Chapter 9
The Fourth Reason
IT WAS ALMOST two o’clock in the morning when I went on deck for some air. The yacht was lighted pretty brightly; there were several launches along side. A uniformed police officer strolled along the starboard deck stretch and looked at me suspiciously as I stopped and used cupped hands to light a cigarette. I said:
“I’m Connors— newspaperman. Just up for a bit of air. Not going anywhere.”
He had a round face, very brown. He said in a grim tone:
“I guess that’s true enough.”
I went aft and ran into Cy Dana leaning against a rail and looking up at the stars. The night was pretty hot; there was no breeze. Cy nodded to me.
“You’ve got nerve, Al,” he said.
“In which way?” I asked.
He shrugged. “You’re still bunking with that guy O’Rourke,” he said.
I nodde
