CHAPTER II
Cap'n Mike
Jerry's car was an old sedan that had seen better days, but it couldstill cover ground at a good speed. The macadam highway unrolledbefore the bright head lamps at a steady rate while the beamsillumined alternate patches of woods and small settlements.
There were no major towns between Whiteside and Seaford, but therewere a number of summer beach colonies, most of them in an area abouthalfway between the two towns. The highway was little used. Mosttourists and all through traffic preferred the main trunk highwayleading southward from Newark. They saw only two other cars during theshort drive.
Many months had passed since Rick's last visit to Seaford. He had gonethere on a Sunday afternoon to try his hand at surf casting offMillion Dollar Row, a stretch of beach noted for its huge, abandonedhotels. It was a good place to cast for striped bass during the rightseason.
"Smugglers' Reef," he said aloud. "Funny that a Seaford trawlershould go ashore there. It's the best-known reef on the coast."
"Maybe the skipper was a greenhorn," Scotty remarked.
"Not likely," Jerry said. "In Seaford the custom is to pass fishingships down from father to son. There hasn't been a new fishing familythere for the past half century."
"You seem to know a lot about the place," Rick remarked.
"I go down pretty often. Fish makes news in this part of the country."
Scotty pointed to a sign as they sped over a wooden bridge. "SaltCreek."
Rick remembered. Salt Creek emptied into the sea on the north side ofSmugglers' Reef. It was called Salt Creek because the tide backed upinto it beyond the bridge they had just crossed. He had caught crabsjust above the bridge. But between the road and the sea there was overa quarter mile of tidal swamp, filled with rushes and salt-marshgrasses through which the creek ran. At the edge of the swamp whereSalt Creek met Smugglers' Reef stood the old Creek House, once aleading hotel, now an abandoned relic.
A short distance farther on, a road turned off to the left. Aweathered sign pointed toward Seaford. In a few moments the firsthouses came into view. They were small, and well kept for the mostpart. Then the sedan rolled into the town itself, down the singlebusiness street which led to the fish piers.
A crowd waited in front of the red-brick town hall. Jerry swung intothe curb. "Let's see what's going on."
Rick got his camera from the case, inserted a film pack, and stuffed afew flash bulbs into his pocket. Then he hurried up the steps of CityHall after Jerry and Scotty. Men, a number of them with the weatheredfaces of professional fishermen, were talking in low tones. A fewlooked at the boys with curiosity.
An old man with white hair and a strong, lined face was seated by thedoor, whittling on an elm twig. Jerry spoke to him.
"Excuse me, sir. Can you tell me what's going on?"
Keen eyes took in the three boys. "I can. Any reason why I should?"The old man's voice held the twang peculiar to that part of the NewJersey coast.
"I'm a reporter," Jerry said. "Whiteside _Morning Record_."
The old man spat into the shrubbery. "Going to put in your paper thatTom Tyler ran aground on Smugglers' Reef, hey? Well, you can put itin, boy, because it's true. But don't make the mistake of calling TomTyler a fool, a drunkard, or a poor seaman, because he ain't any ofthose things."
"How did it happen?" Jerry asked.
"Reckon you better ask Tom Tyler."
"I will," Jerry said. "Where will I find him?"
"Inside. Surrounded by fools."
Jerry pushed through the door, Rick and Scotty following. Rick's quickglance took in the people waiting in the corridor, then shifted to ayoung woman and a little girl. The woman's face was strained andwhite, and she stared straight ahead with unseeing eyes. The littlegirl, a tiny blonde perhaps four years old, held tightly to hermother's hand.
Rick had a hunch. He stopped as Jerry and Scotty hurried down thecorridor to where voices were loud through an open door. "Mrs. Tyler?"he asked.
The woman's head lifted sharply. Her eyes went dark with fear. "Ican't tell you anything," she said in a rush. "I don't know anything."She dropped her head again and her hand tightened convulsively on thelittle girl's.
"Sorry," Rick said gently. He moved along the corridor, verythoughtful, and saw that Jerry and Scotty were turning into the roomfrom which voices came. Mrs. Tyler might have been angry, upset,tearful, despondent, or defiant over the loss of her husband'strawler. Instead, she had been afraid in a situation that did notappear to call for fear.
He turned into the room. There were about a dozen men in it. Two wereCoast Guardsmen, one a lieutenant and the other a chief petty officer.Two others were state highway patrolmen. Another, in a blue uniform,was evidently the local policeman. The rest were in civilian clothes.All of them were watching a lean, youthful man who sat ramrod straightin a chair.
A stocky man in a brown suit said impatiently, "There's more to itthan that, Tom. Man, you've spent thirty years off Smugglers'. You'dno more crack up on it than I'd fall over my own front porch."
"I told you how it was," the fisherman said tonelessly.
Rick searched his face and liked it. Tom Tyler was perhaps forty, buthe looked ten years younger. His face was burned from wind and sun,but it was not yet heavily lined. His eyes, gray in color, were clearand direct as he faced his questioners. He was a tall man; that wasapparent even when he was seated. He had a lean, trim look thatreminded Rick of a clean, seaworthy schooner.
The boy lifted his camera and took a picture. The group turned brieflyas the flash bulb went off. They glared, then turned back to thefisherman again.
The town policeman spoke. "You know what this means, Tom? You not onlylost your ship, but you're apt to lose your license, too. And you'llbe lucky if the insurance company doesn't charge you with barratry."
"I've told you how it was," Captain Tyler repeated.
The man in the brown suit exploded. "Stop being a dadblasted fool,Tom! You expect us to swallow a yarn like that? We know you don'tdrink. How can you expect us to believe you ran the _Sea Belle_ ashorewhile drunk?"
"I got no more to say," Tyler replied woodenly.
Jerry turned to Rick and Scotty and motioned toward the door. Rick ledthe way back into the corridor. "Getting anything out of this?" heasked.
"A little," Jerry said. "Let's go out and talk to that old man."
"Lead on," Scotty said. "I've always wanted to see a real news houndin action."
Rick dropped the used flash bulb into a convenient ash tray, replacedit with a new one, and reset the camera. At least he had one goodpicture. Tom Tyler, framed by his questioners, had looked somehow likea thoroughbred animal at bay.
Outside the door, the old man was still whittling. "Get a real scoop,sonny?" he asked Jerry.
"Sure did," Jerry returned. He leaned against the doorjamb. "I didn'tget your name."
"Didn't give it."
"Will you?"
"Sure. I ain't ashamed. I'm Captain Michael Aloysius Kevin O'Shannon.Call me Cap'n Mike."
"All right, Cap'n Mike. Is it true Captain Tyler stands to lose hismaster's license and may be even charged with deliberately wreckingthe ship?"
"It's true.
"He says he was drunk."
"He wasn't."
"How do you know?"
"I know Tom Tyler."
"Then how did it happen?"
Cap'n Mike rose and clicked his jackknife shut. He tossed away the elmtwig. "You got a car?"
"Yes."
"Let's take a ride. You'll want to see the wreck, and I do, too. Wecan talk on the way."
The boys accepted with alacrity. Rick and Scotty sat in the back seat;the captain rode up front with Jerry. At the old man's direction,Jerry drove to the water front and then turned left.
"I'll start at the beginning," Cap'n Mike said. "I've had experiencewith reporters in my day. Best to tell 'em everything, otherwise theystart leaping at conclusions and get everything backwards. Can'tcredit a reporter with too m
any brains."
"You're right there," Jerry said amiably.
Rick grinned. He had seen Jerry in operation before. The youngreporter didn't mind any kind of insult if there were a story in theoffing. Rick guessed the newspaper trade wasn't a place for thinskins.
"Well, here're the facts," the captain continued. "Tom Tyler, masterand owner of the _Sea Belle_, was coming back from a day's run. He'dhad a good day. The trawler was practically awash with a load ofmenhaden. In case you don't know, menhaden are fish. Not eating fish,but commercial. They get oil and chicken and cattle feed from 'em, andthe trawlers out of this port collect 'em by the millions of tonsevery year."
"We know," Jerry said.
"Uhuh. As I said, the trawler was full up with menhaden. Tom was atthe wheel himself. The rest of the crew, five of them, was makingsnug. There was a little weather making up, but not much, and notenough to interfere with Tom seeing the light at the tip of Smugglers'Reef. He saw it clear. Admits it. Now! All you need do is give thelight a few fathoms clearance to starboard. But Tom Tyler didn't. Andwhat happened?"
"He ran smack onto the reef," Scotty put in.
"He surely did. The crew, all of 'em being aft, didn't see a thing.First they knew they were flying through the air like a bunch ofhooked mackerel and banging into the net gear. One broken arm and alot of cuts and bruises among 'em. The trawler tore her bottom out andrested high and dry, scattering fish like a fertilizer spreader. TomTyler said he took one drink and it went to his head."
The old man snorted. "Bilge! Sheer bilge! He said hitting the reefsobered him up."
"Maybe it did," Jerry ventured.
"Hogwash. There wasn't a mite of drink on his breath. And what did hedrink? There ain't nothing could make an old hand like Tom forgetwhere a light was supposed to be. No, the whole thing is fishy as abin of herring."
The boys were silent for a moment after the recital, then Rick blurtedout the question in his mind. "What's his wife afraid of?"
The captain stiffened. "Who says she's afraid?"
"I do," Rick returned positively. "I saw her."
"You did? Well, I reckon you saw right."
"Maybe she's afraid of Tyler's losing his way of making a living,"Scotty guessed.
Rick shook his head. "It wasn't that kind of fear."
The sedan had left the town proper and was rolling along the sea fronton a wide highway. This was Million Dollar Row. In a moment Rick sawthe first of the huge hotels that had given the road its name. It wascalled Sandy Shores. Once it had been landscaped, and probablybeautiful. Now, he saw in the dim moonlight, the windows wereshuttered and the grounds had gone back to bunch grass. The paint hadpeeled in the salt air and there was an air of decay and lonelinessaround the dark old place.
Extending up the drive were the Sea Girt, the Atlantic View, ShoreMansions, and finally, the Creek House. All were in similar condition.These hotels had been built in the booming twenties when thetraditional sleepiness of Seaford had been disturbed by a rush oftourists. Then had come the business depression of the thirties andthe tourists had stopped coming. They had never started again. Thehotels, too expensive to operate and useless as anything but hotels,had been left to rot. Briefly, during World War II, they had served asbarracks for a Coast Guard shore patrol base, but that activity waslong past now, and they had been left to decay once more.
There were a number of cars on the road, going both ways. Captain Mikeremarked on the fact. "They're curious about the wreck. Usually not acar moves on this road."
As they approached Smugglers' Reef, the cars got thicker. Then Ricksaw lights in the massive Creek House. It was one of the biggest ofthe hotels, and it had been the most exclusive. It had its own dock onSalt Creek, and it was protected from prying eyes by a high boardfence. Two rooms on the second floor were lit up.
"It's occupied," Cap'n Mike affirmed. "Family name of Kelso is rentingit. Claim they need the salt air and water for their boy. He'sailing."
"Must be a big family," Scotty said.
"Oh, they don't use all of it. Just a couple of bedrooms and thekitchen. No one knows much about 'em and they don't seem to work atanything. City folks. Keep to themselves."
Rick guessed from the note of irritation in Cap'n Mike's voice that heresented the Kelsos' evident desire for privacy. Probably he had triedto satisfy his curiosity about them and had been rebuffed.
Jerry pulled up in front of the hotel and stopped the car. The boyspiled out, anxious for a glimpse of the trawler. Rick crossed the roadand looked out to sea.
Smugglers' Reef was a gradually narrowing arm of land that extendedover a quarter mile out into the sea. In front of the hotel it wasperhaps two hundred yards wide. Then it narrowed gradually until itwas little more than a wall of piled boulders. On its north side, SaltCreek emptied into the sea. Beyond the creek was the marsh with itshigh grasses.
At the far tip of the reef, a light blinked intermittently. That wasthe light Tyler had failed to keep on his starboard beam. A fewhundred feet this side of it was a moving cluster of flashlights. Itwas too dark to make out details, but Rick guessed the lights were atthe wrecked trawler.
"Got your camera?" Jerry asked.
Rick held it up.
"Then let's go. Time is getting short and I have to get the storyback."
With Cap'n Mike leading the way, surprisingly light on his feet forhis age, the boys made their way out along the reef. A short distancebefore they reached the wreck they passed a rusted steel framework.
"Used to be a light tower," Cap'n Mike explained briefly. "They put upthe new light on the point a few years back and put in an automaticsystem. This light had to be tended."
At the wreck they found almost two dozen people. Flashlights pickedout the trawler. It had driven with force right up on the reef,ripping out the bottom and dumping thousands of dead menhaden into thewater. They lay in clusters around the wreck, floating on the water insilvery shoals. The air was heavy with the reek of fish and spilledDiesel fuel.
There was little conversation among those who had come to visit thewreck. When they did talk, it was in low tones. Rick thought that wasstrange, because anything like this was usually a field day forself-appointed experts who discussed it in loud tones and offeredopinions to all who would listen. Then, as he lifted his camera for apicture, he saw the men look up, startled at the flash. He saw themturn their backs quickly so their faces would not be seen if he wereto take another picture.
He sensed tension in the air, and his lively curiosity quickened. Thiswas no ordinary wreck. Something about it had brought fear. Or was itthat the fear had brought the wreck?
"Let's go," Jerry said. "Got a deadline to make."
* * * * *
Rick lay awake and stared through the window at the darkness. Jerryhad the pictures and story and there seemed to be nothing else to doexcept to cover the hearing that would follow. The results were aforegone conclusion. Trawler skipper admits he ran ship aground whiledrunk. Case closed.
Again Rick saw the fear written on Mrs. Tyler's face. Again he sensedthe tension among the men who gathered at the wreck. And he believedCap'n Mike had left some things unsaid in spite of his apparentfrankness.
"Scotty?" he whispered.
Scotty's voice came low through the connecting door. "I'm asleep."
"Same here. Let's go fishing tomorrow."
"Okay. I know where the blackfish will be running."
"Do you? Where?"
Rick grinned sleepily as Scotty's whisper came back.
"Off Smugglers' Reef."