John D McDonald – Travis McGee 07 Darker Than Amber

“May I be of some help, sir?”

I led him a dozen steps forward, out of earshot of the gangplank guard. “A question of identification, if you wouldn’t mind.”

I showed him two of the wallet-sized pictures of Vangie. “Do I know her? Oh, yes, of course. It is Mrs. Griffin. Mrs. Walter Griffin. She has sailed with us… five times, perhaps six. Over two seasons.”

“Can you describe her husband?”

“Oh, yes, of course. A large man, brown, very strong-looking. A large jaw, small mouth.”

“Have they acted unusual in any way?”

“I would say no, not really. Always the best accommodations, an outside room on the Lounge Deck. Quiet people. Stay to themselves. A table for two they must have. They do not join in the fun, you know? The poor woman, she cannot take the sunshine, so I wonder why she does go on cruises. He would spend much time in the sun. They are generous with tipping. Is there trouble? Perhaps she is the wife of some other person. Believe me, I could not make any statement about such a thing. We cannot get involved in a thing of that kind. It is not our affair.”

“I am not going to ask for a statement.”

“There is nothing more I could tell you. I hope I have helped you. Oh, one thing. They have always taken our shorter cruises.”

“Where is the Monica D. now?”

“On her last Caribbean cruise of this season. We have had our last. Tonight we sail for Italy, perform Mediterranean cruises, and return in late November. The Monica D. will join us in the Mediterranean.” He took out a thick black wallet, leafed through some cards, handed me one. “This, sir, is the cruise schedule of both vessels this season. Could you now excuse me, please?”

I stood in the shade of the customs shed and found, on the card, the final cruise of the season of the Monica D. It was a seven-day cruise. She had left Port Everglades last Tuesday at ten o’clock in the evening. She had arrived this same Friday at Kingston, Jamaica, at seven in the morning, and would leave at five in the evening today. Tomorrow she would arrive at Port-all-Prince at one in the afternoon and leave at nine in the evening. On Monday she would arrive at Nassau at one in the afternoon and leave at five o’clock–just four hours later. And dock right back here at eight in the morning next Tuesday.

With Ans Terry and Del aboard. Nice quiet people, who’d keep to themselves and occupy an outside room on the Lounge Deck and tip generously.

I decided it would be very interesting to fly over to Nassau late Sunday or early Monday and ride back on the Monica D. At this time of year they would have available space.

Ans and Del might be a little bored. I might liven up the last leg of the journey. But there was one problem to solve, and if the Veronica D. was sailing at five, a little close observation might give me a valuable clue. And it was a situation where I might well use Meyer’s disciplined brain.

I found The Hairy One just returning from the beach with two sandy moppets in tow, ages about four and five. He explained that it was a small favor for the mother, a chance for her to go to the hospital to visit the father, who had managed to set up an A-frame to hoist a marine diesel engine up where he could work on it, and then had lowered it onto his right foot.

“It is saddening,” he said, “to learn how the young are being deprived of their cultural heritage. This pair had never even heard of Little Red Ridinggoose and the Three Bare Facts.”

“He’s all mixed up,” the little girl explained solemnly. “He found a penny in my ear,” the little boy proclaimed. He sacked them out in the bunks aboard the John Maynard Keynes for the obligatory nap, and I heard him explain solemnly that he wouldn’t tell on them if they didn’t take their naps, but to keep them from being a bad liar, they had to look like people taking naps, so they had to close their eyes, breathe deeply, and make no sound at all for a little while. And as long as they were doing nothing but pretending to take naps, they could be thinking him up a better ending for Little Red Riddinggoose. She deserved better than to be sent off to Yale.

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