“How you doing?” a voice said.
Stone jumped, then turned to find the captain standing in the doorway. “Sorry, you startled me,” Stone said. “I’m doing fine; just about finished. Tell me, how are the engines cooled?”
“There’s a heat exchanger mounted to each engine,” the skipper replied, pointing to the equipment, “with a mixture of fresh water and coolant; that cools the top end. Then there’s a raw-water flow to the bottom end of each engine.”
“Where does the raw water come from?” Stone asked. It was what he most wanted to know.
“A seacock on each side of the engine room,” the skipper replied, indicating a large valve operated by a wheel.
Stone had been looking for the sort of lever found on smaller boats; he was glad to have the big valve pointed out to him. This time there was no rubber hose, but a steel pipe running to the engine. “Got it,” Stone said. Then he saw something he didn’t recognize. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing at a six-inch pipe that rose from the bilges to about two feet above the deck plating. Attached to it were half a dozen smaller pipes, each with its own seacock. There were two of them, a few feet apart, and he had never seen anything like them.
“Those are called seaboxes,” the skipper said. “They bring in raw water for all sorts of uses—air conditioning, toilets, everything.”
Stone nodded. “Well, I guess that just about does it for me.”
“I’ll show you the way up,” Reno said.
Stone continued to pump the man as they climbed toward the upper decks. “How often does the owner use the yacht?”
“Practically every weekend, and sometimes he’ll spend a night aboard during the week.”
Stone continued making notes. “How many guests at a time?”
“We’ve got a dozen guest staterooms, sleeping twenty-four, plus the owner’s cabin.”
“How many crew?”
“We go light on crew; there’s a cook, a steward, two maids, a mate, and me. When there are dinner parties, the caterers furnish the help.”
“So that’s six living aboard?”
“At the weekends, yes, and whenever the owner is aboard. During the week we usually manage a lot of time off. I can run the boat with the help of one crew between here and Catalina, and when we’re on our mooring out there, there will often be just one man aboard.”
“Any worries about security problems?”
“Nah. Some big boats have armed guards, but our owner doesn’t believe in intrusive security—makes the guests wonder what they’re being protected from. Anonymity is the best security, we reckon.”
“Makes sense,” Stone said. They had reached the main deck now. “Well, thanks for the tour; I’ve got all I need to make my report.”
“We’re changing insurance companies, then?”
“It’s by no means certain; we’ll make our proposal and see what happens.”
“Who are you dealing with at our end?”
“Not your owner; one of his people, I think. I don’t have any direct contact with clients; I’m just the technical guy.” Stone shook the man’s hand, then went ashore. One thing he was sure of: He had checked every part of the yacht, and Arrington was not aboard Contessa.
He gave some thought to going back to Maria and sinking the sports fisherman again. It was a quiet day at the marina, and he could probably get away with it. Maybe he could sink Paloma as well. It would be fun to drive Ippolito even crazier.
Finally he decided against it. The police investigation would turn up the fact that somebody from an insurance company had visited the boats, and the simplest sort of check would reveal that he was bogus. The police would have a description of him, and he didn’t want that.
Eventually, the skipper of Contessa would mention to somebody that an insurance man had been aboard, and give a description of Stone. That didn’t trouble him greatly, since Ippolito himself would be unlikely to be involved, and he was the only man in his organization who could recognize Stone by sight.
He made his way back to his car and telephoned Betty Southard at her office. “Hi, it’s Stone; can you talk?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“I want to take a closer look at David Sturmack; what can you tell me about him?”