Deadlock

5 A Glass in the Hand

“I’m Mike Sheridan, chief engineer on the Lucella Wieser.”

“And I’m V. I. Warshawski, a private investigator.”

The waiter brought our drinks, white wine for me and vodka and tonic for Sheridan.

“You’re related to Boom Boom Warshawski, aren’t you?”

“I’m his cousin… You connected with the Lucella Weiser that was across from the Bertha Krupnik when he fell under the propeller last week?”

He agreed, and I commented enthusiastically on what a small world it was. “I’ve been trying to find someone who might have seen my cousin die. To tell you the truth, I think it’s pretty hopeless-judging by the crowd that wreck out there drew.” I explained my search and why the Lucella was included in it.

Sheridan drank some vodka. “I have to admit I knew who you were when you were standing on the wharf. Someone pointed you out to me and I wanted to talk to you.” He smiled apologetically. “People gossip a lot in a place like this… Your cousin was coming over to talk to John Bemis, the Lucella’s captain, that afternoon. He claimed to know something about an act of vandalism that kept us from loading for a week. In fact that’s why we were tied up across the way: we were supposed to be taking on grain at that Eudora elevator, but we ended up with water in our holds. We had to dry them out and get Board of Health clearance again before we could load.”

“You mean someone deliberately put water in your holds? That was the vandalism?”

He nodded. “We assumed it was done by a disgruntled crewman. We asked him to leave the ship. He didn’t raise a fuss about it so I think we were right. But your cousin sounded serious, and of course Bemis wanted to talk to him. You wouldn’t know anything about what was on his mind, would you?”

I shook my head. “That’s part of the problem. I hadn’t seen Boom Boom for two or three months before he died. To tell you the truth, I was mostly worried that he might have-well, let himself fall because he was terribly depressed about not being able to skate or play hockey anymore. But, from what you’re saying and what Pete Margolis at the elevator said, he’d gotten pretty involved in what was going on down here, not depressed at all. I’d sure like to know, though, if anyone on the Bertha or the Lucella saw the accident firsthand.”

Sheridan shook his head. “It’s true we were tied up across the way, but the Bertha Krupnik lay between us and the wharf. I don’t think anyone on the Lucella could have seen anything.”

The waiter came back to take our orders; we told him we needed a few minutes to study the menu. He was back again within thirty seconds, coughing apologetically.

“Mr. Grafalk wants to know if you and the lady would join him and Mr. Phillips at his table.”

Sheridan and I looked at each other in surprise. I hadn’t noticed either of them come in. We followed the waiter across the rose and purple carpet to a table in the corner on the other side. Grafalk stood up to shake hands with Sheridan.

“Thanks for interrupting your lunch to join us, Mike.” To me he added, “I’m Niels Grafalk.”

“How do you do, Mr. Grafalk. I’m V. I. Warshawski.”

Grafalk wore a soft tweed jacket, tailored to fit his body, and an open-necked white shirt. I didn’t have to know he was born with money to feel that he was a man used to controlling things around him. He exuded a seafaring atmosphere, his hair bleached white, his face red with wind and sunburn.

“Phillips here told me you were asking some questions of Percy MacKelvy. Since I’m on the spot, maybe you can tell me why you’re interested in Grafalk Steamship.”

I embarked on a story which by now seemed very threadbare. “Mr. MacKelvy thought he ought to check with you before he told me where the Bertha Krupnik is,” I finished.

“I see.” Grafalk looked at me sharply. “Phillips told me you were a private investigator. I thought maybe you’d decided to do some snooping around my company.”

“When people meet a policeman unexpectedly they often feel guilty: nameless crimes rise up to confront them. When they meet a private investigator they usually feel defensive: don’t come snooping around me. I’m used to it,” I said.

Grafalk threw his head back and let out a loud crack of laughter. Sheridan gave me a sardonic smile but Phillips looked as strained as ever.

“If you have a minute after lunch, walk back with me to the office-I’ll get Percy to cough up the Bertha’s whereabouts for you.”

The waiter came to take our order. I asked for a whole artichoke stuffed with shrimp. Grafalk chose grilled lake trout, as did Phillips. Sheridan ordered a steak. “When you spend nine months of your life on the water, beef has a solid, earthy appeal.”

“So tell me, how does a young woman like you get involved in a career as a detective? You work for a firm or for yourself?”

“I’ve been in business for myself for about six years. Before that I was an attorney with the Public Defender in Cook County. I got tired of seeing poor innocent chumps go off to Stateville because the police wouldn’t follow up our investigations and find real culprits. And I got even more tired of watching clever guilty rascals get off scot-free because they could afford attorneys who know how to tap-dance around the law. So I thought-à la Doña Quixote perhaps-that I’d see what I could do on my own about the situation.”

Grafalk smiled with amusement over a glass of Niersteiner gutes Domthal. “Who usually hires you?”

“I do a certain amount of financial crime-that’s my specialty. The Transicon Company; that business last year with Ajax Insurance and the Knifegrinders… I just finished a job involving computer fraud in wire transfers at a small bank in Peoria. I fill in the gaps tracking down missing witnesses and serving subpoenas on people anxious to avoid a day in court.”

Grafalk was watching me with the same amused smile-wealthy man enjoying the foibles of the middle class: what do the simple folk do if they don’t own a steamship company? The smile grew rigid. He was looking at someone behind me whom he apparently didn’t want to see. I turned as a stocky man in a gray business suit walked up to the table.

“Hello, Martin.”

“Hello, Niels… Hi, Sheridan. Niels trying to enlist your help with the Ericsson?”

“Hi, Martin. This is V. I. Warshawski. She’s Boom Boom Warshawski’s cousin-down here asking us all a few questions about his death,” Sheridan said.

“How do you do, Miss Warshawski. I was very sorry about the accident to your cousin. None of us knew him well, but we all admired him as a hockey player.”

“Thanks,” I said.

He was introduced as Martin Bledsoe, owner of the Pole Star Line, which included the Lucella Wieser. He took a vacant chair between Sheidan and Phillips, asking Grafalk after he sat down if it was okay to join us.

“Glad to have you, Martin,” the Viking said warmly. I must have imagined the strain in his smile a few minutes before.

“Sorry about the Ericsson, Niels. Hell of a mess out there. You figure out what happened?”

“Looked to me like she ran into the dock, Martin. But we’ll know for sure after we’ve made a complete investigation.”

I suddenly wondered what Grafalk was doing eating a leisurely lunch when he had several hundred thousand dollars’ worth of damage sitting outside.

“What happens in a case like this?” I asked. “Do you have insurance to cover your hull damage?”

“Yes.” Grafalk grimaced. “We have coverage for everything. But it’ll boost my premium by a good deal… I’d rather not think about it right now, if you don’t mind.”

I changed the subject by asking him some general questions about shipping. His family owned the oldest company still operating on the Great Lakes. It was also the biggest. An early ancestor from Norway had started it in 1838 with a clipper that carried fur and ore from Chicago to Buffalo. Grafalk became quite enthusiastic, recounting some of the great ships and shipwrecks of the family fleet, then caught himself up apologetically. “Sorry-I’m a fanatic on shipping history… My family’s been involved in it for so long… Anyway, my private yacht is called the Brynulf Nordemark in memory of the captain who went down so gallantly in the disaster of 1857.”

“Grafalk’s a fantastic sailor in his own right,” Phillips put in. “He keeps two sailboats-his grandfather’s old yacht and a racing boat. You sail in the Mackinac race every year, don’t you, Niels?”

“I’ve only missed two since graduating from college-that probably happened before you were born, Miss Warshawski.”

He’d been to Northwestern, another family tradition. I vaguely remembered a Grafalk Hall on the Northwestern campus and the Grafalk Maritime Museum next to Shedd Aquarium.

“What about the Pole Star Line?” I asked Bledsoe. “That an old family company?”

“Martin’s a Johnny-come-lately,” Grafalk said lightly. “How old’s PSL now? Eight years?”

“I used to have Percy MacKelvy’s job,” Bledsoe said. “So Niels remembers every day since my desertion.”

“Well, Martin, you were the best dispatcher in the industry. Of course I felt deserted when you wanted to go into competition against me… By the way, I heard about the sabotage on the Lucella. That sounded like an ugly incident. It was one of your crewmembers?”

Waiters were bringing our entrees. Even though they slid the plates in front of us, barely moving the airwaves, it was enough of a distraction that I missed Bledsoe’s facial reaction.

“Well, the damage was minor, after all,” he said. “I was furious at the time, but at least the ship is intact: it’d be a pain in the ass to have to spend the main part of the season patching the Lucella’s hull.”

“True enough,” Grafalk agreed. “You do have two smaller ships, though, don’t you?” He smiled at me blandly. “We have sixty-three other vessels to pick up any slack the Ericsson’s incapacitation has caused.”

I wondered what the hell was going on here. Phillips was sitting stiffly, not making any pretense of eating, while Sheridan seemed to be casting about for something to say. Grafalk ate some minced vegetables and Bledsoe attacked his broiled swordfish with gusto.

“And even though my engineer really screwed up down there, I’m convinced that the guy just got overexcited and made a mistake. It’s not like having deliberate vandalism among the crew.”

“You’re right,” Bledsoe said. “I did wonder if this was part of your program to junk your 360-footers.”

Grafalk dropped his fork. A waiter moved forward and wafted a new one to the table. “We’re satisfied with what we’ve got out there,” Grafalk said. “I do hope you’ve isolated your trouble, though, Martin.”

“I hope so too,” Bledsoe said politely, picking up his wineglass.

“It’s so distressing when someone in your organization turns out to be unreliable,” Grafalk persisted.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Bledsoe responded, “but then I’ve never shared the Hobbesian view of the social contract with you.”

Grafalk smiled. “You’ll have to explain that one to me, Martin.” He turned to me again. “At Martin’s school they went in for a lot of memorizing. I had an easier time, being a gentleman: we weren’t expected to know anything.”

I was starting to laugh when I heard glass shatter. I turned with the rest to stare at Bledsoe. He had crushed his wineglass in his hand and the clear shards sticking out of his palm were rapidly engulfed in red. As I leaped to my feet to send for a doctor I wondered what all that had been about. Of all the remarks exchanged, Grafalk’s last one had been the least offensive. Why had it produced such an extraordinary reaction?

I sent a very concerned maître d’hôtel to call an ambulance. He confided in a moment of unprofessional panic that he knew he should never have allowed Mr. Bledsoe to join Mr. Grafalk. But then-Mr. Bledsoe was not a gentleman, he had no sensitivity, one could not keep him from barging in where he did not belong.

Quiet panic prevailed at our table. The men stared helplessly at the pool of red growing on the tablecloth, on Bledsoe’s cuff, on his lap. I told them an ambulance was coming and meanwhile we should probably try to get as much glass as possible out of his hand. I sent the waiters for another ice bucket and began packing Bledsoe’s hand with ice and some extra napkins.

Bledsoe was in pain but not in danger of fainting. Instead he was cursing himself steadily for his stupidity.

“You’re right,” I said. “It was damned stupid. In fact I don’t know when I’ve ever seen anything to compare with it. But fretting over it won’t alter the past, so why don’t you concentrate on the present instead?” He smiled a bit at that and thanked me for my help.

I glanced briefly at Grafalk. He was watching us with a strange expression. It wasn’t pity and it wasn’t satisfaction. Speculative. But what about?