked down to the gate and went inside. The
Ballerina
was hauled out on the marine railway. I stood for a moment, just looking at her. She was long-ended and slimly arrogant, cut away at the forefoot and tapering in sharply under the stern, and she drew nearly six feet when she was afloat, with some 5000 pounds of iron in her keel. I’d never been aboard her, but I’d seen her several times over at the yacht basin, and I was familiar with the design. I’d sailed one of her sisters in a race shortly after the war.

Opening my pocketknife, I walked under her, white linen suit and all, and started probing. It must have been six months or more since she’d been hauled, because she was foul with grass and barnacles, but in half an hour I knew that under all the marine growth she was as sound as the day she was built. I kept on, hardly even aware when calking hammers began sounding on the ways.

Finding a ladder, I went aboard and went on with the inspection. She’d been well kept up. I remembered Carling had bought new sails for her a few months ago when she was over at the yacht basin, so I didn’t have to look at them. The cabin seemed to be all right, with no indication of leaks in the decking overhead. The layout was perfect for the three of us who were going to be aboard. There were two bunks forward, then a head on the port side and a locker on the starboard that formed almost a partition, leaving only a narrow passage. That could be curtained to make two cabins of it. Aft of the head and the locker there were two settees, one on each side, and either of these could be made up as a bunk. A folding chart table came down over one of them, and aft of them were the icebox and locker space of the galley and the primus stove hanging in gimbals.

I inspected the bilges, and took a look at the Gray marine engine, though I couldn’t tell much about the latter until she was back in the water and I could try it out. Just as I was coming down the ladder the man from the yacht broker’s showed up. The yard foreman was with him. I introduced myself.

“Well, what do you think of her?” he asked.

“She’s in good shape,” I said. “I’ll give you ten thousand.”

“He’s still asking eleven.”

“Who owns her?” I asked.

“Man named Carling. Automobile dealer.”

“Well, how about getting him on the phone? Tell him I’ll write you a check for ten in the next five minutes.”

He went off toward the office. I gave the yard foreman a cigarette. He was a big, heavy-bodied Finn or Norwegian. He nodded toward the sloop.

“That one’s built,” he said.

“She’s that,” I said. “But her bottom’s in awful shape. How soon can you get a crew of men on her? I’ll give you the paint specification, and the rest of the work list—”

He grinned. “Hadn’t you better wait till you’ve bought her?”

“I’ve already bought her,” I said. “We’re just arguing about how much I have to pay.”

The yacht broker’s man came back. “Says he’ll take ten five. That’s the bottom.”

I pulled out the checkbook, and nodded to the foreman. “Tell your men to start scraping.”

We went up to the office and the foreman introduced me to the superintendent. We started writing out the work list, and all the time that anniversary card was burning a hole in my pocket. She couldn’t possibly get it before tomorrow, I told myself. But I kept thinking of what she must be going through with nothing to do but wait. That wasn’t all, either. I was wild to talk to her.

I happened to glance out the front door of the office and saw a phone booth just inside the gate on the other side of the driveway. Why not wire an anniversary telegram? It would be faster, and safe enough. No, I thought; they’d see it delivered and just the fact she’d received one would make them watch her that much more closely.

“… install new starting and lighting batteries,” I went on to the super. “Put up a twenty-by-fifteen-inch shelf above that starboard settee for a radio receiver, and run a cable to the lighting battery for power for it. As soon as she’s back in the water, run a check on that engine, and make what repairs are necessary. As far as I can see she doesn’t need anything done topside, and as soon as I get to Boston she’ll have a general overhaul, anyway. The main thing is that pasture on her bottom. Do you think we can work out a paint schedule so we can get her back in the water tomorrow afternoon?” And then I added, “With the paint dry.”

He nodded. “Sure. You check it yourself before she goes in.”

I stood up. “Fine. I’ll be around here all the time, so if anything comes up, just yell.”

Just then the telephone rang. The girl at the desk near the door answered it, and said, “Just a minute, please.” She looked inquiringly at the super. “A Mr. Burton—”

“Here,” I said. I could feel the tingling of excitement all over me as I reached for it. “Thank you.”

“Burton speaking,” I said.

“Can you talk all right from there?” she asked softly.