by Philip Wylie
At two o’clock in the morning, a phone rang in the Havana hotel room of Wilser.
He answered and listened.
“If they had to,” he finally said, “they had to. You know the procedure.” He hung up and turned on the light. More work to do.
Long before daybreak, a handcart rumbled through the silent back streets of Vellehomez. It ceased rumbling when its wheels touched the dirt road. At the waterfront where, not very long before, the plane had taxied quietly into the harbor, a body was lifted from the cart into a skiff. Handcuffs with weights were fastened to the body. The skiff rowed slowly across the harbor. Its oarlocks did not squeak. The sea beyond was calm—and very deep. The body sent up a long chain of sound, the muttering of bubbles.
An amateur radio operator in the suburbs of Havana got in touch with a brother “ham” in America. They chatted cheerfully and familiarly of various matters, for a long time.
In the Bayfront residence of French Paul, two men played gin rummy. They had been playing, off and on, all night. They always did. A telephone buzzed. One of them answered and asked questions. Finally he switched the call to an upstairs bedroom.
French Paul woke, as Wilser had wakened less than an hour before. French Paul listened.
One of the men had come up from downstairs.
The fat Alsatian hung up and thought for a long time. Finally, he smiled. He threw back the covers of his bed.
“Our professor,” he said, “has met with a mishap. He was a clever man. A little too—enterprising.” He walked over to a desk, yawned, and sat down. “A friend,” he said, “must send condolences—and a warning—to his landlady. The police in Vellehomez can announce the rest.”
French Paul chuckled.
Chapter XVI
Bedelia had dressed, served breakfast to Double-O’s men, and was dusting when the mail truck drove up. Her guards did not interfere with the arrival of the special delivery letter. It contained one sheet, of single-spaced typewriting with neither salutation nor signature:
Professor Burke committed suicide last night near the town of Vallehomez, Cuba, after writing a confession of his jewel-smuggling. He was seen to leap from a skiff. His body was not found. Portions of a full confession—in his own hand—were recovered. So this letter may be regarded as an amicable warning. He had led you to believe he was hunting for certain persons—rather than acting as a member of a criminal organization. It would not be wise to take erroneous information to the police! The facts will be made clear to you soon. Wait. Do not act!
She read it and sat down heavily. “Well!”
Presently she rapped on the windowpane with her ring. One of the guards appeared at the kitchen door. “Professor Burke came home last night, as you know,” she said. “But I want you three men to keep that fact quiet.”
“Sure. You need somebody around all day? The other two boys are getting kind of sleepy.”
“I’ll let you know. But you might take turns napping on the side porch.” She emphasized the need for secrecy concerning the professor.
Just who, she wondered, would have sufficient prestige—and know-how—to accomplish her object? Worriedly she dismissed one after another. She thought of the name of a man she did not know, who would be right. She looked in the book and dialed.
When the professor came down for breakfast, a car was leaving the driveway. He had a glimpse of a face.
“Morning, Bedelia! That looked like Marigold Macey.”
“It was.” Bedelia’s large eyes were brilliant. “Sit down, Martin. And start your breakfast. I have news for you.”
“News?”
“You’re dead!” She showed him the letter.
He read rapidly. “Who sent it? How did it get here? Are the Sanders men still around?”
“The men are. Getting tired, too.”
“They—Bedelia! I killed that man!”
“Maybe you did—and a good thing, too!”
He was horrified. “Not for anything on earth—no matter how low—even a foreign agent—would I have—!”
“Martin! Collect yourself! Isn’t it much more likely that he came to, tried to escape when he found he had been left behind, and they killed him?”
“But how could they confuse him with me? His hair was light—his skin very dark. …”
“It’s obvious from the letter that they did confuse him! Perhaps the men who killed him were unfamiliar with him—you—whoever. Disposed of the body hurriedly—in the sea—as the letter says. It looks like that to me.”
He shuddered. “The unlucky devil… !”
“Good gracious, Martin, where is your sense of proportion? Don’t you see what an opportunity this is?”
His mind worked jerkily. “Confession,” he said slowly. “Yes—I can understand that. They could select a page here and there—and it would certainly look like a confession. In my own handwriting!”
“Please, Martin. Go on with your breakfast! Look at it from their point of view.
They think they have murdered you. They know there will be an investigation, in any case. All the police—the Vellehomez police—will need is a few pages from that account you wrote of the Maroon Gang—select pages, as you say—and a couple of witnesses to your ‘suicide.’ The Maroon Gang down there can supply the witnesses easily enough and handwriting experts will attest to the confession, so-called.”
He stared at her.
“I phoned Marigold Macey an hour ago,” she went on.
“What for?”
“Because I knew she’d come right over. I knew, furthermore, that she’d believe what I told her. Few would. Martin, there are—sometimes—really formidable disadvantages in a perfect reputation. And I knew she could get straight to her father—even if he had to be called out of court.”
“Judge Macey? But—”
“He could determine, properly, who should be informed. That’s important. The police? The F.B.I.? And not only that. He can persuade the top man to see you—so there won’t be any mistakes.”
He waved his oatmeal spoon. “All right. What do we do meantime?”
“You just lie low. Don’t show yourself. If anybody comes by—go upstairs and keep quiet.”
Noon. One o’clock. Two.
Marigold neither returned nor reported back. No carload of police rushed to the verdure-clad gate of the house on West Cortez Circle. Calls to the Macey residence were not answered. The professor became alarmed.
Shortly after two o’clock, there was a brief, hard shower. The sun came out again.
A scissors-grinder began to work his way down the street, calling his profession in a doleful voice and walking to each door in search of business.
“I won’t wait any longer,” the professor said, at last. “Something must have happened to Marigold!”
Bedelia was equally as worried. She heard footsteps at that moment, however, and peered through the window. “It’s that scissor-grinder! You better duck.” She went to the door.
The man was tall and dirty faced. He wore a leather apron. He held out some sample knives and scissors. “Sharpen anything, lady,” he said. “Expert job. Low rates—”
“I don’t want—” He held the knives and scissors under her nose. Amidst them was a badge. Bedelia saw the letters, F.B.I. “Come in,” she said. “I’ll get together a few things, at that.”
He entered the hall. His voice was low and quick. “There are at least two men skulking around outside.”
Bedelia rapped on the window. “All right, Dusty. You can leave now. And thanks just infinitely. Remember. Tell nobody about any arrival here last night.”
Dusty was weary but game. “Yes, Miss Ogilvy.”
“Who was that?” the German asked.
“Just—friends. Watching. Now, I want better proof that you are who you say you are.”
He glanced around the living room. “Phone?”
“In the kitchen.”
“My name is Harmon. I’m the head of the local office. From what the
Judge said, I decided to come, myself. From what his daughter said, I used that scissor-grinder gag: I haven’t done anything like it for a long time. But we thought the Maroon Gang might be covering the place. I’ve got men up and down the street. You call the office—and then we’ll both talk.” He grinned at her.
She smiled back, but she called. Anybody, she thought, could have a G-man’s badge. Her call satisfied her. She faced him with relief. “I’m so glad it’s over!”
He had, she thought, really handsome dark-blue eyes. His lips twitched. “Over? I suspect, Miss Ogilvy, you’ve just started. Where is the professor?”
She looked at him and he could see tension return around her eyes, determination in her jaw. Quite a dame, he thought.
“Martin!” she called up the stairway.
He ran down the stairs. He was carrying the coat of the nameless man. She introduced them.
The G-man’s eyes took in the coat, the lining-inside-the-lining, and the bills in their stitched compartments. They moved to the professor and his copper-stained face.
“Suppose,” he said, “you begin at the beginning—wherever that is. The Judge and his daughter were pretty lurid, but not too coherent. If it had been anybody else, I would have sent a psychiatrist out here.”
The professor nodded. “I was lecturing about civic corruption and crime—my last lecture class before vacation—” He broke off. “Good lord! It was only a little over a week ago! Seems years! Anyhow—”
The G-Man interrupted him an hour later to drive the scissor-grinding truck out of sight and to make a contact with his men. He came back and talked until it was dark.
“Professor Burke,” he said as he was leaving, “it’s up to you. We have no right to ask it. You already know the risk… .” His amiable mouth straightened.
“I’ll do it, naturally.”
“See you, then. And thanks.”
Professor Burke picked up the evening paper and went indoors. There was a smell of dinner in the air. He yelped.
“Something the matter, Martin?”
He rushed into the kitchen.
There were headlines on the front page:
MIAMI PROFESSOR SUICIDE
AFTER CONFESSING UNDERWORLD LINK
Noted Psychologist Was Gem Smuggler
Bedelia gave the black type only a glance. But she looked at the professor keenly.
“Read it, Martin. I’ve got something on the stove I can’t leave.”
His voice shook slightly. “It’s a special dispatch to this paper,” he said.
“‘Vellehomez, Cuba, December 26. Martin Luther Burke, professor of socio-psychology at the University of Miami committed suicide here early today after writing a dramatic confession of his connections with the underworld. The professor, a leading authority in his field and the author of Ruminations of a Socio-Psychologist, was seen by local fishermen to row out at dawn into the deep water off the harbor at Vellehomez, where he had been staying for the past twenty-four hours at a local inn. He seemed to meditate for a time, according to the witnesses, and then plunged overboard, leaving in his skiff the numbered, handwritten pages of his confession, many of which were blown into the sea and lost before the skiff was recovered. What was saved, leaves no doubt of his affiliations with the infamous Maroon Gang, a fact extremely shocking to his University associates. The body was not found.
“‘In the professor’s room at the run-down hotel jewels valued at many thousands of dollars were found and these, together with references to “smuggling” in his extraordinary confession, have led the police to assume that the reason for his presence in Cuba was to bring the gems illegally into the U.S. His wallet—”
He said vehemently, “I didn’t have a wallet!”
“They provided you with one!”
”’—contained cards to some of the more notorious gambling resorts in South Florida and Cuba, a souvenir blue chip, and a considerable sum of money. Handwriting experts; examining pages of the confession which were immediately flown to Miami by Cuban police officials say it is unquestionably the work of the late Professor Burke.
Samples of his writing were supplied by the University.
“‘The professor’s masquerade completely deceived his associates. When told of it on the phone by a Miami Times reporter, President Tolver of the University flatly refused to believe it and took it as some form of practical joke. “Burke,” he insisted, “is a man above reproach.” Professor Lothar MacFalkland, Burke’s colleague in socio-psychology, a science in which the University hopes to develop a major department, took a different view of the matter, however.’”
Bedelia said, “M’m’m’m. I bet he did!”
The professor swore. It was the first time she had ever heard him use a real, ringing oath.
“Listen to this!” The newspaper shook in his hands.
“‘According to MacFalkland, the late Professor Burke “suffered from a condition of overrepression and developed a dual personality from inner psychic pressures. Burke,” said Dr. MacFalkland, who is a specialist in the field of personality, “is a typical bi-cerebral. This means he has two natures—one of which seems to be in control, while the other is actually in control. I have long perceived that the overperfection of his work at the University has pointed to a blowup. I used constantly to urge him to get out more among people—to live a more normal life. I have been anticipating some news of this sort for a long time.’”
“That fathead! That oaf! That overstuffed shirt!”
Bedelia made a sound like a giggle.
He read on: “‘Further developments in the fabulous case are expected momentarily. Cuban police are now searching for a handsome brunette who vanished from the hotel at Vellehomez. She is suspected of having brought the jewels into Cuba from South America and it is believed that her arrest may lead to the unmasking of the smuggling “ring” mentioned in the random pages of the professor’s confession. These are now being studied by police of both countries.
“‘Professor Burke was thirty-three years old, a bachelor, and a New Englander by birth. He is survived by no close relatives. He was educated in the public schools of Massachusetts, Israel Putnam Teacher’s College, where he graduated with honors, and Harvard. He taught for some time in the University of New Jersey. During the war he served as a foreign language expert attached to the 118th Training Service Corps. He has been a full professor at the University of Miami for the past three years. Pictures on page 4.’”
He turned to page four and looked at a photograph of himself—enlarged from a panoramic picture of the faculty—a photograph of President Tolver, and one of MacFalkland. He hurled the paper on the table. “The imbecile!”
He stalked around the kitchen. “Wilser—or one of them—must have picked out pages of my account that didn’t mention the Maroon Gang very definitely—pages that made it sound as if… !” He shrugged. “I did use phrases like, ‘According to my knowledge—’ and, ‘the inside truth is’—and I suppose it would seem like a confession—if you only had a few pages carefully chosen—”
“Dinner,” she said, “is just about ready.”
“I am going to punch that MacFalkland square on the nose! Bi-cerebral, my eye!
There is no such term! A cheap play for newspaper publicity! Tampering with science!”
He sat down then, with a sort of groan. “Bedelia, do you realize this thing will follow me all my life? Do you realize I’ll be marked! Academically ruined!”
“I wouldn’t worry about that now, Martin. You have problems that are much more immediate.”
Chapter XVII
The ensuing days were busy ones for the professor. He spent them with the F.B.I.
His name—for this purpose—was Mr. Skeat. It proved that Professor Burke, in his school years, had been called “Skeet”—for “Skeeter”—a name which referred to his then markedly small size. It also proved that he still responded, even from the most absent-minded reverie, to “Skeet.” This became “Mr. Skeat.”
The professor was now adorned with horn-rimmed glasses which had tinted lenses. His hair had been cut very short and bleached to a light hue. As the iodine faded from his skin, it was replaced by a scientific colorant. Flamboyant sports clothes were purchased for him—clothes typical of those worn by Florida tourists. The synthetic Mr. Skeat registered then at a downtown hotel in Miami: the Palm Plaza.
Bedelia and her premises were kept under constant, covert surveillance. She objected; but Harmon did not agree that she was “old enough to take care of herself.”
“Mr. Skeat”—Mr. Ralph Skeat, of Newark, New Jersey—was a very plausible hotel guest and tourist. He went to the races. He attended the Orange Bowl Game. He visited the night clubs nearly every evening. Sometimes he was accompanied by a gentleman—sometimes by a lady.
He was engaged in a comparatively simple enterprise. He had given a veritable encyclopaedia of fresh information to the F.B.I. But the personnel of the Maroon Gang—
especially in its comparatively new smuggling activities—was not all known to the government agents. The connections between French Paul and the other leading figures in the Gang were plain—as the professor’s investigations had shown—but that fact did not constitute legal evidence. “Mr. Skeat” was therefore visiting those places where gang members known to him might appear.
In the course of this research, the professor saw his first prize fights, wrestling matches and the interiors of dozens of night clubs, cabarets, bistros and dives. His work was not without result. He identified “Chuck” in one of the late night spots and he pointed out the man known as The Foot at the race track.
Chuck and The Foot, thereafter had the F.B.I. on their heels by day and by night, though they did not know it.
The professor was also taken on several daylight flights over the lakes and lagoons of the flat, marshy wilderness that is South Florida. He and his pilot searched for a lake that would have the necessary qualifications: water enough for a plane, a grassy shore line, a background of trees—probably cypresses—a rough connecting road, and possibly, although not necessarily, a small dock. It turned out that there were dozens of sites which more or less satisfied these requirements. Professor Burke did not succeed in locating the one where he and the three aliens had been landed.