"A police ... record?"
"I'd advise you not to go coy on me. Has he ever been in trouble with the police? You ought to know. You work for him."
The old man was becoming a little angry now. "Why are you asking me all these questions?" he demanded. "What business is it of yours?"
Fenton took out his badge and held it before the old man's eyes.
"A cop, eh?" the old man muttered. "I don't want no trouble with the police, mister. I'll tell you everything I know. It ain't much. I only been workin' here three weeks. No police ever came here. But the man who owns the motor yacht out there in the inlet came here and talked to the boss a couple of times. He didn't look like no crook to me. Man about forty or forty-five, hair cut short, and wearing a light-weight suit same color as yours. Figured he must be loaded, to own a motor yacht like that. Dressed like he was, too."
"Then what put the idea into your head he might have been a crook?" Fenton asked.
"Well, he acted kind of funny, kept his voice low and once I saw him slip the boss some money. And he mentioned the police a couple of times. Boss doesn't know I have sharp ears. I'm seventy-seven but there's nothing wrong with my hearing."
"All right," Fenton said. "Now suppose you tell me what I asked you when I shook you awake. What's wrong with that phone over there? I dropped a dime in, but there was no dialing sound."
"It's been out of order for two days," the old man said. "There was supposed to be a man come here to fix it yesterday, but he never showed up."
"Somebody did a little wire-ripping, maybe?"