Abel Baker Charley by John R. Maxim Page B

impasse, you see.”
    He motioned for Baker to walk with him back toward the dock and extended his free hand. “The name is Sonnen- berg,” he said.
    Baker took the hand and pumped it lightly. Sonnenberg held the grip just a moment overlong, glancing in that time at Baker's knuckles.
    “I'm Jared Baker,” he answered unnecessarily, once more scanning the parking area.
    “If you're looking for Benjamin Meister, he'll be back presently. He said something about a glass of beer and a plate of fried oysters. Would you believe that he puts mus tard and sugar on them? Disgusting.” He shivered.
    “Meister works for you?”
    “On occasion.” Sonnenberg nodded. “And yes, it was I who provided the wherewithal for your release.”
    Baker hesitated, not sure of what to say.
    “You are, no doubt, curious as to my motives,” Sonnenberg acknowledged easily. “This is natural. We don't live in an age when one can readily believe in fairy godfathers, do we.”
    Baker waited. It struck him that the older man's voice had a foreign cast to it. There was no accent, but his diction was precise in the way of one who has learned the language. Sonnenberg tried another opening.
    ”I am most sincerely sorry, Mr. Baker, about the loss you have suffered. I'm assured, however, that young Tina can hope for a full recovery, given correct treatment. Quite a courageous young lady, isn't she?”
    Baker stiffened inside, vaguely irritated at this stranger's knowledge of his daughter. “She's holding up well,” he an swered.
    “And a perceptive child.” There was a sudden spark of ex citement in Sonnenberg's eyes. “Do I understand correctly that she sensed her mother's death while in conversation with you?”
    “Look, Sonnenberg . ..” Baker's own eyes flashed.
    The older man seemed stricken, as if suddenly aware that he had plunged too far and too fast. His body rocked. Baker reached to steady him.
    ”I am so terribly sorry,” he said, mortified. “That was un forgivably clumsy of me.” Sonnenberg jerked his head toward a row of slips and eased Baker with him in that di rection. His manner suggested that he needed a moment to recover from his embarrassment. Baker could not know that he was furious with himself. He had moved much too quickly.
    “In any event,” he said, keeping Baker's arm in his, “it's Dr. Sonnenberg.” He steered Baker to a finger where the largest pleasure boats were berthed.
    “Physicians develop a habit of asking intimate ques tions,” he offered by way of apology. “We sometimes forget that all the world is not a patient.”
    He stopped Baker at the stern of a large motor sailer. “Can I offer you some wine? Perhaps a spot of lunch? My housekeeper is on board with me today.”
    Baker could hear movement below. He looked across the cockpit and caught a glimpse of another gray head moving inside the hatchway near what must have been the galley. “This is yours?” he asked. One hand reached involuntarily to touch a huge self-tailing winch of gleaming chrome. Two of those, he knew, would buy a whole boat like the one he owned.
    Sonnenberg nodded. “Comfortable, isn't she?”
    The boat distracted Baker, as Sonnenberg hoped it would. Baker had not seen her before on the Sound. Nor one quite like her. The boat's length, he guessed, was fifty-five feet. Big, but not a giant. Not even especially pretty because of lines that were squat and square and functional. But the boat looked like she could reach any harbor in the world. She was basically a traveler in design, made to maneuver and even cruise under power, but fitted with a short mainmast and a mizzen that would carry her even faster under sail when the wind was right. Below, he imagined, the craft would be like a small house. The galley would be of a size that some apart ments would covet, and there would be a three-quarter bath tub in the head. The captain's berth would hold a queen-size bed, and the main cabin would pass for the living room of a summer