“OK. I’m going to mosey around the docks.”
The Xavier Margais was not much to look at. She needed a repaint — maybe even a refit. There was more rust than paint on her funnel; her reefed sails were bound in clumsy bundles. Her gangplank was down. He stood there indecisively, then saw someone come on deck. Why not? It didn’t hurt to make inquiries. Craig stamped up the gangplank. The sailor heard him and turned to face him.
“I want to ask you some questions…”
“No hablo inglés.”
He was shifty-eyed and unshaven and Craig did not like him. “Get capitano,” he said authoritatively and the man darted away. There was the sound of raised voices and a minute later an officer wearing a filthy billed cap came on deck.
“What you want?” he snapped.
“To ask you a few questions…”
“The captain not here now. You come back.” He was just as unshaven and shifty-eyed as the sailor. Craig put on the pressure.
“Do you know what this is?” he said taking out his badge and holding it in front of his face. Yes, by God, he did flinch away!
“You gotta talk the captain—”
“But now I’m talking to you. How many passengers does this scow carry?”
“No passenger… not allowed.”
Nothing about the man smelled right. Why was he so upset over some simple questions? Now if they weren’t permitted to carry passengers — and they had one… Craig put his badge away, very slowly, and, never taking his eyes from the other man’s face, he took out the drawing and unfolded it, held it up.
“Have you seen this man?”
“No — no see!”
“Then why are you looking so frightened, my lad? Guilty secrets?”
Time for a little pressure. He pulled out the revolver and spoke in a low, tense voice.
“You’re not in trouble — yet. Take me to him.”
“I dunno, got nothin’ do wi’ me. Ask captain—”
Still
looking the terrified sailor right in the eyes, Craig pulled back the hammer of the revolver which clicked loudly into place. The man started at the sound.
“Now, you take me to him” Craig whispered. “And not a word out of you. Just do as I say.”
The man was terrified, which Craig greatly appreciated. He looked around in desperation, saw no way out. Then he nodded quickly and pointed to the hatchway. Craig followed him below. There were doors on both sides of the corridor. The sailor pointed to one of them, then draw back as Craig knocked on the door.
“What is it?” The voice spoke from inside.
A voice with a guttural Scotch accent.
“Message for you, meestair from capitano,” Craig said — in what he hoped was a Spanish accent. Apparently it was good enough for the man inside. Footsteps came towards the door and the lock rattled. As soon as it opened an inch, Craig kicked it wide.
It was the man!
At the sight of the gun the suspect turned away — turned back an instant later with an open clasp knife.
Craig hated knives. He had once been cut badly arresting a suspect. He had sworn, when he got out of the hospital, that something like this would never happen to him again. Once was enough. It wasn’t going to happen a second time. He fired instantly.
A single shot through the man’s heart, surely killing him. He crumpled to the floor; Craig kicked the knife from his limp hand. Then prodded the man with his toe, but there was no movement. He smiled. At least this would make up for his earlier lapse of duty. He bent over the corpse, ran his hands swiftly over the body. Something bulky stuck in the back of his trousers. Craig rolled him over roughly, pulled out an oilskin-wrapped package.