“Know what I like about you?” Scotty said.

“My charm,” Rick answered. “Or is it that I like food as much as you do?”

“Neither. What I like about you is your caution. The very soul of prudence, that’s what you are. Your instinct for self-preservation is exceeded by only one thing.”

“My,” Rick said. “That’s almost poetic. What’s the one thing?”

“Your instinct for getting into trouble,” Scotty stated. “You get a warning to stay away from Seaford, so what happens next?” He waved at the scenery as they sped past in Gus’s old car. “Naturally we head for Seaford at ninety miles an hour, not even stopping to pick up our press cards.”

Rick laughed. “Be accurate. This old heap can’t go ninety miles an hour. Besides, it’s only my never-ending search for the truth that leads me to Seaford. I want to find out if the warning is true.”

Scotty sighed. “Whoever it was that phoned should know you as I do. If we needed anything to sharpen the famous Brant nose for trouble, it was that phone call. I suppose now we’ll spend all our waking hours commuting back and forth to Seaford.”

“Not all,” Rick corrected. “Some of the time we’ll be in Seaford.”

“Any idea who it was that phoned?”

“It could have been anyone. But I don’t think it was Carrots Kelso. The voice was an older man’s. Maybe it was his father, but I didn’t hear enough of his voice to recognize it.”

“Why should anyone worry about us looking into things?”

“Respect,” Rick said, wincing as the car bounced across Salt Creek Bridge. “Respect for the genius of Spindrift’s two leading detectives. Can’t think of any other reason.”

“Unless whatever is going on would be so obvious to anyone who took the trouble to investigate that the party concerned doesn’t even want two simple-minded souls like us poking around.”

“Such modesty,” Rick clucked.

“Okay, Hawkshaw,” Scotty said resignedly. “On to Seaford. We’ll probably find the answer just as the villain lowers the boom on us.”

Rick swung into the Seaford turnoff and slowed for the main street. He went straight ahead to the water front and then turned right. In a few moments the car drew up in front of Cap’n Mike’s shack.

The captain opened the door and peered out. “Be with you in a minute.” In much less than a minute he was out again, clad in a jacket and officer’s cap.

“Howdy,” he greeted them. “See much from your airplane?”

“How did you know it was our airplane?” Rick asked curiously.

“Pshaw! You don’t give people credit for knowing much, do you? I’ll bet everyone in Seaford knows about your airplane. Everyone who reads the Whiteside Morning Record, anyway.”

“But all Cubs look alike,” Rick protested, “and most of them are painted yellow.”

Cap’n Mike snorted. “What of it? No other yellow planes in this area, and you been seen on the ground in Seaford twice already. What would anyone think? Especially when you’re on a direct bearing for Spindrift when you leave?”

“He’s got something there,” Scotty said. “It’s a logical conclusion.”

Rick had to agree. “Well, you’re the guide, Cap’n. Where to?”

“The pier.” Cap’n Mike looked at the fast-fading light in the west. “It’s time for the trawlers to be coming in. Reckon we’ll talk to a couple of folks and get a look at the Albatross and her crew.”

Rick turned the car around and headed for town. “Why don’t you tell us all you know about the Albatross visiting Creek House?”

“I intended to. First off, the Albatross has been there three times that I know of. And each time she has put in on her way back from the fishing grounds. Now, that’s mighty strange. First thing a captain thinks of is getting his fish into port. But not Brad Marbek. Instead, he lays at the Creek House pier until nigh onto midnight. Then he puts into the wharf and unloads his fish. What do you make out of that?”

Rick could make nothing out of it. The Albatross certainly wouldn’t be calling at Creek House just to be sociable. “Were these calls made at regular intervals?” he asked.

“Nope. One was two weeks ago, one was four nights ago, and the last time was night before last.”

“Wasn’t four nights ago the night you saw Tom Tyler at Creek House?” Scotty recalled.

“It was. That’s one reason why I’m sure the Albatross is tied up with the wreck of the Sea Belle.”

Rick searched for possible reasons why the trawler should tie up at Creek House and rejected all but one. He had the beginnings of an idea, but he needed to think about it a little more before he broached it.

“Cap’n, you’ve been keeping an eye on the Kelsos for quite a while, sounds like,” Rick said. “Do they ever have any visitors?”

“Haven’t seen any.”

“No trucks?” Rick asked.

“Haven’t seen any.”

They were approaching the big, shedlike fish pier. It was brilliantly lighted. At Cap’n Mike’s direction, Rick pulled off the street and parked.

“What happens to the menhaden after they’re unloaded?” Scotty wanted to know.

“Ever notice that one-story building next to the pier? Well, they go into that on conveyer belts. Then the oil is cooked out of them and what’s left is turned into feed or fertilizer. You’d know if you’d ever been here while the plant was processing and the wind was inshore. Dangdest smell you ever smelled. Like to ruin your nose.”

Rick sniffed the fishy air. “I believe it,” he said.

Cap’n Mike had been leading the way toward the big pier. Now he turned onto the pier itself. Some trawlers already were tied up and were being unloaded by bucket cranes. The reek of fish was strong enough to make Rick wish for a gas mask. He saw Scotty’s nose wrinkle and knew his pal wasn’t enjoying it, either.

The captain stopped at the first trawler and hailed the bridge. A big man in an officer’s cap answered the hail.

“Let’s go aboard,” Cap’n Mike said. “This here is the Jennie Lake. We’ll talk with Bill Lake for a minute.”

Bill Lake was the skipper, and the man they had seen directing the unloading from the bridge. He greeted Cap’n Mike cordially. The captain introduced the two boys and Lake shook hands without taking his eyes from the unloading operation. Rick saw a scoop drop into the hold and come up with a slippery half-ton of menhaden. Then it sped along a beam track into the big shed, paused over a wide conveyer belt, lowered to within a few feet of the belt and dumped its load. A clerk just inside the door marked the load on a board. Rick looked for the winch operator and found him opposite the clerk.

The scoop came back rapidly, sped out the track extension above the hold, and paused. Bill Lake signaled and the big bucket dropped slowly. At a further signal, it opened its jaws and plunged into the mass of fish, then slowly crunched closed and lifted again. There was certainly no waste motion here, Rick thought.

Cap’n Mike asked, too casually, “What’d you think of Tom Tyler running on Smugglers’ Reef, Bill?”

Bill’s cordiality seemed to freeze up. “None of my business,” he said shortly. “Can’t pass judgment on a fellow skipper.”

Cap’n Mike nodded. “Reckon that’s right. Bill, how did you find visibility last night?”

“None too good. There was a heavy current running, too.”

“That’s interesting. How’d you know that?”

“Patch of mist drifted in. Anyway, I lost the light for a bit. When the mist cleared, the current had set us two points off course.” Captain Lake’s forehead wrinkled as he watched the scoop return for another load. “Mighty funny, too. Usually there’s no current to speak of off Brendan’s Marsh. But I’ve said for quite a while that the currents hereabouts are changing and it looks like this proves it.”

“Was Captain Tyler directly ahead of you, sir?” Rick asked.

“Not directly. He was three ahead, the way I figure. Brad Marbek was right behind him, then came Jim Killian.”

“How far apart were you?” Rick inquired.

“Quite a ways. Jim was pretty close in front of me, but Brad was almost out of my sight. Don’t know how close he followed Tom.”

Cap’n Mike spat over the side. “Sad business, anyway,” he said. “Well, Bill, I’m taking these lads on a little tour of the pier. Reckon we’ll be pushing along. Looks like you’ll be busy unloading for an hour or so.”

The boys shook hands with Captain Lake again, then followed their guide to the pier once more. Cap’n Mike waited until a scoopful of menhaden had passed overhead then led the way down the pier.

“I wonder if Captain Killian got set off course by that current,” Rick mused. “I’d like to talk to him.”

Cap’n Mike shot a glance at him. “Might be interesting at that. You thinking the same as I am?”

“We all are,” Scotty replied. “That business about losing the light and having the current set him off course sounded kind of strange.”

“Is he a good guy?” Rick queried.

“Best there is. If he says it, it happened. But it’s mighty funny just the same. Reckon we’ll have to find Jim Killian.”

They passed three trawlers, all unloading, and Rick recognized names that Scotty had read aloud during their brief flight over the fleet. Many of the men they passed hailed Cap’n Mike. Evidently he was well known to the fisherman and pier workers.

Suddenly the old man stopped. “There’s Brad Marbek’s craft.”

The next trawler in line was the Albatross.

Rick looked it over critically. It was indistinguishable from the others. There was the same cabin, set well forward, the same large working space aft, the same net booms. It was no dirtier nor cleaner than the others. Evidently it was filled with fish, because only the top Plimsoll number was showing. But the skipper was far from average. Brad Marbek, as Rick saw him on the deck overhead, was a bull of a man. He was about six feet tall, but his width made him look shorter. His shoulder span would have done credit to a Percheron horse, and from his shoulders his torso dropped in almost a straight line. His waist lacked only an inch or two of being as wide as his shoulders. His legs were short and thick and planted wide on the deck. His head was massive and set squarely on his shoulders with hardly any neck. He was hatless and his coarse black hair, cropped short, stood straight up like a vegetable brush. His face was weathered to a dark mahogany color.

“Not very pretty, is he?” Scotty whispered.

That, Rick thought, was a masterpiece of understatement. He started to tell Scotty that compared with Brad Marbek a Hereford bull was downright winsome, but at that moment Cap’n Mike hailed the Albatross.

“Howdy, Brad. How’s fish?”

The skipper’s reply was cordial enough. “Howdy, Cap’n Mike. Took another good haul today. Just startin’ to unload.” Marbek’s black eyes surveyed the two boys briefly, then evidently dismissed them as of no importance. “Come on aboard.”

“Thanks. We will.” Cap’n Mike motioned to the two boys and led the way up the gangplank just as a scoop full of menhaden rose from the hold and passed overhead.

On deck, the captain introduced the boys to Marbek. Rick found his hand imprisoned in a horny mass that appeared to be controlled by steel cables instead of tendons. He tried not to wince.

“Best season I’ve seen in years,” Marbek told Cap’n Mike. His voice was ridiculously high and soft, out of keeping with his physique.

“That’s what everyone’s saying,” Cap’n Mike acknowledged. “Why, only two days ago, I heard ...”

Scotty nudged Rick with a sharp elbow. He was looking at the pier. Rick turned and followed his pal’s glance, then as he saw what Scotty was looking at, he inhaled sharply. Carrots Kelso was leaning against a pillar, watching them.

“Wonder what’s on his mind?” Rick asked.

Brad Marbek saw the direction of their glance. “You kids know Jimmy? He’s my nephew.”

The pause before Cap’n Mike spoke was proof of his surprise. “You don’t say!” He changed the subject abruptly. “Say, Brad, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Did you notice any peculiar current offshore last night?”

“Current? Can’t say I did. Why?”

“Bill Lake claims a strong current set him off course just as he picked up Smugglers’ Light, about the time Tom Tyler ran aground.”

Rick thought that Brad Marbek hesitated slightly and searched for the right answer.

“Now that you mention it, I did notice a little shift.” A scoop whirred out of the hold, crossed the pier, dumped its load and started the return. “Let me know if you find out any more about it,” Marbek said. “Right now I guess I better attend to my unloadin’.”

“Sure, Brad,” Cap’n Mike said. “We’ll be getting on. By the way, happen to know where Jim Killian is tied up?”

“I think he’s on the other side of the pier. Cross over and duck under the belts. He should be right abeam of us.”

“Thanks. Let’s go, boys.”

Cap’n Mike led the way down the gangplank with Rick and Scotty following. Rick felt Brad Marbek’s eyes on them. He had sensed tension under the fisherman’s surface cordiality, and he was interested in the quick way Marbek had remembered the strange current when Cap’n Mike quoted Bill Lake.

At the foot of the gangplank, Cap’n Mike paused. “Let’s find Jim. I’m getting real curious about that current Bill mentioned. What say?”

“We’re right with you,” Scotty replied.

Rick watched the big scoop vanish into the Albatross’ hold, then looked for Carrots Kelso. He was no longer in sight. “Wonder where Carrots went to?” he said to Scotty.

“Probably running to tell his father we’re prowling around the pier.”

Cap’n Mike led the way into the pier shed. He turned to look over his shoulder at the boys. “What’d you think of Marbek claiming young Kelso as a nephew?”

“Don’t you think he really is?” Rick asked. He had to raise his voice above the noise of the scoop as it lifted from the trawler’s hold.

“Surprise to me. I’ve known Marbek fifteen years and never heard of any family. Why ”

“Look out!”

On the heels of Scotty’s cry, Rick caught a glimpse of his pal hurling Cap’n Mike headlong. He jumped forward, glancing up, just as the great fish scoop opened over his head. He put all of his energy in a forward leap to safety, but too late!

Cascading thousands of menhaden crushed him violently to the floor.