Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 1 1 страница

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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