Read Online Man on a Leash by Charles Williams - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charles Williams
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Everything on it—self-steering vane, radiotelephone, fathometer, Kenyon log, diesel auxiliary, tanks for a cruising range of four hundred miles under power, generator, refrigerator. You can do all that with a fairly small boat if you’re just putting in cruising accommodations for two, and you can do it for sixty thousand or less.
“We’ll take a long cruise, down the west coast as far as Panama, across to the Galapagos, back up to Hawaii, and then out through the Marianas and Carolines. How about it?”
“Mmmmm—I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.”
“Why?”
“Let’s don’t go into that now. What are the other two things you’re going to do?”
“The first is I’m going to find that son of a bitch who murdered the old man. And then I’m going to light one of those Havana cigars and smoke it very slowly right down to the end while he’s begging me to call the police.”
“And you wonder why I’m doubtful about marrying you.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re just as arrogant and self-sufficient and ruthless as he was. Make up your own laws, and the hell with civilization.”
“You ever hear of a place called Murmansk?” he asked.
“Sure. It’s a Russian seaport in the Arctic. Why?”
He tried to tell her—dispassionately, of course, since this was hardly the setting for the kind of cold rage that had kept growing in him driving down from Nevada—tried to tell her of the gales, the snow, sleet, ships solidly encased in ice, dive-bomber attacks, submarine wolf packs, and the eternal, pitiless cold that could kill a man in the water in minutes. He hadn’t known any of this at the time, of course; he was only a very young boy leading a very easy existence in an upper-class Havana suburb, but he’d learned it later through reading about those convoy runs in World War II and what it was like to carry aviation gasoline and high explosives up across the top of the world while the Germans and the merciless Barents Sea did their level best to kill you. His father had done it, for months on end, along with a lot of other men who could have found cozier backwaters to ride out the war if they’d tried.
“He was out there taking his chances where some real hairy people were gunning for him, and then he winds up on a garbage dump, tied up and blindfolded so some chickenshit punk can shoot him in the back of the head.”
“Well, the police are looking for them, aren’t they?” she asked.
“Oh, sure. After a fashion, and for the wrong people for the wrong motives.”
“What do you mean?”
“The heroin angle. I think the whole thing was a plant. And it worked, at least so far. They got just the situation they wanted: The sheriff’s department in Coleville has jurisdiction because that’s where it happened, but they’re convinced the crime was committed by professional hoodlums from San Francisco. The San Francisco police will help as much as they can, but they’re not about to run a temperature over a dead man in Nevada; they’ve got a dead man of their own—a whole morgue full of ‘em and more coming in by the hour. We’ll be in touch, fellas; how’s the weather up there? And neither police force, Coleville or San Francisco, is going to start a crusade over a rubbed-out heroin dealer: Well, that’s one son of a bitch we don’t have to contend with anymore; they ought to do it more often.”
“Then you think he was killed for that money he drew out of the bank? Somebody knew about it.”
“No. He was forced to draw it out of the bank; and then the same people killed him. You can futz around with it until you’re blue in the face, and you’ll never make a case for his having drawn that money out voluntarily.”
“You mean extortion?” she asked. “A threat of some kind?”
“Right.”
“But how? They said he came into the bank alone. What was to keep him from calling the police?”
“Richter just has to be wrong about it, that’s all. Somebody was
“We’ll take a long cruise, down the west coast as far as Panama, across to the Galapagos, back up to Hawaii, and then out through the Marianas and Carolines. How about it?”
“Mmmmm—I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.”
“Why?”
“Let’s don’t go into that now. What are the other two things you’re going to do?”
“The first is I’m going to find that son of a bitch who murdered the old man. And then I’m going to light one of those Havana cigars and smoke it very slowly right down to the end while he’s begging me to call the police.”
“And you wonder why I’m doubtful about marrying you.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re just as arrogant and self-sufficient and ruthless as he was. Make up your own laws, and the hell with civilization.”
“You ever hear of a place called Murmansk?” he asked.
“Sure. It’s a Russian seaport in the Arctic. Why?”
He tried to tell her—dispassionately, of course, since this was hardly the setting for the kind of cold rage that had kept growing in him driving down from Nevada—tried to tell her of the gales, the snow, sleet, ships solidly encased in ice, dive-bomber attacks, submarine wolf packs, and the eternal, pitiless cold that could kill a man in the water in minutes. He hadn’t known any of this at the time, of course; he was only a very young boy leading a very easy existence in an upper-class Havana suburb, but he’d learned it later through reading about those convoy runs in World War II and what it was like to carry aviation gasoline and high explosives up across the top of the world while the Germans and the merciless Barents Sea did their level best to kill you. His father had done it, for months on end, along with a lot of other men who could have found cozier backwaters to ride out the war if they’d tried.
“He was out there taking his chances where some real hairy people were gunning for him, and then he winds up on a garbage dump, tied up and blindfolded so some chickenshit punk can shoot him in the back of the head.”
“Well, the police are looking for them, aren’t they?” she asked.
“Oh, sure. After a fashion, and for the wrong people for the wrong motives.”
“What do you mean?”
“The heroin angle. I think the whole thing was a plant. And it worked, at least so far. They got just the situation they wanted: The sheriff’s department in Coleville has jurisdiction because that’s where it happened, but they’re convinced the crime was committed by professional hoodlums from San Francisco. The San Francisco police will help as much as they can, but they’re not about to run a temperature over a dead man in Nevada; they’ve got a dead man of their own—a whole morgue full of ‘em and more coming in by the hour. We’ll be in touch, fellas; how’s the weather up there? And neither police force, Coleville or San Francisco, is going to start a crusade over a rubbed-out heroin dealer: Well, that’s one son of a bitch we don’t have to contend with anymore; they ought to do it more often.”
“Then you think he was killed for that money he drew out of the bank? Somebody knew about it.”
“No. He was forced to draw it out of the bank; and then the same people killed him. You can futz around with it until you’re blue in the face, and you’ll never make a case for his having drawn that money out voluntarily.”
“You mean extortion?” she asked. “A threat of some kind?”
“Right.”
“But how? They said he came into the bank alone. What was to keep him from calling the police?”
“Richter just has to be wrong about it, that’s all. Somebody was
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