Merton Ostrander from time to time gave Rob low-voiced advice, apparently trying to keep Rob’s spirits up. “Just sit tight,” he said reassuringly. “Absolutely tight. Don’t tell anyone anything. Don’t admit anything. We’ll get Linda’s car back and we’ll look over the place where they kept the houseboat. There’s no need for you to tell the police anything at all about being kidnapped, about your adventures on that boat or anything of the sort. We’ll get that houseboat located, and then we’ll phone in an anonymous tip to the police.”
“Suppose someone should remember me at the pay station? Suppose...”
“They won’t,” Merton Ostrander said. “We’ll pick out one of those booths that are out by the side of the road and I’ll do the telephoning.”
It took them less than an hour to reach the big drawbridge across the river, then another two or three minutes brought Rob to the side road which led to the landing where the houseboat had been moored.
“See,” Ostrander said easily, “There’s nothing to it. We’re in another state. They don’t even have a State Police system here. All we’ll have to do is ring up the sheriff’s office. Now let’s not drive clean down to the landing, Rob, unless...”
The car rounded a curve and Rob saw the group of curious spectators gathered by the pier.
“It’s okay,” Ostrander said reassuringly. “The fire has attracted a lot of people. Drive right up, Linda. We’ll pretend we’re just curiosity seekers wondering what it’s all about. Everyone remember now, we were looking for a place to have a picnic. We saw the group of spectators and came over to see what was causing the excitement.”
Linda parked the car alongside dozens of others. They opened the doors, piled out and joined the fifty or sixty spectators who were surveying the scene in idle curiosity.
Ostrander, genial, affable and a good mixer, circulated around and in a short time had the story. Police had baulked the efforts of a gang of smugglers. The houseboat which they used as a headquarters had been burned and the badly charred body of one unidentified man had been found aboard the burned boat. Police had apprehended at least one member of the gang and the sheriff and coroner were out on the boat making an inspection.
The boat, charred and blackened, was aground on a sand spit on the opposite side of the river. While Rob was watching, men appeared on the boat, climbed into a rowboat and started rowing across the river, back towards the place where the houseboat had been moored.
“Here comes the sheriff, the coroner, the deputy and the dope smuggler now,” one of the local men said.
Rob watched them rowing towards the shore. When they were thirty or forty yards away he recognized the handcuffed man as one of his captors, the man who had posed as the contractor at the bus station and lured him into the automobile.
“Look here,” Rob said to Ostrander, “I can identify that man. I’m really a material witness who would tie him up with the smugglers...”
“It’ll keep,” Ostrander assured him in a low voice. “Don’t be so damn civic-minded. Later on your testimony may be necessary. Not now. You don’t want to drag Linda into a mess of this sort. Just keep quiet. They haven’t anything on you.”
Rob nodded dubious acquiescence.
“Well, I’m not so sure,” Linda Mae said thoughtfully. Then after a moment she nodded her head, and said, “Yes, I guess you’re right, Merton. We can’t afford to have Rob sacrifice himself just to make an identification.”
“The way I see it,” Ostrander said, “the police have started off on the right trail now. They have one of the smugglers and they’ll get a story out of him. They’ve located the houseboat and in no time at all now they’ll have the whole story. If Rob can only keep out of circulation for a while he’ll be sitting pretty. If he can’t, why then his name will be smeared, and Linda’s name will be dragged into it.”
Linda Mae’s lips clamped in a thin, straight line of firm determination. “You’re right. We’ll keep out of it.”
The rowboat landed at the pier. The coroner jumped ashore with a rope and made the boat fast. The sheriff and deputy assisted the solemn, handcuffed man to the little pier and started towards the official car with its red spotlight.
Rob started to turn away so that his eyes could not meet those of the prisoner.
Suddenly he heard a voice saying, “There he is now. That’s the man. The one with the dog.”
Rob turned and saw a young woman pointing directly at him, saw people staring with curious, gaping interest.
For a moment there was no motion. It was as though some strip of moving film, running smoothly through the machine, had suddenly run off the track and stopped, and the action had suddenly frozen into immobility.
The young woman said, excitedly, “I’d know him anywhere. I saw him with that other man at the bus depot in Falthaven yesterday. They drove off together.”
Then the big sheriff was coming towards Rob. His right hand dropped ominously to his holster.
“All right, young fellow,” he said. “We want to ask you some questions. Now you can either fix it so that dog doesn’t make any trouble, or else he’s going to get hurt. Just take your choice.”
Rob felt Linda’s hand reaching for the leash. “I’ll take him, Rob,” she said, a catch in her voice.
“Not a word,” Rob heard Ostrander caution him in a low voice. “Clam up. Don’t talk. I’ll get you a lawyer. One of my fraternity brothers is practicing near here. You can trust him.”
“Down, Lobo,” Rob said, and stepped forward to meet the sheriff.
Chapter 19
Sun came pouring in through the west windows of the sheriff’s office. A fly droned in lazy circles over the desk.
Rob Trenton sat motionless. The lawyer whom Merton Ostrander had secured to represent him was seated on Rob’s right. He was a thin-faced, quick-eyed, fast-talking individual who interjected comments from time to time, always winding up his remarks with the same formula, “Of course, gentlemen, I’m merely pointing out a discrepancy. Anything I say is not binding on my client, and my client refuses to make any statement at this time.”
The smuggler whom the sheriff held under arrest, the same one who had decoyed Rob into the car, who had helped overpower him and hold him prisoner, sat at the sheriff’s right. There was an air of smug cunning about him. So far he had failed to make any statement within Rob’s hearing, but from references made by the sheriff, the man had evidently told a detailed story of what had happened.
Rob wondered what that story was.
A stenographer entered the office, carrying a typewritten statement, which she handed to the sheriff. The sheriff took it, cleared his throat and said to the smuggler, “I will now read your statement to you. This isn’t in your exact words. It’s boiled down, but it’s taken from what you said. If there’s anything you want to change about it, you speak up right now and change it. If it’s wrong we want to fix it so it’s right. Do you understand that?”
The smuggler nodded.
The sheriff read slowly so that there would be ample opportunity to make corrections:
My name is Sam Joyner. I am fifty-two years of age. I am the registered owner of a houseboat, the Lady-Lou.
About two months ago I was approached by a man whom I only know as Big Jim. He wanted to rent my houseboat. He said he wanted to do some entertaining. At the time, I thought it was just a question of a few wild parties, but after a while I began to believe it was something more sinister. I should have gone to the police right then, but I didn’t. I rode along because the rent was good and because it was only my word against theirs. I didn’t participate in any of the profits from smuggling. They paid me a flat rent for the boat, and permitted me to keep one cabin for my own use. However, I lived aboard and, by keeping my ears open, got to know what was going on.