“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.
Chapter fifteen
Death on a side street
In the dock office Shayne snatched up a telephone from the desk nearest the door and said to the operator, “Get me the airline that flies to Miami — fast.” His bleak gaze went down to the clerk seated at the desk who started to protest the rude intrusion.
“Sorry, bud,” said Shayne. “Police business.” Into the telephone he asked curtly, “Has your one o’clock plane taken off yet?”
“It’s just turning now,” a voice said.
“Hold it. Call your pilot back. Fifty bucks if you hold it until I get there.” He cradled the receiver, said “Thanks” to the clerk, and lunged out through the door. A cab was cruising past. He called out, ran to catch it.
In less than five minutes he arrived at the airline dock. The seaplane was still at the pier, the office manager standing beside it and conferring with the pilot through a window in the cockpit. They both looked inquiringly at Shayne as he strode up.
Pulling out his wallet, Shayne extracted a fifty-dollar bill. “Thanks for holding it. I have a return ticket.”
The man took the bill and opened the door for Shayne to step inside. There was only one other passenger aboard, a fat, elderly man who looked slightly apoplectic in the steaming interior of the small plane.