Free The Intimidators by Donald Hamilton Page B

Enos Rockwell was doing it all alone. In a twenty-four-foot sailboat. Not a hell of a lot of boat for ocean cruising, but smaller ones have made it. Apparently he didn’t. At least he headed out of here several weeks ago and hasn’t been seen or heard from since. It’s getting to be a fairly familiar story, isn’t it, sir?”
    “Yes, I thought so when I heard about it,” Mac said. “It certainly seems to indicate that the Minsk affair is related, somehow, to Mr. Haseltine’s problem. But just what could the girl have learned, searching for her missing brother, that’s dangerous enough to Moscow that one of their best men had to be sent to silence her?” He paused, and went on: “Our big trouble is, I’m afraid, that even the young lady herself probably doesn’t know the answer to that question.”
    I said, “There are, however, two questions she should be able to answer. The first is why, having lost a brother out east in the Atlantic, she came to Nassau and hired an airplane to take her on a search in just about the opposite direction, having the pilot fly her off to the west as far as Florida in some areas.”
    Mac said, “Yes, I noticed that.”
    “The other question is: who put her up a tree for the Mink to shoot at? There’s no doubt in my mind that she’d arranged to meet somebody in that garden; although she presumably didn’t know the guy would have a gun. The police didn’t see her waiting there, but I did. If they had, they’d undoubtedly have leaned on her harder. If we can learn how the arrangement was made, maybe we’ll have a lead that’ll take us somewhere.”
    Mac said, “I suppose that’s as good a place for you to start as any. Let me know what you turn up....”
    “Question, sir.”
    “Yes?”
    “What have we got on Phipps?”
    “Haseltine should have given you all the significant information.”
    “Sure. A wealthy contractor type with a movie-star wife, a beautiful daughter, and a yen for boats.”
    “You’re not satisfied, Eric?”
    “Haha,” I said. “Don’t crack such funny jokes, sir. This is serious business.”
    “What do you find unsatisfactory?”
    I said, “You told me recently that you were instructed to shift manpower to the Bahamas. The British also have at least one agent of some kind floating around; and he’s cheerfully accepted by the local authorities in spite of the fact that the Islands are busy casting off the brutal bonds of British tyranny. All this because of a missing kid in a Fiberglas tub, and a missing West Coast yachtsman with curly gray hair?” I paused. Mac said nothing. I said, “Either this Phipps gent is somebody very important in disguise, or Harlan Rockwell is, or there’s somebody or something else involved nobody’s bothered to mention.... You spoke, sir?”
    He hadn’t, but he’d made some kind of a sound, a thousand miles away. Now he said, “This is confidential, Eric. Ten days ago, a sizable diesel yacht proceeding towards the Bahamas from Puerto Rico failed to make radio contact according to her prearranged schedule. She has not been heard from since: the Wayfarer, owned by Sir James Marcus, who was on board. Sir James is the proprietor of several English newspapers. He is considered the sixth or seventh wealthiest man in the British Isles. As I say, this is highly classified information, that I am not supposed to divulge. If the news should get out, there would be serious financial repercussions. Officially, Sir James is merely cruising for his health, incommunicado by his own wishes.”
    I said, “Yes, sir. It would be nice if we peons toiling in the fields were kept informed of these minor details, sir. I don’t suppose an SOS or other distress signal was heard or seen.”
    “No,” Mac said, “and no debris has been found. The search is continuing, of course.”
    “After ten days, the chances of anybody finding anything aren’t very great, are they?” I made a face at the phone. “If it wasn’t for the