“Only the important spot in those pix was a Y and it didn’t need inking in.” Rourke chuckled obscenely. “You think there’s a deal in the making?”
“I don’t know. Fill me in on the actual job. Sort of amateurish, wasn’t it?”
Rourke shrugged. “I dunno. Call it that if you want, but a pro couldn’t have done better. There the bracelet was, lying on top of her bureau, where she’d tossed it the night before. There was a ladder up to her window with the screen cut out. No fingerprints. No clues. No nothing.”
“Did she always leave it lying around?”
“Only when she was too tight to bother with the big wall-safe in the sitting room between her room and her husband’s. After this happened a couple of times in the past, her maid had standing orders from Julio never to leave the room at night until she’d seen the bracelet locked up.”
“And?”
Timothy Rourke shrugged cheerfully. “Your guess is as good as mine. Which is that the maid was more afraid of Laura than of Julio. Her story is that her mistress threw a couple of slippers at her that night when she wanted to lock the thing up, and that, when she went in to knock on Julio’s door to inform him, he couldn’t be wakened. My guess is she didn’t try very hard.”
“So the maid knew the bracelet was left out that night?” said Shayne, thoughtfully.
“Right. And a lot of other people might have guessed it would be if they saw Laura staggering home. Petey Painter put the maid through the wringer plenty, so why not ask him?”
“I will. The burglar didn’t arouse Mrs. Peralta?”
“Hell,” said Rourke, disgustedly, “a whole herd of elephants wouldn’t have aroused her from the one she had hung on, from what I gathered.” He reached for the bottle and took a long swig, grimaced and glared at the amber fluid remaining. “Nasty stuff,” he muttered. “Responsible for nine-tenths of the troubles of modern civilization, according to statistics.”
Shayne grinned and reached out his arm to take the bottle for a short drink. He said: “Here’s to more and bigger troubles,” and then went on:
“The ladder at the window. Was that just fortuitously left around?”
“Brought in for the job. One of those sectional affairs made of light metal. Aluminum or magnesium or something. You see them advertised under Army Surplus bargains in the Sunday papers. They don’t bill them that way, but might as well advertise them as Second-Story-Worker Specials.”
Shayne said, “Give me a quick run-over on the rest of the household.”
“A batch of other servants I don’t know about. You can be sure they all knew about Laura’s propensity for hanging one on and leaving her emeralds lying around. Then there’s Julio’s secretary, whom you’re just going to love; a governess, whom you’re probably going to lay; and the two Brats.” He gave the final word a capital B and reached for the bottle again.
Shayne ran knobby fingers through his hair and said: “Come again.”
“Edwin and Edwina. Julio’s first-born, and the best positive proof of the degeneration of the species I’ve run into for a long time.” He waved Shayne’s speculative glance aside with a long thin hand and shook his head stubbornly. “I’ll not deprive you of the pleasure of meeting them first-hand.”
Shayne looked at his watch and asked a final question:
“Know what firm carried the insurance?”
“Not a firm. A man named Hamilton Barker is the adjustor who’s handling the claim. He refused to talk to me about it. In fact, there was a lot of hush-hush on the whole thing.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I’m not sure. It was a feeling I got at the time. Circles within circles. Peralta himself was most uncommunicative. Didn’t want the servants interviewed, and insisted I get all my information from Painter. You know how Painter is when he takes over a case personally.”
“Yeh, I know.”
“Of course,” Rourke admitted judicially, “Peralta may have good reasons for not wanting reporters digging in too deep. There was that matter of the cyanide and the two Boxers.”
“What was that?”
“Happened about a week before the bracelet was snatched. All I could get was hints and evasive answers, and it wasn’t even officially reported to the police, so far as I could learn. Well, hell, they were his dogs and his kids.”
“You mean the kids poisoned the dogs?” Shayne asked incredulously.
“That’s the way I pieced it together. I tell you they’re precocious.”
“You think the death of the dogs had any bearing on the robbery?”
“Well, it did set things up pretty nice for the ladder job. The dogs did run loose at night.”
“You think that’s why Peralta clammed up? Because he suspects the kids engineered the snatch?”
“Hell, Mike. They’re only about ten years old. But I don’t know, at that. They’re a couple of enterprising youngsters.”
“You think Petey has any such suspicions?”
“Who knows what Petey suspects? Frankly, I doubt that he even knows the dogs were poisoned. I told you it wasn’t even reported when it happened. I ran onto it by accident.”
“Give me a run-down on Julio Peralta. Seems to me his name turns up in the papers frequently.”
“Yeah, and he doesn’t like it. He’s one of those rich Cubans who got out with their cash before Castro came in. He was educated in this country. Harvard, I think, and had a sort of reputation as an international playboy some years ago. Married New York money and settled down in Cuba a dozen years ago … all cozy with Batista. That’s where the twins came from. His wife died giving birth, and about five years ago he married the present Mrs. Peralta. Laura’s quite a lush dish.”
“Wait a minute, Tim.” Shayne was frowning thoughtfully. “You say Peralta skipped with his dough before Castro took over. It’s my impression, from things I’ve read, that he’s pro-Castro. That his money is one of the important sources of munitions shipped over to the revolution.”
“That’s the way it looks, and it may even be true. He claims he had a change of heart after getting out with his own money, and then seeing how Castro took over. His heart bleeds for his country, which is shaking off the shackles of American imperialism.”
“With the help of the Commies?”
Timothy Rourke looked at him shrewdly. “You don’t swallow too much of that propaganda, Mike. Hell, of course the Commies are exploiting the revolution to the limit. And Mr. Julio Peralta may even be one, secretly. You know how it is in Miami right now,” he went on disgustedly. “The city is full of refugees and rife with rumors of plots and counterplots. No one knows for sure whose side anyone is on. I’ll lay you ten to one that at least half the arms ostensibly being smuggled over to Castro end up in the hands of counter-revolutionaries. Julio Peralta isn’t the only rich Cuban who moved his money out before the crash, and most of them are eager to spend a hunk of it to get the old way of life back.”
“But not Peralta?” mused Shayne.
“I don’t know. I do know he doesn’t like newspaper reporters snooping into his affairs, and I’m surprised he’s called in a private detective. As I say, I got a strong impression from Barker, from Painter, and from Peralta himself that the loss of the bracelet was chicken-feed and was sort of being glossed over. That’s why I’m surprised he wants you in on it.”
“Hell, it may not be the jewel thing at all,” said Shayne impatiently. “Maybe he wants to hire a bottle-guard for his wife.”
“That could be a pleasant assignment.” Rourke yawned and propped his feet up on his desk again. “Let me know, huh? What cyanide tastes like, and whether that governess looks as good under her clothes as I’m guessing she does.”
Shayne said, “I’ll let you know.” He made his way out of the City Room and got into his parked car.
Ten minutes later he entered a sixth floor office on Flagler Street. There was a medium-sized, pleasantly cool reception room presided over by a pleasantly cool blonde
at a desk near the door. She was medium-sized in some respects and somewhat more than that in others. She gave the redhead an aloof glance and said, “Yes?” with her nose tilted a little higher than was necessary.
Shayne took off his hat and tugged at a red forelock bashfully. “It’s this here humidity, Ma’am. Makes a man sweat right through his flannel underwear. And, when I sweat, I stink, as the girl told her momma, and, when I stink, the boys won’t dance with me. That must be what you smell, Ma’am.”
The nice nose tilted higher and beautifully arched platinum brows became more severely arched. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“Not what I first thought about when I peeked in,” Shayne told her cheerfully, “so you might as well let me see Mr. Barker.”
“Have you an appointment?”
He said, “Shayne. And how the hell do you know I haven’t dropped in to buy a million bucks worth of insurance?”
She said, “Mr. Barker is not a broker. He is an adjustor.” But there was the faintest tinge of warmth in the cool depths of greenish eyes as she lowered them from his face and lifted an inter-office phone.
As she spoke into it, Shayne moved past her toward the single door opening off the reception room. It was closed and marked PRIVATE. He opened it and went in.
Hamilton Barker was alone in his neat office, just replacing the handset in its holder. He was a slender, stony-eyed man in his early forties, and he greeted the detective without undue cordiality.
“Shayne. I just told my secretary you’d have to wait a few minutes.”
“I’ll wait in here,” suggested Shayne easily, closing the door behind him and lounging forward to sink into a comfortable chair by the insurance adjustor’s desk. “A couple more of my witticisms just might cause the blonde to break down and smile, and I have a feeling that would be fatal.”
Barker was obviously not amused. “Now that you’re in here, what is it, Shayne?”
Shayne tensed and his gray eyes studied the other man with alert interest. After a moment, he said slowly, “Maybe I do smell bad. I was just kidding with your secretary, but.…”
“Please, Shayne.” Barker held up his right palm and looked pained. “I’m extremely busy. If you have any business with me, please get to it.”
Shayne hesitated only a second. Then he shrugged and said, flatly, “You’re handling the insurance on the Peralta bracelet?”
“Julio Peralta? Yes.”
“Satisfied with it and ready to pay off?”
Barker’s eyes narrowed. “What is your interest?”
“Are you?” pressed Shayne.
“It’s not a matter I care to discuss with an outsider.”
“You mean you’re not interested in a deal?” demanded Shayne, incredulously.
“What sort of deal are you referring to?”
“For God’s sake!” said Shayne angrily. “What is this, Ham? You’ve made some nice pay-offs in the past to recover stolen stuff. You know damned well the sort of deal I mean. Twenty per cent for the bracelet and no questions asked.”
The insurance adjustor leaned back, shaking his head vigorously, making a tent out of the tips of his fingers pressed together. “That sort of thing is strictly against the public interest, Shayne. If you bring us the bracelet and the thief, naturally we’ll be glad to pay for your services. Say twenty per cent of the insurance. But we certainly can’t promise immunity as part of the pay-off. Actually, Shayne, such an arrangement would make us liable to a charge as accessory after the fact.”
Shayne shook his head helplessly. “You know it’s being done all the time. Your company won’t be happy paying off the full amount.”
“Let’s hope we won’t have to,” said Barker, thinly. “If that’s all you have to say.…” He pushed back his chair and half rose to indicate the discussion was ended.
The detective shrugged and rose with him. “What all this adds up to,” he guessed, “is that Painter has sold you a bill of goods that he’s on the trail of the bracelet, and you hope to recover it without any payoff at all. Am I right?”
“Why don’t you ask Painter?”
Shayne said equably, “I don’t have to ask him now, Ham. Thanks for the information.” He turned and went out with his brow wrinkled thoughtfully, passed the blonde in the outer office without seeing her and went down to the street and his parked car.
2
Alton Road on Miami Beach runs north from 5th Street, skirting Flamingo Park and across Lincoln Road to wind circuitously along the eastern shore of Biscayne Bay between the large estates of wealthy landholders which crowd in on either side.
Michael Shayne drove north along the road at a moderate pace, relaxed behind the wheel and deep in thought. There was little afternoon traffic along the winding, palm-lined street, little to be seen beyond the high hedges hiding twenty- and thirty-room mansions set well back from the road.
Searching for street numbers on the widely separated gateposts, he paid no attention to the car that idled up behind him and followed closely on his rear bumper for a couple of blocks, noticed it only when it speeded up suddenly and swung around abreast of him. It slowed in that position and honked commandingly.
Shayne glanced aside to see two men in the front seat, wearing the uniforms of Miami Beach police. The one nearest Shayne was waving him down while the driver stayed abreast, and after a brief moment of indecision, Shayne took his foot off the gas and put it on the brake.
The police car slowed and pulled in behind him, and Shayne sat fuming behind the wheel of his car while the officer got lazily out of the right side and strolled forward to lean his elbows on the door at Shayne’s right. He had a big paunch, and a seamed, weather beaten face, and he was chewing a big wad of gum as rhythmically and placidly as a contented cow working on her cud. As he leaned on the door, Shayne demanded impatiently, “What the hell is it, Officer? I’m in a hurry to keep an appointment.”
“Noticed you was in a hurry all right. Wondered right away where at was the fire.”
“For God’s sake,” said Shayne, wonderingly. “I wasn’t doing over twenty-five.”
The policeman nodded gravely. “We clocked you the last two blocks. Forty-two you was making by our speedometer.”
“Then you’d better get your damned speedometer checked,” snapped Shayne. “Step aside, for Christ’s sake, and let me get along.”
“Resistin’ arrest, huh?” grated a thin voice at his left elbow. A long arm snaked in past him to turn the ignition key in the lock. The driver of the police car had come up on Shayne’s left. He was thin and hatchet-faced and spoke with a sneering, Georgia drawl. “You ain’t goin’ no place, Mister. Speedin’ is a right serious offense here on Miami Beach. We loves our children, Mister.”
Two limousines sped past in the same direction as he spoke, both chauffeur-piloted and both doing fifty or more miles per hour. Shayne motioned to them with a big hand and growled disgustedly: “Then why aren’t you after those two? They’re driving twice as fast as I was.”
“Right now, we got you,” Hatchet-face told him. “I say we take him in for resistin’ arrest, Geely,” he went on, speaking past the detective to his gum-chewing partner on the other side.
Shayne slumped back against the seat and looked from one to the other in irritated amazement. “What the hell are you two clowns trying to prove?”
“Resisting arrest, sure enough,” agreed Geely, placidly. “Threatening an officer to boot, I reckon.”
“Wait a minute, damn it!” exclaimed Shayne, controlling his anger as best he could. “There’s some mistake. We’re all in the same racket, for God’s sake.” He reached for his wallet to show his credentials, but as he drew it out, Hatchet-face leaned forward without warning and slapped him viciously with the back of his left hand, while Geely exclaimed, virtuously, “Bribery, by God. Now you are going in for sure.”
Michael Shayne sat very still with his half-opened wallet in his hand. There were four white marks on his left cheek
from Hatchet-face’s fingers, and that lanky individual had stepped back hastily and drawn his service revolver after slapping him. Shayne’s gray eyes blazed and the lines in his gaunt face became deep trenches as he sat quietly and fought for self-control.
Geely quietly seated himself beside him on the front seat and closed the door. He interrupted his gum-chewing long enough to say, heavily, “Put your bribe-money away, Mister, and get this heap moving. Turn right at the next corner and back to the po-lice station. You foller along,” he directed his companion. “Resisting arrest and attempted bribery.”
Hatchet-face holstered his gun and swaggered back to the patrol car. Michael Shayne replaced his wallet with shaking fingers. He put both hands on the wheel and sat there for a moment, fighting the most overpowering anger he had ever known. After a moment, and without looking at Geely, he said hoarsely, “Maybe you know what you’re doing, but, by God, I’m telling you.…”
“I’m telling you,” said Geely, placidly, “to drive to the police station and no more monkey business less’n you want my sap on the other side of your face from where you already got slapped.”
Shayne drove to the police station without speaking again. He was followed closely by the official car, and Hatchet-face pulled up beside him when he parked behind the station.
Shayne opened the door to get out and felt a steel band snapped around his right wrist. Geely opened the door on his side and stepped out, tugging urgently on the links of chain binding his left wrist to his prisoner.
Michael Shayne clamped his teeth together hard and slid over to follow Geely submissively. Hatchet-face sidled up beside him as they went around the walk to go in the front, and he held his gun half-drawn from its holster as they mounted the steps and went inside, three abreast.
There were half a dozen policemen and a reporter for the Miami Herald lounging about a table with a greasy pack of cards in the anteroom. They all glanced up carelessly, and there was a moment of intense silence. Two of the cops knew Shayne well, and the reporter was an old friend.
He came to his feet with swiftly indrawn breath as he took in the trio. “Sweet Mother!” he ejaculated. “It’s Mike Shayne. Hey, boys.…”
Murder in Haste Page 19