The Frumious Bandersnatch by Ed McBain Page B

Scottish.”
    â€œTell you what we’re looking for,” Kling said. “Harbor Patrol stopped a boat from your marina last night…”
    â€œOh?” Popeye said, his one good eye widening in surprise.
    â€œName’s Hurley Girl, serial number’s…”
    â€œOh, sure, the Rinker. She was already back in this morning, when I got here.”
    â€œWhose boat is she?” Meyer asked.
    â€œMine. Well, Capshaw’s. I rent her out.”
    â€œThen she doesn’t belong to one of your customers, is that it?”
    â€œNo, she’s mine. I just told you. She’s a rental boat. I sell boats, and I store boats, and I service boats, but I also rent them.”
    â€œWho’d you rent this one to? Would you remember?”
    â€œOh, sure. Nice young feller. I’ve got his name inside.”
    â€œCan you let us know who he was?” Kling asked.
    â€œOh, sure. Just let me finish here a minute, okay?”
    He was washing down one of the boats. Soaping it, hosing it. Meyer watched him with interest. Kling looked upriver where early morning traffic was already moving steadily across the bridge to the next state.
    â€œWhen you say she came back in…” Meyer said.
    â€œShe was tied up at the dock when I got in this morning.”
    â€œWhen did she go out?”
    â€œEvengloam last night. Nice time of day.”
    â€œYou rented her out last night at sundown…”
    â€œJust before sundown. Twilight. Evengloam.”
    â€œWhen was she due back in?”
    â€œWell, she was a twenty-four-hour rental. Actually, she wasn’t due back till this evening sometime. I was surprised to find her here this morning.”
    â€œWe’d like that name, if you can get it for us,” Kling said.
    â€œOh, sure,” Popeye said, and turned off the hose. “Come on in.”
    They followed him inside. The office was hung with lobster pots and fishing nets. Through the windows facing the river, Meyer and Kling could see racks and racks of stacked boats. Popeye went behind the counter, vanished from sight for a moment as he knelt beneath it. He emerged again, plunked a long narrow black book onto the counter top, and began riffling through its pages.
    â€œName was Andy Hardy,” he told them.
    â€œAndy Hardy, huh?” Meyer said.
    â€œThere it is, right there,” Popeye said, and turned the registry log so they could see the name.
    â€œThat’s Mickey Rooney,” Meyer said. “A character he played in the movies. Andy Hardy.”
    â€œYou know, you’re right,” Popeye said, opening his one good eye wide in surprise.
    â€œNever occurred to you, huh?” Kling said. “While this guy was renting the boat?”
    â€œWell, the name did sound familiar, but we get a lot of people in here, you know. Sometimes too many damn people, you ask me.”
    â€œHow’d he pay for the rental?”
    â€œCredit card.”
    â€œShowed you a credit card with the name Andy Hardy on it?”
    â€œAndy Hardy was what it said. Same as on his driver’s license. Picture matched his face, too. You rent a boat, it’s the same as when you rent a car, you know. You’re responsible for it. There’s more boating accidents, ratio of boats to cars, than there are automobile accidents, you know. Anything happens to the boat—theft, fire, accident—I’ve got the man’s credit card.”
    â€œAnd you got Andy Hardy’s credit card for the little Hurley Girl out there, is that it?”
    â€œYou betcha,” Popeye said.
    â€œThink we can get a line on Mr. Hardy?” Kling asked Meyer.
    â€œFat Chance Department,” Meyer said.
    â€œI saw his driver’s license, too, I just told you,” Popeye said. “He seemed legit to me.”
    â€œMaybe he is,” Kling said. “We’ll hit the computers when we get back to the office.”
    â€œWe’ll want our people to