"Hudson Harbor?" said Heller. "Nothing leaves from there. Not even a ferry."

"Beats me," said Mortie.

"Well, we're on our way," said Heller. And he shot the red cab into motion up onto the recently completed West Side Elevated Highway, and was shortly speeding north at a high rate.

I had my destination.

I phoned Grafferty's office. "Your man is heading north to the 79th Street Boat Basin!"

"Well, I sure as hell hope you're right. Grafferty just this minute got through chewing my (bleep) out. He wasn't at that statue place, he wasn't in the Stockbroker Bar and the (bleeped) bartender wouldn't even give him the time of day. You sure this is on the level this time?"

"Tall blond man, blue eyes. You tell Grafferty you got this tip from a Fed and tell him to get a move on!

You're dealing with Federal satellite surveillance, buster!"

"That's different," said the office man. "Yes, sir. Right away! But what's the Federal interest? He'll want to know."

"Secret Federal New York Grand Jury indictment," I lied. "We want Grafferty to make the public pinch so we don't show our hand."

"Ah, a standard Federal operation! Get the man for anything at any cost. And Grafferty gets the credit?"

"Tell him TO GET MOVING!" I half screamed. I hung up. I turned anxiously to the viewer. Heller must not be left to get away, the criminal. He was the cause of all my troubles after all! And he must pay for it!

The 79th Street Boat Basin was in the throes of spring. The long lines of small pleasure craft, winter-landed on the dock in chocks, lay like a forest of leafless trees. Other assorted yachts bobbed around the landing stages. Many workmen swarmed around, apparently readying these millionaire toys for the joys of a boating summer.

This was the view that met Heller as he slid the red cab along the ranks at low speed, avoiding piles of this and that and people.

A sign said Dockmaster and Heller stopped. He went in the hut. A small, round man looked up from a desk.

Heller gave the probable time and date. "Five Smeller cabs," he concluded. "Did you see them?"

"Matey," said the dockmaster, "they come and go and I don't pay much attention."

"It's quite important," said Heller. "I have to find out where they went from here."

"Wait a minute," said the dockmaster. "The looker! Would the woman have been a real tomato?"

"I suppose you could say so."

The dockmaster looked at his log. "Yeah, I remember now. They rented a service boat to take out the baggage. Too much for their speedboats. They used a Squeeza credit card, Sultan Bey and Concubine. I remember the boys saying, 'Jesus, look at that God (bleeped) concubine, those foreign (bleepards) sure are taking over.' What a looker! She sure was sad, though, but I guess anybody would be sad being sold off to some God (bleeped) Turk."

He got up from the desk and walked outside and looked out at the river. Then he yelled over the side of the dock to a man working with some rope on the deck of a miniature tug. "Remember that looker the other day? What yacht was that you took the baggage to?"

"The Morgan yacht," the man called back. "The Golden Sunset."

"Oh, well, that figgers," said the dockmaster. "She's got too much draft to come in here. Too big."

"How do you find out where yachts go?" said Heller.

"Oh, I dunno," said the dockmaster. "Nobody keeps much track of documented yachts. They don't have to clear in and out unless they've been foreign. You could try Boyd's of London, the insurance people. They keep track of ships."

"Thank you," said Heller.

"Glad to be of help. That sure was some sad tomato."

A far-off wail of police screamers was audible, getting louder. Aha!"Bulldog" Grafferty was on the trail!

Heller went to a phone kiosk near the dockmaster office. He called to Mortie, sitting in the red cab, "I think we've got it."

He ruffled through the book and got the number. He got a British hello. Heller said, "I want to know where the Morgan yacht, the Golden Sunset, is."

"Put you onto Shipping Intelligence, old boy."

Another came on and Heller repeated his question.

"The Morgan yacht?" Shipping Intelligence said. "We have only one Golden Sunset in the American Yacht Registry but it's crossed out. Oh, yes. It was the Morgan yacht but I'm afraid, old boy, that she is no more."

"You mean it's been LOST?"

"Let me check with legal, old fellow. Just hold on."

Police screamers penetrated the glass of the phone kiosk. Heller glanced down the dock. Three police cars were racing up, full blast, toward the dockmaster office. I hugged myself in glee.

"Are you there?" said the British voice. "I'm afraid you caught us with the panties half off, old boy. The yacht fell between registries. She should now be in the Foreign Yacht Registry. Been bought by some barbarian Turk and transferred to the Turkish flag. We simply hadn't reentered it."

"Could you tell me where she is now?" begged Heller.

"Oh, really. We can't possibly give out information like that. Confidential, doncha know."

"I'm trying to collect something," said Heller.

"Oh, a bill collector. That's different. Haifa mo'. I'll see if we have it on the board."

Heller looked out. Haifa dozen cops had off-loaded and were racing around grabbing people, demanding answers.

Cops raced by the phone kiosk.

I blinked! They hadn't looked into the kiosk!

Heller cracked the door slightly. A cop had the dockmaster at bay. "We're looking for the Whiz Kid! If you've seen him, you better (bleep) well report it or we'll run you in as an accomplice!"

The dockmaster was shaking his head. The cop gave him a shove and went off to grab somebody else.

"Are you there? Yes, we have the Golden Sunset. She's at anchor off Gardner's Basin, Atlantic City."

Heller thanked him and hung up. And then I blinked!

Heller walked out of the kiosk and up to the dock-master. He indicated the rows of dry-landed vessels in their chocks. "Are any of those for sale?"

"Usually," said the dockmaster. "With the price of fuel, the amount of use is cut down. It's spring, though, and a lot of owners think that's the time to get a high price. You know boats?"

"Well, not too well," said Heller, "though I was in the Fleet."

"Yeah, well, then you don't want no sailboat. Get you in trouble if you're not experienced." He started to walk down the line of small craft. "There's a trawler type there I know for a fact is for sale. Diesel. Good sea boat. Patterned after the fishermen." They were looking up at a forty-foot cabin cruiser.

"Is it fast?" said Heller.

"Oh, hell no," said the dockmaster. "Who wants a fast boat? Reason you buy them is to get away from things. But you don't look like you're a yacht buyer. You interested for somebody else?"

"A company," said Heller.

"Oh, well. Why fast?"

A cop rushed by.

"Let's just say I like to get away from things fast," said Heller. "What's that one?"

"Why that's a Sea Skiff."

"Skiff?" said Heller. "I thought a 'skiff' was just a little rowboat."

"Oh, well, hell, I don't know why Chriscraft called them that. Most speedboats, you see, do all right on lakes and smooth water. But that one is an oceangoing speedboat. It's thirty-six feet, heavy built to take the pounding of the waves. But look at it. No cabin, just an open cockpit. The bunks, if you can call them that, are up under the foredeck."

"Is it fast?" said Heller.

"Oh, hell, yes. Does forty knots in heavy ocean waves if you can stand the pounding. But your company wouldn't want that."

Heller was looking up at the dry-landed craft. It was heavily tarpaulined but you could see the sleek, almost vicious, lines of it. "Why not?" said Heller, as a cop raced by in front of him.