Habit of Fear by Dorothy Salisbury Davis Page A

theory, but I don’t think the police put much stock in it when I told them,” the security man went on. “I think they might’ve started uptown from around Twentieth Street on the docks down there where the fags hang out. Some of these macho guys get charged up just baiting them, and then they go looking for whatever they can find. My brother-in-law works at the Maritime Union headquarters on Seventeenth Street and he says you wouldn’t believe some of the things.”
    “That’s wild,” Julie said.
    “I guess it is,” Togarth said with a sigh.
    “Hey, suppose one of them was a seaman, say the redhead with the wobbly walk of his—if he’d shipped out right afterward, nobody was going to find him, right? Does your brother-in-law work at the hiring hall, Mr. Togarth?”
    “Pension and Welfare. But he’s been around so long he must know someone having to do with hiring.”
    I T WAS SUCH A LONG SHOT Julie decided not to confide her inquiries to anyone unless they yielded stronger results than she could cope with. The identification of the men, even if she got them within her sights and felt reasonably sure they were the right ones, was going to be a tricky business. At ten-thirty Monday morning she walked into the mammoth National Maritime Union building, and a few minutes later Sam Togarth’s brother-in-law, Maurice Lynch, took her downstairs and introduced her to Andrew Carey in the Marine Inspector’s Office.
    The two men had already spoken, she realized, for as soon as Togarth’s relative left them, Carey said, “So you’re looking for a redheaded Irishman?”
    “I don’t know that he’s Irish,” Julie said, startled.
    Carey, whom some might have called red-haired himself, a broad, hearty man, sandy-complexioned and dappled with freckles, said, “I’d give odds on it. Will you go to the police with any information I give you?”
    “Of course.”
    “No personal vendetta or anything like that?”
    Julie just looked at the man.
    “Well, I know you’re a newspaperwoman. You could be losing patience with the police and going out to scoop them.”
    “Exploiting my own humiliation,” Julie said tightly.
    “I guess not,” he said. “All right. I remembered the case when Lynch called me. I didn’t know about his brother-in-law: it’s the curse of a family, a gambler. I don’t know which is worse, that or the booze. Drugs is worse. Anyways, the reason I made the point about going to the police is this: I’ve got a fellow in mind who answers the description. He got his union card only last year, having landed a job with the help of his parish priest.”
    “Oh, God,” Julie said.
    “Well, it may not be him at all, but I remember him because of the priest. The padre’s done a lot of good work on the waterfront, and for his sake I hope we’re on the wrong track. But you’ll want the police to check this man out. He shipped out on an oil tanker, The Candy Kid, June nineteenth from Hoboken. Bound for Bermuda.”
    “The date is right,” Julie said.
    “She’s due back in her berth the day after tomorrow.”
    “With him aboard?”
    “Unless he’s jumped ship.”
    J ULIE GOT A MESSAGE THROUGH to Detective Russo and went to see him as soon as he was available. He taped her story, nodding now and then while he listened. When he turned off the machine, he sat a moment looking at her, those big dark eyes warm with pleasure or amusement—something cheerful. “It just goes to prove there’s more than one way to skin a cat,” he said finally. “His name is Frank Kincaid and he lives a few blocks from here on Tenth Avenue.”
    “Oh,” Julie said, feeling foolish. Then: “What about his partner?”
    “We know where he is. Don’t misunderstand, your information is every bit as good as ours. We went a different route, that’s all.”
    “An informant?” Julie said. “A guy who was in McGowen’s that day you and I were there?”
    Russo gave no sign that she was right or wrong. “We’ll have a