“Back up a minute. What did he mean when this Tarkington said he knew Kirkman ‘by reputation’?”
“Wade said he was always involved in petty criminal cases because he’d achieved a notoriety of sorts for quashing convictions via mistrial and appeal procedures. Kirkman pulled Swope through a very messy bankruptcy proceeding.”
I had been directing Val with hand signals so that her verbal flow of information wouldn’t be impeded. We were approaching reentry onto the Golden State Freeway. I had to retrieve the rented Cutlass from the parking lot on Puente near the city of Duarte.
“Okay. Now what about this Swope?”
“That’s a real coincidence. I know him slightly myself. I was at a party on his boat once.”
“Boat?”
“He has a big ketch. That’s how Wade knows him. They both rent space at the Marina del Rey near Culver Boulevard between Malibu and Long Beach. Wade says Swope can’t afford his boat because he’s paying heavy alimony.”
I was thinking about Swope’s boat. After the kidnapping, the gang had needed a safe hiding place to keep Melissa out of sight. In some ways a boat was nearly ideal in such a situation. A marina isn’t usually part of a high-density complex, and the tiny staterooms of a boat would be convenient for caging a prisoner.
“When I made my second call, I asked about Swope first,” Val continued. “I phoned Harry Brogan, an engineer. He knew Swope well. Harry said that Swope used to be a very clever electronics designer before he got into trouble. He was arrested on a charge of arson in connection with an explosion in a furniture factory.”
“An explosion in a furniture factory,” I said reflectively. “What happened?”
“Roger Kirkman got him off.”
“Kirkman and Swope. Swope and Kirkman. What does this Swope look like?”
“Brown hair, brown eyes, tall, trim, athletic-looking. Vain about his appearance. A ladies’ man. Or so he thinks.”
“You’re speaking from personal experience?”
She sniffed. “I left the party on his boat early, and I’ve never been back.”
I interrupted my thoughts to tell her where my car was parked. She nodded. She knew the area. “Did I say before that Roger Kirkman is a heavy drinker?” she asked.
“You did. I recall your saying, too, that he was a flabby fat man. That doesn’t jibe with either of the kidnappers I saw at the airport. Swope could qualify, except that the description you gave of him would fit two hundred thousand men in the Southern California area alone.” I thought about it for a moment. “I wish I knew what Stan Kirkman looks like.”
Val had been glancing at me from the corner of her eye. “What’s the matter with your arm?” she wanted to know.
“There was a deadfall planted above Melissa’s body where I found her. It was supposed to wipe me out, but I was able to react in time except for the arm. It was another good technical job, whether by Swope or someone else.”
“And they got the money?”
“Yes.” I explained to her how it had been managed. “They figured me correctly. I wouldn’t have left the briefcase on the bus if I hadn’t seen Melissa’s head and yellow dress above the back of the rocking chair.”
“But how could they get their hands on the briefcase after you left it on the bus?”
“I think they had someone on the bus. Someone I’d never seen, and that they intended I’d never see again.”
We rode for a while in silence. I knew what Val’s next question was going to be. I could see her casting around in her mind for the proper way to put it. Finally she just laid it on the line. “What are you going to do now, Earl?”
“About what?” I stalled.
“The money. The kidnappers.”
“I don’t know.”
“But you’re going to do something?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“They shouldn’t get away with it,” she said.
“So far they’ve done a good job of it.”
“So what are you going to do?” she persisted. “Can you go to the police now that Melissa is—is—” She couldn’t make herself say it. “—gone?”
“No.”
She became angry then at my lack of communicativeness. “I’m trying to help!” she stormed. Haven’t I tried to help? Do you think I’m going to run to the police with anything you tell me?”
“You’ve been very helpful,” I tried to soothe her. “The main reason I don’t tell you anything is that I don’t know myself. But there’s another reason. You live here. If anything goes wrong, you’d be much better off being able to deny that you knew anything about it.”
She didn’t look particularly mollified. “I can take care of myself,” she informed me.
“I’m sure you can.” I wasn’t that sure, actually, but I wanted to steer her away from trying to declare herself in on any possible action. “Maybe I’ll drive down to the marina you mentioned and take a look at Swope’s boat.”
“Why?”
“I’ve got to start somewhere. And just about anything I learn will be more than I know now.”
“One thing you’ll learn is that Kirkman and Swope are playboys. They have quite a swinging operation. Swope, because of his looks, is the girl-gatherer. He takes them to Kirkman’s bachelor apartment where the wine flows freely. Then the party adjourns to the ketch. Did I say it’s named the Hind Site? Considering what goes on aboard it, I’m sure it’s aptly named.”
“It sounds expensive. Is that why Swope needs Kirkman?”
“Exactly. But I never heard that Roger Kirkman could maintain that type of operation indefinitely, either.”
“Few can. Doesn’t Swope have a place of his own?”
“Not since his ex-wife got through cleaning him out. He lives on the boat, about the only thing she left him. And the Hind Site’s probably only a fast sail or two ahead of the sheriff.”
Swope’s living on the boat might make taking a look at it a bit difficult. I hadn’t realized how fully I’d committed myself to checking out Martin Swope until I realized the difficulty. No single major item pointed toward Swope and the Kirkmans as the kidnappers, but a lot of little things did. And the clincher was that nothing seemed to be pointing in any other direction.
“Thanks,” I told Val when she stopped her car at the Puente parking lot. “I’ll see you back at the motel in an hour.”
“For what?” she demanded with her usual bluntness.
“Well,” I countered, “shall we say for the purpose of white slavery?”
She smiled for the first time since she’d picked me up. “I think you’re a one-woman dog, Earl.”
“No man is a one-woman dog, Val. You women won’t let it happen.”
“This woman will,” she said crisply. “You’re not just fobbing me off with this ‘see-you-in-an-hour’ bit?”
I was, of course. I wanted to know where she was while I looked over the Swope operation.
She spoke again before I could add any more salad oil. “I’d like to help,” she said quietly. “I hope you realize that.”
It’s not your war, I started to say.
I didn’t say it.
“I’ll see you,” I repeated.
I left her car, walked into the lot, waited until she drove away, checked out the Cutlass up, down, and sideways before getting into it, paid the parking charge to a different attendant, and headed for the Marina del Rey.
NINE
I KNEW THAT BOATING WAS BIG BUSINESS IN SOUTHERN California, but even so my first glimpse of the marina between Culver and Venice Boulevards was quite a surprise. It almost comprised a city in itself if boats were substituted for houses. The carpet of hulls and the forest of masts at anchor in the man-made harbor I estimated at two square miles in area was eye-boggling.
The open water that filled the coastal indentation between Malibu and Long Beach was sprinkled liberally with sails of all sizes, shapes, and colors. I hoped that one of those about to disappear over the horizon was
n’t that of the Hind Site.
I parked a block away from the harbormaster’s office and walked to it. Inside, I had to wait a few minutes while a cocktail-fueled group of loud-talking men dressed in gaudy nautical attire completed their business. Tailored blue blazers, dazzling white trousers, sneakers, and black-visored yachting caps constituted the uniform of the day. Correct costuming seemed to be essential in this obviously high-rental slip district.
The young fellow with whom the men were talking wore only skin-tight, cutoff blue jeans. The only other break in his well-muscled, mahogany-tanned expanse of epidermis was a silver medallion hanging from a chain around his neck. He seemed in no awe of the starchy-looking types confronting him.
I turned to a large map of the marina posted on a side wall while I was waiting. The layout was extensive. Almost every slip shown on the map had a name penciled in beside it, and a glance out through the large window overlooking the dock area confirmed via bobbing masts that there was probably a waiting list for anchorage. The variety of boats tugging at their lines in the offshore breeze seemed to represent just about every facet of the shipbuilder’s art.
I was looking for Swope’s name on the map, but I hadn’t found it by the time the nautically dressed group departed and the young fellow turned expectantly to me. “Are you the harbormaster?” I asked.
He smiled. “No. I’m the chief cook and bottle washer around here. Something I can do for you?”
“I’m trying to locate a boat,” I told him. “It’s called the Hind Site. I understand it might be for sale.”
The young fellow’s smile changed. It took on the appearance of someone enjoying an inside joke. “Marty Swope’s boat?” he asked.
“I don’t know the owner. I was at a cocktail party the other night, and someone mentioned this nice ketch at the Marina del Rey that might be available. I got to thinking about it afterward, and since I had a couple of hours on my hands today I thought I’d take a look.” I waited for a moment. “Is the Hind Site worth taking a look at?”
“It’s a damn fine boat.” The young fellow took a step in my direction, holding out his hand. “I’m Carl Hagedorn, Mr …?” He waited expectantly.
“I’m Dewey Elliott, Carl.”
His handshake was firm. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Elliott.” He turned toward the large window. “The Hind Site’s in the dead boat area at the north end of the slips,” he said, pointing.
“Dead boat area?” I had to ask even though it might hurt my image as a boat fancier.
Carl Hagedorn’s crooked smile returned. “Mr. Swope is in arrears with his dock fees. Off the record, he’s run up a few other bills, too. We had to tow the Hind Site to the dead boat area so the slip it formerly occupied could be rented to a more … ah … active member.”
“I understand. Thanks, Carl. I’ll find it.”
I went outside and started along the heavy dock planking in the direction Carl Hagedorn had indicated. When I reached the more isolated portion of the marina near its northern limits, I understood the term “dead boat” much better. The craft assigned to this section of the anchorage were in various stages of disrepair. Some of the boats didn’t even look seaworthy. Two were wallowing so low in the water it looked as though their keels were resting on the bottom.
The majority of the active slips were empty as boat owners were out taking advantage of the stiffening breeze. I passed one man, though, who had rigged himself a boatswain’s chair and was aloft varnishing his mast. The clear coating he was applying glistened in the sunlight.
The Hind Site was easy to find in the dead boat area. It stood out like a princess among hags. The boat was clean and shipshape, her brass shining, lines coiled, and deck scrubbed. Its size surprised me. Alongside the stubby powerboats lashed stern-to against the main dock, it seemed enormous. Individual boats were separated from each other by sagging walkways that projected perpendicularly from the main dock.
The Hind Site, however, was tied up lengthwise. It floated level with and parallel to the dock with its bow pointing toward the main channel leading to the sea. The boat’s smart appearance was another surprise inasmuch as it indicated that those manning her took pride in their work. I wouldn’t have expected it from what I’d learned about Martin Swope. The Hind Site’s well-kept exterior could only be the result of almost daily attention. I was encouraged by the sight. It did more or less verify that Swope used the boat as his home.
I stopped when I was within twenty yards. I moved behind the nearest shack in a line of service sheds placed regularly along the dock. They contained fresh water hose connections, electrical plugs, and space for the owner’s paint, varnish, and tool storage.
I waited and watched. All was quiet aside from the screeching of sea gulls and the lapping of water against piles and planking. There was a low humming sound from behind me. I finally identified it as the sound of vehicular traffic moving along Lincoln Boulevard.
I waited long enough for anyone moving around normally on the boat to make an appearance on deck. I didn’t think anyone was sleeping below. All the hatches and ports I could see were closed. No one could sleep comfortably in an airtight cabin in the afternoon heat. There was no sound from the Hind Site. No auxiliary power unit was running to operate an airconditioner.
I stepped out from behind the shed and moved toward the Hind Site, keeping close to the line of interspersed sheds so I could duck behind another one if someone appeared suddenly on the deck of Swope’s boat. There wasn’t much chance I would be a stranger to Swope if he was one of the kidnap gang. He had probably seen me more than once, possibly even after I had changed my appearance. On the other hand I had only the shadowy impression of my airport assailants to guide me in recognition.
I walked along the pier the length of the Hind Site, then retraced my steps. I stooped down at the bow to try to peer through three forward portholes located just below the gunwale. They were sealed and appeared to have their interior covers locked down. I couldn’t see anything inside.
I took the bull by the horns and stepped over the handrail amidships, down onto the deck. Drawn curtains behind the main cabin windows again blocked my view, so I worked my way aft.
I glanced aloft as I went. The tops of the masts circled gently against a bright blue sky. There was a haze at the outer limits of the harbor, but alongside the dock everything was crystal clear. The Hind Site rolled slowly under my feet, impelled by the movement of the water that was colored green by algae.
A three-step ladder led down to the entrance to the cabin from the open cockpit near the fantail. I descended the ladder and tried the closed cabin door. It was locked. I was tempted to pick it, but there was the chance I’d be seen, perhaps by the man aloft in his boatswain’s chair. I left the boat and walked back down the pier to the harbormaster’s office.
This time young Carl Hagedorn was alone. I had folded a twenty dollar bill into a tight square while I was walking. “You wouldn’t happen to have a key to the Hind Site, would you?” I asked him, handing him the bill. “The exterior looks good, but I’d like to take a look around inside.”
He hesitated, looking down at the bill in his hand. Then he shoved it into a pocket of his jeans. “We’re not going to get our money until Swope sells his boat,” he reasoned aloud. “So I guess the boss wouldn’t chew me out too bad if I bent the rules a little.” He went to a desk, opened a drawer, and rummaged inside.
“How’s the boss going to know?” I asked innocently when he returned from the desk and handed me a thick brass key. Carl grinned, and I decided to try for a little more for my twenty dollars’ worth. “What does Swope work at?”
“Well, electronics is his thing, but he hasn’t been really into it for a couple of years. I did hear he was doing the blasting and demolition work for a small construction company up in Oregon fairly recently. But he never seems to stay with anything very long. Mostly he just hangs around the boat. And gives parties.”
Explosives again. And electronics cou
ld certainly mean communications. The radio telephone in the car with its preset channel certainly wouldn’t be beyond the capability of a man with an electronics background. “He keeps the boat looking nice,” I said.
“Oh, that’s Toad.”
“Toad?”
“Toad Almeida. Manuel Almeida. Swope’s valet.”
“Valet?” I echoed blankly.
Carl grinned. “I’m kidding. Toad does all the work on the Hind Site in return for Swope’s letting him live on it.”
“I might like to make an arrangement like that if I buy the boat,” I said. “Should I try to hire this Almeida?”
“Not if I were you,” Carl said decisively. “He’s a bit of crockery. They call him Toad because of his looks. All shoulders and chest with stumpy legs, and a flat, pushed-in face. He tells it around that he used to be a strong man in a Cuban circus. I know he used to be on the smalltime pro wrestling circuit around here but he couldn’t cut it. Swope told me once that Toad had played monsters and gorillas in Hollywood ‘B’ movies. But he’s got a bad rep in the neighborhood saloons. Goes for a knife when he gets nasty, and he gets nasty in a hell of a hurry.”
“He speaks Spanish,” I suggested.
“Oh, sure. The boss slips him a buck every now and then for translating when we get a Mexican crew up from Baja California.”
I thought of the Spanish-speaking radio station to which the car radio of the gray sedan had been tuned when I first picked it up at the Puente Avenue parking lot.
“You don’t make Toad sound very attractive,” I said. “I guess I won’t try to make him part of the package.” I started toward the door, then turned back as though with an afterthought. “I don’t understand this Swope being behind with his wharfage bill. He must have had money when he acquired a boat like the Hind Site, didn’t he?”
“You bet. That ketch represents a lot of cash on the waterline. I don’t know what he did with his money. I know we haven’t seen any of it for too long. The boss keeps mumbling about slapping a paper on the boat, but I think he’s afraid of Swope.”
Operation Deathmaker Page 12