“I didn’t know her name—”
“The Katrina’s right,” cut in Charlie.
“A feller by the name of Sanders is owner,” offered the Sergeant. “He lives on Shippan Point.”
“That,” said Bill, “is the guy. Anyway, he’s in cahoots with Slim Johnson, the gangster whom I saw murder a man called Hank tonight. They’re both on board the Katrina now, and I have every reason to believe that Sanders was the brains of von Hiemskirk’s pirate gang. That yacht, by the way, is shoving off for Maine at the turn of the tide.”
“Oh, no, she ain’t—” declared the policeman. “By gorry, we’ll attend to the Katrina in a jiffy. I’m sendin’ ye ashore wid Kelly. He’s got to call up headquarters, and you can ’phone Mr. Evans at the same time.”
“Can’t we go with you and see the fun?” begged Charlie.
“No, ye can’t, young man. Ye’re my responsibility now, and the two of ye have had enough excitement fer tonight, I’ll be thinkin’.”
“We’re very much obliged to you, Sergeant,” said Bill, shaking hands again.
Sergeant Duffy shook his bullet head. “It’s me who’s thankin’ you, sor. This is big business in our line. It’s the chanct I’ve been waitin’ more than five years for. It will mean my lieutenancy, Mister Bolton. And just remember, sor, if any o’ thim dumb motorcycle cops hold ye up fer speedin’ any time, tell ’em you’re a friend o’ Duffy’s! If they don’t let ye go, I’ll break ’em.”
Bill grinned and nodded and they hurried overside into the dinghy where a husky policeman was already at the oars.