This Is Murder

Chapter Three

Wind was howling across the bay, kicking up white-capped waves that tossed Moraine’s graceful yacht into violent motion.

Within the wheel house, two shadowy figures moved noiselessly about, their bodies outlined against the binnacle light.

Moraine, taking a cross bearing on two of the lights, said in low voice to Sid Bromley, his captain, “This is just about the place. We wait here for a speed boat.”

“What is it?” asked Bromley. “Liquor?”

“No,” Moraine told him, “it’s something different. The less you know about it, the better. Hold her right here. Watch for a speed boat.”

“There’s lights over on the port bow,” Bromley said.

Moraine cupped his hands about his eyes, peered out into the night. He pulled open the door of the wheel house, braced himself against gust of wind and stepped out on deck.

The lights were growing momentarily closer. The roar of a motor could be heard. He thrust his head back inside the door and said, “I think this is it, Sid.”

“It’s a hell of a night to monkey around a speed boat,” Bromley complained.

“Probably it’s a big one — a big power cruiser.”

Moraine reentered the wheel house and pulled a slicker about himself. A searchlight stabbed through to focus upon the name of the yacht. Apparently satisfied, the operator of the speed boat extinguished the light and swung in alongside.

“Turn her so we’ve got a lee side,” Moraine ordered, and went out on deck. He slid one foot over the rail. The speed boat came in close, paused for a moment on the crest of one of the waves, dropped away, then came up again.

“Jump!” a man yelled to Moraine.

Moraine jumped.

Someone grabbed his arm. A man, stepping forward from the shadows, took his other arm.

“All right?” the first asked.

“Okay,” Moraine said.

The second man slid his hands over Moraine’s body. He encountered the bulge of the gun on Moraine’s hip.

Moraine said, “Wait a minute,” and started to pull away. The man held his arms. The second man slid his hand under Moraine’s slicker, jerked out the gun and said, “Naughty, naughty!”

“I want that gun back,” Moraine said.

The man broke open the cylinder, shook the shells into his hand, then tossed them over the side of the speed boat. He handed the empty gun back to Moraine and said, soothingly, “Sure, buddy, you can have your gun back. No one wants your gun.”

Moraine said nothing, and the man gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “No hard feelings, buddy,” he said. “Don’t hold it against us. It’s all part of die game, you know. There’s nothing personal about it. Okay, boys, let’s go.”

The speed boat swung away in a circle, the bow cleaving the water into two curved waves. As it gathered momentum, the stern settled down. Waves struck the bow of the craft with the force of a battering ram.

“A hell of a night for a speed boat,” Moraine said.

“Yeah,” one of the men agreed. “You’ll get spray in your eyes, buddy, if you don’t pull your hat down.”

He grabbed Moraine’s oilskin hat, jerked it down on his forehead so that the brim covered Moraine’s eyes.

Moraine cursed.

Someone laughed. Moraine pushed at the hat brim. Hands circled his wrists and pulled them down. “Don’t do that,” a voice said. “You don’t want to see too much.”

The boat roared into greater speed, staggering at times as it smashed into some big waves. Twice it turned sharply, sluing around with the peculiar, uncertain motion of a speed boat. Then the motor slowed, the bow settled. Someone pulled Moraine’s hat up. He could see the lines of a sail boat. The speed boat drew alongside.

“You go aboard,” the man told him.

The man at the wheel of the speed boat jockeyed it up close to the small yacht. Moraine waited for an advantageous wave and jumped to the deck. A shadowy figure materialized from the darkness and said, “This way.”

“I want assurance I’m dealing with the right parties,” Moraine said.

“You’ll have it,” the man at his side told him. “Come this way.”

Moraine was guided toward the bow of the little cruiser. A canvas was slid back from a skylight, and he found himself looking down into a small, lighted cabin. Evidently this was not the main cabin, but one which opened just forward of it. It was occupied by a young woman who was lying stretched out on a berth. Her face was a peculiar greenish pallor. As Moraine watched, she was seized with a violent fit of retching. When she flung herself back on the berth, Moraine had an opportunity to study her features.

“Looks like the one,” he said.

“She is the one,” the man at his elbow said. “Hell, we wouldn’t want to run a ringer in on you. We don’t want the broad; we want the dough. We want old bills, ten grand, all in twenties, no numerical sequence. If you’ve got it, okay. If there’s anything funny about it, the girl goes overboard. We don’t want any distinguishing marks on the bills.”

Moraine unbuttoned his slicker, opened his coat and vest, unstrapped a money belt.

“Here it is,” he said.

He was conscious of other figures on the deck, men who had jumped from the speed boat, men who had apparently pushed their way up from the main cabin. And now they came crowding toward him.

The man at his side grabbed the belt.

“Okay, Louie,” he said, “get down there and bring the broad up. Make it snappy. Throw her and her stuff into the speed boat, and for God’s sake, shake a leg.”

He held the money belt in his hand for a moment, letting the wind whip it about. Then he held it so that the light which came up from the cabin illuminated it. He opened one of the pockets, saw the frayed edges of old bills. He nodded his head and snapped the leather compartment shut.

“She’s all yours, brother,” he said. “We never did want her. All we wanted was the dough. Take her with you, and you can’t get started any too quick to suit us. You get back in the speed boat. We’ll load her aboard.”

“No,” Moraine told him. “I stay here until I get her.”

The man laughed sarcastically.

“My God,” he observed, “if we’d wanted to cross you, we’d have pitched you overboard when we got the dough. Hurry up, Louie. Get that broad up here.”

There was a commotion near the entrance to the main cabin. A group of shadowy figures swirled toward the rail. The speed boat bumped alongside. Someone tossed a bundled figure over into the speed boat, and the man at Moraine’s elbow growled, “Okay, buddy, on your way.”

He pushed Moraine toward the speed boat. Moraine jumped to the bobbing deck of the lighter craft. Almost at once the speed boat roared into motion, getting away so rapidly that Moraine was all but thrown off his feet.

He caught his balance, bent over the huddled figure on the deck.

“Mrs. Hartwell?” he asked.

She moaned an affirmative.

No one said anything about blindfolding Moraine. He could see the lights of his yacht. The speed boat roared directly toward them, sending waves curling from the bow, while particles of salt spray rattled against the deck like buckshot.

Twice during the trip the girl was seized with spells of nausea. She crawled to the side of the boat. Moraine held her head, struggled to keep the limp weight of her body from dropping down into the swirling waters. He looked up to see the hulk of his own yacht looming almost alongside. The man at the wheel of the speed boat shouted, “Don’t turn on any fights. We’ll take care of what we want.”

A hand flashlight sent its beam slithering along the deck of the big yacht. A swell lifted the speed boat to within a few feet of the deck.

“Throw out a fine,” Moraine called to Bromley.

“We’re giving orders here,” the man at the wheel said. “To hell with the fine.”

Two men picked up the girl. They almost flung her to the deck of the cruiser. She staggered and would have fallen back into the water had it not been for Moraine’s supporting arm as he made a flying leap, caught his left hand on the hand rail, circled her waist with his right arm.

He turned angrily to remonstrate with the men on the speed boat. As he did so, something struck him on the chest, something which dropped to the deck with a thud. The roar of the speed boat’s motor drowned his comments.

Moraine shouted in the girl’s ear, “Stand up! Get some strength in your knees!”

Men were running along the deck. Sid Bromley’s hands caught her as she relaxed completely into limp lifelessness.

Moraine remembered the thing which had been flung at him from the speed boat. He groped around until he found it, picked it up and carried it to his cabin.

It was a woman’s purse.

Moraine dropped it in a drawer of his dresser, took off his slicker and went to the main cabin, where Bromley was pouring out champagne for the girl.

“It’ll pick you up,” he said, “and it’s the best cure known for seasickness.”

Moraine went to her. She smiled at him between gulps of the liquid.

“Anything else?” Bromley asked.

“That’s all. Head her for the yacht harbor.”

Bromley nodded, pushed his way out of the cabin.

“You’re Ann Hartwell?” Moraine asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, a lot better. The champagne seems to settle my stomach.”

“How long have you been on that other yacht?”

“For days.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. We were out on the ocean.”

Moraine frowned at her contemplatively.

“How long since you left home?” he asked.

“I didn’t leave home — I was taken.”

“How long?”

“Two weeks, I think. I’ve lost track of time.”

“Why didn’t they demand ransom earlier?”

“I don’t know — there was something wrong. Something frightened them. They couldn’t get in touch with my husband.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I just heard what they said.”

“Where were, you when you heard them talking about this?”

“On the yacht.”

“You’ve been living on that little yacht?”

“Yes.”

“Ever since you were taken from your husband’s house?”

“I guess so; yes. Around two weeks — something like that. They had me for a day in a shack. Then they put me on the cruiser.”

“Could you see where you were going?”

“No, I could only tell by the swells.”

“There were lots of swells?”

“I’ll say there were. I didn’t like them.”

She made a grimace and sank back on the cushions, saying, “That champagne makes it a lot better, though. I wish I’d known about it sooner.”

“Grandest little remedy for seasickness in the world,” Moraine told her. “You go ahead and he down on that couch. Keep quiet for a while.”

“The motion’s a lot easier on this ship.”

“It’s larger, and we’re headed toward the yacht basin.”

“My husband will be waiting there?”

“I guess so,” he told her. “Don’t talk. Lie still and keep quiet.”

He drew a robe up over her, switched out all except one of the lights and went up to the wheel house.

“What does she have to say?” Bromley asked.

“Not much of anything,” Moraine told him, lighting a cigarette.

“Going to report it to the authorities?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Could you get any line on the boat she was on?”

“No. It looked like a remodeled fishing boat. It bobbed around a lot but seemed fairly seaworthy.”

Moraine smoked in silence. The big yacht knifed though the chop with the smooth dignity of a queen. It eased its way through the narrow opening to the yacht basin, and, crawling along over the light-reflecting waters, nosed its way into its berth. One of the seamen jumped out with a fine. A moment later Bromley shut off the engine.

“Were fast,” he said.

Moraine buttoned his coat about him, pulled a hat down on his head.

“I’m going to get her out of here before anything else happens,” he told Bromley. “You remember to tip the men off not to answer any questions in case anyone should get inquisitive.”

Moraine went down to the main cabin, got the girl to her feet, bundled her in a coat, guided her to the deck. She had one foot over the side of the yacht, groping for the stairs which led down to the mooring float, when the beam of a flashlight stabbed through the darkness.

A man’s voice said, “You re under arrest, both of you. Don’t make any sudden moves. Get your hands up in the air and keep them that way.”