“There ought to be another body,” said the sheriff.
“That’s all there was. The money’s in that bag. The guns are right where they were.”
“We better have somebody from the bank to see the money opened,” said the sheriff.
“O.K.,” said the skipper. “That’s a good idea.”
“We can take the bag to my office and seal it.”
“That’s a good idea,” said the skipper.
Under the floodlight the green and white of the launch had a freshly shiny look. This came from the dew on her deck and on the top of the house. The splinterings showed fresh through her white paint. Astern of her the water was a clear green under the light and there were small fish about the pilings.
In the cockpit the inflated faces of the dead men were shiny under the light, lacquered brown where the blood had dried. There were empty .45 caliber shells in the cockpit around the dead and the Thompson gun lay in the stern where Harry had put it down. The two leather briefcases the men had brought the money aboard in, leaned against one of the gas tanks.
“I thought maybe I ought to take the money on board while we were towing her,” the skipper said. “Then I thought it was better to leave it just exactly like it was so long as the weather was light.”
“It was right to leave it,” the sheriff said. “What’s become of the other man, Albert Tracy, the fisherman?”
“I don’t know. This is just how it was except for shifting those two,” the skipper said. “They’re all shot to pieces except that one there under the wheel laying on his back. He’s just shot in the back of the head. It come out through the front. You can see what it did.”
“He’s the one that looked like a kid,” the sheriff said.
“He don’t look like anything now,” the skipper said.
“That big one there is the one had the submachine gun and who killed attorney Robert Simmons,” the sheriff said. “What do you suppose happened? How the devil did they all get shot?”
“They must have got fighting among themselves,” the skipper said. “They must have had a dispute on how to split the money.”
“We’ll cover them up until morning,” the sheriff said. “I’ll take those bags.”
Then, as they were standing there in the cockpit, a woman came running up the pier past the Coast Guard cutter, and behind her came the crowd. The woman was gaunt, middle-aged and bare-headed, and her stringy hair had come undone and was down on her neck although it was still knotted at the end. As she saw the bodies in the cockpit she commenced to scream. She stood on the pier screaming with her head back while two other women held her arms. The crowd, which had come close behind her, formed around her, jostled close, looking down at the launch.
“God damn it,” said the sheriff. “Who left that gate open? Get something to cover those bodies; blankets, sheets, anything, and we’ll get this crowd out of here.”
The woman stopped screaming and looked down into the launch, then put back her head and screamed again.
“Where they got him?” said one of the women near her.
“Where they put Albert?”
The woman who was screaming stopped it and looked in the launch again.
“He ain’t there,” she said. “Hey, you, Roger Johnson,” she shouted at the sheriff. “Where’s Albert? Where’s Albert?”
“He isn’t on board, Mrs. Tracy,” the sheriff said.
The woman put her head back and screamed again, the chords in her scrawny throat rigid, her hands clenched, her hair shaking.
In the back of the crowd people were shoving and elbowing to get to the dock side.
“Come on. Let somebody else see.”
“They’re going to cover them up.”
And in Spanish, “Let me pass. Let me look. Hay cuatro muertos. Todos son muertos. Let me see.”
Now the woman was screaming, “Albert! Albert! Oh, my God, where’s Albert?”
In the back of the crowd two young Cubans who had just come up and who could not penetrate the crowd stepped back, then ran and shoved forward together. The front line of the crowd swayed and bulged, then, in the middle of a scream, Mrs. Tracy and her two supporters toppled, hung slanted forward in desperate unbalance and then, while the supporters wildly hung to safety, Mrs. Tracy, still screaming, fell into the green water, the scream becoming a splash and bubble.
Two Coast Guard men dove into the clear green water where Mrs. Tracy was splashing in the floodlight. The sheriff leaned out on the stern and shoved a boat hook out to her and finally, raised from below by the two Coast Guardsmen, pulled up by the arms by the sheriff, she was hoisted onto the stern of the launch. No one in the crowd had made a move to aid her, and, as she stood dripping on the stern, she looked up at them, shook both her fists at them and shouted; “Basards! Bishes!” Then as she looked into the cockpit she wailed, “Alber. Whersh Alber?”
“He’s not on board, Mrs. Tracy,” the sheriff said, taking up a blanket to put around her. “Try to be calm, Mrs. Tracy. Try to be brave.”
“My plate,” said Mrs. Tracy tragically. “Losht my plate.”
“We’ll dive it up in the morning,” the skipper of the Coast Guard cutter told her. “We’ll get it all right.”
The Coast Guard men had climbed up on the stern and were standing dripping. “Come on. Let’s go,” one of them said. “I’m getting cold.”
“Are you all right, Mrs. Tracy?” the sheriff said, putting the blanket around her.
“All rie? “ said Mrs. Tracy. “All rie?” then clenched both her hands and put her head back to really scream. Mrs. Tracy’s grief was greater than she could bear.
The crowd listened to her and was silent and respectful. Mrs. Tracy provided just the sound effect that was needed to go with the sight of the dead bandits that were now being covered with Coast Guard blankets by the sheriff and one of the deputies, thus veiling the greatest sight the town had seen since the Isleño had been lynched, years before, out on the County Road and then hung up to swing from a telephone pole in the lights of all the cars that had come out to see it.
The crowd was disappointed when the bodies were covered but they alone of all the town had seen them. They had seen Mrs. Tracy fall into the water and they had, before they came in, seen Harry Morgan carried on a stretcher into the Marine Hospital. When the sheriff ordered them out of the yacht basin they went quietly and happily. They knew how privileged they had been.
Meanwhile at the Marine Hospital Harry Morgan’s wife, Marie, and her three daughters waited on a bench in the receiving room. The three girls were crying and Marie was biting on a handkerchief. She hadn’t been able to cry since about noon.
“Daddy’s shot in the stomach,” one of the girls said to her sister.
“It’s terrible,” said the sister.
“Be quiet,” said the older sister. “I’m praying for him. Don’t interrupt me.”
Marie said nothing and only sat there, biting on a handkerchief and on her lower lip.
After a while the doctor came out. She looked at him and he shook his head.
“Can I go in?” she asked.
“Not yet,” he said. She went over to him. “Is he gone?” she said.
“I’m afraid so, Mrs. Morgan.”
“Can I go in and see him?”
“Not yet. He’s in the operating room.”
“Oh, Christ,” said Marie. “Oh, Christ. I’ll take the girls home. Then I’ll be back.”
Her throat suddenly was swollen hard and shut so she could not swallow.