Chapter VIII

The next unexpected development in the Lathrup case took place in broad daylight, at two o'clock in the afternoon.

What does a police officer do when he has two sensational murders and a disappearance weighing heavily on his shoulders and he sees something of a criminal nature taking place right before his eyes?

There are several things he can do. If he happens to be sitting in a police car he can exercise quick judgment and gain an advantage right at the start. He can radio a half-dozen other cars to converge upon the scene or keep at a distance and follow his lead. He can put a call directly through to headquarters and in a matter of minutes a third of the police in the city will be alerted and a big dragnet will be spread fast.

He can even whip out a gun, step right up and do what he can to put a stop to it then and there.

But if he's on foot and off-duty, and weary as hell from days and nights of double-duty it isn't always possible for him to do any of those things, except the last, with its often dangerous and opportunity-destroying complications.

It was only by a kind of miracle--what else could you call a sudden, difficult-to-explain restlessness tugging at a cop who should have been home asleep with the blinds drawn?--that Lieutenant Fenton was there at all, a half block from the Eaton-Lathrup building at so early an hour in the afternoon. And the fact that other restless cops, cops who could never quite believe they'd done enough in the line of duty, had had similar experiences in the past, did not diminish the lucky-accident strangeness of it.

It was his sixth visit to the magazine offices in three days, and it could have been postponed. But there were still a few questions he'd neglected to ask the staff, and when sleep wouldn't come he'd gotten up, brewed himself two cups of strong coffee, put on his clothes--choosing a light gray tropical worsted suit because it was an unusually hot and muggy day even for New York in July--and taken the subway to the Eaton-Lathrup building, stopping only briefly at the drugstore on the corner to buy himself a fresh pack of cigarettes.

He was about fifty or sixty feet from the building's main entrance when Timothy Hansen, Gerstle's Man Friday on the big magazine group's two cafe society, exposé magazines, emerged into the clear, bright sunlight. The young associate editor was not alone. His steps seemed almost to drag, and two heavyset men wearing light-weight summer suits just a little darker in color than the one which Fenton had donned, had fallen into step on opposite sides of him, their turned-down panamas shading features which Fenton did not like at all.

There was a suspicious-looking bulge in the coat pocket of one of Hansen's two escorts, and the slow, reluctant way the man seemed to be moving left little doubt in Fenton's mind as to what was taking place.

There was a black coupe parked at the curb, and the young associate editor was being escorted toward it. He entered the car a little ahead of the two heavyset men, but they wasted no time in climbing in after him, and Fenton caught the momentary glitter of sunlight on what looked like the barrel of a drawn automatic.

All this Lieutenant Fenton saw, and froze to immobility. Only for an instant, however. A short distance behind him a middle-aged man with a brief case was just getting into another car, a green Ford sedan. He'd noticed the car in passing, along with the man's unhurried stride. He'd even noticed the car keys dangling from the sedan owner's hand.

Fenton swung about and was grasping the door of the second car before the startled man could ease himself completely into the driver's seat.

Fenton whipped out and displayed his badge. "Get out, please, and give me those keys," he said, his voice so sharp that the man obeyed almost automatically and without waiting for Fenton to add: "This is a police emergency. I'm taking your car. Nothing to worry about. You'll get it back. Just get out and do as I tell you."

He waited until the man reached the sidewalk before he gave him further, urgent instructions. He was himself in the driver's seat and using one of the keys when he met the car owner's agitated gaze and said, still speaking sharply, "Listen carefully, please. Go to the drugstore on the corner, and ask for the police. Put the call through as quickly as you can. Say that Lieutenant Fenton of Homicide--get that, _homicide_--has started trailing a car from this address. Say the car is heading north. And tell them ... it's a kidnapping. Be sure to give them the number of this building: 584--and the street. It's a black coupe: YG67999. Got that?"

The man nodded, his face very pale now.

"All right. Make it fast. If you should run into a cop, tell him the same thing. Even _after_ you've phoned."

Fenton barely waited for the man to nod again before he nosed the sedan out into the traffic flow and followed the black coupe at a cautious distance, taking care not to give it too much headway and slowing a little when he seemed in danger of overtaking it.

* * * * *

A half hour later Fenton was still trailing the coupe at a cautious distance and he was still alone. No wail of a police siren had arisen behind him and he was now grateful for that.

It had taken him a few minutes to make up his mind and decide that he was justified in feeling that way, and even now he had misgivings. He did not regret the instructions he'd given the owner of the sedan. The phone call had been routine, a necessary safeguard. He owed Hansen that much, at least.

And if police cars started converging around him he'd accept what came. But the kind of instructions he'd have _liked_ to give the startled car owner only a policeman could have sent in to headquarters. Keep me in view, but don't give the game away. Don't interfere unless you see I'm in trouble. A chance like this may never come again. The payoff could be: two murders and a disappearance solved.

It wasn't what a policeman would ordinarily do. It was against all precedent and could cost him his badge. In one way he _had_ increased the risks for Hansen, by not whipping out a gun and forcing a showdown in front of the building.

It would have been a risky showdown and Hansen might have ended up dead. Fenton also--but it was to Fenton's credit that he hadn't given that a thought. His decision--and he'd made up his mind about it only after a few minutes of driving--had been influenced chiefly by two considerations. The missing editor was in great danger, if he was still alive. It could almost be taken for granted that the murderer had kidnapped Gerstle, precisely as Hansen had been kidnapped. Not to force an instant showdown might lead to Gerstle's rescue and to force a showdown to Hansen's death. To forgo that and trail the car might be increasing the risks for Hansen in one way, but not in the most dangerous possible way. If given the choice--would Hansen prefer to be trailed or dropped to the floor of the car with a bullet in the head?

One other consideration weighed a little. The murderer had slain twice and might slay again. He was no ordinary murderer, but the most dangerous kind of killer. This had become one of the big, nation-arousing series of crimes. To catch that kind of killer justified unusual measures, the taking of exceptional risks.

Or did it? Even now, he wasn't completely sure. When a policeman sees a crime taking place in his presence, he's supposed to draw a gun and start shooting, if the crime can be prevented in no other way. Immediately, without stopping to speculate as to what some of the possible repercussions might be.

Still ... still ... a man had to have the courage of his convictions, even if it meant bending the rules a little more than the Manual told young rookies they had a right to do. He wasn't a young rookie; and a cop who had been on the Force thirty years, and worked his way up to a Detective Lieutenancy the hard, patient way, had a right, surely, to exercise his own judgment in a situation like this.

He wouldn't be breaking the backbone of the rules, cracking the spinal column in a completely demoralizing way. The backbone would snap back, and a vicious killer would be started on his way to the chair ... and all he really had to do was to make absolutely certain that the coupe did not get away.

If he should lose it in the traffic....

He relaxed a little, telling himself that there was much less likelihood of that now, because they had passed over the Triboro Bridge into Queens and the traffic had thinned considerably.

They were still on the main highway and quite a few cars were passing in both directions, but there was no heavy congestion or traffic snarls or many big trucks to block the view. Fenton was just as well satisfied to see the traffic change a little now and then, growing slightly heavy at intervals but thinning out again the instant a turnpike swept past.

Just two cars on a clear road would have been very bad, he told himself. This way there was at least a fifty percent chance Hansen's two escorts wouldn't suspect they were being trailed. A car traveling on a main traffic artery didn't have to be trailing anyone, even if it kept a variable distance behind another car for a considerable length of time.

On sober reflection Fenton cut the likelihood that the pair in the car ahead would suspect anything from fifty to about twenty percent. To kidnap a man in broad daylight at the point of a gun from a building that the police had good reason to keep under fairly close surveillance was taking a big risk, of course. But it wasn't a police car that was trailing them, and they'd seen nothing on the block to make them suspicious--just a middle-aged man getting into another car further down the block, and a pedestrian approaching the building with nothing about him to suggest that he was a police officer.

Of course if they had looked back and seen him take over the other car on pulling out from the curb, the percentage would soar again, right up to the hundred mark. But would they be keeping on this way if they had? The car ahead hadn't zigzagged in and out of traffic at any time or put on an unusual burst of speed, as if in an effort to elude a pursuing car.

Fifteen minutes later the scenery changed a bit, the traffic thinned some more, and in the distance there were occasional glimpses of Flushing Bay.

The car ahead remained on the main highway for another ten minutes and then made a sharp turn at a circular, three-lane intersection and started traveling in the direction of the Bay. Fortunately the traffic became fairly heavy again at that point, and Fenton was able to continue on a cautious distance behind without running the risk of losing sight of the coupe. There were two more turns and the last brought them to a quite narrow road running almost parallel with the Bay.

The shining bright waters of the Bay were almost constantly visible now, cut off by long rows of trees at intervals, but close enough to bring a wide expanse of open water into clear view. But the coupe didn't slow down to enable its occupants to train an appreciative eye on white sails glimmering in the sunlight or to inhale with pleasure the tangy, brine-scented air. Fenton sat very still, with no admiring eye for the scenery either, his face set in harsh lines.

The black coupe finally turned into a side road that ran directly downhill to the bay and Fenton drew in quickly to the side of the highway and waited until the car ahead was out of sight before making a turn that otherwise would have been a dead giveaway.

Fenton made the turn slowly and for the next few seconds kept his eyes straight ahead and watched the road for the slightest stir of movement. But his extreme caution proved unnecessary, for the coupe had vanished around a corkscrew curve, and it did not come into view again until a wide stretch of open water burst on Fenton's vision.

The car ahead was heading straight for what appeared to be a fisherman's landing at the narrowing tip of a wide inlet. Fenton could see the wharf and the boathouse clearly, and rowboats bobbing about in the tide at the end of the wharf. Far out near the middle of the inlet a large motor cruiser rode at anchor.

Fenton drew in to the side of the road, switched off the ignition and descended from the car just beyond the corkscrew curve. He continued on down the slope on foot, taking care to keep in the shadows cast by overhanging foliage.

He had about a mile and a half of descending road to cover before he reached the boathouse and the open clearing in front of the wharf. He had just about reached it, still keeping close to the edge of the road with its protective foliage screen when the sound of voices raised to more than conversational pitch came to his ears.

Fenton stood very still, well within the last cluster of sheltering trees, and strained his ears to catch what was being said.

The voices came to him whipped by the wind, but he heard one, sharply-spoken order. "Push off! Don't just stand there! Every one of these goddam boats has taken on water!"

The complaint was followed by the steady click of oar-locks, and a dwindling murmur of barely distinguishable sound.

He did not emerge from the cluster of trees immediately, but waited several minutes. Even then he was careful not to step completely into the open, but crouched down and peered out from behind a waist-high clump of thinning foliage.

The rowboat was now about two hundred feet from the wharf and appeared to be moving out into the inlet on a very straight course, a course which could hardly fail to bring it close to the anchored motor cruiser.

He had very little doubt that it was heading directly for the cruiser, and that the three men in the boat would soon be going aboard. One of the heavyset men was plying the oars and the other sat in the middle of the boat facing Hansen, who sat in the stern. Whether or not he was keeping young Hansen covered with a gun Fenton could not determine. The sunlight was too bright and an automatic pistol too small an object to be visible from so great a distance.

Fenton stood very still for a moment, debating the wisdom of going straight to the boathouse and having a showdown with the man--or men--he might find there.

He was almost sure that whoever owned the wharf and the boats knew exactly what was going on and had been paid to cooperate. It seemed to him unlikely that the pair in the rowboat would have risked bringing Hansen there otherwise.

But he couldn't be completely sure, and getting in touch with Center Street fast was very urgent. He'd passed two Manhattan-bound police cars on the Queen's side of the bridge and a cop on a motorcycle. But his decision not to flash a warning signal to the car ahead by enlisting police aid had hardened during the drive and he'd decided not to. Now he regretted having taken so much upon himself. A police escort would have swiftly overtaken the kidnappers and rescued Hansen. Any chance of finding out what had happened to Gerstle or trapping the murderer would have vanished into thin air, in all likelihood, for the two kidnappers couldn't be depended upon to name him. And they could still have silenced Hansen with a bullet, figuring maybe that a good mouthpiece, hired by the killer, might be able to turn it into an act of self-defense before a rigged jury. There was no chance too desperate and even suicidal for trapped gunmen to take, if you hardly gave them time to reason.

He'd done a foolish thing, however, and he realized it now. Only a quick phone call from the boathouse could set it right again. With luck, a dozen police cars could close in on the wharf in fifteen or twenty minutes. And it wouldn't take long for the police to get to the cruiser. If it started moving, the Coast Guard could be alerted.

Fenton made up his mind quickly. He had a gun, and even if there were two or three men in the boathouse the odds would be in his favor. He was reproaching himself so bitterly now that he decided on the spot he'd turn in his badge and make a full confession if anything went wrong and Hansen was slugged and dropped over the rail of the cruiser before he could be rescued.

He emerged from the cluster of trees and walked straight toward the boathouse, his hand on the butt of his gun, in instant readiness for any contingency.

He walked to the door, opened it and stepped inside--and stood blinking in amazement.

The boathouse wasn't deserted. But it had only one occupant--a frail little old man of about seventy-five, who sat dozing in a chair by a dust-darkened window.

Fenton cast one quick glance at the old man and then his eyes swept the interior of the boathouse and came to rest on a phone booth behind a waist-high coil of rope and six oars stacked crosswise. He lost no time in encircling the rope and oars and wedging himself in the phone booth.

He deposited a dime and waited, with sweating palms, for the humming sound to start before dialing. There was no humming sound. He jerked the receiver hook up and down, but nothing happened. In desperation he dialed the operator. Still nothing.

Cursing softly, he emerged from the booth and shook the old man awake.

He hardly gave him time to wake up completely. "The phone!" he demanded. "What's wrong with it?"

The old man stirred drowsily, and blinked sleepy eyes. Then, quite suddenly, he was wide awake and staring.

"What's matter?" he muttered. "Who're you? How did you get here?"

"Never mind who I am," Fenton said. "Just tell me one thing. Did you give a boat to three men just now? Better not lie about it. I saw them pushing off."

The old man shook his head. "Been asleep for an hour," he mumbled. His eyes had darted to the clock on the opposite wall of the boathouse, as if Fenton's question had filled him with alarm and an instant need to find out the time.

"But you expected three men to come and take a boat? One of them would be acting kind of frightened."

The old man nodded again. "Boss told me to be on the lookout for them. But I must have dozed off."

"You know why they wanted a boat in a hurry?" Fenton asked. "Boss tell you?"

"No, he just said they were friends of his."

"What kind of man is this boss of yours. Has he a police record?"

"A police ... record?"

"I'd advise you not to go coy on me. Has he ever been in trouble with the police? You ought to know. You work for him."

The old man was becoming a little angry now. "Why are you asking me all these questions?" he demanded. "What business is it of yours?"

Fenton took out his badge and held it before the old man's eyes.

"A cop, eh?" the old man muttered. "I don't want no trouble with the police, mister. I'll tell you everything I know. It ain't much. I only been workin' here three weeks. No police ever came here. But the man who owns the motor yacht out there in the inlet came here and talked to the boss a couple of times. He didn't look like no crook to me. Man about forty or forty-five, hair cut short, and wearing a light-weight suit same color as yours. Figured he must be loaded, to own a motor yacht like that. Dressed like he was, too."

"Then what put the idea into your head he might have been a crook?" Fenton asked.

"Well, he acted kind of funny, kept his voice low and once I saw him slip the boss some money. And he mentioned the police a couple of times. Boss doesn't know I have sharp ears. I'm seventy-seven but there's nothing wrong with my hearing."

"All right," Fenton said. "Now suppose you tell me what I asked you when I shook you awake. What's wrong with that phone over there? I dropped a dime in, but there was no dialing sound."

"It's been out of order for two days," the old man said. "There was supposed to be a man come here to fix it yesterday, but he never showed up."

"Somebody did a little wire-ripping, maybe?"

The old man shook his head. "No, it just went dead on us. Boss jiggled the receiver for about ten minutes, to make sure. He tried it again this morning."

"How far is it to the nearest phone?" Fenton asked.

"Hell, you got to go back to the road you turned off from and drive for about fifteen minutes. There's a gas station--"

"Never mind," Fenton said. "Do you think you could go back to sleep again, if I asked it as a special favor?"

"I told you ... I don't want no trouble with the police," the old man said. "I got a grown daughter and two grandsons--"

It was a difficult decision for Fenton to make. If he walked back to where he'd parked his car and drove to the gas station twenty-five minutes at least would have to be written off. It might take even longer. And after that, he couldn't count on police cars arriving at the wharf within the optimistic time limit that had come into his mind a short while before. It was nothing that he could be sure of. It would depend on how many squad cars were in the immediate vicinity, and how fast the message went out.

It might be an hour before the police could get to the wharf.

Fenton wasted only about a minute making up his mind. He tapped the old man lightly on the shoulder. "All right. Just close your eyes again and stay put. One more question, first. When is the boss expected back?"

"Not for another couple of hours," the old man said. "His sister-in-law took sick. That's why he ain't here now."

"He has a car?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"Well, just stay put," Fenton said. "You're in no trouble with the police right now. If you want to go on being lucky, don't move out of that chair."

"I won't," the old man promised.

When Fenton descended the slope on the east side of the wharf to the gleaming, bright water just beyond he was careful to remain as inconspicuous as possible. He kept close to the shadows cast by tumbled boulders, and the high fringe of shrubbery which ran almost to the waterline, weaving in and out between the rocks.

When he reached the water he paused for an instant to make sure that the rowboat was within a short distance of the cruiser and too far away to take notice of a solitary figure four-fifths concealed by the shoulder-high marsh grasses at the edge of the inlet.

He undressed quickly, stripping himself to his shorts, and placing his clothes in a neat pile behind a large boulder.

The water was not as cold as he'd expected it to be. The noonday sun had warmed it and he could feel the warmth on his scalp as he swam, using an inconspicuous breast stroke, and not even trying to get to the cruiser fast.

Several times he paused to tread water and stare out across the shining surface of the inlet toward the anchored craft. The rowboat had rounded the stern of the cruiser and was now on the other side, no longer visible from the shore.

He began to swim more rapidly only when he felt reasonably sure that Hansen's two escorts had had time to take the young associate editor aboard.

He reached the motor cruiser just as the rowboat drifted back empty on a tow-rope at the vessel's stern. The tide was running toward the stern and he let himself drift with it, keeping close to the dark green hull of the craft until he had rounded the stern and was swimming just underneath the tightly stretched rope.

He was swimming close enough to the cruiser to be invisible from the deck, unless the boarders had remained by the rail and were staring straight down at him. He treaded water for an instant, listening for sounds on deck, his ears alert for a startled grunt or shout of anger.

When he was convinced that he had not been spotted he grasped the rope firmly and ascended hand over hand to the rail. The aftdeck was deserted. Its polished surface glimmered in the sunlight and was encumbered only by a brass stanchion, and a waist-high coil of rope. Although the cruiser was quite large there was no stern or forward deckhouse, just the curving back of what appeared to be a companionway entrance shaped like a gigantic scallop shell.

A moment later Fenton was crouching just inside the shell, above a descending flight of stairs. A faint light was visible from the top of the stairs, but it wasn't the light that interested him. It was the hum of angry voices.

He started to move cautiously downward in order to hear better, but stopped when the voices rose sharply, becoming so heated and enraged that he could catch every word.

"We've kept our hands off you so far, but it wouldn't be a sharp idea for you to keep shaking your head like that and pretending you don't know what the score is. Sit down, Hansen. Sit down. We told you to relax, didn't we?"

"He's stalling," a deeper voice cut in. "Darby would never have gone this far if he didn't think Gerstle told him more than it's safe for him to know. Why don't you come clean, kid? What have you to gain by stalling?"

There was a slight pause and then Hansen's voice rose as high in fright as the other two voices had in anger. "He didn't tell me a thing. Only that he was collecting information for a series of articles that he was hoping he could persuade Miss Lathrup to let him bring out under his own byline. Sensational material which would name names and be backed up with affidavits. Would I tell you even that much if he'd turned any of that material over to me, as you seem to think he did? I'd just pretend to know nothing at all about it."

"No--you're too smart for that, kid. You want us to think you're leveling with us, and if you denied you'd seen those names--"

"But I didn't. Not one name. He took me into his confidence most of the time, but this was too big, I guess."

"You'd make a good salesman, kid. The way you tell it ... I can almost see myself buying it. But not quite. And that's going to make a big difference to you, kid ... you're not quite selling us."

"What do you want me to do? Lie about it?"

"We're wasting time," the one with the lighter voice said. "We should at least try to persuade him."

"We should try, by all means. You want to begin, Foldes?"

There was a meaty thud, followed by a groan and a low, barely audible sobbing sound.

Fenton stiffened in instant concern, his lips tightening. He forced himself to remain where he was for a moment longer, however. It was safe to assume the two below would work up to what they were doing gradually and there were things he desperately wanted to know. Under stress of rage they might let something drop--some clue, some pointer, which would enable him to save both Gerstle and Hansen. They must know what had happened to Gerstle.

There was another thud, and Hansen's cry of pain was too loud, this time, to permit of further delay. Fenton unholstered his revolver, snapped off the safety catch and was down the companionway and in the cabin so fast the two kidnappers were taken completely by surprise.

He gave them no time to recover. The one who had struck Hansen was just raising a reversed automatic for another blow and was facing away from Fenton near the base of the stairs. A sudden tensing of his muscles failed to save him. Just as a glint of awareness flickered at the perimeter of his vision Fenton's fist caught him flush on the jaw, and sent him crashing backwards.

He hit the opposite bulkhead, rebounded and sank with a groan to his knees. Fenton moved in close again, and chopped downward on his wrist, sending the gun clattering. It was a needless precaution, for the man was already going limp, and had held fast to the gun in his backward lurch by convulsively contracting his fingers.

He collapsed forward on his face and Fenton did not wait to see if he would try to rise again. The danger that his companion would get to the dropped gun first was too urgent. He could have prevented that by putting a bullet in him with his own gun, but he did not want to kill a key accessory in a murder case and he was too excited to be sure of merely splintering the man's kneecap.

The weapon had skidded half-way across the cabin, but Fenton raised his right foot and kicked it two yards further a split second before it could pass into dangerous hands again.

The second man had dropped on all fours, and his hand hit the deck with a thud when the gun was kicked beyond reach of his fingers. Fenton reversed his own gun and clobbered the unsuccessful weapon snatcher across the back of his skull with a blow that flattened him out almost at his companion's side.

The big detective was breathing harshly when he straightened, his face very white and looked with concern at Hansen, who was moaning and slumping a little in a straight-backed chair, with a swelling ugly-looking bruise on his right forehead. One eye was half-closed, and his breathing was harsher than Fenton's.

Fenton bent and gripped him firmly by the shoulders, easing him into a less strained position. "Take it easy," he cautioned. "Just lean back and don't try to talk for a minute. You're going to be all right."

"Thanks," Hansen muttered, disregarding the advice. "They ... slugged me twice. Felt like the whole top of my head was coming off the second time."

Fenton nodded. "They were just being gentle," he said. "I know the breed. Each time they hit you a little harder and they don't stop until you black out. But they do it the slow way, even when it's the butt of a gun they slug you with. They keep hoping you'll talk...."

"They were going to kill me," Hansen said.

"I know. I heard them talking from just up above."

"Thank God for that," the young man breathed.

"Yes. I'm glad I could get here in time."

He turned and swept the cabin with his eyes. The two kidnappers were still out.

Fenton hesitated for an instant, then tapped the handle of his gun, letting it rest on Hansen's right knee, and tightening his grip on Hansen's shoulder. "I don't suppose you've ever shot a man, in self-defense or otherwise. But do you think you could handle a gun if you had to ... handle it well? There's a coil of rope on deck, and I've got to tie these two up. The quicker it's done the better."

Hansen nodded, an angry glint coming into his eyes. "You can trust me," he said. "Just let one of them make a move--"

"All right," Fenton said. "But be careful--the safety catch is off. If one of them comes to, and tries to take the gun away from you--shoot to kill."

Fifteen minutes later Fenton stood by the rail of the cruiser, staring down into the clear, blue-green water, a deeply worried, almost tormented look in his eyes. He had no right, he told himself, to feel the way he did, for Hansen was alive and safe and the two kidnappers securely bound.

If he'd stayed on shore until help arrived and Hansen had finished dead, a dark cloud would have hung over him for the rest of his life, even if he turned in his badge. He had a lot to be thankful for, for self-reproach to a man like himself could be harder to live with than the sternest kind of official censure.

But it took more than what had happened to drive away all of the clouds--far more. He still didn't know what had become of Gerstle, and although it wasn't too hard to picture what _might_ have happened to the elderly exposé editor it was bad ... very bad ... for a cop to allow his imagination to paint a picture so ugly that he'd stop thinking seriously about how to rescue a living man and concentrate solely on capturing a remorseless killer who had included that man in his list of victims.

He was still confronted with the same problem which had prevented him from shooting it out with the kidnappers in front of the Eaton-Lathrup building. The pair might be persuaded to talk, since they'd have more time to reflect now, and would realize they could only hope to escape the chair by turning State's evidence. It would be a slim reed for them even then, but they might seize upon it. They might ... but it couldn't be counted on.

He was rather glad that the motor cruiser had a tiny kitchen, and that he'd persuaded young Hansen to spend a few minutes there percolating some coffee before they both went ashore in the rowboat with the securely bound pair. It gave him a chance to straighten his shoulders, collect his thoughts and breathe in the brine-scented air. It wasn't the open sea, only the fingertip of a bay, with the shoreline close on both sides. But there was something about any part of the ocean that could give a harassed man perspective, make him realize how small and quick-passing all human tragedies were, when you contrasted them with eternally breaking waves, and the vast shining permanence of the sea.

He had paused for only a moment by the rail, to stare down into the clear water, seeking perhaps to make that realization even stronger, to keep it more forcefully in mind. Or perhaps only because he was so inwardly preoccupied. He could not have said exactly why.

He could see every rock and crevice, every waving seaweed, every darting silvery fish between the cruiser's keel and the sandy bottom, for the inlet was now as still as a sheet of glass.

He was just turning from the rail when a faint gust of wind ruffled the water, spoiling its crystal-clear transparency. The ripples attracted his attention and he did not turn, simply continued on for a few paces parallel with the rail.

He was staring down idly when the ripples vanished and he could see all the way to the bottom again.

A look of horror came into his eyes and he gripped the rail with both hands, cold sweat oozing from the pores of his skin, bringing a glistening to his bare back, drenching him from waist to armpits.

The corpse was wedged in a narrow rock crevice, in a rigidly contorted attitude, the face white and staring and turned upward, the legs grotesquely bent. It was clothed only in shorts and the blonde hair on the naked chest was matted with seaweed, which swayed back and forth in the underwater current.

Curiously enough, the hair on the dead man's head did not move with the current, but the slack jaw seemed to move slightly, as if protesting against the indignity which had been thrust upon him.

There was neither strength nor weakness in Gerstle's lifeless features now, but there was something about the configuration of the face which suggested that great energy and firmness of purpose had once been dominant characteristics of the man. The cheeks were faintly blue with a two-days' growth of beard, the eyes wide and staring, the lips purplish.

Both the wrists and ankles of the slain cafe society exposé editor had been bound with heavy wire which glistened in the downstreaming sunlight, and had cut cruelly into the flesh, whether before or after death Fenton had no way of knowing.

How long the corpse had remained at the bottom of the inlet was another thing which the detective had no way of knowing. But he was almost sure that it could not have been longer than two or three days, for no trace of decomposition was visible on either the face or the body.

It could have been dropped overboard from any part of the inlet and been carried by the tides to where it now was, but somehow he doubted that it had been carried far. It did not have a sea-battered look.

Fenton did not remain for more than a minute or two by the rail speculating about it. A grapple might have drawn it to the surface, but he had no stomach for such a procedure at that particular moment, even if he could have found a grapple somewhere on the cruiser.

He was content to let the body remain where it was, securely wedged in a rock crevice, until the police could follow their usual procedure, and examine it _in situ_ before removing it.

A sardonic thought flashed for an instant across his mind, but he put it from him as unworthy. No dusting for fingerprints here, or surrounding the corpse with chalk marks. The bottom of a Flushing Bay inlet was quite different from a magazine office.