1
They were down at Miami International between
thunder showers at 3:40 p.m. Ingram, a big, flatfaced
man with aloof gray eyes and an almost
imperceptible limp, followed the other passengers
out of the DC-6 into the steamy vacuum left behind
by the departing squall. His leg had stiffened a little,
as it always did when he had to sit still for very long,
and he thrust the foot down savagely against the
pull of tendons as taut as winched halyards. He
checked through Immigration, and when he was
cleared by Customs he waved off the porter with a
curt shake of his head, carried the old suitcase out
to the lower ramp, and took a taxi downtown to the
La Perla, the shabby third-rate hotel he’d first
checked into some fifteen days before and had used
as a base of operations ever since. There was no
mail for him. Well, it was too soon.
“You can have the same room, sir, if you’d like,”
the clerk said.
“All right,” he replied indifferently. It commanded
a view of a dank airwell, but was cheaper than the
outside ones. He signed the registry card and rode
the palsied elevator to the third floor. The operator,
a bored worldling of nineteen, picked up the suitcase
Aground — 2
and preceded him down a corridor where flooring
creaked beneath its eroded carpet.
The room was high-ceilinged and dim and passably
clean, stamped with the drab monotony of all cheap
hotel rooms and that air of being ready, with the
same weary and impervious acquiescence, for sleep,
assignation, or suicide. The bathroom with its oldfashioned
tub was just to the left of the doorway.
Beyond its corner the room widened to encompass a
grayish and sway-backed slab of bed, a dresser
marked with cigarette burns and the bleached
circular stains of old highball glasses, and, at the far
end, beside the window looking into the airwell, a
writing desk, on top of which were the telephone, a
coin-operated radio, and a small lamp with a dimestore
shade. It had begun to rain again. He could see
it falling into the airwell beyond the parted slats of
the Venetian blind. Looks like the set for an art
motion-picture, he thought; all we need is a Message
and a couple of rats.
The youth deposited the suitcase on a luggage
stand at the foot of the bed and switched on the airconditioning
unit installed in the lower half of the
window. Ingram dropped a quarter in his hand. He
let it lie there for an insulting half-second before he
closed the fingers, and started to look up at Ingram
with the bright insolence of the under-tipped, but
collided with an imperturbable gray stare that
changed his mind. “Thank you,” he said hurriedly,
and went out.
Ingram ran hot water into the tub and stripped,
hanging his suit in the closet with the automatic
neatness of a man accustomed to policing his own
loneliness. After rinsing out the drip-dry shirt, he
selected a wooden hanger for it and hooked it on the
curtain rod. When he got into the tub, he stretched
his legs out and put his hands on the knee of the left
one, forcing it down against the pull of the tendons.
Sweat stood out on his face. It was better, he
thought. He’d got rid of the crutches a month ago,
and then the cane, just before he’d come up from
San Juan. In another month the limp would be gone
Aground — 3
entirely, and there’d be nothing left but the scar
tissue. After a while he climbed from the tub, blotted
himself as well as he could with the sleazy and
undersized towels, and put on a pair of boxer shorts.
The skin across the hard wedge of his back and
shoulders and the flat planes of his face had a faint
yellowish cast, the residue of old tan faded by weeks
in the hospital. The slick, hairless whorls and
splotches of scar tissue around his left hip and in
back of his left leg still had an ugly look, and would
probably never tan again. He made the futile gesture
of running a comb through the intransigent nap of
graying dark hair, and went out into the bedroom.
He broke the seal on the Haig & Haig pinch bottle
he’d bought in Nassau, and poured a drink. He
selected one of the thin cigars from the leather case
in his suit, lighted it, and looked at his watch on the
dresser. He’d better call Hollister and explain what
he’d done. He was just reaching for the telephone
when someone rapped on the door.
He put down the drink and opened it. There were
two men in the dingy hallway. The nearer one
crowded the door just enough to prevent its being
closed again, and asked, “Your name John Ingram?”
“Yes,” he said. “What is it?”
The other flipped open a folder containing a
badge. “Police. We’d like to talk to you.”
He frowned. “About what?”
“We’d better come inside.”
“Sure.” He stepped back. They came in and closed
the door. One took a quick look into the bathroom,
and then the clothes closet, reaching in to pat the
suit hanging there. Ingram went over to the suitcase
lying open on its stand at the foot of the bed, and
started to reach inside. “Keep your hands out of
there,” the other man ordered.
He straightened. “What the hell? I just wanted to
put on some pants.”
“You’ll get ‘em. Just stand back.”
Aground — 4
The one who’d checked the bathroom and the
closet came over and riffled expertly through the
contents of the bag. “Okay,” he said. Ingram took
out a pair of gray slacks and started to put them on.
The two detectives noticed the scars. One of them
opened his mouth to say something, but looked
again at the big man’s face and closed it.
“Who are you?” Ingram asked. “And what is it you
want?”
It was the one near the doorway who replied. “I’m
Detective Sergeant Schmidt, Miami Police.” He was
a dark, compactly built man in his early thirties with
an air of hard-bitten competence about him, neatly
dressed in a lightweight suit and white shirt. He
nodded to the other. “This is Arthur Quinn. You’re
from Puerto Rico—is that right?”
“More or less,” Ingram replied.
“What do you mean, more or less? That’s what the
hotel register says.”
“I lived in San Juan for the past three years.”
“What line of work are you in?”
“I was in the boat-repair business down there.
Another man and I had a boatyard and marine
railway.”
“Is that what you’re doing now?”
“No. We had a bad fire. He was killed in it, and his
widow wanted out, so we liquidated what was left.”
“What are you doing in Miami?”
“Looking for a boat.”
“To buy, you mean?”
“That’s right,” he replied. “What’s this all about?”
Schmidt ignored the question. “You checked in
here the first time fifteen days ago, but you’ve been
gone for the past eight. Where’ve you been?”
“Nassau. Tampa. Key West.”
“When were you in Key West?” Quinn asked. He
was a slender, graying man with a narrow face and
rather cold eyes. He looked more like the manager
of a loan company than a cop, Ingram thought.
Aground — 5
“Sunday,” he said. “A week ago yesterday.”
The two men exchanged a glance. “And you went
down there to look at a boat?” Quinn asked.
Ingram nodded. “A schooner called the Dragoon.
What about it?”
Quinn smiled. It didn’t add any appreciable
warmth to his face. “We thought you knew. The
Dragoon was stolen.”
Ingram had started to take a drink of the whisky.
He lowered the glass, stared blankly at the two men,
and went over and sat down beside the desk. “Are
you kidding? How could anybody steal a seventy-foot
schooner?”
“It seems to be easy, when you know how,” Quinn
replied. He moved nearer the desk. Schmidt leaned
against the corner of the bathroom and lighted a
cigarette.
“When did it happen?” Ingram asked.
“Oddly enough, the next night after you were
aboard,” Quinn said.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Ingram
asked quietly.
“It means you’d better come up with some
answers. Somebody cased that job, and you look
mighty good for it.”
“You mean just because I was aboard? That boat
was for sale, and open to inspection by anybody.”
“The watchman says you were the only one that’d
been aboard for nearly a month. He gave us a
description of you, and we traced you back here.”
“Description? Hell, I told him my name, and where
I lived.”
“He says you gave him some name, but he couldn’t
remember it. So it could have been a phony.”
“Well, I’ll have to admit that makes sense.”
“Don’t get snotty, Ingram. You can answer these
questions here, or I can take you back down there
and let you answer ‘em. I’m from the Monroe County
Sheriff’s Department. That boat had been lying there
Aground — 6
at her mooring in the harbor for nearly a year, but
whoever stole it knew she was still in condition to go
to sea.”
“Maybe they towed her away.”
“She left under her own power.” Quinn leaned his
arms on the desk and stared coldly. “So how would
they know there was even an engine aboard, let
alone whether it’d run or not, or whether there was
any fuel in the tanks, or the starting batteries were
charged? You were on there all afternoon, poking
into everything, according to old Tango. You started
the engine and ran it, and inspected the rigging and
steering gear, took the sails out of their bags and
checked them—”
“Of course I did. I told you I was looking for a boat
to buy. You think I went down there just to find out
what color it was painted? And, incidentally, what
was the watchman doing all the time they were
getting away with it? He lived aboard.”
“He was in the drunk tank of the Dade County jail.
Clever, huh?”
“Dade County? How’d he get up here?”
“He was helped. He went ashore Monday night in
Key West and had a few drinks, and all he can
remember is he ran into a couple of good-time
Charlies in some Duval Street bar. About three
o’clock in the morning a patrol car found him passed
out on die sidewalk on Flagler Street here in
downtown Miami. He didn’t have any money to pay a
fine, so it was three days before he got out, and it
took him another day to thumb his way back to Key
West and find out the Dragoon was gone. Of course,
everybody around the Key West water front knew it
was, but didn’t think anything of it. He’d already told
several people there’d been a man aboard thinking
of buying it, so they took it for granted it’d been
moved to Marathon or Miami to go on the ways for
survey. See? Just a nice convenient string of
coincidences, so the boat was gone four days before
anybody even realized it was stolen.”
Aground — 7
“I was in Tampa Monday night,” Ingram said.
“Also Tuesday, and Tuesday night.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Sure. You can check with the Grayson Hotel
there. Also with a Tampa yacht broker named
Warren Crawford. I was in his office a couple of
times, and aboard a ketch named the Susannah. If
you’ll look in the breast pocket of my coat you’ll find
the receipted hotel bill. And the stub of an airline
ticket from Tampa to Nassau, Wednesday morning,
and a receipted hotel bill from Nassau for
Wednesday night to last night. Then there’s a Pan
American Airways ticket stub for the flight from
Nassau back to Miami. I landed here at three-forty
this afternoon and came straight to the hotel.
Anything else?”
Schmidt had already removed the receipts and
ticket stubs from the coat and was riffling through
them. “Seems to be right.”
“But he could still have cased the job,” Quinn
insisted. “The whole thing’s too pat. And if he was
just the finger man, he’d make sure he had an alibi.”
He whirled on Ingram. “Let’s take another look at
this pipe-dream you were going to buy the Dragoon.
What’d you expect to do with it?”
“Sail it out to Honolulu. I’m thinking of going back
in the charter business. That’s what I used to do,
here and in Nassau.”
“You know the owner’s asking price?”
“Sure. Fifty-five thousand dollars.”
The detective surveyed the room with a
contemptuous smile. “You must be one of those
eccentric millionaires.”
Ingram felt his face redden. “What I pay for hotel
rooms is my business.”
“Come off it, Ingram! You expect us to believe a
man living in a fleabag like this really intended to
buy a fifty-five-thousand-dollar yacht? How much
money have you got?”
“That’s also my business.”
Aground — 8
“Suit yourself. You can tell us, or sweat it out in
jail while we find out ourselves. What bank’s your
money in?”
“All right, all right. The Florida National.”
“How much?”
“About twelve thousand.”
“We can check that, you know. There’ll be
somebody at the bank till five.”
Ingram gestured toward the telephone. “Go
ahead.”
“So you expected to buy a fifty-five-thousand-dollar
yacht with twelve thousand?”
It might have been more sensible to explain, but
he was growing a little tired of Quinn’s attitude and
he’d never been a man who took kindly to being
pushed. He leaned forward in the chair and said,
very softly, “And if I did? Quote me the law against
it, by section and paragraph. And stop breathing in
my face.”
“Come on, Ingram! Let’s have it. How many of you
were there, and where’s the boat headed?”
“If you won’t take my word for it, call the owner. I
wrote to her.”
“In a pig’s eye. You wouldn’t even know who the
owner is.”
“Mrs. C. R. Osborne, of Houston, Texas. Her
address is in that black notebook in my bag.”
Schmidt gave him a thoughtful glance, and
removed the notebook. Quinn, however, smiled
coldly, and said, “Funny she didn’t mention it. We
talked to her about an hour ago and told her we
were looking for a man named Ingram, but she’d
never heard of you.”
“You mean she’s here in town?” he asked.
“Yes, she’s here,” Schmidt said. “She flew in this
afternoon. When did you mail that letter?”
“Saturday morning, from Nassau,” he replied.
“Maybe she left Houston before it was delivered.”
“We can find out. But what’d you say in it?”
Aground — 9
“I made her an offer of forty-five thousand for the
Dragoon, subject to the usual conditions of survey.”
“And payable how?”
“Cash.”
“All right,” Schmidt said crisply, “if you did write a
letter, which I doubt, it has to be a bona-fide offer,
or a phony—in which case it’s probably a deliberate
alibi. You haven’t got forty-five thousand dollars. So
what were you going to use for money? Put up or
shut up.”
Ingram hesitated. Then he shrugged wearily, and
said, “All right. I was acting for a third party.”
“Who?”
“His name’s Fredric Hollister, and he’s president
of Hollister-Dykes Laboratories, Inc., of Cleveland,
Ohio. They manufacture ethical drugs. He’s at the
Eden Roc Hotel; go ahead and call him.”
“Why didn’t you tell us this in the first place?”
Schmidt demanded.
“Partly, I suppose, because it was none of your
damned business,” he said. “But principally because
he didn’t want it known the buyer was a corporation
until after the deal was set, because of the effect it
might have on the price. I was to select the boat,
subject to his final approval, and then take over as
captain. We’d pretty well settled on the Dragoon
after I gave him the report on it Sunday night, but
decided to wait till I’d looked at the others in Tampa
and Nassau before we committed ourselves. I’m
supposed to call him this afternoon.”
Schmidt nodded. “Can I use your phone?”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
The detective picked it up. “Get me the Eden Roc
Hotel, in Miami Beach,” he said, and waited. The
room was silent except for the faint humming of the
air-conditioner. “Mr. Fredric Hollister, please . . .
Oh? . . . Are you sure? . . . And when was this?”
Ingram stared at his face, conscious of a very cold
feeling that was beginning to spread through his
Aground — 10
stomach. Schmidt hung up, and snapped, “Get your
clothes on, fella.”
“What is it?”
“Hollister checked out of the Eden Roc a week
ago. On Monday night.”
Aground — 11
2
His leg hurt. He’d smoked the two cigars he had,
and the cigarettes they gave him tasted like hay.
They sent out for coffee. Quinn and Schmidt
questioned him, moving like cats around the table
where he was seated, and then Schmidt was gone
and there was another man, named Brenner. There
was one window in the bleak interrogation room,
covered with heavy screen, but from where he sat he
could see nothing but the sky. He thought it was still
raining. It didn’t seem to matter. Quinn went out,
and came back shepherding an old man with dirty
white whiskers and sharp black eyes, an old man
who clutched a comic book in one hand and a
crumpled and strangely bottle-shaped paper bag in
the other and pointed dramatically from the doorway
like some ham in an amateur production of Medea or
King Lear, and cackled, “That’s him! That’s him!” It
was the watchman, the old shrimper who’d lived
aboard the Dragoon.
“Hello, Tango,” Ingram said wearily, to which
Tango made no reply other than to heighten the fine
theatrical aspect of this confrontation by leaning
further into his point and belching. “Ain’t nobody’d
ever forget a big flat face like that,” he announced
triumphantly, and was gone, presumably back to the
bottle. The identification seemed rather pointless,
Aground — 12
since he admitted being aboard the Dragoon, but
maybe it was something technical about preparing
the case.
Schmidt came back, and Brenner left. Schmidt
leaned on the other end of the table with an
unlighted cigarette in his mouth, and said, “All right,
let’s try again. Who’s Hollister?”
“All I know is what he told me,” Ingram replied.
“We just heard from Cleveland. There is no such
outfit as Hollister-Dykes Laboratories—if that’s news
to anybody. And he paid his hotel bill with a rubber
check. How long have you known him?”
“I didn’t know him at all. I met him just twice.”
“How did you meet him?”
“I told you. He called me at the La Perla Hotel.”
“When?”
“A week ago last Saturday. He said he had a
proposition that might interest me, and asked if I’d
come over to Miami Beach and see him.”
“He just pulled your name out of a hat, is that it?”
“No. He said I’d been recommended to him by a
couple of yacht brokers.”
“He mention any names?”
“No. It didn’t occur to me to ask, at the time. But
there are any number of people around the Miami
water front who could have told him about me. I’ve
been in and out of here for years. Anyway, he
seemed to know all about me, and wanted to know if
I’d had any luck in finding a boat. I told him no.”
“This was over the phone?”
“Yes.”
“So you met him at the Eden Roc?”
“That’s right. In his suite, about two p.m.
Saturday. He explained who he was, and gave me a
rundown on the deal he had in mind. The company
wanted an auxiliary ketch or schooner, seventy feet
or longer, one that would accommodate eight guests
in addition to the crew. It would operate out of
Miami, and be used for conferences and company
Aground — 13
entertainment, that sort of thing—deductible as a
business expense, of course. I was to get five
hundred and fifty a month as skipper, and during
periods when nobody from the company was using it
I could operate it as a charter boat on a commission
basis. I wasn’t crazy about the idea, because I’d
rather work for myself, but I was in no position to be
choosy. We didn’t have the boatyard fully insured,
and three-quarters of it belonged to Barney’s widow,
anyway, so by the time I’d settled my hospital and
doctor bills I had less than thirteen thousand left.
Any kind of boat I could use at all would run twentyfive
thousand, and I just didn’t have enough cash to
talk to anybody. So I told him I’d take it.
“He had a list of five boats the company had been
considering. The Dragoon in Key West, Susannah in
Tampa, and three over in Nassau. He suggested I
look at the Dragoon first, since it seemed to be the
most promising. I went down to Key West Sunday
morning, spent all afternoon on it, and flew back
that night. I called Hollister, and he asked me to
come on over and give him the report. I met him in
his suite again, and we spent about two hours going
over all the dope I had on it—sketches of the interior
layout, inside dimensions, estimates on minor
repairs, condition of the auxiliary engine, rigging,
sails, and so on. The boat had been kept up, in spite
of the fact it hadn’t been used for a long time. He
liked it. I told him that of course any offer we made
would be subject to her passing survey. You don’t
buy a boat just on preliminary inspection. He
suggested we hold off final decision until I’d looked
at the others, but that if I still liked the Dragoon
we’d get in touch with Mrs. Osborne and try fortyfive
thousand dollars. I left for Tampa Monday
morning, and then went on from there to Nassau on
Wednesday.”
“He didn’t say anything about calling him from
Tampa with a report on the Susannah?”
Ingram’s face hardened. “No. In fact, he said he’d
probably be in West Palm Beach the next few days at
Aground — 14
a house party, and just to wait till I got back from
Nassau.”
Quinn came around in front of him and leaned on
the table. “That’s a great story. I love it. It covers
you from every angle except being a chump, and
there’s no law against that.”
“I can’t help it. That’s exactly the way it
happened.”
“Then you just swallowed all this whole?” Schmidt
asked. “It never occurred to you to question it?”
“Why should it?” Ingram demanded. “His story
made sense. Corporation-owned boats are nothing
new. He had all the props. He was living in a suite
on the ocean side, with a sundeck. He gave me his
card. It said he was Fredric Hollister, president of
Hollister-Dykes Laboratories. When I was there the
first day, he got a long-distance call from the home
office in Cleveland—”
Schmidt gestured pityingly. “From some joker on a
house phone in the lobby.”
“Sure, I suppose it’s an old gag, if you’re looking
for it. But why should I? And don’t forget, he fooled
the hotel too.”
“I know,” Schmidt said. “And to do that, he’d have
to have more than a business card. He’s beginning
to smell like a real con artist to me. But that’s the
stupid part of it—what the hell would a con man
want to steal a boat for?”
“You tell me,” Ingram said. “He can’t sell it. And
he can’t even leave the country in it without papers.”
“Who paid your expenses while you were looking
at all these boats?”
“Apparently I did. He gave me a check for two
hundred dollars and said if they ran over that to
keep a record and I’d be reimbursed. That’s the
reason I kept all those receipts.”
“Where’s the check?”
“I couldn’t cash it before I left, because it was the
week end, but I had enough cash of my own to carry
me, so I mailed it in to the bank from Tampa. On
Aground — 15
Tuesday afternoon, I think.” He tossed his
checkbook over in front of Schmidt. “The deposit’s
entered on my stubs.”
Schmidt looked at it, and nodded to Quinn. Quinn
went out.
“Can you describe him?” Schmidt asked.
“He was in his late thirties, I’d say. Close to six
feet. On the slim side, but big-boned and rangy and
sunburned, with big hands. A tennis type. Blue eyes,
as I recall. Butch-cut hair. I’m not sure, but I think it
was sandy, maybe with a little gray in it. Lot of
personality and drive—one of those guys with the
bone-crushing grip and the big grin.”
“You didn’t notice what kind of watch he was
wearing?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. It was an oversized
thing with a lot of gingerbread on it. Chronograph, I
think they call it. You know, little windows with the
day of the month and day of the week, and a sweep
second hand.”
Schmidt removed a watch from the pocket of his
coat and set it on the table. “Like this?”
Ingram glanced at it in surprise. “Yes. That looks
just like it. Same type of filigree gold case, and
everything. Where’d you get it?”
Schmidt lighted the cigarette he had stuck in the
side of his mouth. “It was picked up at sea.”
Ingram stared. “How’s that again?”
“Couple of men in a fishing boat brought it in. The
Dorado—one of those fifty-thousand-dollar deals you
use for marlin—”
“Sport fisherman.”
“Yeah. Anyway, they were bringing this Dorado
back to Miami from the Virgin Islands. And
yesterday afternoon a little before sunset they
sighted a rowboat—a dinghy, I think you call it.
Nobody in it; just drifting around in the ocean by
itself. They went over and picked it up. There was an
outboard motor clamped on the back, and some
man’s clothes in the bottom—sneakers and a pair of
Aground — 16
dungarees and a shirt. The watch was in one of the
pockets of the dungarees. They got into Miami early
this morning and turned the whole thing over to the
Coast Guard. The Coast Guard figured there might
be a chance it was the Dragoon’s, and called us. We
went out and got a description, and called Mrs.
Osborne to see if she could identify it. She wasn’t
sure—she’s not too familiar with the Dragoon—but
Quinn brought old Tango up from Key West, and he
identified it.”
“Where did they pick it up?” Ingram asked.
“South of here somewhere. The Coast Guard told
me, but I’m no navigator.”
Schmidt went out, leaving him in the custody of a
uniformed patrolman who chewed a pencil stub and
scowled at a crossword puzzle. When he returned,
some ten minutes later, Quinn was with him.
“We’re not going to hold you,” Schmidt said curtly.
“But before you go, we want you to look at some
pictures.”
Ingram sighed with relief. “Then you located my
letter to Mrs. Osborne?”
“Yes. She called her maid at home. The letter
apparently came this morning after she’d left for
Miami. The maid read it to her, and it checks with
what you told us. We also got hold of one of the
officers working late at the bank, and he dug out
that check Hollister gave you. It was the same phony
account he stabbed the hotel with. It bounced, of
course, but they hadn’t got the notice out to you
yet.”
“Then you’re convinced?”
“Let’s put it this way—you helped steal that boat,
but there’s no proof you did it with intent. I don’t
know whether you were just a sucker, or smart
enough to make yourself look like one, but either
way we can’t hold you.”
“You die hard, don’t you?”
Aground — 17
“You learn to, in this business.” Schmidt jerked his
head. “Let’s go see if you can pick Hollister out of
some mug shots.”
They went downstairs to another room that was
harshly lighted and hot. The two detectives sat
watching while he scanned hundreds of photographs
—hopefully, and then with increasing anger as the
hope faded—trying to find the man who’d called
himself Hollister. He knew he was still suspect, and
failure to turn up Hollister’s picture would certainly
do nothing to lessen their suspicion. There was
anger at himself for having been taken in, and a
burning desire to get his hands on the man who’d
done it.
“I think this is a waste of time,” Quinn said, after
an hour.
“Haven’t you got any more?” he asked.
“No. That’ll do.” There was curt dismissal in the
tone.
Ingram stood up. “Where is Mrs. Osborne
staying?”
“I don’t think I’d bother Mrs. Osborne, under the
circumstances,” Schmidt said. “That might have
been the last fifty-thousand-dollar yacht she had.”
“What about the Dorado? Do you know where
she’s tied up?”
“No. And what difference does it make?”
“I want to find out where they picked up that
dinghy.’
“Why?”
“Just say I’m curious. There’s something damned
funny about it.”
“You were never more right,” Quinn said coldly.
“So why don’t you just get out while you’re ahead?”
* * *
When he emerged on the street the rain had stopped
and it was dusk. Neon flamed hotly beneath the
darkening blue bowl of the sky, and tires hissed on
Aground — 18
wet pavement in the ceaseless river of traffic. He
walked back to the hotel, feeling his shirt stick to his
back with perspiration. The desk clerk looked up
with a nervous smile. “Uh—I hope everything’s all
right.”
“Yes,” he said.
“I hope you don’t think—I mean, there wasn’t
anything I could do. They told me to call them if you
checked back in—”
“It’s all right. The key, please.”
“Yes, sir.” The clerk whirled and snatched it from
the pigeonhole. There was a slip of paper with it.
“Oh. You had a phone call. It was about a half hour
ago.”
Ingram read the scribbled message. Call Mrs.
Osborne. Columbus Hotel.
That was strange. But maybe she wanted to
unburden herself of a few remarks on the subject of
meat-heads who helped steal her boat. Probably an
imperious old dowager with a voice like a Western
Ocean bosun. Well, he intended to call her, but she
could wait a few minutes; right now the important
thing was to find the Dorado before her crew left for
the night. The chances were that he was too late
already. He strode to the telephone booth in the
corner of the lobby, looked up the number of the
Coast Guard base, and was just starting to dial when
someone rapped on the glass panel of the door. It
was the clerk.
He pushed it open. “Yes?”
“She’s on the line now, sir. She just called back.
You can take it on the house phone.”
“Oh.” He retrieved his dime and walked over to
the desk. He might as well get it over with. The clerk
patched him through on the small switchboard and
disappeared into his room in back.
“Hello,” he said. “Ingram speaking.”
“This is Mrs. Osborne.” The voice was rather
husky, and sounded much younger than he’d
expected. “Would you come over to the Columbus
Aground — 19
right away? There is something very important I’d
like to discuss with you.”
“What?” he asked.
“Just say that it has to do with the Dragoon, and
that it’s quite urgent. I think you could help me.”
This appeared to make very little sense, but he
realized asking questions would only waste more
time. “All right,” he said, “I’ll be there as soon as I
can make it. But first I want to try to get hold of the
captain of the Dorado—”
“That won’t be necessary,” she broke in. “I’ve
already talked to him.”
“Did he tell you where they picked up the dinghy?”
“Yes. I have the whole story.”
“I’m on my way. Where shall I meet you?”
“Just come up to my room.”
It was less than ten minutes later when he stepped
out of the elevator at the Columbus and strode down
the carpeted and air-conditioned quietness of the
corridor looking at the numbers. When he knocked,
she answered almost immediately, and for a second
he thought he must have the wrong room. Even
hearing her voice over the telephone hadn’t entirely
prepared him for this.
Somehow, a woman who owned a seventy-foot
yacht in her own name figured to be a graying and
wealthy widow on the far side of fifty, at least, but
this statuesque blonde with the flamboyant mop of
hair couldn’t be much over thirty. She wore a green
knit dress that did her figure no harm at all, and he
had a quick impression of a well-tended and slightly
arrogant face with a bright red mouth, high
cheekbones, sea-green eyes, and a good tan. “Come
in, Captain,” she said. “I’m Rae Osborne.”
He stepped inside. The room was the sitting room
of a suite, furnished with a pearl-gray sofa, two
armchairs, and a coffee table. At the far end was a
window with flamingo drapes. The door into the
bedroom was on the left. There was soft light from
the lamps at either end of the sofa. The thing that
Aground — 20
caught his eye, however, was the chart spread out
on the coffee table. He stepped nearer, and saw it
was the Coast & Geodetic Survey No. 1002, a
general chart of the Florida Straits, Cuba, and the
Bahamas. A highball glass stood in the center of it,
in a spreading ring of moisture. He winced.
“Sit down,” she said, with a careless gesture
toward the armchair in front of the coffee table. She
seated herself opposite it on the sofa and crossed
her legs, the knit skirt hiking up over her knees and
molding itself against the long and rather heavy
thighs. He wondered if he was supposed to look
appreciative. Then he decided he was being unfair;
it was just that highball glass on the chart. She
picked up the glass, rattled the ice in it, and took a
drink, not bothering to offer him one. If this was the
new look in yachting, he was caring less and less for
it. You are in a nasty mood, he thought.
“You are a captain, aren’t you?” she asked. “That’s
what they called you.”
“I don’t have a boat now,” he said. “As you may
have heard. But who called me?”
“Some people I talked to about you. Lieutenant
Wilson of the Coast Guard, and a yacht broker
named Leon Collins. They said it was stupid. You
never stole anything in your life.”
“Thanks,” he said laconically.
She shrugged. “I’m just repeating what they said.
But anyway, I’m willing to take their word for it. You
didn’t know that man Hollister, did you?”
“No,” he said.
“Would you tell me what he looked like?”
He repeated the description he’d given the police.
She listened intently, but with no change of
expression. “I see.”
“What did you want to see me about?” he asked.
“I want you to help me find the Dragoon.”
He frowned. “Why me?”
Aground — 21
“For several reasons. I’ll get to that in a minute.
But will you?”
“Believe me, there’s nothing I’d like better than to
find the Dragoon. And Hollister,” he added grimly.
“But if the police can’t locate her—”
“She’s at sea. Outside police jurisdiction.”
“How do you know?”
“Oh, I forgot—you still don’t know where the
dinghy was picked up.”
“No,” he said.
“It was right here.” She leaned over the chart and
indicated a pencil mark with one red-lacquered
fingernail. It was in the open sea, far out over the
western edge of the Great Bahama Bank along the
Santaren Channel, probably a hundred and fifty
miles south-southeast of Miami. At five-thirty
yesterday afternoon.”
“The time doesn’t mean much,” he said. “There’s
no telling how long ago they lost it, or where. They
could be five hundred miles from there by now.”
She shook her head. “Didn’t they tell you about the
clothes, and the watch?”
“Yes. But what about them?”
“The watch was still running.”
“Oh,” he said. Then the dinghy must have been
adrift for less than twenty-four hours. “Are you sure
of that?”
“Yes. I went down and talked to the captain of the
Dorado myself. And the Coast Guard doesn’t think
the Dragoon was under way when they lost it.”
“No, of course not, if they lost it out there. They
wouldn’t have been towing it. But, look—the men in
the Dorado didn’t see anything of the schooner at
all?”
“No. They watched with binoculars until it got
dark, but they didn’t really search the area. She
might have been in over the Bank somewhere.
Maybe anchored.”
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