A secret memory . . .
What happened next that spring afternoon is something I know Jeddy remembers. I can see us standing there, two raw-boned boys beside the bootleg crate, seagulls wheeling overhead, making dives on a tidal pool up the beach from us. Almost as an afterthought we wandered toward this pool, not expecting to see anything. It came into view with no more drama than if it had been a sodden piece of driftwood lying on the sand: a naked human leg.
Patricia Lee Gauch, editor
PUFFIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
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Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published in the United States of America by Philomel Books,
a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2006
This Sleuth edition first published by Puffin Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2007
Copyright © Janet Taylor Lisle, 2006
All rights reserved
THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE PHILOMEL BOOKS EDITION AS FOLLOWS:
Lisle, Janet Taylor. Black Duck/ Janet Taylor Lisle.
p. cm.
Summary: Years afterwards, Ruben Hart tells the story of how, in 1929 Newport, Rhode Island, his family and his best friend’s family were caught up in the violent competition among groups trying to control the local rum-smuggling trade.
[1. Prohibition—Fiction. 2. Friendship—Fiction. 3. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. 4. Gangsters—Fiction. 5. Newport (R.I.)—History—20th century—Fiction.]
I. Title
PZ7.L6912Bla 2006
[Fic]—dc22 2005023845
ISBN: 978-1-101-66306-6
Design by Semadar Megged.
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
JANET TAYLOR LISLE
For Richard Lisle, with love.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events, locales, or living persons is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
COAST GUARDS KILL THREE SUSPECTED RUM RUNNERS
The Interview
ON COULTER’S BEACH
A DARK-RIMMED HOLE
THE DISAPPEARANCE
The Interview
MUZZLED
BLACK DUCK
THE SECRET
BLACK DUCK TRIPLE SLAYING UNAVOIDABLE, OFFICIAL DECLARES
The Interview
ABSENT FROM SCHOOL
TOM MORRISON
THE KILLERS RETURN
The Interview
COCKFIGHTERS
THE JOB AT BROWN’S
THE BREAKUP
THE SQUEEZE
THE BILL
The Interview
TOM MORRISON’S VISITOR
KNUCKLING UNDER
HOME IMPROVEMENTS
A NEW WIND
BLACK DUCK SURVIVOR CHARGES COAST GUARD GAVE NO WARNING BEFORE OPENING FIRE
The Interview
THE MUFFLED ENGINE
WHERE’S THE TICKET?
SEEING STARS
A SAFE HAVEN
FOG
The Interview
COAST GUARD RECEIVED TIP-OFF TO BLACK DUCK’S ROUTE
DECEMBER 29, 1929
MARINA
The Last Interview
AN ARRIVAL
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Newport Daily Journal, December 30, 1929
COAST GUARDS KILL THREE SUSPECTED RUM RUNNERS
FIRE ON UNARMED SPEEDBOAT BLACK DUCK WITH LARGE CARGO OF LIQUOR
NEWPORT, DEC. 30—Three alleged rum runners were killed by machine gun fire and another man was wounded near Newport shortly before 3 o’clock Sunday morning, according to the Coast Guard. The men were in a 50-foot speedboat well-known locally as the Black Duck.
The boat, carrying a cargo of 300 cases of smuggled liquor, was stumbled on in dense fog by Coast Guard Patrol Boat 290. A burst of machine gun fire killed all three men instantly in the pilot house. A fourth crew member was shot through the hand. No arms were found on board.
“The shooting is unfortunate but clearly justified by U.S. Prohibition law forbidding the trade or consumption of liquor anywhere in the United States,” a Coast Guard spokesman said in a statement to reporters last night. “These rogue smugglers threaten our communities and must be stopped.”
Other details were not available as authorities kept them guarded.
The Interview
A RUMRUNNER HAD LIVED IN TOWN, ONE OF the notorious outlaws who smuggled liquor during the days of Prohibition, that was the rumor. David Peterson heard he might still be around.
Where?
No one knew exactly. It was all so long ago.
Well, who was he?
This was equally vague. Someone said to ask at the general store across from the church.
It would be a miracle if the man was still alive, David thought. He’d be over eighty. If he were anywhere, he’d probably be in a nursing home by now.
But it turned out he wasn’t. He still lived in town. Ruben Hart was his name.
The number listed in the telephone book doesn’t answer. There is an address, though. David has his mother drop him off at the end of the driveway. It’s June. School is over. He tells her not to wait.
The house is gray shingle, hidden behind a mass of bushes that have grown up in front of the windows. David isn’t surprised. It’s what happens with old people’s homes. Plantings meant to be low hedges or decorative bushes sprout up. Over time, if no one pays attention, they get out of control. David’s family is in the landscaping business and he knows about the power of vegetation. He’s seen whole trees growing through the floor of a porch, and climbing vines with their fingers in the attic. Left to its own devices, nature runs amok.
David knocks on the front door. After a long pause, an old fellow in a baggy gray sweater opens up. David tells him straight out why he’s come: he’s looking for a story to get in the local paper.
They won’t hire me, but the editor says if I come up with a good story, he’ll print it. I want to be a reporter, he announces, all in one breath.
Is that so? the man says. His face has the rumpled look of a well-used paper bag, all lines and creases. But his eyes are shrewd.
I’m a senior in high school, David explains
to build up his case. It’s a slight exaggeration. He’ll be a freshman next fall.
He receives a skeptical stare.
Then the man, who is in fact Ruben Hart himself, still kicking, as he says with a sly glint of his glasses, invites David in.
My wife’s in the kitchen. We can go in the parlor.
David has never before heard anyone say that word, parlor, to describe a room in a house. He’s read it in stories from English class, though, and knows what one is. The chairs are formal and hard as a rock, just as you’d expect.
I suppose you’re here to find out about the old days, Mr. Hart says. His voice is raspy-sounding, as if he doesn’t use it much.
I am.
Must be the liquor Prohibition back in the 1920s you’re interested in, rumrunners and hijackers, fast boats and dark nights.
Yes, sir!
I wasn’t in it.
You weren’t? David frowns. I heard you were.
I wasn’t.
Well.
I guess that’s that, Mr. Hart says. Sorry to disappoint you.
Did you know anyone who was? David asks.
I might’ve. Mr. Hart’s glasses glint again.
Could you talk about them?
No.
That was the end of their first meeting.
A week later, David tries again. He’s done some research this time, found a newspaper article from 1929 about the Coast Guard gunning down some unarmed rumrunners, and learned the names of beaches around there where the liquor was brought in.
The first rumrunners were local fishermen who wanted to make an extra buck for their families. They’d sneak cases of booze onshore off boats that brought the stuff down from Canada or up from the Bahamas. But there was too much money to be made, as there is in the drug trade today. Hardened criminals came in and formed gangs. People were shot up and murdered. The business turned vicious.
My wife’s gone out, we can sit in the kitchen, Mr. Hart says this time.
When they settle, David has his plan of attack ready.
I don’t want to bother you, but I read about some things and wondered if I could check them out with you. Nothing personal, just some facts.
Such as? The old man’s eyes are wary.
Was Brown’s Beach a drop for liquor? I read it was.
I guess there’s no harm in agreeing to that. Everybody in town knew it.
And were there hidden storage cellars under the floor of the old barn out behind Riley’s General Store? Across from the church, you know where I mean?
They’re still there, as far as I know.
One other thing, David says. There was a famous rum-running boat around here named the Black Duck . . .
That was the end of their second meeting.
The man closes up, won’t even make eye contact. He says his heart’s acting funny and he’s got to take a pill. Five minutes later David is heading back out the driveway. He hitches home this time rather than wait for his mother. He’s touched on something, he knows it. There’s a story there. How to pry it out of the old geezer?
He’s still wondering a week later when, surprise of all surprises, Mr. Hart calls him. He’s managed to ferret out David’s home number from among the dozens of Petersons in the telephone book.
I’ll talk to you a bit. An old friend of mine is ill. You’ve been on my mind.
David can’t see the connection between himself and some old friend, but he gets a ride over there as soon as he can. His father drives him this time, grumbling, You’re making me late. What’s wrong with riding a bicycle? In my day, we went everywhere under our own steam.
David doesn’t answer. In a year and a half he’ll be old enough to drive himself and won’t need to put up with irritating comments like this.
Sorry about your friend being sick, he says to Mr. Hart. They’re in the kitchen again. The wife has gone away to visit her brother out of state.
Took a turn for the worse the beginning of the week, Mr Hart says. Jeddy McKenzie. He and I grew up together here. His dad used to be police chief in this town.
He gazes speculatively at David. Ever hear of Chief Ralph McKenzie?
David says no.
Well, that was way back, during these Prohibition days you’re so interested in. The law against liquor got passed and the government dumped it on the local cops to enforce. That was a laugh. What’d they think would happen? Afterward, Jeddy moved away, to North Carolina. I always hoped I’d see him again. We were close at one time. Had adventures.
What adventures? David asks.
Mr. Hart’s eyes flick over him, as if he still has grave doubts about this interview. He goes ahead anyway.
Ever seen a dead body?
David shakes his head.
We found one washed up down on Coulter’s Beach.
David knows where Coulter’s Beach is. He swims off there sometimes. Was it a rumrunner? he asks.
Mr. Hart doesn’t answer. He has watery blue eyes that wink around behind his glasses’ thick lenses. It’s hard to get a handle on his expression.
This was in the spring, 1929. Smuggling was in high gear. Thousands of cases of liquor coming in every month up and down this coast. Outside racketeers creeping in like worms to a carcass, smelling the money. People look back now and think those days were romantic, all high jinks and derring-do. They’re mistaken.
David has brought a notepad along, expecting to jot down interesting facts. Not romantic, he writes at the top of the page. (What are high jinks?) After that, he forgets to write. Mr. Hart’s raspy voice takes over the room.
So, Jeddy McKenzie and I came on this body.
ON COULTER’S BEACH
THE WIND HAD BLOWN IT IN.
A stiff sou’wester was in charge that day, shoving the waves against the shore like a big impatient hand. Jeddy’s head never could keep a cap on in a blow. I remember how he walked bent over, holding his brim down with both hands. I stalked beside him, eyes on the sand.
“Clean beach,” I’d say gloomily whenever we rounded a corner.
We’d been hunting for lobster pots since lunch and would have gone on till dinner if not for the interruption. Marked pots returned to their owners paid ten cents apiece. We were fourteen years old and in dire need of funds. You couldn’t get a red penny out of your parents in those days. They didn’t have anything to spare.
“There’s got to be some! It blew like stink all night,” Jeddy shouted over the wind.
“Well, it’s blowing like murder right now,” I cried back, without an inkling of how true this was about to become.
We rounded a spuming sand dune to a burst of noise. Down the beach, braying seagulls circled at the water’s edge.
“Something’s driving bait. Maybe a shark,” Jeddy said. “Those gulls are getting in on the kill.”
I shaded my eyes. “No, it’s something else. I can see something floating in the water.”
“Dead shark, then.”
“Or a dead seal. Too small for a shark. Come on.”
We took off at a jog, wind tearing at our clothes. When we got there, though, all we saw was a busted-up wooden crate knocking around in the waves. Nothing was inside, but we recognized its type. It was a bootleg case, a thing we’d come across before on the beach. If you were lucky, and we never were that I can recall, there’d be bottles still wedged inside—whiskey, vodka, brandy, even champagne—smuggled liquor that could bring a good price if you knew what to do with it. Jeddy and I weren’t lawbreakers. We’d never even had a drink. But like a lot of folks along that coast we weren’t against keeping our eyes open if there was a chance of profit in it.
“Coast Guard must have been sniffing around here last night,” Jeddy said. “Looks like somebody had to dump their cargo fast.”
“Maybe. Could be it’s left over from a landing. They’ve been bringing stuff into the dock down at Tyler’s Lane.”
“How d’you know that?”
“Saw them,” I boasted, then wished I hadn’t. I
t was no secret that Jeddy’s dad was on the lookout for rumrunners. Police Chief Ralph McKenzie was a stickler for the law.
Jeddy gave me a look. “You saw somebody landing their goods? At night?”
I shut my trap and inspected a schooner passing out to sea. I knew something Jeddy didn’t.
“What were you doing at Tyler’s at night?” he demanded. “It’s way across town from your house. Ruben Hart! You’re fibbing, right?”
“Well.” I gave the crate a kick.
“I thought so! Next you’re going to say it was the Black Duck.”
“Maybe it was!”
“You’re a liar, that’s for sure. Nobody ever sees the Duck. My dad’s been chasing her for years and never even come close. She’s got twin airplane engines, you know. She does over thirty knots.”
I glared at him. “I know.”
“So did you see her or not?”
“Maybe I heard somebody talking.”
“When?”
“Couple of days ago. It’s dark of the moon this week. That’s when they bring the stuff in.”
“Who was talking?”
“I better not say. You’d have to tell your dad.”
“I wouldn’t. Honest.”
I shrugged and gazed across the water to where the lighthouse was standing up on its rock, high and white as truth itself.
“Come on. I’d only have to tell him if he asked me direct, and why would he do that?” Jeddy said. “Did somebody see the Black Duck come in at Tyler’s dock?”
“Listen, I don’t know,” I said, backing off. “I heard a rumor there was a landing, that’s all. Whoever did it could’ve cracked some cases to pay off the shore crew that helped unload. That’s one way they pay them. Everybody gets a few bottles.”
“Well, you should know,” Jeddy said, sulkily. “Your dad is probably in deep with the whole thing.”
“He is not!” I drew up my defenses at this. “My dad would never break the law. He might not agree with it, but he wouldn’t break it.”
My father was Carl Hart, manager of Riley’s General Store in town. He was a big man with a big personality, known for speaking his mind in a moment of heat, but there was nothing underhanded in him. He dealt fair and square no matter who you were, and often he was more than fair. Quietly, without even Mr. Riley knowing, he’d help out folks going through hard times by carrying their overdue accounts till they could pay. He wouldn’t take any thanks for it, either, which is why my mother would find a couple of fresh-caught bluefish on our front porch some mornings, or a slab of smoked ham or an apple pie.
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