Deadlock (36 page)

Feeling like a caricature of a detective, I pulled the magnifying glass out of my handbag and began to scrutinize the deck—on hands and knees, just like Sherlock Holmes. The tour took some time and I failed to discover anything remotely like blood on the highly polished surface. I continued
the inspection along the sides. Just as I was about to give up on the deck, I spotted two short blond hairs caught in the starboard railing. Grafalk’s hair was white, the chauffeur’s sandy. Phillips had been a blond, and this was a good spot for his head to have banged as they dragged him off the yacht. Grunting with satisfaction, I took a pair of eyebrow tweezers from my purse, plucked out the hairs, and put them in a little plastic bag.

A small flight of stairs next to the tiller led to the cabin. I paused for a minute, hand on the wheel, to look at the dock before I went down. No one was paying any attention to me. As I started down the stairs my eye was caught by a large warehouse across the road from me. It was a corrugated Quonset hut, dingy like the other buildings on the base. Plastered with red triangles, it had a neatly lettered sign over the entrance:
MUNITIONS DEPOT, HIGH EXPLOSIVES. NO SMOKING
.

No guard patrolled the depot. Presumably, if you had clearance to be on the base at all, you weren’t likely to rifle the munitions. Grafalk passed the dump every time he went sailing. His chauffeur probably had the tools to get past the lock on the large rolling doors. As a friend of the admiral’s, Grafalk might even have gone in on some legitimate pretext. I wondered if they kept an inventory of their explosives. Would they be able to tell if enough depth charges were gone to blow up a thousand-foot ship?

I went down the short flight of stairs where a locked door led to the living quarters. It was after six and the sun was starting to set. Not much light made its way into the stairwell and I fumbled with the picklocks for several minutes before getting the door open. A hook on the wall clipped to another hook on the door to hold it open.

The one thing I’d forgotten was a flashlight. I hunted for a light and finally found a chain connected to an overhead lamp. Pulling it on, I saw I was in a small hallway, carpeted in a green that matched the boat’s trim. A latched
door at my right opened into a master bedroom with a king-size bed, mirrored walls, and teak fittings. A sliding wardrobe door opened on a good collection of men’s and women’s clothes. I looked at the women’s outfits doubtfully: Paige and Mrs. Grafalk were both thin and short—the wardrobe could have belonged to either.

The master bedroom had an attached bathroom with a tub and a sink fitted with gold faucets. It didn’t seem too likely that Grafalk and Phillips would have fought in there.

I went back out to the hallway and found two other bedrooms, less opulent, each with sleeping for four, on the port side. A dining room with an old mahogany table bolted to the floor and a complete set of Wedgwood in a handsome breakfront was next to them on the port side of the bow. Next, in the very tip of the bow, was a well-equipped galley with a gas stove. Between the master bedroom and the galley on the starboard side was a lounge where the sailors could read or play bridge or drink during inclement weather. A shallow cupboard unlatched to reveal several decanters and a good collection of bottles. The scotch was J & B. I was disappointed—the first sign of bad taste on Grafalk’s part. Maybe Paige selected the whiskey.

Unless Phillips had been knocked out on deck, my guess was he had been hit in either the lounge or the dining room. I started on the lounge as the more hopeful place. It contained a leather-covered card table and a desk, a number of chairs, a couch, and a small fireplace with an electric fire in it.

The lounge floor was covered with a thick, figured green carpet. As I surveyed the room, trying to decide where most efficiently to begin my search, I noticed that the pile in front of the little fireplace was brushed back at a different angle than the rest of the rug. That seemed promising. I skirted around the brushed area and began
inspecting it with my glass. I found another blond hair. No blood, but a strong smell of cleanser, something like Top Job. The carpet was still faintly damp to my touch, although it had been three days since Phillips’s death. I smelled other sections of the rug, but the odor of cleanser and the damp only came from the section in front of the fireplace.

I pulled myself to my feet. Now the problem was going to be to get the police up here for a more formal search. Their equipment could detect whether blood stuck to the rug in microscopic quantities. Maybe the thing to do was to cut off a bit of the pile and get them to examine it. If there were blood on it, they’d be more likely to want to see where the rug fragments came from. Using my Timothy Custom Knife, I cut a small section of fibers from the place where I’d found the blond hair.

As I put the fabric into a clean specimen bag, I heard a thud on the deck. I sat quite still and listened, straining my ears. The cabin was so well paneled, you couldn’t hear much above you. Then another, gentle thud. Two people had boarded the boat. Navy children playing around the docks?

I stuck the specimen bag in my pocket. Holding the knife firmly, I went to the door and turned out the light. I waited inside the room, listening. Through the hallway I could hear a faint murmur of male voices. These were grown-ups, not children.

Footsteps moved overhead, toward the bow. At the stern an engine turned over and caught. The boat, which had been floating aimlessly with the water currents, started vibrating and then began moving slowly backward.

I looked around for a hiding place. There was none. The card table and the couch offered no protection. Through the porthole in the lounge’s starboard wall I watched a destroyer slide by, then the gray concrete of a breakwater, and finally a small white channel market, its
light flashing green as it swung around. We were out of the channel into the open lake. Straining my ears near the door, I heard the sharp slapping noise of wind on canvas: they were raising the sails. Then more voices, and finally a footstep on the carpeted stairs.

“I hope you’re not going to play hide-and-seek with me, Miss Warshawski. I know this boat much better than you do.” It was Grafalk.

My heart pounded sickeningly. My stomach turned over. I felt short of breath and too weak to speak.

“I know you’re here—we saw your car on the quay.”

I took several diaphragm breaths, slowly exhaling on a descending scale, and stepped into the hallway.

“Good evening, Mr. Grafalk.” Not the world’s greatest line, but the words came out without a tremor. I was pleased with myself.

“You’re a very smart young woman. Knowledgeable, too. So I won’t point out to you that you’re trespassing on private property. It’s a beautiful night for a sail, but I think we can talk more easily down here. Sandy will be able to manage the boat alone for a while now that the sails are up.”

He took my arm in a steely grip and moved me back into the lounge with him, turning the light back on with his other hand.

“Do sit down, Miss Warshawski. You know, you have my heartfelt admiration. You are a very resourceful lady, with good survival instincts. By now you should be dead several times over. And I was impressed with the reconstruction you gave Paige, quite impressed indeed.”

He was wearing evening clothes, a black suit tailored to his wide shoulders and narrow hips. He looked handsome in them, and there was an expression of suppressed excitement in his face which made him appear younger than he was.

He let go of my arm and I sat in one of the leather-covered
straight-back chairs next to the card table. “Thank you, Mr. Grafalk. I’ll have to remember to ask you for a reference the next time a client inquires.”

He sat down facing me. “Ah, yes. I fear your clients will be deprived of your services soon, Miss Warshawski. A pity, since you have the brains and the skill to be of help to people. By the way, who are you working for now? Not Martin, I hope.”

“I’m working for my cousin,” I said levelly.

“How quixotic of you. Avenging the memory of the dead Boom Boom. Paige says you don’t believe he fell under the
Bertha Krupnik
by accident.”

“My parents discouraged a faith in Santa Claus at an early age. Paige never struck me as terribly naive, either—just reluctant to face facts which might upset her comfort.”

Grafalk smiled a bit. He opened the latched liquor cupboard and pulled out a decanter. “Some Armagnac, Vic? You don’t mind if I call you that, do you? Warshawski is an awkward name to keep repeating and we have a long conversation in front of us … Don’t blame Paige, my dear Vic. She’s a very special person, but she has these strong needs for material possessions that go back to her early childhood. You know the story of her father?”

“A heartrending tale,” I said dryly. “It’s amazing that she and her sister were able to go on living at all.”

He smiled again. “Poverty is all relative. At any rate, Paige doesn’t want to jeopardize her current standard of living by thinking about anything … too dangerous.”

“How does Mrs. Grafalk feel about the situation?”

“With Paige, you mean? Claire is an admirable woman. Now that our two children are through school she’s thoroughly absorbed in a variety of charities, all of which benefit profoundly by Grafalk backing. They claim the bulk of her attention and she’s just as pleased to have mine
diverted elsewhere. She’s never been very interested in Grafalk Steamship either, unfortunately.”

“Whereas it has Paige’s breathless attention? That’s a little hard for me to picture, somehow.”

“You’re sure you don’t want any Armagnac? It’s quite good, really.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” My stomach warned me against putting any more alcohol on top of last night’s St. Émilion.

He poured himself some more. “Paige is in a position where she has to be interested in what interests me. I don’t mind knowing I’ve got her her attention—it’s quite intense and delightful whether bought or volunteered. And I’m afraid the steamship line is the thing I care most about.”

“So much that you killed Phillips and Mattingly, got Phillips to push my cousin off the wharf, and blew up the
Lucella Wieser
to protect it? Oh yes. I forgot Henry Kelvin, the night watchman in Boom Boom’s building.”

Grafalk stretched his legs out and swirled the brandy in his glass. “Technically, Sandy did most of the damage. Sandy’s my chauffeur and general factotum. He planted the depth charges on the
Lucella
—quite a diver. He was a frogman in the navy, served on my ship in World War II. When he was discharged I hired him. Anyway, technically, Sandy did the dirty work.”

“But you’re an accessory. The law holds you equally responsible.”

“The law will have to find out first. Right now, they seem extremely uninterested in me.”

“When they have the evidence that Phillips received his head wound here in this lounge their interest will pick up considerably.”

“Yes, but who’s going to tell them? Sandy won’t. I won’t. And you, I’m afraid, aren’t going to be with us when we return to port. So you won’t.”

He was trying to frighten me and succeeding rather well.

“Phillips called you Saturday night after he got my message, didn’t he?”

“Yes. I’m afraid Clayton was cracking. He was a smart enough man in his way, but he worried about details too much. He knew if you told Argus about the invoices his career would be finished. He wanted me to do something to help him out. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much I could do at that point.”

“Why’d you kill him, though? What possible harm could it do you if word got out that you’d been involved in some kickbacks in assigning cargoes? You own the controlling interest in Grafalk Steamship—your board can’t force you to resign.”

“Oh, I agree. Unfortunately, even though we hadn’t involved Clayton in the—uh—mishap to the
Lucella
, he knew my feelings toward Martin too well. He suspected I was responsible and threatened to divulge that to the Coast Guard if I didn’t protect him with Argus.”

“So you smashed a hole in the side of his head—What’d you use? One of these andirons?—and sailed him down to the Port. Putting him on the
Gertrude Ruttan
was a macabre touch. What would you have done if Bledsoe hadn’t had a ship in port?”

“Used someone else’s. It just seemed more poetic to use one of Martin’s. What made you think of it?”

“It wasn’t that difficult, Niels. The police patrol that facility. They were questioning everyone who’d been down there between midnight and six Sunday morning, inspecting their cars, too, I’m sure. So whoever put the body in the holds had to get to the ship without going by the police. Once I realized that, it was pretty easy to see it must have come by boat. A helicopter would have attracted too much attention.”

It pricked his vanity to have his great idea treated lightly. “We won’t run those risks with you, Vic. We’ll
leave you a couple of miles offshore with a good strong weight to hold you down.”

I have always feared death by drowning more than any other end—the dark water sucking me down into itself. My hands were trembling slightly. I pressed them to the sides of my legs so that Grafalk couldn’t see.

“It was the destruction of the
Lucella
I couldn’t figure out at first. I knew you were angry with Bledsoe for leaving you, but I didn’t realize how much you hated him. Also, the Eudora shipping contracts I looked at puzzled me. There were quite a number of orders last year which Pole Star gave up to Grafalk Steamship. For a while I thought you two were in collusion, but there wasn’t any financial advantage to Bledsoe from the
Lucella
being blown up. Quite the contrary.

“Then he told me Monday that you’d pressured him while he was financing the
Lucella
—you knew he’d never raise the money if word got out on the street that he’d been in jail for embezzling. So you promised to keep it to yourself if he’d give you some of his shipping contracts.

“That explained the water in the holds, too. Once the
Lucella
was financed, you could tell the world and be damned, as far as he cared. He started underbidding you—considerably—and you got Mattingly to bribe one of the sailors to put water in her holds. So she lost the load, and in a rather expensive way.”