Hamilton, Donald - Matt Helm 14 Read Online Free Page A

water over the bow, and almost lost
headway completely, throttling back to keep from driving his little boat clear
under.
                I had a good look at him as I came
up on him fast: a tallish man, not old, not Mexican, clean-shaven, kind of
boyishly handsome, with a tanned face amid wet brown hair cut short enough to
put him well into the ranks of the squares. It made no difference to me. Square
or hip, he'd tried to kill me. To hell with his haircut.
                I gave a quick burst of power and
roared past at planing speed, missing his stern by less
than two feet. Looking back, I saw the white curling wake roll clear over his
motor and transom, right into the boat. An oncoming wave finished the job. I
got my bucking and plunging little nautical projectile under control, turned
her like a cutting horse between waves, and charged back there. He was clinging
helplessly to the swamped skiff that was still afloat, of course-they're all
loaded with plastic flotation these days so you can't really sink them-but when
lie saw half a ton of speedboat coming at him own the face of a wave, he kicked
himself clear and dove. I don't know what he thought I was going to do, run him
down, I suppose, or brain him with a boathook. Anyway, he submerged and
presumably swam off, making my job that much easier.
                I didn't even bother to look for
him. I simply slowed down, swung around, and grabbed the braided nylon painter
trailing from the bow of the skiff. Then I headed for shore, towing the swamped
boat with me, leaving him swimming out there in the oncoming darkness.
     

          Chapter III
     
                According to the marina records, his
name was Joel W. Patterson. At least that was the name written down opposite
the registration number of the boat I'd towed in. He came from San Bernardino,
California. He had arrived in San Carlos two days after I had. He'd been
staying in a pickup camper at the trailer court across the road.
                "Yes, senor, I remember him a
little," said the young lady behind the counter in the marina office,
where you could buy bait and tackle, arrange for dock space, and hire anything
from a single rod-and-reel outfit to a large fishing vessel complete with
captain and crew. She went on,
                "He was expecting to meet a
friend here, someone from Arizona, I think. He looked through my book of
registration here. But I do not think the friend ever came. I never saw him
with anyone.
                He was quite a~ handsome young man,
but alone, always alone."
                He'd undoubtedly been looking for my
name and boat number, to make sure I'd arrived so he could get to work on me. I
said, "Well, he's still alone, I guess."
                " Si ,
senor. It is a terrible thing. I have sent one of the party boats out to
search, but in the darkness and in this wind there is not much hope. You did
not see him at all?"
                "No, I was fishing along the
shore and I saw something white drifting off the point," I said.
                "I went out to have a look and
there was the boat full of water with nobody on board. I cruised around it a
bit, but I couldn't see anybody swimming, so I just grabbed the rope and
brought it in." I rubbed my sore hands together. "It wasn't easy. The
damn thing towed like a dead whale."
                "You did what you could, Senor
Helm." She was a very attractive young lady, and she ran the marina
operation very efficiently, but what really impressed me was that she turned up
for work each morning in a simple cotton dress. A US female in her job with her
figure couldn't have resisted appearing in a ducky little sailor-boy pantsuit
plastered all over with cute gold anchors, just to show how nautical she was.
"You are staying at the Posada San Carlos? The authorities may wish to ask
you some more questions, Senor