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

Chapter fourteen A passenger is missing

Shayne stopped at a public telephone and looked up Arthur Devlin’s Miami Beach office address. It was on Fifth Avenue, only a few minutes’ drive.

He found a tall, angular spinster typing at a desk between two closed doors, both labeled PRIVATE. He took off his hat and tried out his most ingratiating grin as he approached, but she was at least fifteen years too old to respond to his blarney. She stopped typing and folded skinny forearms across her flat bosom, compressed thin unrouged lips, and began to shake her head before he said a word.

Shayne fumbled in his pocket for a business card, laid it before her. She studied it carefully, said, “I’m sorry, but Mr. Devlin is out of town and Mr. Howard is not in his office.”

Shayne said patiently, “I don’t want to see either Mr. Howard or Mr. Devlin. All I want is a name and address out of Devlin’s files.”

“I recall that you assisted us on a case sometime ago, Mr. Shayne,” she said, “but I wasn’t aware we had a controversial case—”

“I’m acting for Mr. Devlin, and I need the name of one of his clients. The sister of Mrs. Bert Masters who committed suicide a couple of months ago.”

“How do I know you’re authorized by Mr. Devlin to have this information.”

“Will you get the name for me?”

“Certainly not. Not without a direct order from Mr. Devlin.”

“Will a telephone call from him be enough?”

“It would be sufficient, but it so happens that Mr. Devlin is not available by telephone.”

Shayne said, “I know he isn’t due back from his vacation until tomorrow, but he happens to be in Miami right now. I’ll call him.” He picked up the telephone on her desk before she could refuse him permission and put in a call to his hotel. He had advised Devlin not to answer the telephone but he shrewdly suspected the frightened man would not be able to withstand the temptation.

His judgment was correct. The phone in his room rang only three times before Devlin’s voice came over the wire, cautiously. “Yes?”

“Mike Shayne, Devlin. I warned you not to answer the phone.”

“I know, but I — Shayne,” quavered Devlin, “what’s happening?”

“Nothing definite yet. Right now I’m in your office on the Beach and your beautiful secretary refuses to get me Janet’s name from the file. Will you tell her to get it for me?”

“Janet’s name?” faltered Devlin. “Why do you need that? What’s going on, Shayne? I’m going crazy sitting here wondering — listening for footsteps in the hall.”

“Take a drink and get hold of yourself,” Shayne snapped. “Take a lot of drinks. But first tell Miss Bright-Eyes to get me that name from Masters’s file. I’m going to give her the phone now,” he went on brusquely, “and don’t expect to hear anything from me for some time. I’ve got places to go and things to do.” He handed the receiver to the hatchet-faced lady and said cheerily, “See if you can recognize your boss’s voice.”

She took it with frigid dignity, asked, “Mr. Devlin? If this is really you, call me by my first name.”

She listened a moment and then said, “Very well. I understand perfectly.”

When she replaced the instrument, Shayne warned her, “If Devlin didn’t mention it, I will. Forget about my being here and this phone conversation. If anyone asks for him—”

“The police have already been here,” she told him coldly. “I informed them that Mr. Devlin was somewhere at sea. I see no reason to change that statement if they question me again.”

With her chin in the air she went into one of the back rooms and returned presently with a slip of paper which she handed to Shayne without a word. On it she had written: Mrs. Janet Brice. Underneath the name was a New York address. Shayne thanked her and went out.

His next stop was two doors down at a travel agency, where he inquired about the itinerary of the Belle of the Caribbean. They had a schedule for the cruise, and he learned she was docked at Key West for the day, would leave at four o’clock in the afternoon for the short run to Miami. He then asked about the plane service to the tip of the Keys and was told that a four-passenger amphibian ran a shuttle service between the two cities on an hourly schedule. The next departure would be at eleven o’clock, and he had exactly fifteen minutes to reach the pier in the yacht basin from which it took off.

He reached the pier in twelve minutes, found there were two vacant seats on the plane that was already revving its twin motors, and bought a ticket for one of them. Minutes later they were in the air.

It was slightly less than an hour later when the plane landed on the placid water behind the long seawall at Key West and taxied up to the landing-dock where a couple of passengers were already waiting to go aboard for the return trip.

Shayne stopped at the airline office at the end of the dock to learn where the Belle of the Caribbean was moored, then took a taxi directly to the pier.

The Belle was one of the medium-sized ocean liners, glistening smartly with white paint and polished brass, its three decks looking strangely deserted as it heaved gently in its slip beneath the burning rays of the sun.

At the top of the gangplank he was greeted with a snappy salute and a quizzical look from a steward who was evidently stationed there to discourage unauthorized comings and goings. When Shayne asked for the purser’s office he was directed across the hot deck to one of the doors in the forward portion of the superstructure.

It was stifling and humid inside the purser’s office in spite of the brave whirring of a huge electric fan, but the dimness of the interior was a welcome change from the sun’s glare outside.

The purser was a small, bald man with a precise manner and a harried expression which Shayne judged to be the hallmark of all cruise-ship pursers. He examined Shayne’s credentials carefully and without comment and nodded when the detective explained that he had flown from Miami to interview one of the passengers, a Mrs. Janet Brice of New York, for information in connection with a homicide case.

“Mrs. Brice. Of course,” said the purser, as though this was precisely the sort of thing he had been anticipating ever since Mrs. Brice had come aboard. “I’m afraid, Mr. Shayne—” He frowned doubtfully and drew a typed list toward him, ran a finger down it, and nodded again. “Yes. Mrs. Brice went ashore at ten-thirty with a conducted party for a sight-seeing tour of Key West. They will return at one o’clock, and I suggest you make yourself comfortable until then. There’s an air-conditioned smoking lounge aft on this deck with a bar—?” He ended the sentence on a note of inquiry.

Shayne shook his head regretfully. “Much as an air-conditioned bar appeals to me right now, there’s another matter I can be clearing up while I wait for Mrs. Brice. You had a passenger who boarded the ship at Miami a couple of weeks ago. Arthur Devlin.” He watched the purser’s face intently and saw the interest in his eyes and the frown of annoyance crease his brow.

“Devlin? Yes. But he is no longer aboard. He—”

“I understand he left the cruise unexpectedly and without explanation at Havana.”

“That is correct. It was most unusual and disturbing. He left without a word to anyone of his intention insofar as we have been able to ascertain. Mrs. Brice was quite — ah — upset until she received a reassuring message the following day while we were at sea.”

“Were they quite friendly?”

“Oh, yes. They were together a great deal. I understand they were acquainted before meeting on board.”

“What about Devlin’s luggage? Is it still in his cabin?”

“Certainly. Under lock and key.”

“Do you remember the man personally? Can you give me a physical description of him?”

The purser continued to frown, his pale blue eyes squinting under shaggy graying brows at the calm water. “I could give you only a vague description. You understand how it is on these cruises. But if you’d care to talk to his cabin steward I’m sure—”

“I would,” said Shayne, “be most interested in talking to anyone on board who was in close contact with Devlin.”

“Then suppose you go down to the lounge and wait. I’ll arrange to have him meet you there. Naturally, if there had been anything — any reason to suspect that one of our passengers had any motive for taking the cruise except for pleasure—”

“I understand,” Shayne interrupted. “Thanks. I’ll expect the steward right away.” He made his way aft along a corridor to the air-conditioned lounge. There was a small bar presided over by a cheerful gentleman who was happy to show his skill at mixing a sidecar when Shayne suggested it.

Not more than half a dozen tables were occupied. Shayne looked around and selected one that was isolated, took his drink from the bar, and sat down. Relaxing in the pleasant coolness of the lounge, he shuddered at the thought of the passengers, Janet Brice in particular, being lured into the broiling sunshine on a conducted tour of Key West.

He saw a man enter the lounge and look around, then he made his way straight to the table where Shayne sat alone. “I’m Grimpson,” he announced soberly. “You’re the gentleman who wishes to inquire about Mr. Devlin?”

“Sit down, Grimpson,” said Shayne heartily. “What’ll you have to drink? I can recommend a sidecar.”

“Oh, no, thank you, sir.” He sat down uneasily on the edge of a chair and folded his thin arms on the table. “Exactly what do you wish to know about Mr. Devlin?”

“Everything. Were you on duty when he came aboard at Miami? And do you recall the circumstances?”

“Oh, yes. He had cabin one-eighteen on C Deck. There were a dozen or more passengers who joined the cruise at Miami, but Mr. Devlin was the only one I had.”

“His luggage had been brought aboard before he came?”

“Yes, sir. His luggage was in his cabin. It was loaded early in the evening.”

Shayne finished the sidecar, pushed the glass aside, folded his long arms, and rested them on the table. “Tell me — how did Devlin impress you when you first saw him? What sort of condition was he in?”

“He had been drinking,” said Grimpson with a knowing smile, “but he wasn’t disagreeable. In fact, he was quiet and friendly and caused no trouble at all.”

“Describe him to me as carefully as you can.”

The steward said promptly, “Medium height, I should say. In his early thirties and a bit bulky — in a well-conditioned way. Clean-shaven. His hair was dark — dark brown, I’d say. He didn’t have any marked characteristics, but he was pleasant throughout the time I served him, and it was a distinct shock to me when we sailed from Havana without him — and without any word from him,” he ended, his eyes puzzled and thoughtful, as though he tried to recall some reason for Devlin’s strange actions.

“What sort of glasses did he wear?” Shayne asked casually.

“Glasses? Why, he didn’t wear glasses.” The puzzled frown between his eyes deepened. “Now that I recall it, he did seem nearsighted. I wondered—”

“Do you know a Mrs. Janet Brice?” Shayne asked sharply.

Grimpson nodded. “She is on C Deck also. The stewardess serves her, but from my observation she is a most agreeable young woman.”

“She was friendly with Devlin?”

“Oh, yes, sir. They were old friends, so the stewardess said, and she had anticipated his joining the cruise at Miami. The night he came aboard he asked for her, but she had already retired for the night and he didn’t wish to disturb her.”

“They spent a lot of time together between Miami and Cuba?”

“A great deal of time together,” said the steward soberly. He paused, puckering his forehead anxiously. “I don’t wish to — that is — if you’ll pardon me, sir, for injecting a personal note—”

“This is a murder investigation,” Shayne cut in. “I’m not interested in anyone’s morals, and anything you can tell me will go no further.”

“Oh, it’s not that, sir. I don’t mean to imply that Mrs. Brice — No, indeed. Everything was most proper, I assure you. But we did feel — the stewardess and I — and others of the ship’s staff, that it was very romantic. They were — well, quite suited to each other.”

“They seemed to be falling in love?”

“He was most assiduous,” murmured Grimpson discreetly. “And it did seem that she responded in a nice, genteel way. She was overwrought when he failed to return from Havana by sailing time. It was she who prevailed upon the captain to delay departure several hours while the authorities were contacted and a search instituted for Mr. Devlin. I fear it was an exceedingly unpleasant experience for her.”

“Comparable to being deserted at the altar?”

“Something like that. You must understand that this is purely conjecture. Backstairs gossip, you might say,” he added with a deferential smile.

“He didn’t take any personal belongings with him when he went ashore at Havana? There was nothing at all to give you a hint that he planned not to return to the ship?”

“Nothing,” said the steward decisively. “He wore the same clothes he had on when he boarded the ship. Nothing else was missing so far as I was able to ascertain.”

“Thanks,” said Shayne. He looked at his watch. It was almost time for the conducted tour to return. He placed a bill on the table and got up, saying casually, “Take care of my drinks, please,” and went out.

The deck was still deserted as he went slowly forward to take up a position opposite the gangplank, staying in the shaded corridor until the party came aboard.

The purser came out of his office and asked, “Did Grimpson find you all right, Mr. Shayne?”

“We had a talk in the lounge and he was quite helpful.” Shayne looked across the deck at a large sight-seeing bus pulled up at the pier. “Would that be your sight-seeing party returning?”

“Yes. I’ll step to the gangplank with you and introduce you to Mrs. Brice as she comes aboard.”

Shayne nodded his thanks and they strolled across to the rail as the first of the cruising passengers began coming up. He amused himself watching the mopping of brows, the flushed and sweaty and determined faces as they straggled up the gangplank, and made a game of trying to pick Janet Brice from among them.

The purser said, “That’s odd, I don’t see Mrs. Brice.” He stepped forward to intercept a thin man in uniform who appeared to be checking the party coming aboard. “Oh, Mr. Manning,” he called. “I don’t see Mrs. Brice anywhere.”

Mr. Manning said sourly, “That’s because she isn’t here.”

The purser bristled. “You realize, of course, that you are held responsible—”

“Hold your horses,” Mr. Manning interrupted. “She signed up for the tour and started out with us, but while we were loading on the bus she got a radiogram. She showed it to me and it was a message telling her to come to Miami at once. She asked me if it was all right if she went right down and got a plane to Miami — and rejoined us there tomorrow. So I told her sure it was a free country and so she did and so what?” He thrust his sharp jaw out belligerently at the purser.

Shayne stepped hastily between them and said, “Wait a minute. What plane did Mrs. Brice catch?”

“I told her there was one leaving at eleven o’clock. Reckon she got it. Nothing wrong in that, was there? I don’t see,” he went on resentfully.

But Shayne wasn’t listening to him. A glance at his watch showed it was exactly one o’clock. He whirled on the purser and demanded, “Where’s the nearest telephone?”

“Right at the end of the block over there.” The purser pointed a trembling finger. “I do wish you’d tell me—” Shayne was going down the gangplank with long strides.