Read Online Cargo for the Styx by Louis Trimble - Free Book Online Page B

made a motion and started off the bridge. I followed him down to his cabin. It was quieter here. He said, “What was that you said?” I repeated it. He didn’t like something about my words. I could see the mean look settling around his mouth.
    “Are you climbing my back, Zane?”
    I said, “I’m wondering about your crew.”
    “Prebble?”
    I said, “Come off it, Clift. You’re supposed to have two men besides Prebble. Where are they?”
    “On their way down here,” he said. He walked over to his desk and began fingering some papers on the top. I hadn’t asked for an explanation, but he gave me one anyway.
    “The pair I originally hired couldn’t make it. I had trouble getting replacements. Non-union sailors with good records are hard to come by.”
    I said, “And what did you draw?”
    He stopped fussing with the papers and dug a bottle of bourbon out of his desk. He poured a drink for himself. “Ask me when they get here,” he said. “I called a friend in L.A. and he said he’d have a couple of men down here by this afternoon. That’s all I know about it.”
    I said, “You’re itchy, Clift. For a week you aren’t itchy. All of a sudden you are.”
    He started to swing around on me and stopped. He gulped down half of his drink. He said, “Hell yes, I’m nervous. This cargo is delicate. It’s my first job.”
    I said, “I can think of some other ‘first jobs’ that might make a man nervous. Like the first time he tries to clip an insurance company.”
    Clift set down his glass. He came toward me with those big shoulders swinging. His face was set and ugly. The thin line of his scar stood out hard on the tanned skin of his face.
    “Get out of my hair, Zane. I didn’t ask you aboard. I don’t want you here.”
    I said, “Tell your goons they did a lousy job of tying me up, Clift. Tell them to do better next time.”
    I didn’t wait to watch him. I hiked out and back to Harbor Way. I picked up a cab and had him run me to the office. I wondered if I’d pushed Clift too far. I had myself out on a limb. If he wanted to saw me off short, he could call Ted Winters at Marine Mutual. If he was clean, he should call Ted Winters. But I didn’t have the time to wait around to find out.
    It was a long time since I’d had to be careful about walking through dark alleys. But now some of that caution came back to me. I stood to one side and eased open the office door. Silence and warm air. Nothing else. I was almost disappointed.
    I sat at my desk and reached for the telephone. I tried Irma’s office again. Her secretary hadn’t seen her. No one had called to ask about her. I was back where I’d started.
    I dug a note pad from the desk drawer. I started making notes about Aggie Minos and Jaspar Clift. It was something to do. It wasn’t getting me anyplace. I threw the notes into the wastebasket.
    The telephone rang. I said, “Martin Zane Company,” into the mouthpiece.
    I got back Blimey’s voice without the British accent. He sounded excited or afraid or both.
    He said, “Mr. Zane, there’s a lady here asking for you.” He made a gulping sound. “A Miss Wilson.”
    Relief made the telephone wobble in my hand. I said, “Put her on—and thanks.”
    “I can’t put her on,” he said. “She’s in the storeroom. She acts kind of funny. Sick like. She told me to call you.”
    I said, “I’m on my way. Keep her there.”
    I blessed the elevator because it hadn’t gone away. I let it rattle me down six flights. I trotted across the lobby and climbed into the first cab in line. I said, “Blimey’s Shack on the double.”
    I could see Irma’s red convertible at the curb when we turned onto Harbor Way. A truck was making a U-turn and I told the driver to let me off behind the convertible. I started up the sidewalk past it. I glanced in and saw the keys hanging from the ignition. I stopped and reached over the door to pull them out before some smart punk borrowed it.
    I was pulling the keys out