police—had officially drowned in the tail end of a Chesapeake hurricane. The woman who faced me was now, as securely as we could make her, just tough Cap’n Hattie Robinson with a new and phony but moderately serviceable past, and grease on her nose.
“You again,” she said, as if I’d spent the past few busy years just hanging around.
“Your face is dirty,” I said.
“What’s my face to you?” She rubbed herself clean with a corner of the rag she was holding. “One of these days I’m going to have to put new diesels into this old bucket.”
“How’s the fishing business?” I asked.
“Don’t ask unless you really want to know. It’ll take about three hours for me to give you the high points. Do you know what it costs me nowadays just to fire up these mills?”
“Buy you a drink?”
She hesitated, obviously remembering that we’d been enemies, reluctant allies, even hasty lovers once when the situation seemed to call for it, but never exactly friends. It was a strange and uneasy progression I seemed to be making, from Martha Devine to Harriet Robinson; and I guess you could say that I was revisiting the scenes of old conquests, except that in both cases there had been considerable doubt about just who had conquered whom.
Harriet shrugged. “Hell, come aboard. I’ve got a bottle somewhere; I think I can find it if I look real hard.”
I said cautiously, “The last time we parted, as I recall, you told me in effect to get the hell off your goddam boat and stay there.”
Harriet laughed, and glanced toward the marina cocktail lounge and restaurant across the road, then at her clothes. She said, “I’m too dirty to appear in public; and that was too many years ago. Come on. I don’t stay mad this long, even at you, even if you did con and blackmail me into helping you that last time. Just wait a minute while I wash my hands. . . .”
Five minutes later we were relaxing in Queenfisher's comfortable deckhouse. On the cabin table was a bottle it hadn’t taken her very long to find. There were well-iced glasses in our hands. One thing about sportfishing boats, you seldom lack for ice, but if they’ve kept bait in the box you may find yourself drinking some slightly fishy whiskey.
“I’ve missed you, you bastard,” Harriet said fondly. “When I think of all the years I spent hating you for what you’d taken away from me . . . and don’t get stuffy and tell me I did it all to myself—I had plenty of help from you! Anyway, I do miss that lovely hate. I was going to really enjoy killing you the next time I saw you; and then you tricked me into saving your lousy life instead!” She took a healthy slug of whiskey; and I reflected that it was nice to be with a lady you knew could carry her liquor like a gentleman. She asked, “What’s on your mind, Matt? Last time you were brooding about some disappearing millionaires you wanted me to find for you. Don’t you ever do any work yourself? What are you looking for this time that I’m going to have to lead you to like a helpless little boy?” “Some disappearing ships,” I said, watching her.
“You mean that old Terrible Triangle crap?” she asked casually, but I was watching her eyes and I knew I’d come to the right place. I wasn’t the first person who’d questioned her on this subject.
“Maybe,” I said. “That is, I’m not so much concerned about the ships as about somebody who’s investigating them; and she claims to be doing research on that legendary Triangle. Our information is that she’s visited you twice, once well over a year ago and once quite recently. Here’s the girl in question.” I passed her the Eleanor Brand article. “Go ahead, read it if you like.”
Harriet laughed. “Don’t be stupid, Matt. I’ve got a copy right over there. Why, your name is in it. Would I pass up the chance to read all about the man and the organization that stripped me of everything and turned me from a fine society lady into a
“You again,” she said, as if I’d spent the past few busy years just hanging around.
“Your face is dirty,” I said.
“What’s my face to you?” She rubbed herself clean with a corner of the rag she was holding. “One of these days I’m going to have to put new diesels into this old bucket.”
“How’s the fishing business?” I asked.
“Don’t ask unless you really want to know. It’ll take about three hours for me to give you the high points. Do you know what it costs me nowadays just to fire up these mills?”
“Buy you a drink?”
She hesitated, obviously remembering that we’d been enemies, reluctant allies, even hasty lovers once when the situation seemed to call for it, but never exactly friends. It was a strange and uneasy progression I seemed to be making, from Martha Devine to Harriet Robinson; and I guess you could say that I was revisiting the scenes of old conquests, except that in both cases there had been considerable doubt about just who had conquered whom.
Harriet shrugged. “Hell, come aboard. I’ve got a bottle somewhere; I think I can find it if I look real hard.”
I said cautiously, “The last time we parted, as I recall, you told me in effect to get the hell off your goddam boat and stay there.”
Harriet laughed, and glanced toward the marina cocktail lounge and restaurant across the road, then at her clothes. She said, “I’m too dirty to appear in public; and that was too many years ago. Come on. I don’t stay mad this long, even at you, even if you did con and blackmail me into helping you that last time. Just wait a minute while I wash my hands. . . .”
Five minutes later we were relaxing in Queenfisher's comfortable deckhouse. On the cabin table was a bottle it hadn’t taken her very long to find. There were well-iced glasses in our hands. One thing about sportfishing boats, you seldom lack for ice, but if they’ve kept bait in the box you may find yourself drinking some slightly fishy whiskey.
“I’ve missed you, you bastard,” Harriet said fondly. “When I think of all the years I spent hating you for what you’d taken away from me . . . and don’t get stuffy and tell me I did it all to myself—I had plenty of help from you! Anyway, I do miss that lovely hate. I was going to really enjoy killing you the next time I saw you; and then you tricked me into saving your lousy life instead!” She took a healthy slug of whiskey; and I reflected that it was nice to be with a lady you knew could carry her liquor like a gentleman. She asked, “What’s on your mind, Matt? Last time you were brooding about some disappearing millionaires you wanted me to find for you. Don’t you ever do any work yourself? What are you looking for this time that I’m going to have to lead you to like a helpless little boy?” “Some disappearing ships,” I said, watching her.
“You mean that old Terrible Triangle crap?” she asked casually, but I was watching her eyes and I knew I’d come to the right place. I wasn’t the first person who’d questioned her on this subject.
“Maybe,” I said. “That is, I’m not so much concerned about the ships as about somebody who’s investigating them; and she claims to be doing research on that legendary Triangle. Our information is that she’s visited you twice, once well over a year ago and once quite recently. Here’s the girl in question.” I passed her the Eleanor Brand article. “Go ahead, read it if you like.”
Harriet laughed. “Don’t be stupid, Matt. I’ve got a copy right over there. Why, your name is in it. Would I pass up the chance to read all about the man and the organization that stripped me of everything and turned me from a fine society lady into a
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