Down Among the Dead Men

XXI

The light in the Lighthouse was bad. At the side of each table a small, round pool of yellow dripped from a miniature beacon onto the red-checked tablecloth. This electrical economy made it unnecessary for the proprietor to be too scrupulous about the spotlessness of the table linen; besides, the customers who came to the waterfront café considered its broiled butterfish and sautéed sole all that was required in the way of interior decoration.

In addition to this protective lack of illumination, the man at the corner table by the door marked WASHROOM sat so his face was in the deepest shadow. Also he managed to sit back against the wall so he was partially shielded by the girl opposite him; he was virtually invisible to anyone at the front of the café. Only when the fragrance of clam broth or french-fried squid, sweeping in from the kitchen behind him, gave notice of the curtained street-door’s opening, did he lean forward sufficiently to peer around this table companion.

“Hope I didn’t keep you waiting long, Tim.”

“Not very long, Ellen.”

“That delicatessen boy only delivered your message ten minutes ago.”

“I’d have come around to the studio only all day ‘I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me...’ ” He passed her a nearly illegible menu. “Haven’t eaten, have you?”

“Haven’t felt like eating, Tim.”

“Better order, anyway. Look more natural.” An elderly waiter in a soiled dickey shambled up to their table. “No use letting it get you down.”

“How can I help it? With Merrill in trouble?”

“He’ll be out of trouble in a few hours.” Joslin crumbled a hard roll.

“He’s running away?”

“Done gawn already. The fried flounder isn’t so bad in here.”

She nodded to the waiter. “I’ll have that. Boiled potatoes.”

“Same here, Bill.”

Ellen reached across the table, put her hand on the organizer’s sleeve. “You don’t believe he did it, do you?”

“I don’t believe one way or the other.” Joslin buttered the crust. “Until I hear what he has to say.”

“Haven’t you heard from him?”

“How could I? I haven’t dared to go near my room.”

“You weren’t followed here?”

“Don’t think so. But maybe you were.” He moved slightly to observe a middle-aged man who had just come out of a phone booth near the cashier’s desk at the door and gone back to his table. Joslin pantomimed with his fork. “That’s one of those burrs sticking to us, now, I think.”

“Which one?”

“Middle-aged bird, second table from the door. He’s been taking great pains not to look our way.”

“I’m sorry. If I’ve put you in a corner, Tim.”

“Think nothing of it. There’s a way to make sure about him.” He stood up. “Watch this.” He ambled toward the door.

The middle-aged man took out his watch, muttered beneath his breath as if unaware of the lateness of the hour. He wiped his lips quickly, laid the napkin down, reached into his trousers pocket.

Joslin swerved, stepped to the cashier’s desk. “Pack of Luckies.” He slipped a coin on the glass without noticing the man at the second table. When the organizer turned to go back to his table, he turned the other way. He ripped open the corner of the pack, tapped out a cigarette, offered one to Ellen.

“Thank you, Tim.” She bent her head sideways to the match he held out. “He started to pay his check. But he’s changed his mind. He’s fished out some money. Going into the phone booth.”

“That’s one of them, all right.” He dug into the flounder. “I’ll cross him up, anyway. I know this restaurant. That’s why I asked you to come here. There’s a little bolt-hole I can use in an emergency.”

“But why were they watching me?”

“They expect him to get in touch with you. Let ’em expect. I won’t dodge any cops tomorrow. By that time his ship will be well out. Merrill told me on Sunday he was going right out again — probably on the Pobrico. But I couldn’t give him any advice, then. That was before I knew about... this other thing. I wouldn’t know what to say to him now, anyhow.” He crunched on the roll. “I couldn’t know how it feels to find another man... and your wife. Even if you don’t have any illusions about your wife...”

Ellen was puzzled. “I don’t want to know how he managed to get on board or what name he used this time. Then I won’t have to pretend I don’t know, if the police ask me. But I should think they’d have been patrolling at the piers for him.”

“They were there in bunches. Some of the gang told me every time they turned around there’d be another stranger giving them the up and down. They had leaflets with his picture and description.”

“Why didn’t they recognize him?”

“Same reason you wouldn’t have, Ellen. You never saw a man change so much in so short a time.”

“Those days in the lifeboat?”

“Sure. No food the last five days, except one chocolate bar. Four swallows of water every twenty-four hours. Lifeboats are stocked with plenty but the sub shelled the one he was in. The Nazi idea of good, clean fun. Didn’t hit the boat, but a splinter stove in one provision locker. Salt water did the rest. Merrill lost about forty pounds. Makes a hell of a difference in his appearance. His face is so thin...”

“But even so, Tim—”

“That’s not all.” Joslin took out an old envelope, filled with newspaper clippings. He picked one out, unfolded it to its three-column width, passed it across the table. “The Mercede wasn’t one of the banana boats like most of the line. She was a tanker; they used her on the Venezuelan run; what they call a clean tanker — only carried gasoline.”

Ellen studied the clipping. There was a head line:

Below was a photograph of a dark-haired youth bending over to have a sixteen-pointed star attached to his uniform. The captain said Eric Haveline was a quartermaster on the Santa Mercede, aged twenty-five, a resident of Easton, Maryland, and bashful.

“It’s tough being on one of those oil cans when they get hit,” Joslin went on. “If the torpedo doesn’t tear you apart or stun you so you don’t get on deck in time, you may get a chance to burn to death when those five million gallons start to burn and spread out over a mile of water.”

She read:

Joslin watched the man at the second table, uneasily. “That quartermaster was burned pretty bad while he was swimming back to the ship for four others. Merrill had his hair singed to the roots.”

Ellen’s “Yes?” was barely audible.

“When Merrill’s hair grew out again, it was white.” Joslin laid sixty cents quietly under the edge of his plate, watchful of the middle-aged man. “When you add to the white hair and loss of weight the fact that he looks ten years older than he did before this last trip, you can see why the eagle-eyes didn’t recognize him.”

“Tim!” Ellen touched the clipping with a fingertip. “This says the submarine commander asked for Captain Ovett!”

“Yeah.” He avoided her gaze.

“But there isn’t any Captain Ovett.”

“No. Might have been the Nazi’s idea there was — the Mercede being an Ovett ship.”

“You don’t believe that. There was something more to it than that. You’re keeping something from me.”

“No. Honestly.” He squirmed in his chair. “That thing bothered Merrill, too. He naturally wondered if anyone on the sub really did know there was an Ovett aboard the Mercede. It was the reason he wanted to see his father so badly; he called the old man’s house from the poolroom under my place. But Lawford Ovett had just left for a meeting of the Shipowners Council with that bucko mate of his, Berger. So I guess Merrill went over to the yacht first, intending to see his father later. Then this other thing happened...” He jumped to his feet, dived for the washroom door.

Ellen heard Koski’s voice from the kitchen door: “Hold everything, hardboiled.”

The door to the washroom slammed behind Joslin. Before the union man could turn the key in the lock, Koski hurled his weight against the center panel, forced the door open. Ellen heard shoes scuffing on a tile floor, muttered oaths. Then Joslin came out with the Lieutenant behind him. The organizer’s red hair was mussed up. His leather jacket hiked up in front where Koski gripped it, in back.

“As you were.” The Harbor Squad man pushed Joslin into his chair. “I haven’t time to keep shagging after you. Squat and stay put. Unless you want to eat your next meal in cuffs.”

He drew up a third chair, sat down.