The Ethelbert Nevin wasn’t at the head either, though Wedgwood Munce was—standing next to a fast-looking power boat that was tied up at the dock, squinting out to where the horizon would be visible in a while. Already a few darkish lumps that might be islands were beginning to show themselves through the thinning grayness. Damn the man, Peter thought, what’s he waiting for? Yet he was relieved to have caught Munce in time. Guthrie stopped the Jeep and they ran to the dock.
“What do you say, Wedge?” shouted Guthrie. “Going out? This is my friend, Peter Shandy. He just drove up from Boston.”
Peter hadn’t, but he recognized the fact that, north of the Piscataqua, up and down acquired strange new meanings and Boston might be used as a portmanteau word for anywhere in Massachusetts. Some Mainers and a lot of New Brunswickers thought Massachusetts was actually in Boston. So did a lot of United States school children, like as not, if they thought about it at all, which was a doubtful premise. But the hell with that. He was in no mood for geography lessons. All he said was, “My wife’s on the boat.”
“Ayup,” said Munce. “So’s my fifty dollars Eustace Tilkey owes me. You comin’?”
Peter was first on board, Guthrie right on his heels. The harbor master’s boat was a snappy twenty-two-footer with a lapstrake hull in highly varnished wood finish. Peter didn’t give a damn what she was. She was afloat, and she could move. Once they got away from the dock, Munce made up for lost time. Guthrie stayed in the stern talking to him about what course Eustace might have taken. Peter went as far forward as he could get and stood straining his eyes into the mist ahead until the harbor master barked at him to sit down. He sat, but continued to strain.
Suddenly Munce exclaimed, “Wind’s beginnin’ to freshen.”
“Thank God!” said Peter.
They most likely couldn’t hear him back there, and what difference did it make? He wasn’t talking to them. He was watching the fog getting blown to rags. After a long, long time he spied something, dead ahead.
“A light!”
“I don’t see nothin’,” Munce yelled back.
“Right ahead of us. Look!”
“By gorry, Pete, it is,” yelled Guthrie. “Looks to me like a signal fire.”
Munce gunned his motor for all she was worth. Peter cursed himself for having forgotten his field glasses and kept his eyes glued on that flickering speck. The speck grew to a dot. The wind was blowing their way and they caught a whiff of wood smoke.
Guthrie was in the bow now, too. “Can’t be the boat burning. We’d smell gasoline. Must be driftwood.”
He was speaking very quietly. Guthrie always did turn calm in a tight spot, Peter remembered. Oh, God, let it be Helen!
They’d passed a few obviously barren islets and a whale none of them even bothered to look at twice. Now they were approaching another dot of rock that wouldn’t have been worth looking at, either, except for the fire that was burning on its highest point and the four little figures they could see capering like maniacs. Two were heaping more wood on the fire. One, by far the biggest, was waving something huge and white, like a bedsheet with sleeves. And another, the tiniest one, in a bright pink something or other, had its hands up to its mouth like a megaphone. Over the water along with the smoke from the fire and even above the noise of the motor, a sound came loud and clear: “Peter! Peter! Peter!”
FOURTEEN
“I KNEW IT WAS you.”
Helen took a firmer grip on the livid green shirt Peter had forgotten to change out of. “I knew it couldn’t be, but I knew it was. How did you get here?”
Peter rubbed his mouth against her smoke-smelling, salt-tasting hair. “I ran, of course. Never mind me, what happened to you?”
No doubt there’d already been explanations, but he hadn’t been listening. First things first. He did recall having agreed to remain on the island with Guthrie and the three women. There was no way the harbor master’s open boat could have accommodated all seven in safety on the longish run back to Hocasquam. After Wedgwood Munce had collected his fifty dollars from Eustace Tilkey, the pair of them had gone off to meet a Coast Guard boat that was in the vicinity somewhere and lead it back to pick up the others.
Catriona was sharing a rock by the fire with Guthrie. He had his arm around her, no doubt in a spirit of neighborly camaraderie. Iduna was handing around a few jam tarts that the castaways had been saving for emergency rations in case they’d got stuck on the island for another night.
“We never did get to roast any mussels,” she said somewhat regretfully. “Here, Peter, try a tart. No sense lugging them back to Cat’s.”
And Heaven forbid they should waste good food. Peter accepted the pastry and fed most of it to Helen. Breakfast had been on the lean side, she’d confessed, and they’d lunched on five grapes apiece. They’d whiled away the morning searching the island for more firewood and for mussels or anything else that might be edible, but hadn’t had much luck.
“We did find plenty of bladderwort,” she told him, “but nobody quite knew what to do with it. Seaweed’s awfully rubbery stuff to chew raw.”
“Too bad there’s no amaranth out here. Did you get any sleep?”
“Not a great deal. We were all four scrunched together under Iduna’s raincoat, trying to keep warm. We’d given up on dry, of course. Eustace was not the ideal person to huddle with, I have to say. His clothes were so stiff with engine grease and fish oil that he smelled like a tugboat towing a garbage scow. I suppose I shouldn’t criticize. The grease probably saved him from dying of hypothermia by repelling moisture and conserving some body warmth while he was riding around on the whale.”
“Perhaps you might elucidate,” Peter suggested. “Why was Eustace riding a whale? Did it ram the boat and sink you?”
“No, the Ethelbert Nevin’s all right—or was, the last we saw of it. Her, I mean. The pirates went off in her after they dumped us overboard. Cat and me, that is. Iduna jumped by herself. With the picnic hamper, bless her.”
Helen filled in the gruesome tale while Peter could feel his hair, what was left of it, doing its best to stand on end. “So that’s how we got here,” she wound up. “Guthrie, could you tell us where Paraguay, Maine, is?”
He shook his head. “Don’t ask me, Helen. I never heard of the place, and I’ve lived in Maine all my life, pretty much. You sure those guys said Paraguay, Mrs. Stott?”
Iduna shook her head. “No, I can’t be sure and please call me Iduna. I couldn’t actually overhear what they said, you know. I had to lip-read because the engine was so noisy. But it certainly looked like Paraguay to me. I assumed he meant the one in South America. Eustace was more inclined to think the men were talking about somewhere handy-by because Maine has so many geographical place names, which makes a lot more sense. If they’d really been planning to go all that distance, it does seem they’d have had sense enough to steal themselves a more suitable boat. Wouldn’t you think so, Peter?”
“Don’t ask me, Iduna. I’ve never laid eyes on the Ethelbert Nevin. She’s not a rum-runner by chance, is she, Guthrie? One of those James Bond contraptions with a couple of extra jet engines hidden under the lobster pots?”
Blushing slightly, Guthrie Fingal took his arm away from Catriona’s shoulders and leaned forward to put another stick on the fire, which they didn’t really need now that the sun was out and they’d already been located.
“Heck no, Pete. She’s just an ordinary lobster boat like the rest of ‘em. Bigger than some, which must be why the pirates picked her, but none too well maintained, which they probably wouldn’t have realized. Eustace is no great shakes at doing any more work than he has to.”
“She wasn’t running all that smoothly yesterday,” Catriona corroborated. “I doubt very much that those goons were able to get enough speed out of her to outrun that whale, though I didn’t like to say so in front of Eustace.”
“What whale; for God’s sake?” Peter was feeling at sea himself by now.
“The whale t
hey were shooting at to get it furious so it would charge and drown us. Or swallow us, as the case might have been. But it went after them instead, and I hope to heck it caught up with them. Not wishing my fellow man any hard luck, you understand, and I sure hope Eustace had plenty of insurance, but I’m having a rough time working up any charitable thoughts toward those who despitefully used us. I’m not quite rotter enough to wish them all drowned. However, I can’t help thinking it would be a suitable climax to our adventure if that whale scared the pants off each and every one of those rotters, notably that smarmy bastard with the map.”
“Who was he? Did you get any of their names?”
“I didn’t,” said Catriona. “Iduna, did you? Helen?”
Neither of her friends could help.
“Then what did they look like?” Peter entreated. “Can’t you at least describe them?”
“Certainly I can. I can describe four of them all at once. They were either quadruplets or clones.”
“Not quite,” Helen contradicted. “One was shorter than the rest and one had a nick in his right nostril, as if his knife might have slipped while he was eating peas with it. I noticed while they were in the process of throwing us overboard. He was the one swinging you by the feet.”
“Sons of bitches! By thunder, if that whale didn’t drown them, they’re going to wish it had.” Oddly enough, it was Guthrie Fingal who roared the imprecation. He seemed rather embarrassed that he’d done so, and became brusquely matter-of-fact. “So all right, Cat, get on with it. What did they look like?”
“Black bears. You know. Short bandy legs, barrel bodies, bushy black hair, fuzzy black beards. Probably in their twenties, though the beards made them seem older. They all had big boots on and wore oddments of army fatigues and camouflage suits. Scruffy bunch, by and large. The fifth one—or perhaps I should say the first since he seemed to be in charge—was altogether different. He had brown hair cut close to his head, was clean shaven, had yellowish brown eyes and fairish skin. He was dressed like the others, only his pants and jacket matched, were clean, and looked as if they’d been pressed not long ago. He held himself very straight, like the little tin soldier. And when he came down to the boat he didn’t run like the others. He marched.”
“By George!” said Peter. “Did you see him throw anything?”
Catriona stared at him. “What an astonishing question. No, I didn’t.”
“I did,” said Helen. “The bar he hit Eustace with. He chucked it overboard. Why, Peter?”
“Information received. Exactly how did he throw it, Helen? Can you demonstrate? Here, use this stick of driftwood.”
“Darling, what an odd think to ask. Come to think of it, though, it was an odd way to throw. He’d struck Eustace with his left hand, I remember. When he threw the bar away, it sailed clear across the boat and over the port side. I was afraid for a second it was going to hit Iduna.”
Helen shut her eyes for a second to aid reflection, then opened them, stared straight ahead, and flipped the stick sideways. “Like that, more or less. He’d been standing directly behind Eustace when he hit him, and kept looking straight at him as he fell.”
“Bravo, my love. You may be gratified to learn that you’ve just proved Huntley Swope wasn’t hallucinating. When we catch up with that murdering devil, I expect we’ll find he’s the man who chucked the grenade or whatever it was into the tallow vat and incinerated Caspar Flum. He comes from Clavaton and his name is Roland Childe.”
“Cor stone the crows!” gasped Catriona. “I write this stuff, but I never dreamed it could happen in real life. How did you deduce all that from a mere flip of a stick?”
“It’s those little gray cells in his brain,” Helen answered for her husband. “Peter’s awfully clever. Aren’t you, dear?”
“M’well, my love, I can hardly deny your generous allegation considering the acumen I demonstrated by marrying you. I wonder whether the Coast Guard’s located the Ethelbert Nevin yet.”
“I’m wondering why in heck they don’t come and get us out of here.” Iduna the unflappable showed signs of beginning to flap. “I don’t know about you folks, but if I don’t get a hot bath and a cup of tea pretty soon, I’m going to be in serious trouble.”
“Me too,” said Catriona. “My hair’s driving me crazy.” She combed her fingers through the long red mane from which the last hairpin had long ago disappeared. “Ugh! It feels as if I’d shampooed it in mucilage.”
“It doesn’t look too bad,” said Guthrie. “I kind of like it loose like that.”
Catriona McBogle would have scorned to let one of her emancipated heroines favor a hero or even a beloved with a shy and winsome smile, Helen thought; yet she herself had seldom observed a shyer or winsomer one. Oh dear, were these two nice people going to get themselves involved in something that could turn out a good deal stickier than Cat’s sea-soaked hair?
She wished to goodness the Coast Guard boat would come. Now that Peter was with her and she didn’t have to keep a stiff upper lip any longer, she was about ready to drop in her tracks. How glorious it would be to get back to Cat’s lovely old house! How much more glorious to go home to the Crescent, where there weren’t any whales or pirates. After all, she’d done what she came for. Maybe she could talk Iduna into leaving first thing in the morning, as soon as they’d all had a good night’s sleep. Peter looked exhausted, poor darling.
“I hope I got some good shots of your weather vane, Guthrie,” she said, mainly to get her mind off the Coast Guard boat.
“Darn good thing you did,” he told her. “It’s gone now. So’s the barn, just about.”
“Oh, Guthrie, no! Not another snatch-and-burn!”
“Yeah, Pete was telling me. Looks as if we’re just one more name on the list.”
“Oh my stars,” exclaimed Iduna. “Then it’s your lumberjack they’re taking to Paraguay.”
“What? Mind backing up and coming at me again?”
“Not at all,” Iduna replied politely. “You see, that’s why they stole Eustace’s boat. They have to deliver the stolen weather vanes to some millionaire in Paraguay who’s going to buy them. So that’s why they came to Maine. It did seem awfully strange that they’d driven all the way to Hocasquam just to steal a beat-up old lobster boat.”
“What they were actually doing was completing the set,” moaned Helen. “They must have had the soap-works weather vane right there in that van parked next to us at the rest stop in Kittery. If only we’d known!”
“It’s a damn good thing you didn’t,” said Peter. “What could you have done?”
“Reported them to the highway patrol, of course. You don’t think we’d have been stupid enough to tackle them by ourselves? From what Iduna lip-read, it appears they’ve actually been trailing me around, letting me lead them to the Lumpkin weather vanes so they’d know which ones to steal. I feel like Typhoid Mary.”
“Nonsense!” Peter certainly wasn’t about to tell her he’d been suspecting that all along. “Don’t fret yourself, my love. Those bastards are going to feel a hell of a lot worse before we’re through with them. Ah, I believe we’re about to get dismarooned.”
There she was, a trim forty-footer flying the United States flag and the Coast Guard ensign. Helen felt tears beginning to smart as the boat hove to at a safe distance from the rocks and lowered a rubber dinghy to take them aboard.
Eustace Tilkey and Wedgwood Munce were not in sight. The castaways were told that Tilkey and Munce had escorted the Coast Guard boat just far enough to make sure she was on the right course, then turned around and headed back to Hocasquam. Mr. Munce hadn’t objected to doing his duty, but he’d seen no reason to burn extra gas.
“We’re going to get you back to Hocasquam as fast as we can,” Ensign Blaise, the officer in command, told them once they were safely on board, “but we’ve got a little complication. Our helicopter spotter’s just radioed that he’s spotted another set of castaways and the remains of a wrecked boat not too far fro
m here. We’ll have to run over there and find out what that’s all about. In the meantime, I expect you’d like to wash up and get comfortable. Seaman Willett will show you below.”
The three women gratefully followed Seaman Willett to where, God willing, they might find soap, towels, and hot water. Peter and Guthrie stayed on deck.
“Those other castaways,” Peter began, “they’re not by any chance five youngish men in army fatigues?”
“We hope so. Eustace Tilkey told us about the Ethelbert Nevin hijackers. We’d like you two and the ladies to keep out of the way when we go to pick them up. Mr. Tilkey claims they’re a pretty rough bunch. He thinks there might be shooting. We don’t know whether to believe him or not. He told a pretty strange yarn, and he did say he’d been hit on the head.”
“You can believe him, Ensign. My wife and her friend Miss McBogle had gone into the cabin for—er—personal reasons. My wife was just coming out when she saw the man who appears to be the leader of the group knock Tilkey down with some kind of club. One of his henchmen helped him throw Tilkey overboard while another took Tilkey’s place at the wheel. The men then overpowered my wife and Miss McBogle and chucked them after Tilkey. Mrs. Stott jumped of her own accord.”
“Mrs. Stott’s the big blond lady?”
“M’yes. A wonderful woman. She even remembered to take the picnic hamper with her.”
“No kidding! I wouldn’t mind getting shipwrecked with her. Can we offer you anything, gentlemen? A cup of coffee to warm you up?”
“Mrs. Stott was talking wistfully of tea.”
“We’ll make sure she gets it. See anything yet, Higgins?”
“Not yet, sir.” The lookout didn’t turn his head.
“According to the helicopter pilot’s bearings, we shouldn’t be much longer. If this bunch are your pirates, they didn’t get far. They probably tried to go too fast in the fog.”
“My wife says they were trying to outrun an irritated whale. They’d fired at the creature, apparently to stir it up so it would go after their victims in the water and finish them off. Instead, the whale started chasing the boat.”
The Luck Runs Out Page 14