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.”