Call for Michael Shayne [= Case of the Missing Twelve Days]

Chapter thirteen The kettle begins to boil

Shayne knew that Masters had an office somewhere on the Beach, but suspected he would be at home at this midmorning hour. He thought it best not to announce his intended visit by telephone, and drove directly up to the imposing, porticoed entrance, went up the steps, and rang the doorbell.

A bright-eyed maid came to the door. She was definitely not the one whose picture Shayne had seen in the newspaper. He said, “I have to see Mr. Masters at once.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Masters is having breakfast. Will you come in and wait?”

“I haven’t time. Tell him it’s Devlin. Arthur Devlin.”

“Well — I’ll ask him,” she said uncertainly. “Just wait here.”

She turned away and Shayne lounged forward casually, following her at a distance through a wide hallway paneled in cypress and on toward French doors leading into a glassed-in breakfast room.

Shayne stopped in the doorway, saw her leaning over and speaking rapidly into the ear of the big man who was dining alone at a silver-serviced table. Potted palms and gleaming aquariums filled with tropical fish decorated the room and Venetian blinds were half drawn to shut out the bright morning sun.

Bert Masters’s back was toward him, wide shoulders bulging inside a maroon robe, double folds of fat showing above the collar at the back of his neck, and above them an expanse of sun-reddened baldness was fringed with close-cropped gray hair.

The maid straightened and turned toward Shayne with relief plainly showing on her face. She came toward him, nodding, and paused to whisper, “He said to bring you in.”

Shayne strolled forward, looking with interest at the array of silver-covered dishes spread in front of Masters. He was tilting a syrup pitcher over a stack of pancakes when Shayne came around the table and into view.

Masters glanced up and the syrup cascaded downward, unnoticed, filling the plate almost to overflowing. “Why the devil did you tell the girl you were Devlin?”

“The syrup — better watch it,” Shayne said with a grin. “So that’s why you’re such a big boy.” He pulled a leather-covered chair close to the table and sat down. “She must have misunderstood me. I said I wanted to talk to you about Arthur Devlin.”

The skin of Bert Masters’s face was as smooth as a baby’s, stretched over bulging flesh and ruddy with good health and good living. He glanced approvingly at the sea of syrup around the island of pancakes and said, “You could stand a few pounds on that carcass of yours, Shayne. Pickings poor these days?”

“I’m getting by,” Shayne assured him.

Masters forked out a wedge of the tiered cakes and bent his head low over the plate to put the dripping mass into his mouth. He smacked his lips and said, “You’d be doing a lot better if you’d taken the job I offered you last year.”

Shayne brushed that off with a wave of his hand. “You a pretty good friend of Devlin’s?”

Masters considered this silently while he munched and cut another wedge of cakes. “He’s done some favors for me.

“He’s in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“So you repaid some of those favors by throwing a party here for him a couple of weeks ago when he was going on his vacation?”

“Why not?”

“No reason. What did you give him to drink that night?”

“If you’re just plain damned curious,” Masters began, but Shayne interrupted him, saying urgently:

“You know me better than that, Masters. How many of you passed out at that party?”

“Devlin did. That’s for sure.” Masters wiped syrup from his thick lips. “What’re you getting at, Shayne?”

“There’s some question as to whether Devlin actually went aboard his boat that night,” Shayne said cautiously. “Were you sober enough to remember what time he left here — who took him to the pier?”

“I wasn’t too sober. What sort of trouble is Devlin in?” he asked again.

Again evading the direct question, Shayne lied promptly and convincingly: “You’ll be doing him a big favor if you can convince me that he actually went aboard the cruise ship that night.”

Masters considered for a moment, filling his mouth with pancakes, munched slowly, swallowed, then bellowed, “Morgan!”

Satisfied that Morgan would hear his master’s voice if he were within a block, Shayne lit a cigarette, turned in his chair, and sat looking out over the magnificent gardens where Australian pines and coco-palms swayed in the morning breeze above the bright flowering hedges.

Out of the corner of his eye Shayne watched with grave interest as a man emerged from the French doors and came to the table. Morgan was bareheaded, squareshouldered, and solidly built. He wore nose-glasses, and the strong, heavy features Shayne had seen in the newspaper photograph were set in an expression of bland deference as he approached his employer with only the briefest glance at the visitor.

“What is it, Mr. Masters?” He folded his arms and stood quietly beside the table, his profile to Shayne, his head slightly inclined and his gaze fixed on a point a few inches in front of Masters’s plate.

It was the perfect pose, Shayne thought irritably, though he didn’t know why he was irritated. The perfect combination of servility and an alert intelligence without the slightest hint of mockery showing through.

“Who took Devlin to the dock the other night — after the party?”

“Devlin, sir?” Roger Morgan spoke as though this was the first time he had ever heard the name.

“Arthur Devlin. He was supposed to catch a boat at midnight.”

“And didn’t he?”

“That’s what I’m asking you. You were sober, Morgan. You’re always sober, damn it.”

“Not always.” Morgan smiled deferentially. He removed his glasses and blinked mildly. “I did try to refrain from drinking too much on that particular occasion. If you will recall—”

“I know,” grumbled Masters. “It gives you a feeling of superiority to stay sober while the rest of us wallow in the stuff.”

“It wasn’t that at all. I was going on a week’s vacation the next day, and—”

“And you wanted to be clear-eyed and fit to impress some little floozy.” Masters sneered. “Do we have to go over all that? I asked you a simple question.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t quite understand the question, Mr. Masters.”

Morgan replaced the glasses firmly on his nose. “Did Devlin get on the boat?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, sir,” said Morgan stiffly.

“Why don’t you know? You’re supposed to know everything around here. What the hell do I pay you for?”

“Not to play nursemaid to your drunken guests,” he answered simply.

Masters groaned aloud and asked Shayne, “How do you like that? I pay him more damn money for a week than I used to earn in a year. What do I get? Insubordination, by God. He can’t answer a simple question without getting insulted.”

Morgan smiled thinly and murmured, “Really, Mr. Masters.” He continued to disregard Shayne after that first brief glance.

“Let’s go at this a little differently,” Shayne suggested, squaring himself around to face the two men. “How did Devlin leave your house if he was passed out cold?”

“Morgan took him in one of the cars. That’s why I’m asking him—”

“I beg your pardon,” said Morgan coldly, “but I am not a chauffeur, Mr. Masters.”

“But damn it all, I remember telling you to see that Devlin was taken care of,” he exploded.

“I’m quite sure he was taken care of. When I looked for him about eleven-thirty, he was gone — as were some of the other guests. I presumed one of them saw him safely off. If that’s all you wanted—”

“Hold it,” said Shayne. “There’s something else, Morgan.”

“Yes?”

“Why haven’t you told your boss that Devlin tried to call him early this morning?”

“What’s that?” demanded Masters. “What the devil’s Devlin doing back here? He’s not — I didn’t think he was due back.”

“He wasn’t,” Shayne cut in. “Why didn’t you tell him, Morgan?”

“Am I to answer this man’s questions?” Morgan asked icily.

“There you are, Shayne.” Masters chortled. “I hope that puts you in your place. You can tell me,” he went on angrily to his secretary. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t realize you were interested.”

“Is that why you refused to wake Mr. Masters when Devlin begged you to?” demanded Shayne.

“I used my own judgment about that.”

“Now, by God, Morgan,” began Masters threateningly, but the man turned full on him and interrupted in a firm voice:

“It was my responsibility and I did as I thought best. I couldn’t conceive of anything Mr. Devlin had to say that was important enough to disturb you for…” His voice trailed off to silence as he looked over the top of Masters’s head full into Shayne’s face for the first time. His mouth sagged open, then snapped shut as Shayne deliberately pushed his hat far back on his head and stood up.

“If you thought it was so unimportant,” said Shayne, “suppose you tell us why you hurried over to Devlin’s apartment immediately afterward and slipped up the fire escape to enter secretly through the rear door?”

“Good heavens!” Morgan exclaimed. “You — you’re the man who was in the kitchen.”

“That’s right, Morgan. You left rather hurriedly,” Shayne said mockingly.

“What is this?” demanded Masters. “You went to Devlin’s place early this morning, Morgan?”

“I was worried about him after he telephoned,” the man said precisely. “I realized he wasn’t due back yet, and decided he must be in some sort of trouble. So I went over to offer any assistance I could. I was confused and frightened when I opened the kitchen door expecting to see Devlin and saw — this man — instead. I was so alarmed I didn’t stop to ask questions.”

“And after you left there,” said Shayne harshly, “did you by any chance lure Doctor Thompson away from his house by a fake telephone call and then tear up his records? And did you waylay me as I came in the back door and slug me over the head and then beat it?”

“I did nothing of the sort,” said Morgan, staring at the bruised swelling on Shayne’s cheek. “I came directly back here and went to bed.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Why does he have to prove anything to you?” Masters jerked out. “I don’t like your damn manners, Shayne.”

“It’s mutual,” Shayne told him. “I don’t like getting bounced on the head, and I think this secretary of yours is playing some sort of game you should know about.”

“Such as what?”

“Such as holding out the name of your dead wife’s sister,” snapped Shayne. “That’s the question Devlin asked him over the phone this morning.”

An extraordinary change came over Bert Masters. He rose from the table slowly and his gross features were suffused with fury. “What’s my wife to do with this?”

“Plenty. What’s the name of her sister in New York? Janet what?”

“What has she to do with it?” Masters asked harshly.

“She’s on board the Belle of the Caribbean at Key West,” said Shayne, “with certain information about your wife’s death which I’m beginning to believe may incriminate your perfect secretary. Give me her name so I can get in touch with her.”

“Incriminate — Morgan? You’re crazy. Lily committed suicide.”

“Maybe,” Shayne grated.

“Of course it was suicide. The police — and the doctor—”

“Jumped through a hoop when you cracked the whip,” Shayne supplied. “Hell, maybe her sister’s story would incriminate you, Masters. Maybe your Man Friday here has been covering up for you all the time. Did you tell him to throw the bolt on the inside of the door leading from her bedroom into yours after he broke in the other door and found your wife dead? Did you send him on the Belle of the Caribbean—?”

Masters deliberately turned his back on Shayne. In a voice cold with rage and menace he demanded of his secretary, “How many men are around the place?”

“Men? There are the chauffeur — and the gardener — and—” Morgan stammered.

“Get them,” snapped Masters, “and throw this bastard out of here. If you break his neck doing it,” he went on venomously, “all three of you will find a bonus in your next pay check.”

Morgan said, “Certainly, sir,” and hurried out. Shayne chortled and leaned forward to mash out his cigarette. “It’s no good, Masters. I’m not Peter Painter. The kettle is beginning to boil and when it builds up strong pressure the lid’ll pop off. Give me Morgan,” he went on swiftly. “Why cover up for him? Hell, with a little co-operation from you I can hang a murder rap around his neck—”

“Get out!” Masters’s voice was thick with rage. “Get out and don’t come back.”

Shayne could hear excited voices and running footsteps inside the big house. He shrugged, strode to an open door leading onto the east terrace, vaulted the low limestone wall enclosing it, long-legged it around to the front of the house, and slid into the front seat of his car just as the front doors were flung open and Morgan rushed out on the porch followed by two men.

He waved to them as he started the motor, swung out of the driveway, and drove southward.