Inspector’s Holiday

by RICHARD LOCKRIDGE

  “They have not found Sir Ronald. He was, as you told me, in the observation lounge about ten-thirty last night. Inspector Hunt was with him. The steward has verified this.”

  Heimrich said, “Did the steward say how long—?”

  Comandante di Scarlotti said, “Sì.” He said, “Sir Ronald and the inspector had one drink each. They were in the lounge for only about fifteen minutes. They went out together. We have not been able to discover that anybody saw either of them after that. Not on the decks. Not in passageways. Not in the other public rooms. Of course, at that hour—”

  At that hour, except in the public rooms, the staff was reduced. Passengers who were not in the ballroom, were not in any of the several cocktail lounges or in the card room or walking around the decks, had gone to their cabins. The room stewards and stewardesses had, for the most part, gone off duty. Antonio and Rachele, who served Cabins Sixteen and Eighteen, among other cabins, had gone off duty. Guido and Angela, who served Hunt’s cabin as well as that of the Heimrichs, had gone off duty. Night stewards were on duty on all the decks, but they had each many cabins to serve, if service was needed.

  “The passengers are cared for, Inspector. But most of them sleep. Or, of course—most of them sleep.”

  None of the attendants on duty had seen either Grimes or Hunt after they left the veranda belvedere. They had not been seen, singly or together, in any of the rooms where they might have gone for a final drink. No drinks had been charged to either of their cabins after the one drink apiece in the veranda belvedere. They had not been seen going into their cabins. They had not been seen on the promenade decks—on either the glass enclosed promenade deck proper or on the boat deck above it.

  “The Grimeses’ suite is on the boat deck,” Heimrich said. “And if he went overboard, it was most likely from that deck.”

  “Yes. But he was not seen.”

  Nor had Detective Inspector Albert Hunt been seen going into his cabin on the upper deck.

  “Your doctor,” Heimrich said. “Give you a guess as to when Hunt was killed?”

  “He cannot be certain.”

  “None of them ever can,” Heimrich told him. “A guess? They can always guess within—oh, within a few hours.”

  “Between eleven and, possibly, two in the morning, the doctor thinks. He thinks probably nearer midnight. If he had been called earlier, he could be more exact.”

  “About all we ever get,” Heimrich said.

  “We do not advance,” di Scarlotti said. He shook his head. “I cannot see that we advance. You and Mrs. Heimrich. You debark at Málaga? We dock at Málaga Monday morning. Quite early Monday morning. And now it is Thursday. Thursday afternoon.” He shook his head again. “We stop at Lisbon,” he said. “Then at Málaga. Neither is Italian, Inspector. At Naples I shall have to report these—occurrences—to the police. It is Wednesday we dock in Naples.”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “I realize there isn’t all the time in the world, Captain. So—”

  He stood up. Di Scarlotti stood up.

  “I’ll try to trace this telephone call Sir Ronald made.” Heimrich said. “Or, naturally, received. You’ll notify—” He stopped. “No,” he said, “I’ll call the British Embassy, Comandante. With your approval, of course. And I’ll talk to people. And you—your men will continue to search the ship?”

  “It is useless,” di Scarlotti said. “But we will continue to search the ship.”

  7

  The wireless room was on the sun deck, just aft the bridge. From the lido deck and the captain’s quarters, Heimrich climbed a flight of stairs and pushed a door open. A placard on the door said “Stazione Radiotelefonica Radio Telegrafica.” Heimrich went up to a desk on one side of a waiting room, and a man in uniform showed up behind it. He said, “Signor?”

  “Heimrich. Has the captain been in touch with you?”

  “Inspector. Yes, the comandante has given his instructions, signor. You wish to make calls? Is it not that, Signor Inspector?”

  “Yesterday evening,” Heimrich said. “A little before seven. Sir Ronald Grimes made a telephone call. Ship to shore, probably. Conceivably to somebody aboard ship. But he made it from here.”

  “Yes, Inspector. It was a call to London. It was—one moment, signor.”

  He went back into a room in which there were several men and a great deal of equipment. He returned. “Five minutes,” he said. “A little more than five minutes. It was charged to his cabin.”

  “You have the number he called?”

  The wireless operator had the number. “Put a call through for me to that number,” Heimrich told him. “And, charge it to the ship. Or to Comandante di Scarlotti.”

  “I have been instructed,” the wireless operator said. “If the inspector will go to the first booth?”

  There were two telephone booths in the waiting room, and both had numbers on their doors.

  “It may be a few minutes,” the operator said. “I will ring in the booth when we are through.”

  Heimrich opened the door of Booth One and sat on a sofa outside it. He sat for a little more than half a cigarette and the bell rang in the booth. The operator said, “We are through, signor,” and a woman spoke. She had a brisk voice. But she used it only to repeat the telephone number the ship’s operator had given Heimrich.

  “I’m calling from a ship in mid-Atlantic,” Heimrich said. “I’m trying to get some information.”

  “Continental Forwarding, Limited,” the woman—a young woman from her voice—said. “Can I help you?”

  Heimrich said he hoped so. He said that, at about seven the evening before, a call had been put through from the S.S. Italia to that number by Sir Ronald Grimes. He wanted to know about the call. He did not say why he wanted to know.

  “From mid-Atlantic?” the girl said. “At about seven? Your time, sir?”

  Heimrich resisted the temptation to say, “Naturally.” Perhaps even, “Naturally, miss.” He said, “The ship’s time. Yes.”

  “It would have been later here,” the girl said. “Hours later, I should think. No call could have been put through to this number. The office closes at five.”

  “A call was put through,” Heimrich said. “By Sir Ronald Grimes. A call of about five minutes.”

  “The office was closed, sir. No call would have been answered. I fear you’ve made a mistake, sir.”

  “You’re on the switchboard, I take it?”

  “I am in the office of the managing director. Of the London branch. Our main offices are in Liverpool.”

  “And everybody had left this branch office of—what is the firm again?”

  “Continental Forwarding, Limited. Yes, we closed at five. We close every afternoon at five.”

  “And all go home? Including the managing director?”

  “Certainly.”

  “But the telephone is plugged through to somewhere?”

  “Pardon?”

  “When you leave,” Heimrich said, keeping his voice patient, “you press a button or something. So that if there is a call it will ring on another phone? Perhaps in the main office in Liverpool?”

  “No.”

  “May I speak to the managing director?”

  “I am sorry. Mr. Parsons has gone for the day.”

  “His assistant? Anybody Sir Ronald might have spoken to? Or who might know who he spoke to?”

  “Everybody has gone home. But, you do not seem to understand. No call put through to this number at the time you say would have been answered.”

  “A call was put through,” Heimrich said. “It was answered. For about five minutes it was answered. Does the name Sir Ronald Grimes mean anything to you?”

  “I’m afraid I have never heard of the gentleman, sir. Sir Ronald what, sir?”

  Heimrich gave her the name again, but he thought he wasted time. He thought she knew the name. Voices can be revealing.

  “This Mr. Parsons,” he said. “The managing director. May I leave a message for him?”<
br />
  “Certainly, sir. One moment, sir.”

  He waited the moment. The girl said, “Yes?”

  “Ask him to call Inspector Heimrich—” he spelled Heimrich—“on the steamship Italia in the morning. Tell him it’s important.”

  “Inspector?”

  “Police inspector. Will you see he gets the message?”

  “I will leave it for him. A police inspector?”

  “Yes.”

  “I will leave the message on his desk.”

  “Good,” Heimrich said. “And when he comes in tomorrow, remember to ask him whether he found it. Right?”

  “Certainly, Inspector.”

  Something fishy there, Heimrich thought as he went back to the counter. He did not believe Sir Ronald had talked for five minutes to a dead telephone. He did not particularly believe in Continental Forwarding, Limited. There was nothing to pin anything on, but Merton Heimrich had a feeling that Continental Forwarding, Limited, was a front for something else. He also thought that, for the moment, it presented a blank wall with no chinks in it. A chink might be—

  “Get me the British Embassy in—” Heimrich said to the wireless operator and stopped and said, “No. Get me—” and gave a number which was a string of digits, beginning with 914. “It’s in New York,” he said. “Westchester County.”

  “I will ring in Booth One when we are through to this number, signor.”

  Heimrich started back to the sofa and turned. “This one,” he said, “charge to me. Cabin Eighty-two.”

  The wireless man said, “As you wish, signor,” and Heimrich went to the sofa and waited for the bell. You couldn’t charge a ship’s captain for so ridiculous a stab in the dark. Even Charles Forniss didn’t know somebody everywhere. Most places, but not everywhere.

  It took a few minutes to get Lieutenant Charles Forniss, New York State Police, on the telephone in the Hawthorne Barracks. When Forniss came on, he said, “For God’s sake, M. L. You’re supposed to be in Spain.”

  “Only headed that way,” Heimrich said. “Who do you know in the British Embassy in Washington, Charley?”

  “Who do I know—where?’

  Heimrich did not repeat what he had said. It was not necessary to repeat things to Charles Forniss.

  “Nobody I can think of,” Forniss said. “Unless—wait.”

  Heimrich waited.

  “Long time ago,” Forniss said. “After Korea. When I was in the Corps.”

  To Forniss there is only one “Corps.” The United States Marine Corps, of which he remains a captain, inactive duty.

  “It was a long time ago,” Forniss said again. “Probably he’s somewhere else by now. They move them around, way I understand it. Career man, he was, I gathered. Something hush-hush, way it seemed. Young fella. British as hell. But all right when you got used to the way he talked.”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “His name, Charley?”

  “Mason,” Forniss said. “Robert Mason.”

  “Did you know him well? Think he’ll remember you?”

  “Pretty well. We—bumped into each other now and then. I—well, I was on the hush-hush side myself in those days. Probably won’t remember me. But he probably isn’t there any more. You mixed up in something, M. L.?”

  “A disappearance,” Heimrich said. “A murder.”

  “You,” Forniss said, “are supposed to be on leave. You’re supposed to be taking care of your lady.”

  There was a measure of disapproval in Charles Forniss’s voice. Forniss seldom disapproves of the man with whom he has worked for many years. There was also concern in his voice.

  “The lady’s fine,” Heimrich said. “She’s getting her hair done. In Spain we’re going to sit in the sun and look at the Mediterranean. Robert Mason?”

  “A long time ago,” Forniss said. “Probably been somewhere else for years. May be dead, for all I know.”

  “Anybody may be dead,” Heimrich said. “Take care of yourself, Charley.”

  “Yep,” Charles Forniss said. “And you. And of Mrs. Heimrich. You paying for this call, M. L.?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good-by,” Forniss said. “Drop me a postcard.”

  Forniss was curious. He was not going to be curious when it was costing a friend money. Heimrich was smiling when he went back to the wireless man, waiting at the counter.

  “The British Embassy in Washington,” he said. “This is charged to the ship.”

  The wireless man said, “Signor.” He said, “I will ring the booth when we are through.”

  It was longer, this time. This time it was a cigarette long and the contemplation of another. The bell rang. “We are through, signor,” and, at almost the same time, a woman’s voice. She said, “Embassy.” Heimrich had expected something more formal—something like “Her Britannic Majesty’s Washington Embassy” with a vocal courtesy thrown in.

  “Mr. Robert Mason, please,” Heimrich said. “Tell him I’m calling on behalf of Captain Charles Forniss.”

  “Sir Robert,” the crisp voice corrected. “Sir Robert Mason. He is likely to be occupied. On behalf of whom?”

  Heimrich repeated Forniss’s name.

  “I will ascertain,” the voice told him, which he thought a bit more like it. He waited.

  “Sir Robert Mason’s office,” another voice said. It was a different voice, but the intonation was the same.

  Heimrich wanted to speak to Sir Robert. Captain Charles Forniss had suggested he speak to Sir Robert. The voice said, “Forniss? Will you spell—yes, Sir Robert?”

  A man said, “Something happened to Charley Forniss?”

  “No,” Heimrich said. “You do remember him, Sir Robert?”

  “Obviously. What’s Charley up to now? And who are you, by the way?”

  “Charley’s up to being a lieutenant, New York State Police. And I’m in the same outfit. Inspector M. L. Heimrich, and—”

  “Heard of you, haven’t I?”

  “I don’t know. Possibly.”

  “Calling as a policeman, I gather. From where, Inspector?”

  “From the liner Italia. Mid-Atlantic.”

  “Oh,” Mason said. “Thought you sounded a bit fuzzy, y’know. Static.” There was a pause of seconds. Then Mason said, “You said Italia, Inspector?”

  “Yes.”

  “Think that’s the ship Ronny took,” Mason said. “On his way home to grow roses. Or, as he always says, ‘cabbages.’ Sir Ronald Grimes, Inspector. Happen to have run into him?”

  “Yes. We’ve met. Actually, I’m calling about him, Sir Robert.”

  “Good man, Ronny. Silly rule retires a man like Ronny with years ahead.”

  “That’s just it,” Heimrich said. “I’m afraid he hadn’t years ahead. He seems to have disappeared from the ship.”

  There was a longer pause this time. Then Mason said, “What d’you mean disappeared?”

  “Just that. Last night he was having a drink in one of the lounges. Today he’s—well, he’s not anywhere we can find. And the ship has been searched.”

  “Not Ronny. Steady old horse. Must be around somewhere.”

  “He isn’t,” Heimrich said, and asked the question: “Know anybody who’d want him not to be? Anybody connected with what he was doing at the Embassy before he was retired?”

  “What you’re getting at,” Mason said, “somebody pushed him off the ship. That what you’re getting at?”

  “It’s a possibility we’re looking into,” Heimrich said.

  “And who are we? How do you come into it, Inspector? Not New York State, Italia isn’t. Italian registry.”

  “The ship’s captain asked me to lend a hand.”

  “You say Charley Forniss gave you my name? Eh?”

  “Yes. It was Mr. Mason when he knew you.”

  Mason said, “Oh, that. Sort of thing can happen to anyone. This Forniss you say’s a policeman. What does he look like?”

  “A big man,” Heimrich said, and went on to describe Charles Forniss,
former Marine Corps captain, who had—Heimrich now remembered—worked for a time with Naval Intelligence before he was deactivated.

  “Sounds like him. Anything special about him, Inspector?”

  “If you are a police inspector,” were the words left out of that.

  “The top of his left ear is clipped off a bit,” Heimrich said. “Sniper bullet. In Korea. Not especially obvious. The scar, I mean.”

  “All right,” Mason said. “I guess it’s the same Charles Forniss.”

  “And,” Heimrich said, “I may just have met him casually somewhere. May not be a man named Heimrich at all. May be trying to put something over on you. On your service, for all you know. Suppose I hang up. Suppose you have your operator call the Italia. Ask for Inspector M. L. Heimrich, New York State Police. Make sure you get the right ship. Not—oh, some Russian trawler offshore. Because—”

  “All right,” Mason said. “You can come off it now, Inspector. No use running up Embassy expenses with a trunk call, eh? No. I don’t know anybody connected with our service who’d want to harm Ronald Grimes. Or connected with anything. I don’t know anybody who didn’t like him. Respect him, come to that. Fine old family. Army people, mostly. Ronny was an exception to the Grimes rule. And—a good man. A damn good man. The Foreign Office was half-witted to let him go. Not that it isn’t from time to time, y’know. And don’t quote me.”

  “Every big establishment is half-witted from time to time,” Heimrich said. “Sir Ronald was commercial attaché at the Embassy?”

  “What it came to. Smoothing pathways for our exporters. Balance-of-trade sort of thing, y’know. Good at it, Ronny was.”

  “And American firms which wanted to export to Britain?”

  “Came into it, I suppose. Not my line of country, y’know. Not likely anything in his work would lead to what’s happened. What you’re afraid’s happened. You and the ship’s captain. What’s his name, by the way?”

  A diplomat needs to learn caution. Now and then. Heimrich. thought, caution surfaces.

  “Comandante Antonio di Scarlotti. Would you like to speak to him, Sir Robert? To—reassure yourself?”

  “No,” Mason said. “Anyway, my Italian’s a bit rusty.”