The purser looked terribly patient. “Sir, the first thing I did when the room stewardess phoned me was examine the passenger list. The name J. Alden Mortimer does not appear on it. Shall we move along toward the gangplank? Time is short.”
“ ‘Does not appear?’ Are you sure? You must have missed it.”
“Very well, sir. I’m sure, but I’ll look again.” He took out a typed list. “This is the final list, ready for the shipboard printer to print.” He ran his eyes down the names, let Mortimer look over his shoulder. He shook his head. “Sorry, sir, but it’s as I said. No Mortimer. So if you’ll—”
“There must be some mistake.”
“That’s right, there must be. I’m afraid, sir, it’s yours. You’re not down on the passenger list for this stateroom or any other. This gentleman is, for this very stateroom. So—”
“You still have time to phone your steamship office. They must have a record of my booking. I know damn well they cashed my check. You can do that.”
The purser looked to heaven — or toward the captain’s station — for strength or forgiveness. He had an air of I-only-have-a-hundred-million-last-minute-nuisances-to-take-care-of-and-now-this extra nuisance turns up!
“Yes, I suppose I can do that.” He snatched up the room phone and barked through to the line’s headquarters. He repeated, for his own satisfaction and Mortimer’s benefit, the answer he got. “No reservation for a J. Alden Mortimer, for this sailing or any other? Thank you.” He hung up.
He signaled and two stewards approached. Mortimer noted that they were burly. The purser brightened as the public address system began shooing visitors from the ship.
“Sorry, sir.” He did not look sorry. “You’ll have to leave. We’re about to put to sea.”
“But—”
The purser turned a deaf ear to Mortimer and a talking nod to the pair of stewards. The stewards walked Mortimer and his luggage along the deck and down the gangplank. They released him outside the small wooden enclosure on the pier. They returned to the head of the gangplank and stood there watchfully.
People crowding the pier and lining the rails stared at him. Did they think the ship’s personnel had caught him trying to stow away? Maybe they thought the line’s security force had forestalled a notorious gambler? Didn’t they know he was J. Alden Mortimer?
He moved forward a few steps toward the foot of the gangplank. The stewards stiffened. He stopped. He stood unaware that he blocked the way, that the last of the departing visitors rubbed him right and left squeezing past.
The last of the last, a man in his early forties, murmured an apology in pushing by, then hesitated, turned and came back to Mortimer’s side. Mortimer watched disbelievingly as the gangplank lifted and the ship made ready to move away without him. He grew aware the man was eyeing him curiously. The man gave a half-smile.
“Are you feeling all right?”
Mortimer did not answer.
The man nodded. “I know. Partings aren’t easy. I’ve been seeing someone off myself. Look, I’m driving back uptown. Maybe I can drop you off?”
Mortimer let the man lead him to a chauffeured limousine parked on the pier and sit him inside. Mortimer started.
“My luggage!”
“Oh?” The man followed Mortimer’s finger. He looked puzzled but sighed to his chauffeur, who retrieved the bags and stowed them in the trunk of the car. The man settled back beside Mortimer. “Now. Where would you like to go?”
Around the world, the way he had planned and paid for. “I don’t know.”
The man frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I!” It all burst from Mortimer — the old man occupying his stateroom, the missing wallet and ticket, the lying passenger list, the ignominious walking of the gangplank.
The man listened with growing wonder. “Strange — very strange. I’m a businessman myself and I know that’s no way to run a passenger line.” His eyes slid toward Mortimer. “If what you say is so.” He watched Mortimer swell and stopped him from bursting again. “I apologize. Of course, you’re telling the truth. I know you couldn’t have made it up.” He looked thoughtful. “But you have to go somewhere. Where have you been staying?”
Mortimer told him the hotel.
The man reached for the mouthpiece of the speaking tube and gave the chauffeur the name. The chauffeur nodded and the limousine sat them smoothly back. The man smiled reassuringly at Mortimer.
“Maybe we’ll find you left your papers at your hotel.”
For a second, Mortimer sparked into life. Then, “No, I’m sure I had them on me. My wallet, my credit cards, my travelers checks, my passport, my cruise ticket. Someone picked my pocket.”
“Yes, well, we still may come up with something there.”
They came up with worse than nothing.
There was no record that a J. Alden Mortimer had stayed the night. The man stood by, lending moral support and physical presence as Mortimer besieged the desk. The manager reinforced the clerk.
“You can see for yourself, sir. There is no record.”
Mortimer looked around wildly but found no face to grasp at to back him up. That was understandable. He had only overnighted here — even if these people denied it — after flying from the Midwest and this was a whole new day crew. But that there was no record of his stay — that was not understandable.
He found himself sitting again in the limousine. He stared at the back of the chauffeur’s head. The chauffeur sat patiently awaiting orders. Mortimer realized the car’s owner was speaking — speaking to him.
“Time we introduced ourselves, don’t you think? My name’s Borg.” He waited as if that might mean something to Mortimer, then smiled his half-smile and shrugged slightly. “Frank Borg. I know your name’s Mortimer.”
“J. Alden Mortimer.”
“Are you still set on the cruise, Mr. Mortimer? If we straighten this out you can catch up with the ship at an early port.”
Mortimer warmed at the “we.” “I’d like to, if only to tell that purser a thing or two.” From looking forward he looked back. “The cruise was something I planned with my wife.” He grimaced. “My ex-wife.” As he plunged on his stare defied Borg to smile. “After thirty-five years of marriage, she left me for another man.”
He frowned. “I can’t understand that. I don’t mean about her, though that took me by surprise too. I mean about him. He’s much younger and, I guess, good looking — what they called in the old days a gigolo type — and he could have his pick of pretty girls with money. What he sees in Emma I’ll never know.” He thought Borg looked embarrassed to be hearing all this but he felt he had to open himself to the one sympathetic ear. “As for Emma, her time of life I suppose.”
“But about the cruise. Right after she left, a conglomerate took over my firm. I manufactured heraldic plaques — not much volume but high-priced goods. The conglomerate paid me a surprisingly good price — I saw to it Emma heard how good — but eased me out of all responsibility. I found myself at loose ends. Didn’t know what to do with myself. Then I remembered the plans we had made — dreamed of, rather — and so—”
“And so the cruise.” Borg glanced at his wristwatch. It was easy to see Borg was a man of decision, modern and efficient as the digital timepiece. He picked up his earphone, called his office, and spoke to his secretary. “Cancel all my appointments for the rest of the day.” He hung up, turned to Mortimer, smiled his half-smile. “Now for our next move.”
Mortimer gaped at him. “Why are you doing this?”
“Oh, I’m not as unselfish as you think. If a thing such as this can happen to someone of obvious consequence, like yourself, it can happen to anyone.” His jaw set. “I mean to see this through to the end. Don’t worry, we’ll find out what’s behind this.”