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Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 1
Foul Play at Duffy’s Mariena
Michael Coney
AN AFTERNOON IN DECEMBER: THE PARTY IS OVER
The old lady cracked open the front door of her tiny clapboard home.
Lionel Slade examined her face anxiously. She looked pale and washed-out,
but she smiled when she saw him. She opened the door wider and his misgivings
abated.
Apparently he was in the clear.
“So good of you to come, Mr. Slade. I realize how busy you must be.” She
pushed the door shut and he heard the rattle of a chain, then the door opened fully and
she ushered him into the narrow hallway cluttered with a lifetime’s souvenirs.
He edged past a narrow walnut table holding a phalanx of silver-framed family
photos. “It’s my job and my pleasure, Mrs. Goldhorn. Nothing is too much trouble
where my favorite clients are concerned.”
And that much was true. She was a nice old bird, reminding him of his Aunt
Jess who had always rewarded his occasional childhood visits with a block of Cadbury’s
Fruit & Nut. True, Aunt Jess had revealed a different side to her character when
an unannounced visit had revealed her lying on the floor, apparently dead. Terrified,
Lionel had run home and notified his mother, following which the whole event had become
one of those frightening adult secrets, whispered about, obliquely referred to, but
never discussed openly in front of children. Only one thing became certain: Aunt Jess
wasn’t dead, after all. She was being Looked After.
Mrs. Goldhorn followed Lionel as he entered the living room. A Victorian giltframed
mirror hung on the opposite wall and, just for an instant, he caught a glimpse of
the old lady’s face as she followed him in. She was not smiling any more. Something in
the angle of the mirror had lent her an oddly calculating expression.
He felt a tingling emptiness in his chest as he tossed his Burberry coat over the
arm of the chair and sat down. Had he imagined that sudden crafty expression? His
imagination had been working overtime lately. He found his fingers were digging into
the brown moquette of the armchair and he forced himself to relax. He told himself: He
needn’t have come. The only reason he was here, was because Mrs. Goldhorn’s
place was on his route and he’d felt there was no harm in obeying her oh-so-casual request
to drop in for a cup of coffee on his way. It would have seemed funny if she’d
seen him walking past her door.
Now Mrs. Goldhorn was sitting down opposite, arranging the skirt of her blue
dress carefully as though worried about showing too much leg. The clock ticked loudly
from its perch on the mantelpiece. He cleared his throat to break the silence.
But the old lady spoke first. “Well, Mr. Slade,” she said with no trace of guile in
her pale blue eyes, “you really are a miracle worker, so my grandson tells me. The
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 2
market’s been on a downturn for the last two years, we all know that. And yet my
portfolio has actually appreciated. So satisfactory.”
“That’s what you pay me for, Mrs. Goldhorn.” The old girl sounded happy
enough, but in his hypersensitive mood the words tickled some warning sense in his
brain. Something had changed and he didn’t know what it was. For one thing, she
hadn’t offered him coffee. In the past, she’d had the coffee ready for his arrival. He
found himself seeking reassurance from the familiar appearance of the room: suburban,
a couple of landscape prints, chesterfield and two easy chairs arranged before an imitation
wood fire where propane flames flickered. A vase of cut flowers stood on the maple
coffee table. Mrs. Goldhorn sat opposite; small, elderly, pale and bespectacled,
widowed.
Nothing had changed, had it?
“You’ll forgive an old lady a foolish whim, will you, Mr. Slade?”
He smiled. “Your whim is my command, Mrs. Goldhorn.”
“Well, I’d really like to see the share certificates. Just to look at them and hold
them. Share certificates are always so splendid, embossed and dependable-looking like
great big dollar bills. My father used to keep his share certificates in a safety-deposit
box at the bank and I just loved going with him to sort through them. He was a wealthy
man when he died, you know. He’d worked his own business up from scratch. Building
supplies and stuff like that. He owned a couple of blocks of Victoria come the end.
Oh, dear, I’m repeating myself again. I must have told you about my father a thousand
times.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Goldhorn. He must have been a very talented man. A success
story always makes good listening.” Any story would be welcome, no matter how
familiar, to divert the old girl from the topic of share certificates.
“I was rambling again. You were about to tell me about my share certificates.”
He glanced at his watch to give the appearance of time flying. “I’m afraid they
don’t issue share certificates any more, Mrs. Goldhorn. It’s all done electronically these
days. A pity, in a way. But much more efficient, I have to admit that.” Silly old fool,
living in the past. She looked so frail and vulnerable, sitting there with her hands folded
in her lap, wearing that blue dress she’d probably owned for yonks.
But the exact words of that conversation were to haunt his memory for the next
few months. They had been pivotal. He should have guessed that the game was up;
that it was time to cut and run. He should have ignored her request to see him in the
first place and maybe taken a different route to the marina. It was that simple. He
could have avoided all the subsequent humiliation.
“No certificates? Such a shame. It makes my portfolio seem so nebulous,
really, doesn’t it? Just little electrical charges somewhere out there. I have no concrete
evidence of my portfolio without certificates. Suppose someone made a mistake, like
hitting the wrong key and wiping out my holdings?”
She was speaking in an odd, stilted manner, as though repeating words she had
rehearsed. And she’d got a lace-edged handkerchief between her fingers, twisting it
nervously.
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 3
His smile was beginning to ache. “It couldn’t happen. There are checks and
balances, you know.”
“I’m sure there are. But I’m just a silly old woman, and it seems to me that
things could go wrong so easily.”
“For instance, it would be easy for a crook to fake the whole goddamned portfolio.”
The new voice startled him and he twisted around in his chair. A young fellow
had entered noiselessly; late twenties, jeans and white T-shirt. He looked like the kind
of guy who worked out on a regular basis. His head was shaven bald, lending him a
dangerous appearance like the skinheads Slade occasionally saw hanging around the
street corners in Esquimalt late at night.
“This is my grandson Dominic Miggs, Mr. Slade.” The old lady’s voice had
gone cold and all trace of nervousness had disappeared. “He’d appreciate a few words
with you.”
Slade felt breathless and a chill seemed to have crept up from his stomach.
He’d underestimated the old girl. She’d led him on and now she’d trapped him. He
tried to smile but felt the corners of his lower lip jerking downward in weak fear. He
stood unsteadily and extended a hand. The young guy ignored it.
Bare arms bulged with biceps like cannonballs. “Like Auntie said, there seem to
have been a few miracles here.” He held up a sheet of paper embossed with Slade’s
note heading. “We’ll take a look at this list of yours, shall we? For instance, Albion
Metallurgical, eh? Quoted at 290 according to your last report. But according to the
Internet, 97. Quite a difference. And the same applies to the rest of her portfolio. All
overvalued, every one of them. It looks like you’ve been inflating Auntie’s hopes.
Now why would you want to do that, eh?” His voice had taken on an unpleasant
sneering tone. He moved close, fists clenched.
Slade took a step back and was brought up short by the coffee table so suddenly
that he almost fell backwards across it. The vase toppled and water dripped to
the carpet.
“Oh dear, you’ve made a mess,” Mrs. Goldhorn rose stiffly from her chair and
shuffled toward the kitchen as though this was a trite domestic accident on an average
day. “I’ll get a cloth.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up.”
But as he moved to assist, the grandson had gripped his arm. “Auntie can handle
it. You tell me about these stock prices.”
“Oh, that’s easily explained.” He was appalled to hear his voice emerging like a
bleat. “Different classes of stock.... Fixed interest, not so subject to the va garies of the
market…” He straightened up and adjusted his jacket. The grandson’s face was unpleasantly
close.
“I don’t think so. I got to tell you, I took advice on this. And I tell something
else, I been in touch with a few of your other victims. They’ll be wanting some answers,
too. But go on, then. Explain it in words of one syllable, if you can. You want my
opinion, Mr. Slade? You’re nothing but a dirty little crook!”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 4
The big young man shouted the words into his face, standing so close that he felt
a splash of spittle on his chin. Lionel Slade backed off, lips trembling as he tried to explain,
only to have the words cut short by his own nervous gulp. It was embarrassing;
no, it was terrifying. Reliving the moment over the following months, he’d realized it had
been like he was a kid again, that time when he’d been caught shoplifting some insignificant
item; a Mars bar, wasn’t it? No excuse, then. Stand and face the music. No way
out for a kid; the store owner had a firm grip on his arm.
But this time there was a way out. He was an adult now, able to stand on the
shifting sands of his dignity and gain a temporary respite.
“I didn’t come here to be insulted by you!” And again, Slade had heard the
weakness in his own voice....
A difficult discussion followed, during which Slade recovered little of his composure.
He was accustomed to difficult discussions and skillful at deflecting questions; it
was the threat of physical violence that had unmanned him. Finally Miggs waved a copy
of the Toronto Globe and Mail under his nose. “OK, then, enough of your crap. Show
me the details of my Aunt’s portfolio compared with current prices. And prove to us
that she really holds all this stock. Just prove it, Slade. That should be easy enough.”
“No problem. Just hold on while I get my laptop from the car.”
And Dominic Miggs nodded curtly and stepped back, maybe convinced by
Slade’s confident demeanor, or his natty suit, whatever. And Slade walked out of the
house.
Of course, there was no car outside. The ancient Volvo was not the kind of car
to inspire confidence in a client so he usually left it at the marina on the far side of the
harbor.
He fled on foot.
THE SAME AFTERNOON: ON THE RUN
Slade hurried through the wet December streets of Victoria glancing over his shoulder
from time to time, fearful of pursuit. God, this lousy West Coast weather! Drifting rain,
slippery sidewalks, a million Christmas shoppers with lethal umbrellas impeding his progress,
the buildings closing in on him as though he was running down a tunnel with no
side turnings and something frightful following. And the blaring traffic and the stink of
exhaust. Deliberately he forced himself to think of the better things in his life....
Such as the boat waiting at the marina. That beautiful ketch, the Ocean Dream.
Soon he’d be climbing aboard and then there would be nothing to stop him casting off
and sailing away, leaving all this Victoria garbage behind. And Susi was waiting for him
at the marina. Very easy on the eye, Susi was, but was she in reality a part of the garbage?
That remained to be seen. The fact was, the boat wasn’t ready for a long voyage
yet and Susi would be useful helping him fit her out in some secluded marina upisland,
away from this goddamned city. When the boat was ready to leave for deep
water, it would be time to make the decision about Susi....
“Watch where you’re going, can’t you?”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 5
The sudden collision and the angry shout jerked him back to reality.
“Sorry….”
He hurried on, and groaned aloud as he relived that dreadful conversation in the
quiet suburban living room.... God, the humiliation!
So unexpected; so unfair. Yet the day had started quietly enough. A message
on his voice mail asking him to call on Mrs. Amanda Goldhorn. The old girl needed
advice on investment of a legacy from her brother. Investment advice was Slade’s
forte. True, the advice might not always be accurate, but who could honestly predict
the ups and downs of the market? Aside of such excusable details he took pains to ensure
the advice was smooth and convincing, and he always dressed the part in a pinstripe
suit and muted tie. And he always gave a receipt for moneys received.
And now, as he changed direction yet again to throw of any pursuit, dodging
through Christmas shoppers and office workers with umbrellas raised against the chilly
winter drizzle, he felt debased. He, Lionel Slade, Investment Advisor, was running like
a hunted rabbit. A car honked at him; the driver opened the window and yelled after
him. His breath came fast, his throat felt raw. For the first time in his career, he really
did feel like a dirty little crook. Crooks had no dignity. Crooks ran away. Breathless
and frightened, he was close to weeping as he ran.
Yes, the time had come to pull out of Victoria altogether. It had been such an
attractive city when he’d first arrived from Calgary a few years ago, bright and holidayish
and coastal, appealing to his sense of beauty and his love of the sea. But now, suddenly,
he was hating the place. Maybe if he was sure there was no pursuit by the next
turnoff, he’d drop by the office. There wasn’t much of value left there; he’d already
transferred the strongbox representing his future to the boat. He’d hole up at the office
for an hour or two while things cooled down, clear out the last of his possessions, have
a quick cigarette and finish off that bottle of Laphroaig. By Jesus, he needed it! Then
by the time he reached the boat he’d be feeling more composed and Susi wouldn’t suspect
anything. She was satisfyingly gullible, was Susi, but even she would raise her eyebrows
at the sight of a supposedly respectable investment advisor arriving breathless
and sweating with the fires of terror still burning in his eyes.
But as he turned the corner into Filbert Street, he stopped dead. A small knot
of people were chattering loudly outside his office door. He recognized them instantly;
five of his clients. Little old ladies, carbon copies of Mrs. Goldhorn doubtless stirred up
by Dominic Miggs. Plus a rat-faced little red-haired guy. And a City cop with his
notebook out. Shit! Fortunately the women were so busy haranguing the cop that they
didn’t notice him.
He wheeled round rapidly, took a quick look back the way he’d come and
spotted the muscular figure of Dominic Miggs a mere block away. With a whimper of
pure terror he turned and ran blindly down the street through shoppers laden with heavy
bags of Christmas presents and food and trampled on the feet of a panhandler outside a
delicatessen.
“Sorry.... Sorry....” he jerked out.
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 6
“Forget it,” replied the other in conciliatory tones. “Spare the price of a cup of
coffee?”
He found himself pausing under a strange compulsion, fumbling loose change
from his pocket and thrusting it into the man’s hand. He ran on, obscurely feeling that at
least one person in the world was not his enemy, zigzagged through side streets, paused
in a darkened store doorway to scan the street for signs of pursuit and seeing no sign of
Dominic Miggs, then moving on more circumspectly.
He reached the foot of Fort Street, crossed Wharf and turned right. The early
winter twilight was closing in and there were fewer people here. He paused to recover
his breath, leaning against the damp iron railings of a car park beside a public marina.
Tall masts probed the low clouds and the lights of buildings on the opposite shore
shimmered bleakly in the dark rain-pocked water. The familiar salty aroma of damp
seaweed reassured him somewhat. It was time to regain some of his self-esteem. He
was not a dirty little crook, for a start. His suit was expensive and cut in the latest fashion,
and if he was not so tall as Dominic Miggs, at least he was a respectable five ten....
Oh, God, he’d left his Burberry coat behind! It was over the arm of the chair
he’d been sitting on, back at Mrs. Goldhorn’s! Well, there was nothing he could do
about that. He’d got far more out of Mrs. Goldhorn than that coat was worth. The hell
with it.
A ragged street person seated on the sidewalk opposite, German Shepherd at
his side, eyed him speculatively and called out some request but the words were
whisked away by a passing van. Slade turned his back on the man; he was beneath
contempt. Across the harbor he could see the lights of the condominiums. Somewhere
over there, away to the left was the marina where his boat lay. The Ocean Dream.
Jesus, he’d be glad to get down into the cabin with Susi and shut the hatch behind him.
He’d known this moment would come sooner or later, ever since the stock
market went into a slide. He’d been ready for it. His clients had mostly been older
women, glad to have the advice of a personable, well-dressed businessman with a convincing
line of talk. And it had worked both ways: he’d been flattered by their expressions
of trust and reluctant to admit that their portfolios had deteriorated in his care.
He’d told a few white lies, and his computerized reports had reflected the outdated values
of a happier market.
He didn’t think he’d ever intended to become a crook. He’d kind of drifted
into it, lured by the trusting nature of his clients. The market had been falling for ages,
and his pride had prevented him sharing the details with his clients. It had been a huge
mistake, because they could always have checked the prices with their newspapers if
they’d really wanted to. In a way, it was their own fault.
Then some months ago he’d realized the downturn wasn’t going to end any time
soon so he’d sold off his clients’ portfolios, fully intending to reinvest when the market
bottomed out. It was the sensible thing to do, and it would have only worried the old
dears if he’d shared the information with them.
Then one or two of his clients began to ask questions. He’d noticed expressions
of mistrust on their faces as their questions became more searching. A
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 7
sixth sense had warned him some kind of crunch was coming for which he needed an
escape route. So he’d bought the Ocean Dream with some of his client’s funds, mooring
her at an out-of-the-way Esquimalt marina that tolerated liveaboards.
And now here he was, hurrying along the harborside footpath, the water black
and mysterious to his left, his jacket clutched protectively around him, his pants legs
damp and clinging, a victim of circumstances or a dirty little crook on the run, dependent
on the point of view.
EARLY THE SAME EVENING: AT HIGGINS QUALITY YACHTS.
Susi pulled on a warm jacket, climbed from the cockpit of the forty-foot ketch Ocean
Dream onto the wobbly finger and staggered to the more solid footing of the dock
proper. She stood for a moment admiring the sleek lines of the ketch, yellowish in the
dock lights, then gazed across the harbor toward Victoria. The Christmas lights glowed
through the misty twilight and lent the waterfront a fairyland look. A great happiness
grew within her. She laughed aloud and stretched her arms to the darkening sky luxuriously.
It was good to be alive, to be a girl loved and in love, soon to be sailing off into
the Pacific on a beautiful boat.
At such a moment as this, Fate will generally conspire to bring a girl down a peg
or two; and sure enough, a figure emerged from among the boats propped up in the
misty marina yard.
“Susi!”
Her heart sank. “Uh, hello, Dad,” she shouted across the water. “I thought
you’d gone back to Vancouver. What brings you here again?”
He approached the ramp at the head of the dock, big in a heavy winter coat,
stepping carefully through the empty paint cans and oil drums that littered the marina
yard. He probably had emotional blackmail in mind. She’d suffered enough of that,
these past few days. Sure enough, he led off with the familiar words. “You’re breaking
your mother’s heart, you know, girl,” he called down to her.
She dragged her feet to the foot of the ramp. “Yeah, well, I’m sorry.”
“I mean, you had a good enough job at the massage parlor—”
“The health spa.”
“Whatever. I might have said a few hasty things about it at the time, but at least
it was a job. It paid good money and you were independent. But now, living on a boat
in this dump of a marina with some guy you’ve only known a couple weeks, well, it’s
just not like you, Susi. I mean, who is this guy? What does he do, for Chrissake?
The tide was low. She began to climb the ramp toward him. “I’ve told you before,
Dad. He’s OK. He deals in investments. He’s not short of money.”
“So why’s he living on a boat, eh?” He indicated the Ocean Dream with a
contemptuous wave of his arm. “Are you sure he’s not married, a wife tucked away in
the suburbs? Kids?”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 8
She sighed. This was all getting real tedious. “He’s not married. He had an
apartment in town but he’s given it up now.”
“Why, for Chrissake?”
At some point she had to break the news. It would not be well received. And
God knows what her mother would think when it was relayed back to her. She swallowed
involuntarily. “All right, if you must know. We’re getting the boat ready for sea.
Fitting it out. We’re going to sail across the Pacific.”
“ What! ” He stared at her in dismay.
“You heard.” Now it was in the open and she might as well be blunt. “That’s
the way it is, Dad. No room for discussion. I’m a grown woman, eligible to vote, eligible
to make up my own goddamned mind. Best thing you can do is go home to Mom.
I’ll stay in touch, never fear.”
“But you know nothing about boats, sailing, all that stuff.” There was a heartfelt
plea in his voice. “The Pacific can be a killer! Jesus, when I think of what you hear
about hurricanes, boats wrecked, boats sunk, people lost overboard, pirates....”
“Li knows what he’s doing. He’s been sailing for yonks. Just look at the boat,
Dad. She’s beautiful. She’s built to go anywhere. Now listen to me, Dad....”
And so she spoke on, persuading, promising anything to put his mind at rest —
which wouldn’t happen, of course. When he left with a parting hug that squeezed the
breath out of her, they were both close to tears.
“Are you sure you’re really in love with this guy, Susi? It’s not just the boat, not
just the idea of sailing away?”
“I’m sure, Dad.”
He sighed and shrugged. “I guess that’s what matters, then. Look after yourself,
my love,” he mumbled, and walked away into the misty evening, head down, big
shoulders slumped.
As she gazed after him she wondered why she’d taken such a tough stand. The
problem was, Dad treated her like a kid and she reacted. In all honesty Dad had a
point; she hardly knew Lionel Slade. But that was the whole idea of living with him on
the boat, wasn’t it? To get to know each other better before the big voyage. It might
work out, it might not. And if it didn’t, then she could always jump ship. She wasn’t a
prisoner.
Another figure appeared, this time from the office at the entrance to the yard.
This figure, however, was short and shambling, almost gnomish. Higgins of Higgins
Quality Yachts greeted her in his coarse, juicy tones that always sounded as though he
needed to clear his throat. This he did now, concluding the performance with a bulletlike
expectoration.
“Gor, Susi, you’re a sight for sore eyes!”
“Oh, shut up, will you? I’m not in the mood for your crap.” The last person
she needed at this moment was this horrible little man. She began to edge back down
the ramp.
“What’s that you said?” he snapped angrily.
“Just you piss off, Higgins!”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 9
He drew closer. His eyes narrowed dangerously. “You watch your manners,
Missy. You’re walking a goddamned tightrope, you know that? I can throw you and
your boat out of this marina any time I please, and just you remember that. There’s no
other marinas around here allow liveaboards. You’d be out on the high goddamned
seas if it wasn’t for me. Think about it!”
“I wouldn’t be out on the sea. I’d be at a much better marina than this dump, I
can tell you! We’re only here because it’s handy for Lionel’s office. He’s retiring soon,
and then we’ll be out of here!”
“Not before you pay your moorage, you won’t. You’re two weeks behind as it
is. I’ve been good enough to cut you some slack,” his voice had taken on a whining
tone, “and I expect a bit of appreciation. A bit of politeness. Neighborliness, like. A
cup of coffee wouldn’t come amiss.” He looked longingly toward the cabin of the
Ocean Dream glowing in the yellow light of its twelve volt lamp.
“There’s no way you’re coming aboard, you horrid little shit!”
She’d gone too far. He seized her arm in a powerful grip, scowling up into her
face. She had a couple of inches and thirty years on him, but he was wiry and strong.
“What gives you the right to talk to me like that, eh? Who the hell do you think you
are? You’ve no right to be here in the first place, you people. How did you get past
Immigration, eh? What was your goddamned excuse?”
It always came back to the color of her skin, any argument with this kind of
loser. “Let me go!” The last word was a shout. She tried to jerk away but he held fast.
She swung a fist in his direction, catching him on the cheek. He released her with a
grunt of pain. She backed away toward the boat. “Now just piss off and leave me
alone,” she gasped, shocked at her own violence. “Or would you rather I told Lionel
about this?”
“Tell him what you fucking well like,” he snarled, and shambled off in the direction
of his office, muttering.
She leaned against the ramp railing, trembling, rubbing her bruised knuckles.
What a creep Higgins was! It would be a damned good thing if they left this dump and
found somewhere half-decent up-Island. A conversation she’d had the other day came
back to her. She’d taken a short walk along the waterfront — Li didn’t like her to go
far because there were valuables on the boat — as far as South Island Marina. A
classy place, full of huge power boats like waterborne hotels. She’d got into conversation
with a guy called Charlie Hood who’d asked her, bluntly, what the hell she and
Lionel were doing at a shithouse like Higgins’s marina. She’d explained about Li’s job
and mentioned he was retiring soon.
“Don’t refit at Higgins’s,” he’d said. “He’ll rob you blind and anyway, he
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