exerpts from the novel
The Electronic Windmill
By Pete McKinley
Chapter XIV
Carl Peterson picked up a tray of potted begonias and carried them from the small glass house around to the shaded side of the old mansion. He set the tray on the grass beside a plot of ground that Hester Coleridge was working with a short-handled hoe.
“Is there any of that sand left? This ground is too hard,” she complained as she straightened up and rested the hoe in the chopped dirt.
Carl Peterson reached down for a piece of the dark soil, inspected it closely and broke it in his hands, letting it sprinkle back on the ground. “One wheelbarrow’ll do it,” he said softly, as though to himself. “There’s plenty of sand.”
Hester didn’t argue the point, just grasped the hoe and continued to dig at the earth, deciding at the same time to wear her pale blue ribbon-knit dress when Pilar came to tea in the afternoon. She would have to buy a new outfit for the wedding and she allowed the excitement to envelope her and wanted to hurry the planting of the begonias to give her plenty of time to bake orange cookies to compliment Catherine Peterson’s lemon nut bread. It was somewhat disturbing to her that she had not guessed, or that Cole had never hinted at his romantic interest in Pilar. Of course she wouldn’t be the first to mention it to him but there was no reason why it couldn’t be discussed and arrangements made with Pilar. These things required planning to which most men were oblivious.
The squeek of the wheelbarrow as Carl pushed it around the corner broke her reverie. “Where do you want it?” he asked. She directed him to dump it in the middle of the bed and an hour later it was raked in and a dozen begonias had been carefully set out and watered. It was just before noon when she entered the back door of the house, washed her hands at the sink, and dialed Cole from the kitchen phone. She knew when he answered that her ring had wakened him.
“I waited to call till I was sure you were up,” she said and not waiting for a reply, “Mrs. Peterson and I are going to do spring house cleaning in the morning and we’ll start on your rooms first if it won’t disturb you.”
“Fine,” Cole croaked. “Fine,” and he fought to control his voice. “I thought you’d already done my rooms. They look fine.” He wondered if he sounded fine. “I’ll probably stay here until the middle of the week, Wednesday or Thursday.”
“We’ll be finished in your rooms long before then,” she said and adjusted the receiver more firmly to her ear. Cole recognized the pause as a signal for the real reason she had called.
“Pilar is coming to see me this afternoon,” she announced after the proper interval, and this time the wait for his reaction was real. When none came, she continued, “That girl has the truest marks of breeding and proper upbringing. She’ll make someone a fine wife.” Cole was only slightly startled at this sudden switch since Aunt Hester had always come on strong, nudging him toward marriage. “Most of these modern girls aren’t worth a continental,” she stated flatly.
He was awake and grinning now, wondering what was coming next. The archaic ‘continental’ must have filtered down from one of their revolutionary ancestors.
Another of her favorite words was ‘tarnation’. Finally he broke in, “Well, Aunt Hester, I hope you two have a nice tea and I’ll see you again sometime around the middle of the week.”
“All right, Coleridge,” she relented. “Sorry if you were flaked out when I called. I’ve got to split now, see you later.” She hung up just before Cole’s burst of laughter came through the receiver. She decided to have a light lunch and then bake her cookies. She would still have time for a warm bath and a nap before putting on her blue ribbon knit.
Twisting the ancient mechanical bell, Pilar waited at the heavy front door framing etched plate-glass. Millie Peterson opened it wearing a pink creation that in no-way stamped her as a domestic.
“Hello, Pilar,” she greeted, and then conspiratorily, “Hester got a bad do on her first batch of cookies and she hasn’t caught up yet.”
“I hope I’m not early,” Pilar worried. “You look lovely in pink, Mrs. Peterson.”
“Thank you. I hear the elevator rattling so she’ll be down in a minute,” Millie Peterson said as they moved into the foyer. “Let me take your wrap... what a beautiful shade of blue! Mr. Peterson laid a eucalyptus fire in the parlor,” she went on. “Come in and make yourself comfortable I’ll see if that was Hester.”
Pilar loved the old formal room and particularly admired the Persian carpet and the polished parquet floors. To sit near the fire, she selected a rigid and uncomfortable last-century settee. The flames from the burning wood made glowing waves on the floor and mantel, and the warm colors in the carpets gave her a comfortable and secure feeling. She leaned forward to brush her hand over the top of the low table, savoring the texture of the bits of burnished ivory, pearl and exotic woods. There was a china tea service reposing on a mobile cart. The faded flower design on the eggshell-thin rim of the cups was yellowed with flickering light.
Suddenly she had the feeling of being watched and, looking over her shoulder, saw Aunt Hester standing in the open doors. She was wearing azure of almost the same shade of Pilar’s frock and her silver hair intensified the blueness of the lovely gown and her wise eyes. She walked to Pilar with hands outstretched.
“When I saw you sitting there before the fire I wanted to call to you.... Lydia, Lydia hurry, we don’t have time for tea....Alex is taking us in the carriage to a little shop on Sutter Street.”
“I hope it was a pleasant remembrance. I don’t need to ask how you are, you look divine.”
“Lydia was my dearest friend and the prettiest girl I ever knew. You don’t suppose that’s a sign I’m getting old?” she asked twinkling. “But the past is gone and now you’re the prettiest girl I know. Sit down, dear,” and in a confidential tone, “Can we talk before I ask Millie to bring tea?”
“Oh yes, let’s do,” Pilar said. “Please tell me all about Lydia.”
“No, no, dear. Lydia is from another time. I only remember when I’m reminded,” she said, looking someplace beyond the room and then quickly back. “I’d like to talk about you and Cole and your plans...and to ask if you’ll let me help.”
Pilar’s eyes widened, her mouth opening slightly as if to speak but she only portrayed a rather startled expression.
“I’ve known for some time that you two were in love,” she said gently. “I don’t want to meddle but I’d be proud to be a small part of any plans you might have.” Since Pilar was unable to speak Aunt Hester continued, “There’s a ballroom on the east wing of this house that would be big enough for a reception. The last time it was used was Cole’s thirteenth birthday party, but after he started high school he didn’t want another one.”
Pilar held up her free hand, brushing her brow with it, and finally spoke. “Are you under the impression that Cole and I are planning to be married?” she asked in astonishment.
“Oh no,” Hester assured her, “I didn’t know what your plans were. I realize that both of you are very modern and up-to-date on these things, but when two people are in love it sometimes follows that they get married.”
Pilar had regained part of her composure but still couldn’t understand how Aunt Hester had jumped to this impossible conclusion of love and marriage or something else. Perhaps it was merely old age, but Cole had never suggested that Aunt Hester had mental aberrations. Something was seriously wrong; she would have to set her straight, but gently. “There’s nothing between Cole and me, Aunt Hester, other than being good friends and having mutual respect for each other as colleagues in the corporation.” It was Aunt Hester’s turn to be surprised. Pilar suspected that she should allow this blunt statement of fact to handle the situation but couldn’t help asking the obvious. “Where did you ever get such an idea that Cole and I were in love?”
Aunt Hester was still slightly shaken but she said firmly, “I know that Cole is in love with you; maybe being so fond of him myself and so taken with his many charms I assume that whomever he loves would naturally love him in return.”
“Oh, and I’m sure that’s so,” Pilar hurried to agree, “but Cole doesn’t love me, Aunt Hester, that’s where you’re mistaken.” She must be just as firm; but then she asked again, “Why do you think he loves me? Did he tell you so?”
Aunt Hester hesitated for a moment in thought and then seemed to decide to reveal everything. “I know many things about Cole without him telling me,” she said in a confidential voice. “When his parents were suddenly taken and he came to live with me, I had no understanding of little boys - never having had any children of my own. I loved him so, but was worried that I wouldn’t be able to help him because of this lack of understanding. I tried not to over-indulge him but I suppose I did. Then in his eighth year his boyishness seemed to become more mysterious to me and I needed to know him better to understand him more, if I were ever to be of any value or help to him.” Pilar listened to all this with much interest and decided that the explanation was coming so she didn’t interrupt.
“When Coleridge was nine, as one of his birthday gifts, I bought him a rather expensive leather-bound diary. There were spaces to make entries for each day of the year and extra pages to be inserted if necessary. The diary could be locked and of course I gave Coleridge a key. I was very happy when I found that he immediately started to use it - writing out his activities of the day.” She released Pilar’s hand and relaxed visibly before continuing. “About a month went by before he began describing his thoughts. From that time on we seemed to have a greater understanding and I was able to help unobtrusively as well as not to interfere with his growing up. Boys are rather complicated,” she stated with some authority, “much more so than girls, even though we try to make out the opposite.” Then she went on: “Each year I have always given him an annual diary on his birthday and he has a special shelf in his room where he keeps them. He doesn’t always fill in every date now but when he’s here he writes things down more fully and sometimes leaves bits of paper between the leaves with notes and jottings on them.”
Pilar had to break in, “But how did his keeping a diary help you to understand him more?”
“I read them,” she said calmly, “but of course he doesn’t know and we must never let him know.”
“But I thought you said you gave him the key?” Pilar was stunned.
“No, no, dear. I said I gave him ‘a’ key. There were two master keys that will open any volume and I kept one. So you see I always knew what he had been up to and could anticipate his changing moods and sometimes figure out what he planned to do next without bothering him with a lot of questions.” Aunt Hester seemed relieved that she’d finally told her secret and happily began expanding on it. “One of the most interesting aspects in reading them were the subtle changes that became apparent as Coleridge grew from a mischievous boy to a fairly thoughtful young man. You wouldn’t believe some of the things he wrote.”
Pilar couldn’t hold back the giggle. “But didn’t he ever suspect? You must have let slip things that you couldn’t possibly have known except by peeking at his diary - and didn’t he ever notice that they had been handled or moved around on the shelf?”
“Oh no, I’m always very careful to place them back exactly as they were before. The shelf never looks different, not even as though it had been dusted. In fact, unless he looks at the earlier volumes and brushes them, they are covered with cobwebs as well as thick dust.”
“But if you read them wouldn’t the dust and the cobwebs be disturbed?”
“Oh yes, but after they once got dusty and full of cobwebs I never touched them until I found a way to replace the dust and webs. When my husband was alive, he invested in several theatrical productions and we became acquainted with a very nice man who produced effects for the stage. He furnished me with a little bellows that has a spout and when you press it, it sprays dust. He also had a compact machine that creates cobwebs when you turn a crank something like the way cotton candy’s made. With these two gadgets I always keep Coleridge’s diary shelf dusty and cobwebby so when he takes a volume down and brushes it off he feels secure in the knowledge that his secret thoughts are locked inside. I’m a firm believer that this security of their own private thoughts is very necessary to male growth and maturation.” With this twisted bit of rationalized psychology Aunt Hester rose suddenly from the couch and said,”But, come my dear, let me show you Coleridge’s rooms - and then there’s something I’d like you to read.”
They left the parlor and crossed the foyer that contained an ancient walnut stand with a mirrored back that Pilar hadn’t noticed before. There was a slippery combination of scatter rugs on the polished floor and an elephant’s leg cut-off and hollowed-out that was being used as an umbrella stand. Beyond a broad staircase was a hall leading to Cole’s quarters. Aunt Hester opened a solid-looking door and motioned Pilar to enter. The room and all that was in it was immaculately clean as Pilar had expected and the book shelves mounting the far wall were packed with cared-for volumes. But as they approached, and even though she had been warned, the single shelf almost filled with leather bound diaries covered with dust and cobwebs was a shock. Aunt Hester removed the end volume from the untidy shelf, carried it gingerly to a desk placed under a high window and drew the drapes all the way back. Selecting several paper tissues from the top drawer she wiped the leather clean. From a locket suspended on a chain around her neck she shook out a small gold key and unlocked the flap that held the volume secure. She opened it to where a single sheet of paper was inserted between the pages. Extracting it, she laid it face down on the desktop and handed the diary to Pilar indicating where she should start reading.
“Aunt Hester, I don’t know...are you sure we should read this?” Pilar hesitated, but with hope in her voice.
“Yes, of course we should, child. We’re reading this not for our own benefit but so that we can better anticipate Coleridge’s needs and help him even though he’s unwilling to ask our help.”
Pilar didn’t bother to examine this overly solicitous logic but with no more encouragement turned the diary to the light and read:
“After leaving the ship I became increasingly nervous and anxious to get to the RCS&J Building, telling myself it was because of the stockholder’s meeting and not wanting to be late. But I knew what was wrong. I wasn’t hurrying to the meeting at all - I was hurrying to see her and she had been with me more than she had ever been. I’ve got to sort out my thoughts and the best way is to set them down. As soon as I have a moment to think deeply I’ll write out how it first came to me on the beach in Mexico and then I’ll forget it. This is like nothing else - this could be total involvement and that I don’t need. Anyway, no one will ever guess the way it is - especially her.
There were no further entries in the book. “What does it mean?” Pilar asked, laying the diary down and looking at Aunt Hester. “And he doesn’t even say who he’s writing about. Why are you so sure of what he means?”
Aunt Hester picked up the pieces of paper that she’d placed face down on the desk top and handed it to Pilar.
Pilar accepted it with a little less hesitation and began reading again:
TO PILAR
We were together
I was alone.
When we were apart and
Time was slow and quiet
I wasn’t alone;
You were there too.
The Sun shone on us and
In a soft and fragrant dawn you smiled.
There were green forests
Craggy snow mountains in the mist and
White crested waves hissing on a bleached beach.
A stallion raced the sand
From surf’s edge to golden grass.
Suddenly the sky turned black,
Thunder rolled and jagged lightning
Cracked a thousand fiery fingers.
The vision turned inward and
There was us and a storm.
Rain pelted hair,
Dripped from dark lashes and
Iridescent drops clung.
Our lips touched.
My eyes spilled tears
And I cried
Before I died
And was banished to earth and reality;
But you were there too.
She read it again more slowly this time while Aunt Hester looked on. Then, picking up the open diary, she carefully placed the writing between the pages, closed it and snapped the lock. Neither of them spoke and Pilar caressed the soft leather before returning the volume to its place on the shelf. She wasn’t sure she should have done it but was very glad she had and while she searched her conscience Aunt Hester produced a small round box with a spout that operated like a bellows and replaced the thin film of dust that had been wiped away. Then she examined the shelf, the desk and the room meticulously, straightening here and there, before leading Pilar back to the old-fashioned parlor where Millie Peterson was already bustling about.
They ate crisp warm orange cookies that melted almost without chewing, drank redolent pink tea from the Far East, and then stuffed themselves on lemon nut bread with sweet butter as they planned the future.
Chapter XV
Cole opened his eyes wide and lay motionless, staring at the phone by his bed. As he wondered why he had bothered to waken at this particular moment, the phone rang again and then he remembered that it had rung once or twice before way off somewhere in the distance. He picked up the receiver and curved it from ear to mouth, paused before answering and, trying to sound wide awake, croaked, “Hello.’’ It was Aunt Hester and she was talking about cleaning his rooms and about seeing Pilar. Damn! If he wasn’t dreaming about her he was reminded of her the moment he wakened. It probably didn’t matter though, he would have thought of her in a minute anyway. He told Aunt Hester he would see her sometime around the middle of the week and burst out laughing at something she said just before she hung up. He replaced the receiver and rolled over with the vague thought of going to sleep again but almost immediately decided sleep was impossible, which was just as well because the phone rang again. It was Kang.
“Did I wake you up?” Kang wanted to know.
“No, you didn’t wake me up.” Why the hell did everybody worry about waking him up, it was already ten o’clock. “What’s on your mind?” Then he remembered about the girl and asked, “Did you get anything worthwhile from the girl?”
“Yeah,” Kang said. “I think so. But she’s a strange one.”
“So is her sister. But you wouldn’t want all girls to be alike.”
“No, true,” Kang said. “Still...”
“You didn’t learn anything,” Cole broke in.
“Yes, I did,” Kang said. “It’s the strongest kind of confirmation that the ship’s being used to smuggle dope. The things she doesn’t know are just exactly who’s doing it and who picks it up here in San Francisco.”
“Does she know how they get it off the ship?”
“She couldn’t tell me anything about that.”
“This is no information at all, Kang, if that’s all she could tell you.”
“I think it is. You haven’t been able to come up with anything but suspicions so far and if you didn’t get something tangible soon, everyone was going to forget about the ship. But this information has got to be authentic. You didn’t ask for it and they only suspected that you wanted it. If it weren’t the truth how could they ever dream you’d be interested in the first place?”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute... you’re right,” Cole said. “I got a conflicting report last night that it was flown in from tamale-land but I see how it could fit together now.”
“You do! How does bringing it in by ship and flying it in fit together?”
“Thanks a million, Kang. I really appreciate what you’ve done. I’ll explain it all to you later.”
“Why not now?”
“Later, Kang. But wait a minute... did it rain last night, or was there a low fog?”
“It didn’t rain where the ship was,” Kang said. “There was some high fog.”
Cole didn’t ask why he was so specific - ‘didn’t rain where the ship was.’
“But nothing low, right?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Kang asked.
“Kang I’ll call you later, and thanks again.”
After a few minutes of staring at the high ceiling, his mind racing, Cole got up and went to the three-oriented bathroom, selecting the middle stool. He showed no favoritism, keeping the use of the three stools fairly even. If his conscious mind intruded and he wasn’t sure which toilet he had last used he invariably gave his custom to the one on the left; it being farthest from the door, probably giving him the mistaken impression of its being neglected. Contemplating it now, allowing his subconscious mind to rove other thoughts, he felt reasonably sure that he followed the same pattern with the washbasins and showers. Henceforward he would remember - when in doubt, select either the middle or the right hand facility and give the left one a rest. When he finished he showered to the right and shaved before the mirror over the middle basin, all this time thinking of what he would divulge to Lew, or rather to Hal Bronte of the Narcotics Bureau, and whether or not he should ask Thad Bocana of the FBI to sit in. He speculated as to how these two proud agencies might work together but since the two men knew each other maybe their personal relationship would smooth any official hitches. Unplugging the electric razor he placed it in the left drawer, hesitated only a moment before removing it and dropped it in the middle one to serve as a marker for the washbasin last used.
Back in the bedroom, still in deep thought, he opened a drawer and reached out a pair of light blue wool socks, pulling them on while standing. He stepped into a pair of shorts as he moved towards a closet where he selected blue slacks and a dark red pullover sweater. He shoved his feet into cordovan loafers and then, still with a frown of concentration, moved into the living room and stared at the phone. He picked up an indexed pad, flipped to the B’s, found Bocana’s number and dialed. A click interrupted the intermittent buzz and a child’s voice came through, “Hello - do you want to talk to my daddy or to my mom?”
“Hi,” Cole said, “I’d like to talk to your dad. Can you get him for me?”
“Sure, he’s right outside.”
While he waited Cole continued to work on the best way to explain his hunch, or rather the reasoned facts that had brought him to his bizarre conclusions. Thad Bocana’s brusque voice short-circuited his thoughts.
“Hello, this is Bocana.” And the way he said it demanded return identification.
“Hi, Thad, this is Cole Rain. Sorry to bother you on your day of rest.”
“Cole, how are you?” He seemed relieved. “This is no day of rest business as usual - I’m just not doing it at the office.”
“Do you have time to listen to a problem of mine?”
“I didn’t know you ever had problems,” and Bocana sounded happy to learn that others did.
“I’m not sure it’s in the province of the FBI,” Cole ignored the jibe, “but I need to talk to someone who can suggest the right procedure to follow.”
“Sure, go ahead,” Bocana said. “It’s unofficial for the time being. I’ll be glad to help if I can.”
“Right. First - do you know Hal Bronte of the Federal Narcotics Bureau?”
“Yes, I know Hal. He’s a good man.”
Cole decided to describe Bronte, or Lew, to make positive they were talking about the same man. The identification accomplished to both their satisfactions, he quickly explained the problem of the SS Crescent Moon, his part in the investigation, and the accidental meeting with Bronte the night before, or rather, that morning.
After Bocana stopped laughing, he summarized: “Now you’re telling me you have a theory based mostly on hunch, that the dope is brought ashore from the Crescent Moon, past customs, through the surveillance of the Narcotics Bureau - and the local authorities - and it’s all really a very simple procedure. Is that right?”
“That’s what I believe,” Cole said firmly, “and if I’m right, tonight’s the only time they’ll have during this stay to work their gimmick. I’d like to explain my theory and set it up, so that if I am right, the one link missing in this chain of heroin flow will hook-up with the known links.”
“Well,” Bocana mused, “you say the ship has been searched repeatedly and no sign of narcotics has ever been found?”
“Right,” Cole admitted. “But getting the stuff on the ship in Mexico and bringing it to the pier in San Francisco is easy to do without detection. It would take the complete dismantling of the damn ship to find all the various hiding places. But again, if my reasoning is right,” he refused to call it a hunch, “the SS Crescent Moon is still the top suspect.” Bocana continued to listen. “The one place where it comes to an end is the transference from ship to shore, and I think I’ve got that solved. But I need help to prove it.”
“All right,” Bocana finally decided. “I’ve got to go to the office anyway. Why don’t you phone Bronte and the two of you meet me there in forty-five minutes.”
“Sure it won’t interfere with what you’re doing?”
“No, my problem,” Bocana said, “shouldn’t affect this area too much. In fact, it’ll probably end with some of our citizens crossing that Mexican border the other way. I’ll see you in forty-five minutes,” he concluded.
“Thanks, Thad.” Cole hung up and in the same motion reached for the phone directory. Finding Bronte Harold W., he checked the address with the one Bronte had mentioned earlier that morning and dialed, waiting through eight rings. When Bronte finally answered he sounded hurried.
“Hello.”
“Morning, Hal - just checking your temperature.”
“Yeah, thanks. It’s normal. A few bruises here and there and my jaw’s a little stiff - other than that I’m O.K. How are you?”
“Fine. A couple of band-aids are keeping my head together but I guess you could say I’m holding my own.” Then he quickly gave the narcotics agent a rundown on his conversation with Bocana, not mentioning that the FBI man had been hugely amused at their life-and-death struggle. Bronte tried to pump him on the details of his theory but Cole would only reiterate that he was reasonably sure he knew how the stuff got ashore and would save the details until they met at Bocana’s office.
There was plenty of parking space in front of the Federal Building and after Cole bumped the curb gently he saw Bronte heading for the front entrance. As Bronte opened the door he turned and waited for Cole and they entered the building together and took the elevator to Bocana’s office. They were ushered directly into Bocana by a crew-cut boy who looked too young to have been in the Bureau for two years.
Leaning back in his chair, Bocana had just finished talking and was now listening to the transceiver resting on his desk. He motioned for them to sit down and continued to listen absorbedly to the report emanating from the open speaker.
“...The number five and the least probable assumption is that the suspects will make their way into the Bay Area by car. The weapon and ammunition taken from the Nevada Proving Grounds are readily concealable as normal pieces of luggage or packaged civilian goods and - “
Suddenly, Bocana seemingly just becoming aware of their presence and the permeating voiced report, reached forward and picked up the receiver, cutting off the sound. He leaned back again, placed the receiver to his ear, and continued to listen just as intently. Cole examined the room, noting its efficient appearance of sterility. After three or four minutes Bocana returned the receiver to the desk phone, jotted a couple of notes and looked up at his visitors. “I expected to see more bandages,” he said. “Sorry I missed the main event.”
Bronte smiled weakly. “I knew you’d consider it all a big joke but can we get on with Mr. Rain’s theory?”
“By all means,” Bocana grinned. “I imagine you’re both anxious to get it over with.”
“This is my vacation and I’m supposed to take the family skiing for a week,” Bronte explained stiffly.
Cole broke in quickly. “I appreciate everyone taking the time to listen to what I have to say.” And with no further preparation he launched into his explanation, interspersing it with a couple of drawings on a chalkboard. He developed his theory expertly. When he had completed the detailed account Bocana shook his head in amusement and looked at Bronte.
“If you’re right,” Bronte said, “why isn’t the dope already off the ship?”
“Because the ship has been in Alameda for repairs. She was berthed last night and only the unloaders were there all night. The crew and Mike Crowder will go aboard tonight.”
“Well, I don’t know....I suppose it’s possible,” Bocana said. “What do you think, Hal?”
“My report is made,” Bronte said. “Rain has worked out a wild hunch but I don’t think there’s any way possible to smuggle dope or anything else from that particular ship. That’s why I’m taking a week off,” he concluded.
“If your report is final and you’re positive it’s correct, why did you bother to follow me last night?”
“That was an accident. I was picking up some clothes I’d left on the ship and I just happened to see you and your friend cruising along the Embarcadero. Maybe this business I’m in makes you overly suspicious; anyway, I followed. Then when you parked in the dark spot on Michigan I had to see what you were up to. As it turned out it was all a mistake.”
“A hell of a mistake but I still think I’m right and I can check it out myself,” Cole said independently. “Tonight has to be the night for them to move during this particular docking.” He stood up, thanked them both for listening to his story and started to leave.
“Wait a minute. What do you intend to do?” Bocana wanted to know with some concern.
“Nothing that will cause any trouble,” Cole grinned. “And whatever I find out I’ll call it into you.”
Bocana looked a little doubtful. “I’m sorry I don’t have anybody I can release to give you an assist,” he hesitated. “But I’ll be close to a phone either here or at home.” Then he abruptly got up from behind his desk and reached across to shake hands with Cole and Bronte. Even before they left the office he was back on the phone.
As they dropped to street level, Bronte seemed anxious to justify his vacation by yammering at Cole that investigating the ship further was a waste of time and that if he felt any slight possibility he was wrong he’d postpone his vacation to help. Anyway, until his report was final, there would be agents checking this last unloading.
Cole thanked him. “If I am right,” he said, “I’ll get the proof myself and then Bocana can handle it with the local authorities.”
Outside the building they shook hands warily and turned in opposite directions. As Cole twisted the key in the ignition, he was thinking hard about what to do next.
