“Souvenir of Bermuda. Sorry things worked out this way, Mike.”
“So am I.”
The big, ruggedly built private detective still wore the same clothes in which he had arrived on the island. He had passed the last five hours in police offices, answering questions. It sometimes seemed to Shayne that he spent most of his time in that setting, and it was always alike — the same cigar smoke, the same filing cabinets, the same meaty faces.
Two people were dead. One, a woman Shayne had known for ten years, had a habit of acting on impulse. This time she had agreed impulsively to come to Bermuda for a two-week vacation with a man she had just met. She didn’t know much about him, and one of the many things she didn’t know was that the reason he wanted to be in Bermuda was to take delivery of a consignment of heroin.
But she shouldn’t have been killed. Everybody involved in the incident agreed it had been a mistake.
“I didn’t want to say this with the commissioner listening,” Cameron said. “We should have let you handle it yourself.”
“My fault,” Shayne grunted.
“I don’t see that, Mike. Communications got fouled up. The commissioner is a little too prickly about protocol sometimes. And you didn’t have much of a choice, did you? I heard him tell you point-blank to stay out of his hair. It’s his island, after all.”
Shayne unlatched the door. “I always like to think I have a choice. Next time I won’t bother to check in.”
Two newspapermen had learned that instead of returning to the mainland by plane, Shayne had made last-minute plans to go by boat. His picture was taken as he came out of the car.
One of the reporters said politely, “Mr. Shayne, is it true that the woman who was killed this morning was a client of yours?”
“She was a client once,” Shayne said. “She was also a friend. Talk to the cops about it.”
“We’ve tried that. They’re refusing to make any statement about your connection with the case. Are you satisfied with the way the police handled it?”
“They blew it,” Shayne said briefly.
“Can we quote that, Mr. Shayne?”
“Put it in big type.”
He went up the boarding ramp, and as soon as he was aboard, two sailors drew in the ramp and the tugs began to nudge the big ship away from the dock.
Shayne asked for directions to the shopping arcade. On the way he was the object of more than one unfriendly look. His fellow passengers clearly believed that paying for first-class accommodations on the world’s most famous passenger liner should spare them the sight of somebody who hadn’t shaved for four days and who had obviously slept in the clothes he was wearing.
Shayne purchased the necessary replacements, as well as shaving things, bathing trunks, and other odds and ends. He took them to his cabin. Stripping off his blood-spattered lightweight suit, he told his cabin steward to take it to the valet, but not to worry too much about the spots.
He poured a stiff jolt of the cognac Cameron had given him. A minute or so later he was asleep.
The Queen Elizabeth had been waiting at the dock when Shayne finally finished with the police. Needing time to get organized before he faced the Miami press, he decided on the spur of the moment to see if they had a cabin available. He hadn’t traveled on a ship of this kind for years. The first thing he did after waking up was spend fifteen steamy minutes in the sauna. He ate a huge lunch, his first food in a day and a half. Then he plunged into the pool and swam a dozen fast laps. A pretty girl, the prettiest he had seen since coming aboard, caught his eye, but he wasn’t ready for that yet.
By the end of the afternoon his cognac bottle was empty, and he found the bar. The girl he had noticed at the pool came in a few minutes later and joined him, as though they had had an agreement to meet each other.
“You’re Michael Shayne, I’m told.”
“I guess I am.”
“The Miami private detective who almost invariably wins. I thought your hair would be redder — orange, in fact. In other respects you don’t disappoint. I’m Anne Blagden, and I think you look marvellous in a bathing suit. But how did you get all those scars?”
“The hard way,” he said.
He sipped at his cognac and chased it with a long drink of ice water. Turning, he gave her a closer look. Her long black hair fell loosely to her shoulders. Her arms and shoulders were deeply tanned, and there was a dusting of freckles across her forehead and the bridge of her nose. She was wearing a simple white dress and very high heels, which brought the top of her head to the level of his chin. She was more than merely adequate. She was spectacular.
She returned his look with a smile. “I’m drinking daiquiris.”
Shayne signaled the barman and dropped a bill on the bar. “A daiquiri for the lady, Harry. Use your good rum.” He nodded to the girl. “Keep out of trouble.”
He took his drink on deck. After finishing the cognac he dropped the glass over the side and watched it splash and sink.
He went in to dinner when the gong sounded.
He was seated by himself at a small table. He was drinking a coffee royal at the end of the meal, smoking an excellent Havana, when the dark-haired girl who had approached him in the bar appeared in the door of the dining room, looked around, and came over to his table.
“Mr. Shayne, I do know a put-down when I get one, but I need to talk to you about something.”
He shook his head. “No.”
“You might find it interesting. Give me till you finish your cigar.”
The cigar was only half smoked, but he stubbed it out and stood up. “Excuse me.”
“Can’t I buy you a drink? I know this is a bit, well, what’s the word, brash—”
He left her standing at the table.
A movie was getting underway in the main lounge. He watched the titles and part of the first scene. The actors were all fully clothed, but it was plain from the looks they were giving each other that they would be undressing presently. The leading actress had an interesting face, but that was as far as it went. Shayne returned to the bar.
He reconnoitered before entering. The persistent girl wasn’t there. After being given a drink, he questioned the barman idly about other ships he had worked, and time passed without strain.
Some time later, he was asked by one of his new bar acquaintances if he had any interest in poker. The question brought the man’s face into focus. He was wearing glasses with slightly tinted lenses. He was lean and fit, with a set of flashing teeth, undoubtedly his own. He wore two rings on his left hand. One was a diamond. That was also his name, he had told Shayne — Jerry Diamond. Being a theatrical agent, he made frequent trips between the United States and the Continent, but he hated and feared airplanes, and stayed out of them.
“Unless you’ve been told to be careful about playing cards with strangers?” Diamond asked.
Shayne laughed. “I’m careful about playing cards with friends. Where’s the game?”
“There isn’t any yet. Let me see if I can round one up. We’ve been playing bridge, and I’ve been losing. I can’t keep fifty-two cards in my head after a few drinks.”
He left the bar, returning ten minutes later to summon Shayne. As they crossed one of the big common rooms, he saw the girl who had been pushing herself at him. Anne something — Anne Blagden. She was on a sofa with another passenger, a small, bespectacled man who seemed older than she was. He was clearly drunk. He was very homely, very sunburned.
Anne saw Shayne. Breaking off, she pointed her index finger at him, the thumb raised to make it a gun. She curled her finger, as though pulling a trigger, and formed the words, “You’re dead,” with her lips.