Down Among the Dead Men

V

A throaty “Come in” answered his knock. Barbara Ovett was propped up against a mound of satin pillows on a wide, double bed. Koski eyed the curves which made her nile green sweater and black slacks seem just a little too tight.

“From the Police Department, Mrs. Ovett.”

“Oh, ye-e-es...” She lifted one hand, languidly brushed a spun-copper bang off her forehead. “Looking for Ansel, aren’t you?” She waved vaguely at a tiny boudoir chair.

He sat down, surveyed the gold-backed toilet set on the dresser; the mandarin gown with its cabalistic embroidery in gold. “Steward says you think something happened to him.”

“Something horrible.” She smiled sadly, half-closed her eyes as if she addressed a stupid child. “I knew it would.”

“How’d you know?” He put the rubber boot down.

Barbara opened her eyes wide in evident astonishment. “Why, the Fish told me. You know the Fish, of course?”

“The Fish. Yair.”

“Ansel’s birthday was the seventh of March.” She stroked her hair with a movement like a caress. “This is the nineteenth. Born under the sign of the Fish, with Neptune retrograding, — threatening the most dangerous vibrations, — with a tendency to terminate in a fatal accident...”

Koski pulled down the corners of his mouth, nodded. “There was a fatality, all right. Wouldn’t come under the head of an accident. Do your astrology books give any dope on what Ansel might have run into, — or who?”

She frowned daintily but there was no impatience in her voice. “The truth doesn’t really come from the books, Mister—?”

“Koski. Lieutenant Koski.”

“—it comes from the stars.”

“Okay. The stars have any data?”

“There are always indications. Only people don’t always interpret them properly. I did my best to warn Ansel. Every astro-physicist is aware that Neptune in an air sign has evil potentialities for those whose natal charts—”

“Yair, yair.” Koski sucked in his cheeks, pursed his lips. “Let’s skip the air signs and get down to earth. Any practical reason you know of for anyone to kill him?”

She opened her mouth to say something, changed her mind, shook her head instead.

“Or hack him to pieces? Or chuck his body in the tideway?”

She put her hand to her throat, — bent her head back, stared at him under lowered lids. “If that’s what happened, I’m not astonished. He never would pay any attention to the planetary influences that were so plain—”

“Pull over.” He held up a palm. “They don’t include a study of the stars at the Police Academy. So if it’s all the same with you, let’s skip the abracadabra.”

She pouted like a schoolgirl; there was a juvenile innocence in her wide-set green eyes. “But I was only trying to help you. You want to know what hapened to Ansel, don’t you?”

“I’ve a good idea what happened to Ansel. Right now I’d like to know a little something about your husband. For instance, he hasn’t been on board for quite a while, — until yesterday, — has he?”

She bent over to take a cigarette from a jade box. “Said the little black hen to the big red rooster, you ain’t been around, sir, as often as you useter.”

“Where has he been?”

“Where hasn’t he?” She let him strike a match, smiled intimately into his eyes when she leaned toward him. “Merrill has a crazy notion he ought to learn his father’s business from the sea up. So he’s tried it all. Longshoring, stoker, able-bodied sailor. Says he intends to learn all about going down to the sea in ships so some day he won’t be having to give orders he doesn’t know anything about. Carrying romance-of-the-sea a bit far, don’t you think?”

“Nothing very romantic about it these days, Mrs. Ovett. How long’s he been away this last time?”

“Seven weeks.”

“Mean to say he came home after two months’ absence, — and didn’t stay overnight? A fine thing!”

She pulled the sweater down tightly over her breasts, sighed. “The Seavett isn’t exactly Home Sweet Home to Merrill.”

“You live in town?”

“We have an apartment on Riverside Drive. We don’t use it a whole lot. You’ve heard of people being married — and not working at it.”

“Happens. One of those things?”

She lifted one shoulder, curled up a corner of her lips. “He’s so ridiculously jealous. He’s known Clem Hurlihan for years; — he’s perfectly aware I consult Clem about investments now and then. Yet when he came aboard yesterday and found Clem here, he got the sulks. Wouldn’t even talk to me.” She wriggled down on the pillows; rolled over on her side so she faced him. “I don’t have to tell you it was strictly for business reasons.”

“No. You don’t have to tell me that.” He began to sweat a little; it was close and hot in the stateroom. “You might tell me where your husband would have gone, if he wanted to find Hurlihan. After the superintendent had gone ashore.”

“Clem lives at the Sulgrave Hotel.”

He wrote it down. “Your husband didn’t actually have anything on you and Hurlihan?”

“Don’t be silly.” She kicked off one sandal. “Merrill might have wanted to get something on me, as you put it. That may have been why he was going after Ansel, hammer and tongs.”

“He was, hah?”

“I heard them wrangling down in the engine-room the minute Ansel came aboard. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, of course. But it would be just like Merrill to try and make Ansel admit that Clem and I... you know.” She put on a shy frown of embarrassment.

“Yair. There wouldn’t have been any reason for your husband being jealous of Ansel?”

“You must think I’m terribly bad!”

He took out the photograph, held it out on the flat of his hand.

“That?” She giggled, half-closed her eyes. “If that’s what’s bothering you! Clem took it. As a joke, of course. One day last summer when I didn’t know he’d come aboard.”

“I found it in Ansel’s cabin.”

“You did!” Color flooded up into her face. “You can’t imagine I knew he had it...”

“I had my imagination cut out years ago. What I want to know is where he got this. And if your husband knew he had it.”

“He might have taken it out of the stateroom Clem stayed in.” She watched his eyes to see whether he believed her. “One thing sure. He didn’t get it from Merrill. Merrill never saw it.” Her hand grabbed at the snapshot.

Koski held it out, away from her. A hand came from behind him, over his shoulder, snatched the print. He pushed his feet against the edge of the bed, tilted the chair back, wrenched around, got a grip on a starched white coattail.

A metal tray smashed down on his head, scalding fluid splashed across his face, crockery toppled into his lap. He hauled on the coat; fabric ripped. The Filipino came back to him, flailing wildly and clawing at his eyes.

Koski drove a short-arm jolt to the steward’s belt buckle. Frankie went to his knees, spitting in the Lieutenant’s face.

Barbara cried “Stop it” but made no attempt to interfere.

Koski’s left hand bunched the cloth of the Filipino’s coat just below the collar, yanked the steward toward him; his right, with the wrist and forearm rigid, drove in and up at the other’s chin.

Frankie fell down on his face, among smashed cups and plates. He stayed down, but one fist came up in a slashing arc. There was a jagged shard of tumbler in it. Koski kicked at the black hair. The Filipino jerked his head back. The toe of the shoe clipped him under the jaw, hard. He went over on his side, still jabbing ineffectually with the sliver of glass.

Koski stood up, shifted his weight stamped on Frankie’s wrist. “Cut it out now. Or I’ll part your hair down to the bone.” He pried the weapon out of the numb fingers, threw it behind him. Then he wound his fingers in the back of the Filipino’s collar, yanked him erect. “What makes with the berserk business?”

The steward showed his upper teeth. “You have no right to that photograph!”

“No? Maybe you have a. better one?”

The Filipino brought his knee up viciously, caught Koski in the groin. The pain doubled him up, but as he bent over, his left hand shot out, got a grip on Frankie’s throat. The steward squirmed, bowed his head, sank his teeth into the detective’s thumb. Koski smashed a hard right just back of the boy’s ear; his knees sagged; it took only a push to send him to the floor in a heap.

The Lieutenant straightened up, grimacing. He wiped a little blood from his thumb. “Have to take an anti-rabies shot for this.”

“He did act like a mad dog, didn’t he?” Barbara’s eyes were bright with excitement. “But Frankie simply misunderstood, Lieutenant.”

“You think so?” He prodded the Filipino with his foot. “You want another helping?”

Frankie lay still, wrapping a handkerchief around his hand where the glass had cut him.

“Get up.” Koski wound his fingers in the black hair, brought the steward to his feet, moaning. “If I didn’t have more urgent business on hand, I’d take you back downtown with me and run you through the wringer. If you start anything again, I’ll do it.”

“Oh, but Lieutenant.” Barbara pouted. “He didn’t really attack you. He thought you were trying to take something that belonged to me. You didn’t see what it was, did you, Frankie?”

The steward looked sullenly at the floor. “No, ma’am.”

“You can’t blame him for defending his employer’s interest, can you?” She waggled her fingers at the mess on the carpet. “Just see what you’ve done to my cabin.”

Koski released the steward, shoved him toward the door. “Better get that hand fixed up. You can come back and clean this up later.” He picked up the trampled snapshot.

Barbara held out a hand. “You hurt yourself, Frankie. Let me see.”

The Filipino put the hand with the stained handkerchief behind him. “It’s just a little cut, ma’am. I’m sorry I ruined your tray. I’ll make some more sandwiches. Excuse me, please.” He stalked away.

“I had no idea,” Barbara propped herself up on one elbow, “he would tear into you like that. But there’s no sense apologizing for loyalty, is there?”

“Not so far as I’m concerned.” Koski wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “But if he gets sudden spells of misunderstanding,—”

“You think he might have done away with Ansel?” She seemed to be debating the matter with herself. “Oh, Frankie was too scared of Gjersten. No,” she retrieved the chart of the zodiac which had slid to the floor, “all the signs seem to point... in another direction—”

“Here we go again. By any chance, do these celestial signboards say where your husband has gone?”

“I don’t need any planetary progression to know where Merrell will be.”

“Give.”

“With Ellen.”

“Keep pouring.”

“Ellen Wyatt. The sculptress. She has a studio on South Street somewhere. Merrill’s supposed to be posing. For a life-size figure. That’ll be his bedtime story.”

Koski grunted. “How you and your husband handle your private affairs is nothing in my life. I’m after a killer who might not stop with one murder. Take a tip from me. Don’t depend on the constellations to keep you out of trouble.”

He retrieved the boot, went out, up the companionway. She followed him to the deckhouse.

“If I could help you by working out Ansel’s horoscope...?”

“You can use voodoo, if it’ll dig up any real dope. But don’t expect me to go into a trance over any of your starfish.”

She disappeared below deck.

Cardiff was backed up against the chart-case. An empty glass and a bottle of Demerara rum, nearly empty, were within easy reach. “Get what you wanted, Lieutenant?”

“Nothing but a runaround. Except from that Filipino cookie. He blew his top. I had to muss him up a little.”

“Was that it? He came up here to get me to stick some adhesive on his hand. I thought I heard a fracas.”

“You haven’t heard the last of it. Quote you odds on that. When you go on patrol again?”

“Tomorrow night. We have the twelve-to-eight. Stratford Light to Penfield Reef. Why?”

“Because I want you people where I can get my hands on you. Nobody on this tub has a clean bill of health as yet. We might have to make a few bloodtests before we get through. I want all of you here. When I get back. All of you. Understand?” He went aft, hauled in the Vigilant’s bow-line, cast her off, jumped aboard.

Mulcahey was nursing an aluminum pot over a canned-alcohol flame. “A poor substitute for what you prob’ly been guzzling up on the palatial pleasure-craft. Would you turn up your nose at mere caffein, after bein’ offered the best the house affords?”

“Had all the stimulation I can stand, Irish. Kick her over.”

“Speaking of stimulation,” the Sergeant blew the flame out, “if that damsel you were interviewin’ was a sample of the upper crust, I could go for a moderate morsel of such.”

“You wouldn’t care for it. Too hot for your taste.”

“You underestimate me, Steven. I would not even require the customary book of verse. No, nor a jug of anything; — not with her beside me, now.”

“Mrs. Ovett has plenty of the old McGoo. More than she knows how to handle.”

“She got a rise out of you. Ha!” Mulcahey thumbed the starter-button.

“She’d get a rise out of a mummy. But she’s strictly a ga-ga. Kept double-talking me about foretelling this hatchet-work from the constellations. Wanted me to wait while she doped out who did it, — from a chart of the celestial cycles.”

“Hell, plenty of right people believe in astronomy. I got a cousin over in Hackensack who cleans up on the parimutuels by consulting one of them birthday books. He looks up every nag’s birthday before he will lay a buck on the line.”

“I must get him to pick me a winner for the Derby sometime. But that isn’t all that’s whacky with the Ovett babe. She’s a witch.”

“Now, now.” Mulcahey poured coffee into a thick mug. “Is that a thing to say on short acquaintance!”

“I should have sent you on board to make inquiries.”

“Foo.” The Sergeant blew on the coffee. “When better dames are made, Mulcahey will make them.”

“You’d have little or no trouble with this one.”

“Man-goofey?”

“Way I read it, she’s been steaming up to every male on the Seavett. Except the Cap, maybe. He’s over the age limit.”

The Sergeant peered at him across the top of the mug. “And her married to Ovett?”

“Young Merrell Ovett. He’s the guy absence didn’t make her fonder of. Just got back to the yacht last night after two months away. Stayed a few minutes, took it on the lam again.”

“When the cat’s away, the mice will play around. You tie this marital laxness to the human remnants in that suitcase?”

Koski stoked his pipe. “That’s the sixty-four-dollar question. I pass. Get going, will you? I have to make a hurry call.”

“The last one on the day’s schedule, I trust.”

“Never can tell... with a dame.”

“How do you care for that!” The Irishman bobbed his head in resentment. “You got to see a dame! What about the cute little canary who’s been eating her heart out all evenin’ long because I ain’t showed!”

“This is business, Sarge. You know what business comes before.”