“Sure, Mike. It’ll be a real pleasure.” When Shayne lifted his hand Henly’s palm covered the bill and he pushed himself up from the table and went out.
Shayne sat where he was for a time, then got up and went out to his car and drove up the Beach toward Bert Masters’s oceanside estate.
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?”