“He is a Viking. That’s Niels Grafalk. He owns this sorry hunk of steel … Poor devil!”

Niels Grafalk. I didn’t think the timing was too hot to go swarming up the ladder after him in search of the Bertha Krupnik. Unless…

“Is this the Bertha Krupnik?”

“No,” my friend answered. “It’s the Leif Ericsson. You got some special interest in the Bertha?”

“Yeah, I’m trying to find out where she is. I can’t get MacKelvy—d’you know him?—to let the information loose without Grafalk’s say-so. You wouldn’t know, would you?”

When my acquaintance wanted to know the reason, I felt an impulse to shut up and go home. I couldn’t think of anything much stupider than my obsession about Boom Boom and his accident. Obviously, from the crowd converging here, disaster brought a lot of people to the scene. Margolis had been right: if the men at the elevator knew anything about Boom Boom’s death, they would have been talking about it. It was probably high time to return to Chicago and serve some processes to their reluctant recipients.

My companion saw my hesitation. “Look—it’s time for lunch. Why don’t you let me take you over to the Salle de la Mer—it’s the private club for owners and officers here. I just need to shed this boiler suit and get a jacket.”

I looked at my jeans and running shoes. “I’m hardly dressed for a private club.”

He assured me they didn’t care about what women wore—only men have to observe clothing rules in the modern restaurant. He left me to watch the debacle at the pier for a few minutes while he went to change. I was wondering vaguely what had happened to Phillips when I saw him picking his way tentatively through the crowd to the Leif Ericsson. Something in his hesitant manner irritated me profoundly.

Chapter 5

A Glass in the Hand

“I’m Mike Sheridan, chief engineer on the Lucella Wieser.”

“And I’m V. I. Warshawski, a private investigator.”

The waiter brought our drinks, white wine for me and vodka and tonic for Sheridan.

“You’re related to Boom Boom Warshawski, aren’t you?”

“I’m his cousin … You connected with the Lucella Weiser that was across from the Bertha Krupnik when he fell under the propeller last week?”

He agreed, and I commented enthusiastically on what a small world it was. “I’ve been trying to find someone who might have seen my cousin die. To tell you the truth, I think it’s pretty hopeless—judging by the crowd that wreck out there drew.” I explained my search and why the Lucella was included in it.