by Rex Burns
Crude Carrier
A Touchstone Agency Mystery
Rex Burns
MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
To Susan Weston-Frey
1949–2009
I
It all started with a letter from the owners of the SS Aurora Victorious to the parents of the ship’s third officer:
Hercules Maritime Shipping Company, Ltd.
Sea Transport of General and Specialized Cargo
Home Office: 17 Crosswall St., London, EC3
Agencies in New York, Yokohama, Brindisi, Fremantle, Abu Dhabi
Mr. and Mrs. R. A. Rossi
22390 Belleview Lane
Denver, Colorado 80209
USA
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Rossi,
It is with deep regret that we inform you of the death at sea of your son, Third Officer Harold Rossi, aboard the SS Aurora Victorious. Enclosed, please find a check for the amount of US$3,027.14, the total of Third Officer Rossi’s due wages and allowances, less deductions and fees.
Please understand that Hercules Maritime Shipping Company, Ltd., has been absolved of any legal responsibility for your son’s death. If you have further questions, please do not hesitate to contact one of our offices.
With sincere condolences,
Joseph K. Wood
Marine Superintendent
JKW:ml
(Encl.)
Subsequent attempts by Mr. and Mrs. Rossi to reach one of those offices and ask further questions about the death of their son had been fruitless. Their frustration led, one warm September afternoon, to the offices of the Touchstone Agency and the desk of James Raiford.
The Rossis had only three letters they could show Raiford. Most of their communication with their son had been by telephone or by camcorder discs that were usually erased and refilmed. The letters spoke of ports of call: loading at oil platforms in the Persian Gulf—well south, Rossi assured his parents, of Iraq and its turmoil—and unloading at the Virgin Islands in the Gulf of Mexico. One envelope bore a bright stamp from St. Croix, Virgin Islands, while the other two had Arabic stamps. The earliest letter stated that Third Mate Rossi disliked the fact that the oil tanker was so big they had to load and unload far from shore—sometimes as much as fifty miles out. But if his first ship—the MV Helena Georgiou, according to his parents—was more fun in port, the pay and living conditions were much better on a tanker, even one so old. The second letter said he was learning a lot about ships in general and oil tankers in particular, since the Aurora Victorious was so automated that the small crew had to tend to all duties above- and belowdecks. He also described a big storm they went through north of Madagascar, and he offered one line on Halul Island: “sort of like a flattened biscuit, real hot, with a lot of oil transfer rigs.” He said he would send another disc when enough worth taking pictures of happened. The last letter spoke of shipboard routine and dislike for the first mate. All were filled with questions about home: what was happening and who was doing it.
They also gave Raiford a copy of Rossi’s contract, which he’d sent home for safekeeping. A boilerplate document, its blanks were filled with Rossi’s name, the name of the ship, the duration of the contract, and his monthly salary. Listed in general terms were the duties of the third officer (Navigation) and benefits and allowances that Hercules Maritime would provide in addition to salary. Those benefits, headed “Medical Benefits,” “Insurance Benefits,” and “Other Compensation,” had been lined out. The final paragraph was one long sentence attesting that the party of the second part had read the contract and agreed to abide by its covenants as well as by any which hereinafter may be appended through said party’s signature to the Ship’s Articles (SS Aurora Victorious) and any consequent modifications thereof unilaterally effected by the party of the first part. Beneath that were Rossi’s scrawled signature and the date.
Later that day, Raiford showed the Rossi file to his partner, Julie. She finished reading the contract and looked up at her father. “What he signed was no better than a blank form!”
Raiford nodded. “He must have been so happy to get the job that he didn’t care what he signed.”
“Or had no choice.”
The contract, like the notification of death, gave both father and daughter a sense of a legal and moral emptiness as large as the ocean itself into which a man could disappear and no one be held accountable.
“I think this is one we want to handle, Julie.”
“Do you want the shipping company or the underwriters?”
Raiford glanced at his watch. “Underwriters. But first thing in the morning: East Coast offices are closed now.”
At 1:04 P.M. the following day, Julie’s telephone rang. The marine operator said she had the SS Aurora Victorious on the line as requested, and then she asked whether Touchstone Agency wished to complete the call at this time. Julie said yes.
Wherever the oil tanker was, it took a two-second delay for the British voice to bounce off a satellite in reply to her query: “That’s right, Miss Campbell. I’m the ship’s master. Captain Boggs. If you have questions about Third Mate Rossi’s death, direct them to our home office, Hercules Maritime. I have nothing to say about it.”
“We received notice of his death from Hercules Maritime, Captain. But it didn’t go into detail. Naturally, his mother and father would like to know as much as possible about the loss of their son. Can you tell me how it happened?”
“Died at sea. Buried there.”
And apparently didn’t make much of a ripple. “Was it illness or an accident? Did he suffer? Did he have any last words for his parents?”
“No time for words. Fell down a ladder, fractured his skull.”
“What about a funeral service, Captain? Can you tell me something about that? Perhaps give me some map coordinates, so his parents at least know where his body is?”
“No. The hour here is late. Talk to Hercules Maritime and their attorneys, Miss Campbell. Good-bye.”
Julie stared at the silent telephone for a long moment. There could be several reasons the good captain would hide behind the shipping company lawyers, none of which boded well for the Rossi family and their quest.
At three thirty-seven, Raiford received a telephone call from the Herberling Investigation Agency and Mr. Bertram Herberling himself. The Touchstone Agency’s earlier inquiry to Marine Carriers Worldwide Insurance Corporation about a death on one of the Hercules Maritime vessels they insured, the Aurora Victorious, had been forwarded to him for investigation. Could Mr. Raiford answer a few questions?
“Your client told me this morning that they underwrite only vessels and cargo and have no liability for the crew. Why are you now interested in a crew member, Mr. Herberling?”
“The person you spoke with didn’t know that Hercules Maritime has placed a claim with Marine Carriers for another of its vessels, the Golden Dawn. It was recently lost in the Indian Ocean—an oil-bulk-ore carrier.”
Raiford thought that over. “You’re looking for a pattern of negligence by the shipping company or incompetence by the crews?”
The voice held a shrug. “If proven, it could be grounds for the underwriters to negate a percentage, or even all, of the owners’ claim for the Golden Dawn, yes.”
A ship’s insurance was based on—among other factors—the age and most recent inspection of the vessel’s hull and operating machinery, the certification and safety records of a ship’s officers, and the ability and training of its crew in standard operating procedures. Any misrepresentation could invalidate an insurance award. “How much indemnity for the lost ship?”
“Hull, cargo, and antic
ipated freight: five and a half million dollars, give or take the odd penny.”
Raiford whistled silently: that would make anyone’s petty cash drawer jingle merrily.
Herberling anticipated his next question. “Should your case develop anything that contributes to a … favorable outcome for Marine Carriers, I’m authorized to offer a reward for such information.” He added, “It could be a tidy sum.”
Tidy sums were very nice and brought a smile to Raiford’s face. “I think we can work together, Mr. Herberling.” He told him what little they had in their case notes.
“Thank you. By the way, I admired Touchstone Agency’s work on the Medusa Investment case.”
That had been a ponzi scheme promising a thirty percent return on East European investments and aimed at professional athletes who had a lot of money and little business sense. “Did you have a client in that?”
“No. I read about it in the Paris International. I look forward to working with you.”
The next morning as Julie unlocked the office, the telephone rang. Detective Sergeant Kirby of the New York City Police Department was anxious to talk with a representative of Touchstone Agency. “I understand you people are investigating the death of a sailor on an oil tanker?”
Julie wondered if the Rossi death had been posted on the Times Square news board. “That’s right.”
“And that you and a Mr. Herberling talked about it yesterday evening?”
Evening in New York; afternoon in Denver. “My partner did, yes.”
“Did they talk about the Golden Dawn?”
“Why do you want to know, Sergeant?”
The vaguely East Coast accent sharpened with authority. “Official police inquiry. What did he tell you about the Golden Dawn or the Hercules Maritime Shipping Company?”
Julie’s atennae felt a quiver of suspicion. She had never heard a cop outside of television shows use the phrase “official police inquiry.” “What precinct are you with, Sergeant?”
“What’s that?”
“Your precinct and badge number. Some kind of identification.”
“Identification? Sure—Precinct Fifty-Two. Badge number nine-five-six-zero-three. Now all I’m asking, see, is for a little help here—just tell me what Herberling talked about. We do it over the phone, it saves everybody a little time. No summonses, no depositions, none of that crap. Just trying to make life a little easier, okay?”
“You’re calling from precinct headquarters?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll call you back in five minutes.”
“Hey—talk to me now. I’m really in a hurry—”
It took the full five minutes for Julie to go through information in New York and finally ring the Fifty-Second Precinct. The heavy Bronx accent said they did not have a detective sergeant by that name, but they did have a patrol sergeant named Kirby. Did Julie want to talk to him?
“Yes, please.”
“Then call back Monday. He’s on leave.”
As she hung up, her father came into Julie’s office, papers in hand. “What’s the matter?”
As she told him about the call, he stared out the window toward the distant mountains glimpsed between the towering new apartments, condos, and offices of Denver’s burgeoning LoDo neighborhood. “Yesterday, a call from Herberling. Today from a fake cop.”
“Maybe Rossi’s death is more important than we know.”
Raiford held out the papers. “Funny you should say that. This fax just came in from the Marine Advisory Exchange.”
Page one was a receipt from the MAE for payment rendered. The other pages were what Touchstone Agency had rendered for. Page two, directed toward shippers, gave the founding date of the Hercules Maritime Shipping Company; the address and telex number of the home office in London; the type of vessels available for charter—tankers, oil-bulk-ore carriers, grain carriers—and the types of contracts the company offered: voyage or time, crewed or bare boat. The brokerage company that drummed up customers for Hercules Maritime was V. G. Braithwaite, the Baltic Exchange, London. A paragraph evaluating Hercules Maritime’s performance revealed that in the past five years, shippers had filed nine civil complaints against the company, ranging from goods damaged in transport to delayed or lost cargo. Hercules Maritime had been ordered to pay four of the claims and its reliability rating had recently slipped to “Acceptable.”
“That’s Lloyd’s lowest category. 100A, A, Restricted A, and Acceptable.”
“Which is why Herberling is interested in Rossi’s death.”
Raiford nodded. “Customer satisfaction is almost as important as safety records for insurance rates. Add Rossi’s death and that could up the insurance cost on every ship Hercules owns.”
Page three held a terse history of Rossi’s ship, the oil tanker SS Aurora Victorious: VLCC class of 334,000 tons deadweight, keel laid by Mitsui Shipbuilders on 12 Feb 88. Launched 1 Aug 89. Delivered 7 Dec 90 as the Texaco Pearl. Sold 2003 to Hibbard and Sons, renamed Daniel K. Ludwig. Sold to Hercules Maritime 2008, renamed Aurora Victorious. Last safety survey, April of current year, resulting in a hull suitable for seagoing service. Insurance underwriters: Marine Carriers Worldwide. A final entry held the vessel’s technical description—its dimensions, capacities, and rated speed, all of which added up to just what its VLCC class stated: a very large crude carrier.
Julie tapped the sheets together. “This ship’s almost thirty years old.”
Raiford nodded. Most tankers in service averaged about half that. “The owners are squeezing all they can out of her.”
“Yeah. This reads like a Better Business report on a shady used-car dealer: nothing proven, but buyer beware.”
II
The following morning, while Raiford was going through the notes and documents once more, Julie tried to reach Bertram Herberling. He hadn’t answered when she had tried earlier, and this time was no different: the line clicked to a recorded message asking that the caller leave a message. She finally dialed a different number, expecting a similar result. But she was surprised by a human voice, “Ahern Investigations. Percy Ahern speaking.”
“Percy—this is Julie Campbell in Denver.”
“Julie! The dream of my heart! When are you going to quit working for that slave-driving father of yours and join me in the most fabulous city in the world?”
“Business must be fabulously slow if you’re in your office.”
“Naw—I’m catching up on accounts, is all. So much income, so little time to count it. This is, I hope, a social call?”
“No.” Julie told him about Rossi, Herberling, and the nonexistent Detective Sergeant Kirby. “We haven’t been able to reach Herberling yet, and I’m not sure if you can do anything for us, Perse. But it’s your turf and I thought I’d call. Any thoughts or suggestions? Is Herberling reliable?”
“Herberling’s okay. I worked with him and his partner a couple years ago on a maritime insurance scam. What’s his partner’s name … ? Mack—that’s it: Stanley Mack. And Herb gave a talk at an association meeting last year on security for port facilities. Your cop, I don’t know about, but I agree it smells. It’s pretty obvious somebody wants to know what Herberling told you.”
That was what Julie and Raiford thought, too. “Any idea why Herberling would be interested in Rossi’s death?”
“Just what he told you: looking for any pattern of faulty maintenance or poor seamanship that would reduce the insurance award on that other boat. Let me see if I can locate him—I’ll try to get back to you soon. Billable time or courtesy?”
“Billable, for a change.”
“Then I’ll definitely get back to you soon.”
Raiford moved from computer to telephone. Rossi’s first ship, the MV Helena Georgiou, had been listed in an online shipping directory as a combination break-bulk and containerized cargo liner with a rated
speed of 18.2 knots and deadweight of 14,439 tons. Owned and operated by the Langerfield Lines of Baltimore, it was of Panamanian registry and made scheduled calls at ports between Rio de Janeiro and the east coast of the United States south of Cape Hatteras. It was due to berth in Savannah, Georgia, at 22:00 hours 2 October, pier 3. Communication was via radiotelephone and short wave. No telex, no e-mail.
The radiotelephone operator put Raiford through to a woman who answered, “Bridge, Helena Georgiou, First Officer Steinfurth speaking.”
He explained who he was and what he wanted.
“Rossi? Died at sea? Sorry to hear that.” The woman may have been more sincere than Captain Boggs, but she sounded equally unsurprised. Seafaring was one of the world’s most dangerous occupations.
“Did he correspond with you or any friends aboard ship?”
“Not with me. I wouldn’t know about any friends in the crew. Not likely, is my guess.”
“Why’s that?”
“Hands sign on and off at every port. And most don’t speak English.”
“He was a hand? Not an officer?”
“He was a rating. Made able seaman a few months before leaving ship. Came on as seaman apprentice—a deckhand—and moved up fast. He was a hard worker and a quick learner. But he was not an officer.”
“He was a third officer when he died.”
A long pause. “Well, he left ship over a year ago. In Jacksonville. Maybe he took the exam after leaving.”
“Is it usual for an able seaman to move to another ship as a third officer?”
“Hell no. Not on a union ship. Officers start out as cadets. Go to the maritime academy for four years like I did, or come in through the Naval Reserve. Even if he did pass the exam, he’d have had to serve as a cadet aboard a ship before he could make third. And he was not a cadet on the Helena Georgiou.”
“So his promotion was unusual?”
Officer Steinfurth hesitated. “Officers’ certifications can be bought. But if the insurance underwriter finds out about it, you can kiss your coverage good-bye.”