Atlanta Daily World

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE CHIEF engineer slammed into the office. He was a big man. I got up and closed the door after him.

"Now, you..." he snarled.

Two fast steps took him to Grenier's desk and both heavy hands reached across for the old man. I jabbed a hard fist in his short ribs. The unexpected jolt straightened him up. He turned, and his mouth gaped.

"Keep your hands in your pockets, chief," I said. "You're in enough trouble as it is."

The chief glared at me stupidly for a moment, then whirled back to Grenier. "Who is this punk? Did you..."

"Be quiet, chief," Grenier said crisply. "This is very important. Your man Sessions may be a dangerous criminal. We must know."

"Sessions? That kid?" The chief was contemptuous. "He's a little punk I picked up for apprentice wiper, but he couldn't stand the heat, so he quit. A dangerous criminal, hah!" He leaned over the desk, tapped a broad forefinger at Grenier's chest. "You know what's wrong with you? You're a..."

I turned my right shoulder into the chief and leaned my weight on him, staggering him away from the desk. His finger stabbed again at empty air and his booming voice dwindled in surprise.

"Stop poking the purser," I said easily. "You need all the friends you can get. What did Sessions..."

"Be sensible, chief," Grenier snapped. "Please answer and stop that snarling."

The chief drew a slow breath. "Twice you started something," he said to me. "Passenger or no passenger..."

I sat down and grinned at him. "What did Sessions look like?"

The chief's frown remained firm but his eyes wavered. He turned to Grenier. "Who is this...?" His thumb poked toward me.

"A detective," Grenier said.

"Sure," the chief breathed. "A cop. Pushing people..."

"What did Sessions look like?" I said again.

"A kid," the chief said. "Hundred and 50, maybe. Less'n six feet, maybe five 10. Brown hair. Pale skin. Just a kid. Scared to speak to anybody. Had a soft way of talking, like he was scared all the time. Seventeen years old. High school."

"You knew him? Before you hired him, I mean?"

"Never saw him," the chief answered. "He was hanging around the dock in Cincy. Steward hired him to load supplies. He kept pestering me for a job, but I didn't have anything till the last day when one of my boys went sick..."

"Did Sessions have any references or..."

"Letter," the chief said. "Recommendation from the manager of the Netherland Plaza hotel. Said he was a good kid, high school graduate. Worked in the boiler room at the hotel, hopped bells. Seemed okay to me, so I put him on when..."

"That's right."

The chief shrugged. "He looked like a kid, acted like one. No confidence."

"Sure," I said. "What if you found out he was 24? Could you believe that?"

The chief said: "Uh, maybe. I guess so. Kid never said much. Just acted young and sorta scared."

I nodded slowly and felt slightly sick thinking about it. "Did you really work him hard enough to make him quit because he couldn't stand it?"

"Some kids quit right off," the chief said. "It ain't rare. No, I wouldn't say it was that rough. It's hard getting used to the hours for some of them, but the work ain't much."

"Maybe the regular hands pushed him around a bit?"

"Could be, sure. A new hand takes his lumps."

"What about his luggage? Clothes and personal things?"

"Gone," the chief said. "All he had was a little ditty bag. He musta carried it off under his coat."

"He have permission to go ashore?"

"Sure. He was off duty. But Sessions wasn't no dangerous criminal. He was just a good, clean kid, kinda scared."

"So is the man I want," I said flatly. "But he killed a cop."

"But you don't know that Sessions..."

"No, I don't," I said. "Did you keep that recommendation he showed you?"

"Don't remember," the chief said. "Maybe I did."

"Ordinary hotel letterhead?" I asked. "Or did it say 'Office of the Manager' or something like that?"

"No, just ordinary stuff, I guess."

"Paper that anyone could have picked up to write a letter," I said almost to myself. "Take a room there, rent a typewriter, use the paper furnished by the hotel, and you've got your letter. Seems like a pretty flimsy kind of recommendation. Didn't you..."

"We hire through the main office usually," Grenier broke in. "But each department is authorized to hire temporary people as need arises. We never bother much with references then."

"Okay," I said slowly. "That's that. Maybe it was Stewart. Maybe not."

The chief towered over me. "I been sensible like you wanted, eh? I answered all the questions?"

"Yes, chief," I said. "Thanks."

The burly engineer stamped out of the office.

Stewart must have had a good reason for scheduling his trip on the Dixie Dandy in the first place. What if he was supposed to meet someone on board? Someone like... And then there was the "Get Off" warning someone had left for me last night. Someone who... And Doc Riggs was prowling the deck, early this morning, according to Russell. What for? To find Stewart and warn him I was on board? To see whether I got off? Or just an early morning constitution?

Outside the light had faded to a deep gray and the wind had come up again. Dark and cold and 6 o'clock of a winter's evening. Doc Riggs would be sitting in the bar.

I held out my hand toward Grenier. "I just found your passkey," I said. "As soon as I realized what it was, I brought it right up here. That was about 6:30 tonight, wasn't it?"

"Was it?" Grenier said, staring at my open palm. "Do you... I mean, what do you want, Mr. Wilde?"

"I want to find your passkey for about half an hour, Mr. Grenier. I have to visit a friend. You don't really want to know any more about it, do you?"

"No," he said. He brought out the dull brass key from his desk drawer. "I wonder why I am willing to trust you so much, Mr. Wilde?"

"I'm very grateful, sir," I said sincerely. "I'll be fast and careful. And no one will see your key."

Doc had bedroom six, exactly below mine and just across from Miss Pomeroy's. I tapped on the door and waited, just in case. Then I unlocked it and stepped inside quickly. The room was dark. I didn't like to turn on the lights, but it was lights or open curtains. I flipped the switch. Doc's was a twin-bed room, but except for that it was much the same as mine.

A small bag was on a chair and a strange pigskin case that was almost a cube was on the foot of the bed. The case was not locked. It was a box of books, a suede-lined traveller's library. I turned to the small bag.

Very gingerly I felt through the clothes, having no idea of what I was looking for, but somehow feeling I'd know when I found it. But I didn't.

One fast look was enough for a larger bag. It was empty: obviously Doc was a man who got his clothes on hangers as soon as he could. I pulled open the closet door.

Doc had a dinner jacket, a dark worsted lounge suit, a thick tweed jacket and flannels to go with it. All had ready-made labels in them and all were from a store in Chicago. I tapped my hand against the jackets. Nothing in any of the pockets. Until I reached the flannels. Something in the right pocket cracked heavily against my knuckle. I could feel a hard small lump. Ultimately I worked it out, heavy and cold in my palm, a smooth, deadly piece of precision work.

I had to turn it on end to be sure of the caliber. It was one round for a .357 Smith and Wesson Magnum and that is a frightening weapon, probably the most powerful hand-gun in the world. The slug has a way of going through two walls and taking the ear off an innocent bystander in the next county. This was one shiny brass-jacketed shell. It didn't have to mean anything. Did it?

I bounced the solid slug in my hand for a moment and then ducked to slide it back in the pocket where I'd found it.

(To Be Continued)