“Danger?” His upper lip twisted.
“I’m sure you’re aware of the sabotage case. The saboteur lured those men down here as part of his plot. They’re at Dry Dock 2. He means to damage the two ships under construction and to harm those men.”
The guard leaned closer and sniffed. “You been drinking, lady?”
Mary groaned. “Of course not. I’ve worked with the FBI agents on the case, and I know something horrible will happen if we don’t stop him. Please send guards to the dry dock.”
“Listen, lady. I don’t know what movies you’ve been watching.The Maltese Falcon?Suspicion? But there ain’t nothing happening tonight.” He raised his arm like a gate before her.
She had to act now. She had to force him to send guards. And quickly, before he decided she was crazy and arrested her.
Mary darted past him and jogged inside. “If you won’t stop him, I will.”
“Come on, lady! What do you think you’re doing?”
“Call the guards. It’s an emergency, you hear? An emergency! Two lives are at stake.”
No, three lives. If he didn’t call the Marines, her life could be at stake too.
She ran past the Muster House, past a storehouse, to the base of Dry Dock 2. Mary stopped, breathing hard, and she got her bearings. The street lamps that normally illuminated the dry dock were dark. The only light came from a half-moon and the little round pump house at the far end of the wharf.
Mary’s breath seized. Were one or more of the men there?
What should she do now? The safe thing would be to wait for either the Marines or the FBI. But what if no calls had been made? Could she afford to wait?
Mary hugged herself against the night chill. “What should I do, Lord? Stay safely in harbor? Or sail into possible danger?”
A breeze came from behind her, lifting the hem of her coat and raising a wry smile. “All right, Lord. If anything happens, I’ll say you pushed me.”
She was no soldier, no detective with a weapon. She was a secretary, an observer. So she’d observe.
Mary slipped off her heels and set them by a bollard. She also set down her purse with her notepad inside, outlining her thoughts. If anything happened to her, perhaps Agent Sheffield could use her notes to arrest Mr. Fiske.
She padded down the wooden pier. A brand-new pair of stockings, about to be ruined.
Her eyes strained into the darkness, and her ears into the silence. The familiar shipyard sights and sounds seemed foreign and forbidding—the giant cranes looming black overhead, the lap of water against the caisson gate at the end of the dry dock, the faint city noises in the background.
No motion met her eyes, no voices entered her ears. As she neared the pump house at the end of the pier, her steps slowed and she held her breath.
Sounds, metallic sounds, but from the caisson. Thumps, scrapes. From inside the caisson.
Mary studied the huge bowed steel gate that held back the seawater, a structure with pumps inside to remove seawater from the dry dock. The caisson contained portholes with pipes to the harbor. When those pipes were opened, seawater would flood in to float the ships.
Her mouth went dry. Was that Mr. Fiske’s plan? Was he inside the caisson, preparing to open the pipes and flood the dock? If the destroyers were floated now, without lines securing them to bollards on the pier, the ships would tip over and be damaged. And where were Mr. Winslow and Mr. Bauer? What part did they play in the plot?
Mary crept up to the pump house and peeked through the window in the door. No signs of life inside, but she didn’t dare open the door.
Someone moaned behind her.
She whipped around. The moans came from deep inside the dry dock. Mary rushed to the edge and dropped to her knees. About four feet of space separated the steel hull from the granite dock, filled with wooden scaffolding. At the bottom next to the caisson, over thirty feet below her, lay a dark figure, rolling around.
“Hello?” Mary said in a stage whisper.
“Yes? Hello? Who’s there? Help me.” That was Mr. Winslow, his voice slurred. He groaned. “I’m tied up. My hand—I think he broke it.”
“Who did this? Where is he?” Mary glanced around, eyes wide and searching.
“Mr. Fiske. He’s going to flood—”
