The pier master is sitting on a splintered shipping crate, puffing on an unlit pipe. I breathe in the smell of stale tobacco, admittedly not a favorite. He peers up at me. I hold in a laugh. His huge eyebrows must obscure his view.

“Can I help you, lad?” he asks me. His voice is gruff, his accent thick—an old-school Brit and a sailor to boot.

I’m suddenly at a loss for words. The vibrations of the tram and the stunning scenery helped me compose a request, but coming face to face with the old seaman leaves me dumbstruck.

“Lad, my papa, bless his soul, always told me never to be afraid of nobody. Say what needs to be said, and if nothing needs to be said, then you’re in the wrong place. But you’re definitely not in the wrong place, so out with it.”

His kindly voice cracks. I must have pegged him wrong. The hardened exterior is a front for a soft inside.

“I’m sorry, sir. My name is Shmule. Would you know if there are old records of which boats were out at sea many years ago?”

“Nice to meet you, Shmule. I’m Charlie. There are definitely old records, but, pray, you’re going to have to be more specific so I can help you.”

“I’m looking for someone who went missing at sea many years ago. He is believed to have drowned, but recently it has come to light that he may still be alive. The most reasonable explanation is that a passing boat picked him up and spirited him away. I’m wondering if there are records of which vessels were out on the water that night, to help me narrow my search.”

Charlie grins. “Quite an ambitious lad you seem to be. Creative too. I’ve never gotten such a request before.” He pauses for a moment. “I believe the proper way to go about this is to check the log of which boats left the pier that night, and then to refer back to the registration notebook to see who owned those vessels. I assume you know the date of this mysterious disappearance?”

“July 21, 1941,” I say proudly, sure he’ll appreciate my efficiency.

Alas, his eyes narrow and his tangled eyebrows merge into what suddenly resembles a fearsome unibrow. He stiffens, plants his pipe between his knees, and raises a gnarled, nicotine-stained finger at me.

“I don’t know what game you’re playing, young man, but I suspect I want nothing to do with this. Who are you working for? Are you hunting for the lost treasure of the royal family? Believe me, sonny boy, no good has ever come of fortune seekers of your kind.”

I stand in shock, my feet rooted to the ground. My jaw opens, then closes and opens again. I remember his earlier words: “Say what needs to be said,” and decide to tell him the truth.

“I’m the grandson of Berle. He told me that early in the morning, he met Tod on the cliffs, and Tod jumped into the water. I know this was a long time ago, but if Tod is still alive, I’m going to find him. My grandpa has some unfinished business with him.”

“Listen to me closely, Shmule,” Charlie whispers. “I don’t know why, but I trust you. You’re telling me earth shattering news. If Berle the lemonade man and Tod the rogue architect were in cahoots, everything we were told needs to be reexamined.”

He leans his head back and hums a haunting melody. I don’t dare disturb him, stifling the inane urge to giggle at hearing someone refer to my talented Zeide as “Berle the lemonade man.”

He rises, motioning me to follow him. I do so silently, keeping a respectful distance. He growls at me. “I’m not going to hurt you, lad. In fact, I’m going to be as helpful as I can, and then we’ll both forget that this rendezvous ever occurred. Do you get my drift?”

“Thank you, kind sir. You have no idea how much that means to me.”

Charlie responds with a snort. “I think I may have an idea.”

He then pulls out a large chest and removes two ancient-looking books. One is leather-bound, the other a notebook with a plastic spiral.

“Wartime metal shortages,” he says, nodding at the plastic.

I startle at his seeming ability to read my unvoiced thoughts.

“Write this down: three boats left Grand Mersey Dock that night. One was a canvas canoe named the Kingfisher. No need to look that one up; it’s impossible for two people to be on one of those together.

“The second was the London Pride. I remember that one—Royal Navy. Probably there to retrieve the wreckage and search for the possessions of the Queen.”

“And the third?” I prompt.

Charlie lets out a groan. “I’m sorry, my arthritis is acting up.” He slowly bends back over the chest, and I can practically hear the squeaks of his old joints. I cringe inwardly at the awful sound. Zeide Berle is still sprightly as a young man, thank G-d.

“The third was the lamplighter’s rowboat. This little book here”—he waves a moth-eaten, cloth-covered book at me—“is the lamplighter’s payroll. On duty that night was… was… was…”

His fingers deftly turn the worn pages, skimming over the lines.

“Donny Mallow. Donny the Lamplighter, we called him. Nutty as a fruitcake, he was. I’d bet my pipe he’s the man you’re looking for. If Tod made it into a boat that night and got away, Donny was the one who helped him. Albeit innocently. He couldn’t hurt a soul and probably couldn’t put two and two together if it slapped him across the face.”

I scribble the name in my little writing pad. As I wait for the ink to dry—I prefer an ink pen—I look up and see Charlie staring at me expectantly.

“Thank you, Charlie! G-d should be with you and keep you healthy always!” I stuff my pad into my breast pocket and reach out to shake his hand.

He squeezes my hand tightly. “Good luck in your search. Remember, we never met. But… if something turns up”—the old grin returns—“don’t go forgetting about your pal Charlie. Now be off!”

I drop his hand and make an about-face.

Mission accomplished. Donny Mallow, here I come.